A/N: First off, thank you to all the lovely people who send feedback and an especially big THANK YOU to Marigold, for making my little story one of her Best Bets. I'm flattered more than words can say. Eiluj, my thanks you for all your kind comments--yes, it does look as if I'll probably be writing this forever.g As a friend said to me the other day, "How big IS this book Frodo gave Merry? Does Merry write really small? Hee. Rabidsamfan, thank you as well--I'm glad you like the mixture of old and new here. Pipwise Brandygin, JenniGellerBing and Monkey5s, thank you, thank you ever so much!

On with the story...

FROZEN - Pt. 2

V. Great Smials - 1389 SR

When Esmeralda was a young Hobbit, not so very much older than her son was now, her father, Adalgrim Took, had owned the prettiest pony in all the Shire. Snow white he was, with a mane and tail that rippled like waterfalls and sparks of starlight in his eyes. And, oh, but she had loved that pony, longing with all her heart to ride him, for he was spirited and wild, and when he ran it was like all the rushing of the wind in Rethe. Esme would bring him treats of carrots and apples, but again and again she was told he was not for her, until she thought her heart would break with longing for what she was denied.

And one day, with her father out in the orchards and her mother occupied with washing-day, she crept into the stables to stroke beautiful Star's nose, and rub her own small nose against his glossy neck as she whispered to him of her great love.

Where the idea had come to her from, she'd never known, but before she knew what she was about, Esme found herself standing in the loosebox with Star's bridle in her hands, then climbing up onto the box's rail to slip the bridle onto Star's perfect head, working the bit in between his teeth and the back of the check-piece over his ears. She'd been too small to lift the saddle, much less place it on Star's back, but she had ridden bareback before, and wasn't afraid.

Oh, but she loved the feel of those smoothly-rippling muscles beneath her legs, the strength barely contained by her hands. She'd walked Star out of the stables, trotted him beyond the Smials and then, with all the brilliant green emptiness of the open fields around them, brought him to a canter and then a gallop, a wonderful, flying, full-tilt gallop with her hair streaming back and her eyes and mouth full of the wind.

It was glorious, the most glorious motion she'd ever felt, or ever expected to feel. It was everything she'd hoped and wished for--and by the time she'd realized she'd lost control, that she could not hold Star back or, at this terrible speed, hope to keep her seat if the pony took it into his head to jump, Star was gathering himself to fly over a low wall--and Esme was flying too, up into the open air and down, down, striking the wall itself so hard that her arm shattered and the breath was knocked from her body and all the world went dark.

Esme stood against the wall of the Great Smials infirmary and watched the healers work over her son, her only, precious, longed-for, worshiped son, and waited for all the world to go dark again.

The old gammers' saying about putting all one's eggs into one basket popped into her mind. Well, she'd done that, hadn't she? Put in not only all her present eggs, but her past and future ones as well. When Merry had been small, her life had been easy enough: the little lad was so very healthy, so sturdy, so aware of the world, so quick to laugh and smile. How could she not have loved him, even were he not the answer to all her prayers and dreams? So

much love she carried inside her that it spilled into everything she said and did, until her name became a watchword for generosity and kindness, and everyone blessed the wife of the Master's heir.

But Merry was *her* son, after all, and his innate Tookishness was only masked beneath his blue Brandybuck eyes and his honey-coloured Brandybuck hair. Indeed, the combination of Took and Brandybuck, common as it was, made her own nature within her son all the more dangerous, the Brandybucks' fearless and stubborn spirit married with Tookish audacity. Merry was like her, too, in that where he loved, he loved deeply and loyally, with that same painful intensity Esme herself knew only too well.

There was, too, in both of them, that curious instinctual *knowing* of the Tooks, that which they called "the kenning" back home. She saw it often in Merry's eyes, the way he could ask a seemingly innocent question and suddenly understand matters that ought to have been far beyond his tender years, the way he seemed to know when someone was sad or ill or uneasy in the mind. She'd felt it herself the night of Merry's departure, when she'd suddenly sat bolt-upright in bed, then rushed to his room knowing full well that she would not find Merry in his bed, because she understood quite clearly, somewhere in her mind, where he had gone, and why. She'd run out into the dark in only her night-dress, racing along her son's path as if his small feet had left a trail of light upon the ground for her to follow, over to the millpond, where a clear ring on the damp grass showed where the smallest of the children's coracles had lain, then faster, running full out, down to the near bank of the Brandywine, where she'd screamed into the night sky, "Merry! Merry! Merry!"

As if that would somehow bring him back to her against the current. As if he could hear her.

She sank down to her knees upon the muddy bank, knowing the autumn swiftness of the water, knowing that her little one had been alone there, in his fragile craft, in his small, fragile body.

*Is this where my life ends?* she wondered, *For surely there's no traveling back from here.*

Saradoc had come to her, breeches pulled on hurriedly beneath his night-shirt, and lifted her up, saying words she knew were meant as comfort, though she'd lost all ability to make sense of their shape.

She thought, *I love you, Sari, I truly do, in my heart and my mind, but this love for my child has no part of logic or consideration. It is wind and fire and the beat of blood in my veins.*

Still, Esme let him lead her inside, watching whilst he marshaled the family and sent out messengers to Hobbiton and the Tookland.

"We'll surely find him," everyone told her, with kind looks and pats to her hand. "Why, he'll be back with you in no time, dear Esme."

She had nodded and given the slightest of smiles, but she had known, really, how things would be: either her Merry was dead, and she would grow suddenly old and grey and withered as Winter, or her Merry would find his own way to Bag End.

Saradoc and the family did not understand this. Much as they loved little Merry, they'd no comprehension of the melding of Took and Brandybuck in his heart. Only Frodo, she thought, might understand a little, and so it was to Frodo that both Merry and she were bound.

On the morning of the fourth day with no news, Esme put on her riding habit and her traveling cloak, saddled her pony with her own hands and, leaving behind a note for her husband, took road to Hobbiton.

She changed ponies at Whitfurrows, at a farm she knew, and again at Frogmorton, but she did not stop and she did not sleep. To say Bilbo found himself surprised to see her, muddied and unsavory with travel and the dirt of the road, would have been an understatement. Indeed, when he opened to her sharp, impatient rap, on the afternoon of the sixth day, her elder cousin gaped at her a full minute before he remembered his manners and asked her inside.

"Esmeralda!" he cried. "My dear, how did... I... Great stars above, it *is* still better than eighty miles to Buckland, is it not? Frodo only wrote to you yestermorn."

"Is he here?" she asked softly. "Is my Merry here, cousin?"

"Why...er...yes." Bilbo blinked at her rapidly, still obviously taken aback. "Yes, my dear, he is. Young Merry's made it here all on his own."

Esme unclasped her cloak and let it fall. Her pony she left down by the gate, reins dangling.

"Bring me to him?" she asked, trying to keep the command from her voice, to make it pleasant, a communication between a Gentlehobbit and her elder relative.

"Yes, yes, of course my dear. Just this way. I've put him in beside Frodo. Thought it best, you understand."

Esme nodded, following, though so close to her child she hardly needed a guide anymore. That sensation of trailing Merry's footprints returned, as if she felt and tasted him in the air.

Behind the door of the room Bilbo indicated had been a stocky young Hobbit with fairish hair, like Merry's and, beside him, her precious lost one himself.

And Esme's heart had torn, because in Merry's eyes she saw that, while his small, battered body had been found, the person behind those silvery-blue eyes was still terribly lost in a wilderness she had no power to track, struggling to find his way home again, and contrary to all she felt and believed, she was not the one to be his guide.

And now Esme cursed herself, for what had she done? Pulled away from him, just when Merry was running back to her? What had she been so terribly busy with, what had been so necessary that she'd scarcely seen her greatest treasure for the past two weeks? How was it tiny Estella Bolger, and not she, knew something was amiss with her Merry?

Worst of all, she couldn't help but wonder, if she'd intended to punish him for leaving, by pulling away from him in return? He was only a child, only a little, little child, and his actions, however misguided, could certainly be understood.

"Esme," said Miravella Took, Ferdinand's wife, second amongst the Smials healers. "It's not so desperate as all that. Don't weep, my dear."

Esmeralda brushed her eyes. She hadn't realized she'd been weeping.

"Those wretched children--and I do include my son in that--can't resist the snow and ice, and if one amongst them has the sense that's given a goose it would be strange as news from Bree." She grasped Esme's arm firmly, propelling her toward the door. "Go away now, for a little, while we make your Merry warm as toast again, and I'll have you sent for presently."

"Presently?" Esme murmured, but by then she found herself in the corridor, with the door shut quite firmly behind, and when she took a step to turn herself back inside, she nearly tripped over little Estella, huddled just beside the door.

Estella had sat herself down upon the floor, sobbing bitterly, with the skirts of her green linsey-woolsey frock pulled up, the better to wipe her eyes and nose on the ruffle of her petticoat.

Esme lowered herself beside the small lass, watching the sad and scrunched-up little face, the small nose and the tips of the ears very red indeed with weeping.

"Estella," Esme said, and stroked her fingers down the fur of one small foot. "Estella, dearest, why are you crying so?"

"You are too," said Estella in a choked voice.

"I suppose I was," Esme answered, "But I shan't anymore. I've decided to let their healers do their good work for Merry, and help him be strong with all my best hopes. Can you do that too, Estella dear?"

"But bad Pearl and Pimmie killded him."

"But he isn't killded--ah, killed--dear. Just very cold, and the healers will make him nice and warm again, and then we shall go visit, to give him our love."

Estella gazed up at her, consideration in her dark eyes. "After tea?" she asked.

"Perhaps. If he's ready for visitors then." Esme glanced through the corridor window to the sky outside, which had grown dark, except for the moonlight reflected from the white crust of the snow. "It's rather late, Estella. Have you not been given your tea yet?"

"The others went. I stayed with my Merry."

*My Merry?* Esme thought, smiling. She wondered if her son knew he'd such an ardent admirer. "You were very clever to come fetch me when you saw Merry was ill. It can be a dangerous thing for a little Hobbit to grow so cold." She rose, extending a hand down to the small. "Such a brave girl deserves something extra special for her tea. Will you come with me to the kitchens, love?"

Estella brightened considerably at the mention of a special tea, and she came along happily hand-in-hand with Esme to the kitchens, where Cook sat them down at a little table off to one side, and prepared a special pot of bubbling cheese-mixed-with-broth, with bits of toasted bread and plump poached mushrooms to dip in it. Estella plied her little fork quite skillfully and Esme joined in, partly for company, and partly because there is nothing so comforting to even a grown Hobbit as simple but well-prepared food, particularly if mushrooms are involved.

Around the time the first batch of mushrooms had disappeared, and Cook had brought another, Esme's brother Paladin came to join them at the table, his face like thunder.

"What's this I hear about my naughty lasses?" he asked.

Estella, now fairly glowing with mushrooms and cheese, set down her fork and wiped her mouth nicely. "Cousin Esme callded us, but Pimmie said have a 'venture instead, so we went to the pond and cracked the whip, only Pimmie let go and Merry fallded through the ice. So we all came home and everyone wanted tea."

"Hmn." Paladin borrowed Esme's fork to stormily eat a mushroom, before one of Cook's helpers passed him a new one of his own.

"Estella was very brave," Esme said. "She came to fetch me, and didn't give up until I was found."

Paladin smiled at the little lass, who smiled back, shyly. "What a clever girl you are indeed, Estella! I'm sure the Grandfather will have something extra special to put in your hood. As for Misses Pearl and Pimpernel Took, however..." He dipped another mushroom and ate it thoughtfully.

"I'm sure they meant no actual harm, Dinny," Esme said. She'd been terribly frightened when she found her son so cold in his bed, but she felt better now, stronger, a combination, she supposed, of mushrooms, playing the part of the wise grown-up for little Estella, and Cousin Miravella's calming words.

"They may have meant no actual harm, Esme," her brother responded, "But neither did they mean actual good. Childish pranks are one thing--stars above know *we* played enough in our time--but Pearl will go along with whatever her sister says, and if she's any the older and wiser, then I've yet to see the proof." He frowned again, but only for a moment. "Come, dear Esme, let's see to your little madcap lad, and then I must devise a suitable punishment for those two naughty Hobbits. What do you say, Estella?" he asked, lifting the little lass down from her chair, but Estella's face became so very stricken at the thought of anyone being punished that it made Paladin laugh.

"Well, perhaps, then a visit to the Thain will convince them of the seriousness of their acts." He laughed harder, and Esme laughed with him, brother and sister together, with Estella looking from one to another in perplexity, because while "Thain" was a large and important word to the little lass, Esme and Paladin knew there was no kinder or more mild-mannered Hobbit in all the Shire than their Cousin Ferumbras.

VI.

"And then they *boiled* me, mummy," Merry said indignantly, "Like a mushroom in broth." He cast a resentful look upon Cousin Miravella, who sat in a comfortable chair in the corner, with her inventory book open the desk. She glanced up briefly, smiled and returned to the rapid notations she was making upon its pages.

"Did they now, dearest?" Esme responded. "I must say, then, that you're a very pink and cosy little mushroom, which is far nicer for me to see than you lying still and cold and blue in your bed."

"Did you think I was killed, mum?" he asked, her curiously. "You must have been very frightened then."

Merry shifted uncomfortably against his pillows, for though the healers had given him quite a large spoonful of the too-ripe grape syrup, his back and chest and shoulder all ached horribly. He was glad his mum had stayed when Estella and Uncle Dinny went away, because talking to her could take his mind off some of the pain, and make him less angry with himself for ruining his holiday besides.

"I was very frightened," Esme replied. "Especially since I haven't quite shaken off my earlier fright."

"From me being lost?" Merry asked.

"From you being lost," his mother replied. "Merry, dear, why didn't you just say to me that you needed to see Frodo right away? I'd have wrapped you up snug and driven you to Hobbiton, despite what the healers said."

"I b'lieve I was very mixed-up in my thinking, mum, " Merry told her thoughtfully. "And Grandfather Rory frightened me. What if he didn't let me go? Everyone has to do as he says, and he's a bully, like Berilac. That's what I thought."

"I don't have to do what Rory says," Esme told him.

"Don't you?" Merry stopped to ponder that. He'd always thought of his grandfather as all-powerful, even when wrong, and that someone would go against his will seemed nearly incomprehensible. "Why not, mum? Is it because you're a Took?"

"Partly," she answered. "Mostly, I suppose. Because a Took bows to no one, until the king returns to Norbury."

Merry tried to wriggle down a bit in his mounded pillows. "I'm so very uncomfortable, mum," he told her mournfully.

"I know, my love. Try to think of something else. Try to think of something lovely."

"Will the king ever come back. do you think? What would that be like, I wonder?"

"Oh, very grand, I suppose, though that sort of thing's best left to the Big People, and isn't likely to be something we'll see--not in our lives, at any rate."

Merry's eyes had gone far-away, with that especially silver-blueness that meant he was thinking hard. "I keep trying to imagine, but I can't. It's like trying to imagine the world outside the Shire. I can see the pictures in books, and the ones Cousin Bilbo's drawn of things from his adventures, but I can't imagine a whole village of Big People, or a huge dragon lying on his gold, or a war--or even a battle."

"That's because, my love, we are Hobbits, and Hobbits are not meant to imagine such things. We are meant to imagine orchards filled with apples and great patches of mushrooms growing and ponies trotting and neighing in the sun. We are meant to imagine the sun on the river and dancing someday with a lass you fancy, or picnics with lovely things to eat. We're meant to imagine what our children will look like, and how our gardens will grow next year. Simple things, my Merry, and true things, and things the Big People don't think of as often as they should."

"Lovely things," Merry murmured, feeling heavy with sleep. "Strawberries in Forelithe. And what to give my new little cousin for his Naming-day."

"That's it, my Merry," Esme said, and one of her hands held his good hand, whilst the other stroked his curls.

The world was full of sleep, and silence, and all around him was peaceful and good.

VII.

The good thing about Pearl, Merry thought, was that when she'd been caught being naughty and was punished, she took the punishment and didn't hold grudges, even when the punishment was something so harsh as no sweets for a week--an especially severe restriction so close to Yule, with the kitchens fairly bursting with biscuits and boiled sweets and lovely little cakes.

The bad thing about Pimmie was that when she was punished, she resented it and held grudges, even when one tried to make amends by offering her one's own puddings and treats when the grown-ups weren't looking. What was worse was that she took the sweets Merry gave her, but didn't make up and be friends again, but scowled and acted cross instead.

The very amusing thing about Pervinca was her habit (which everyone said she'd soon grow out of, though she showed no signs of ever doing so) of eating anything, at anytime, small enough to fit into her mouth, whether it was food or no. On this visit alone, Merry had watched her swallow a thimble, a marble, a piece of chalk, poor Rag's other eye (Rags had come along to the Tookland not because *Merry* needed him, but because he thought it time for Rags to come live with the new little cousin, if he was a lad--Rags was very particular about only belonging to a lad). Pervinca, in fact, seemed to favor buttons, because she'd also eaten quite a small, pearly one from Uncle Dinny's best shirt and also the bottom button from Frodo's third-best waistcoat, which had made Merry rather peevish with her, as he knew Frodo liked to keep his things nice. She'd also eaten a white pebble from the drive and a red bead like a ripe berry, from Pimmie's necklace that broke and scattered all over the nursery floor.

"Why does Pervinca eat things?" he asked Auntie Egg, the day before First Yule, as they both lay in the parlor--Merry on the sofa and Auntie Egg in the big chair with her feet up on the hassock. They were both of them extremely uncomfortable, Merry because his shoulder had been hurt worse, falling on the ice, than it had been before, and also because he was ill again, in a heavy, feverish, vague sort of way, that mostly meant he was very tired and not very interested in games or meals or moving about. Auntie Egg was uncomfortable because the kicking baby had grown very big inside her, and while the day before he'd seemed intent on turning somersaults, this day he'd dropped down very low inside her, so that Auntie Egg said she felt he was pressing on her bones, trying to push them apart where they weren't meant to go.

Merry had great hopes for his new cousin as a future companion, should he continue to carry on in this way.

"Why does Pervinca eat things, Merry?" Auntie Egg gazed at him with her eyebrows lifted, in the way Merry knew meant she was perplexed. "Why, because she's hungry, I suppose."

"No, auntie," Merry said patiently and gave her a list of the things he'd seen disappear into his young cousin's mouth.

"Good gracious!" Auntie Egg cried. "She'll choke herself!"

"I shouldn't think so," Merry told her. "It's quite interesting to watch. I think she has a way of opening her throat specially, like a snake."

"That's hardly the sort of news a mum likes to hear, Merry dear," his auntie said, and lurched to her feet, calling out, "Paladin! Dinny!" as she went, and leaving Merry alone.

He wriggled on the sofa, attempted to sit up, then lay down against his pillows. He tried not to complain, because he knew it worried his mum, but there was simply no way for him to get comfortable. Merry wished Frodo would come along, because Frodo had a special way of holding him just so in his lap, supporting Merry with his arms and rubbing his sore back tenderly until he wanted to purr like a kitten. He began to resent Reginard Took, and then felt sorry, for it wasn't like a true friend to be jealous of another friend, and he had all his cousins to play with--when he was well, at least--and who did Frodo have but him? Only the grown-ups.

Still, he wished Frodo would come. The view though the parlor window was nothing but dull, and even the snow, so lovely when first it fell, looked tired and pale.

Merry squirmed again. Maybe the best thing would be just to climb into his bed and pull the covers over his head. He felt as if he'd nothing to look forward to, not a birthday party (for his dad said he was too ill to have one now, though perhaps they'd do something special when he felt well again) no dancing or wild games at Yule, for the same reason, no presents, most likely, from the Grandfather because he'd been so naughty, and nothing but Winter for the longest time.

Merry rubbed his nose against the back of the sofa, but it wasn't soft and warm like Frodo's waistcoat.

After a time, Saradoc came to find him, giving Merry a large spoonful of the nasty grape medicine, then carrying him off to bed.

Merry wished his dad would talk to him again, as he once had--though Saradoc had always been quiet, as Hobbits went. His father was good at explaining things: how to find your way upward if you were ever buried under the snow (Merry liked that one, because it involved spitting); how to tell the hoots of one owl from another; how to tell the time by the movements of the sun; when to plant which kind of seed; how the family had come to live in Buckland; how to excavate new smials so that the tunnels didn't cave in. He liked the feel of his fathers hands, which were strong and a bit-rough-skinned, but always very gentle when they touched him, and he liked his father's eyes, which were his eyes, too, that same changeable grey-blue.

Saradoc tucked him into bed with that gentle touch, arranging the pillows just so, until Merry felt more comfortable than he had all day. He stroked Merry's hair back from his warm brow, and bent down to kiss him, something his father didn't often do. Merry caught hold of Saradoc's hand and kissed the palm, clinging to his fingers as if he'd never let go.

"Meriadoc," his father said, in his deep rumble of a voice. "Will you promise me that you will never run away again? If there's somewhere you feel you must go, come to me and tell me. I will not be the one to stop you, and I will help you as best I can."

"Yes, dad," Merry answered, and not just dutifully. He knew he would do just that, for as long as they both lived.

"Good," his father said, "For I love you, my Merry-lad."

"And I love you," Merry murmured, already getting sleepy--the purple grape-stuff seemed to have that effect on him. "For ever 'n' ever."

His mum came in then, to make Merry eat a little soup before he dropped off, then Frodo to kiss him goodnight, and the three of them sat with him as he drifted, making Merry feel, for the first time since Frodo went away, that he was safe, and loved, and all was right with the world, so that now he could begin to heal again.

VIII. Great Smials - 1 Yule, 1389 SR

Merry woke with a wonderful sense of anticipation and for a moment couldn't remember why. He sat up slowly, feeling that peculiar throb from his shoulder that came whenever he moved--but it was less this morning, nearly bearable.

He knew he hadn't hung his hood the night before, and didn't actually believe he deserved to receive anything from the Grandfather, but when he peeped down at the end of his bed, there it was, the familiar green velvet with the gold border that had been his dad's Yule hood when he was a lad.

Merry wriggled to the footboard, daring to sneak another look over the rail, his mouth going round with surprise and delight. The Grandfather had been! He *had*!"

Eagerly, Merry hauled his prize up onto the bed, caressing the soft, if slightly worn velvet, his fingers exploring the shapes of the lumps inside. He liked to draw this part out, always denying himself as long as he could before burrowing like a small badger for the wonders inside.

At last he could wait no longer. His fingers eeled into the folds of the hood, bringing out first a small paper sack full of sweets. He popped one into his mouth at once, a peppermint, pushing the candy round his teeth with his tongue until his entire mouth tasted of Winter. Next was a waxed-paper parcel of biscuits, just the right size for gobbling up in two bites, shaped like stars, crescent moons, hearts and ivy leaves. Next was a packet of those cakes he particularly liked, rich with nuts and butter, the kind that melted at once to sweetness on one's tongue. After that, he found a cloth bag of especially beautiful marbles, which he spilled out onto the bedclothes and rolled around with his fingertips, admiring their smooth cool perfection, and their colors which were just like jewels.

Merry found a small paintbox with its own little brush inside, and a tin whistle with a slide at the bottom, which, when pulled, gave the notes a lovely swooping sound (Merry played with this only a little, as he didn't want it taken and put up high, with an adult saying to him in a trying-to-be-patient voice, "Perhaps later, Merry dear").

There were various other small but delightful things, and last of all, at the very bottom of the hood, he discovered the most miraculous toy he'd ever seen.

It was a little owl, scarcely larger than his fist, and round its neck on a ribbon hung a small key. The owl was of metal and marvelously painted, every feather in minute detail. In its back was a small slot that perfectly fit the key.

Merry gaped at this toy in wonder, trying to work out how to hold the owl and turn the key with only one hand--then he discovered that he could hold the toy quite nicely between his toes, and that the key turned easily (just the size for his small fingers). He turned it several times, then, scarcely daring to breathe, set the owl on his night-table, where it cocked its head, shook its feathers, flapped its wings three times and came toward him in a waddling walk.

Merry crowed with delight, utterly unable to imagine how such an amazing thing had come to be made. He set it going three more times, each time with as much wonder in the little owl's performance as the last, but then he was afraid he would tire it out, and flopped back into his pillows, the perfect toy cradled on his chest, replete with happiness.

In a little, Frodo entered, already washed, brushed and fully dressed, and carrying a tray. "Good morning, sleepyhead!" he called. "There's a face I know and love to see. Was the Grandfather good to you, my Merry?"

Wordlessly, Merry handed his cousin the owl. Smiling, Frodo turned the key, sending the toy into its marvelous small dance. Frodo crouched down to watch, with his face so close to Merry's that Merry could not resist turning to kiss his cousin's cheek, whispering in his ear, "Happy Yule, my Frodo."

Frodo rose, sat on the edge of the bed, and embraced Merry tenderly. "It's a lovely toy, Merry, and I believe the Grandfather must have been through Dale to fetch it for you. Happy Yule to you as well! And Happy Birthday too! Seven years old now! Nearly grown!"

Merry giggled, because that was just silly, and moved to investigate the contents of the tray Frodo had brought, and which smelled quite appealing. There was oat porridge, his favorite, with brown sugar, currents and cream, and stewed apples, fresh milk and a small pumpkin muffin loaded with walnuts. Merry dealt with all of this quickly and happily, leaning against Frodo's side with his cousin's arm gently round his back. "You've eaten, Frodo?" he asked, belatedly, when the tray was beginning to look a little empty.

"Yes, I've eaten," Frodo laughed. "And you finish every crumb. There's a sight I like to see--my merry Merry."

"I'm back, aren't I?" Merry asked. "I was lost a long time, but I think I've found my way here to stay." He chewed the last bite of muffin slowly. "So, when you need to go...when you're back with Cousin Bilbo...I'll miss you, Frodo, but I won't get *so* unhappy. Not like this time. As long as there are lots of visits."

"Yes, my dearest," Frodo told him seriously, "I am glad that you are back, and that you will be able to get along without me, sometimes, without making yourself so very sad--for my Merry is a special little Hobbit, and everyone who loves him missed him very much whilst he was gone. And I promise you, too, that there will be many, many visits."

Merry gave a little sigh, and rubbed his cheek against Frodo's waistcoat, knowing that wherever Frodo was, he would always, always be loved. Content as he was, it occurred to Merry that he still felt rather hungry--which may have been because the air of the Smials was fairly perfumed with the odors of good things to eat.

"Will I be allowed to come to Yule Dinner, do you think, Frodo?" Merry couldn't help but ask.

Frodo felt his forehead and looked into Merry's eyes. "Hmn, quite cool and quite clear. I think you're doing better, my Mer."

"I am!" Merry exclaimed. "I'm ever so well, and I'm sure a good Yule Dinner would make me *perfect* again."

Frodo laughed. "Well, you know it's up to your mum and dad, isn't it? But I imagine you'll be allowed. You understand, though, that there won't be any running or dancing or games."

Merry pouted a bit at that, but soon brightened. "Yes, Frodo, I understand, and will be very good. Only I shall have to get nicely dressed, for I'm not going to Yule Dinner in my night-shirt. And I'll still be allowed my Yule cracker, won't I? You'll help me pull it?" Merry loved Yule crackers with their loud noises and the foil crowns of silver and gold inside and the silly riddles and the toys. Last year, in his cracker, he'd received the tiny pottery pony that still stood in a place of honor upon his night-table back home.

Frodo laughed again. "Yes, I am sure whatever happens, you will be allowed your cracker, and yes, of course, I will help you pull it, as I do every year.

Merry lay back, sighing happily. Had it been only yesterday he'd thought he had nothing to look forward to? "You will ask mum for me, won't you, Frodo?"

"I will," Frodo answered, "That is, if you'll be a good boy and rest now."

Merry looked up at him with his smile of best cooperation. "Be sure to say how good I'm being, and how well I am, won't you?"

Taking up the tray with one hand, Frodo ruffled Merry's curls with the other. "Indeed I will, dearest. Indeed I will."

When Frodo had gone, Merry lay quietly, stroking his owl's smooth surface with his thumb, and dreaming without closing his eyes.

IX.

Merry had indeed been allowed up for Yule Dinner, which was held in the Great Hall of the Tooks. Ivy and evergreen boughs were draped everywhere, bright with heavy-berried sprigs of holly. The vast Yule Log, as big as Merry himself, burned aromatically in the fireplace, and the hall itself glittered with hundreds of candles, their light sparkling off the best silver and best dishes, and the bright jewels round the lasses' throats, or in their hair.

The Thain gave his Yule speech, which everyone agreed was a particularly good one, as it was much, much shorter than the previous year's.

The long table fairly groaned with roast pig stuffed with apples, mushrooms and chestnuts, sweet potatoes with brown sugar and butter, regular potatoes whipped up with butter and cream, soft white rolls, sprouts (which, as it was Yule, Merry wasn't required to eat), vast dishes of mushrooms, jellies and grapes and more tarts--apple, pumpkin and mince--than Merry had ever laid eyes upon in his life.

After the food came the songs and stories, all of them quite good, and Bilbo's very exciting, all about the dragon Smaug. Dancing followed, during which Merry sat happily on his mum's lap, content, for once, to listen to the lively music, then Charades, during which Uncle Dinny amused him very much by dressing up as Auntie Egg, then a bit more food to fill up the corners, and it was nearly time for bed.

The children all gathered round the nursery fire, for Merry to give them his birthday gifts: a pretty necklace for Pearl, a new spinning-top, complete with whip, for Pimmie, a lovely, shiny yellow-painted duckling carved of wood for Pervinca (luckily, much too large to fit inside even her mouth), a throwing-ball for Ferdy, a tin of sweets for Freddy and a soft toy kitten for Estella, who hugged it closely, gazing up at him with what Merry knew was love in her great, brown eyes. Merry wished he'd something more to give her--after all, Estella had saved his life, and he felt the debt keenly.

To Reginard, who loved to draw and paint, he gave a set of new brushes, and to Frodo two beautiful bottles of ink, one in silver and one in gold.

"I shall have to write something very special with these, Merry," Frodo said, smiling his thanks. "Which leads me to the present Regi and I have prepared for you."

Merry laughed. "You don't give Hobbits presents on their *own* birthdays, silly Frodo!"

"Nonetheless," said Frodo, laughing in return. "I have one for you." And he passed Merry a very heavy something, rectangular, like a book.

Carefully, Merry pulled off the spangled paper in which the present was wrapped. The cover was a glossy brown, the edges of the pages gilt, and it had the wonderful, bookish smell Merry loved, of good leather and ink. With a trembling hand, he slowly turned the pages, until he knew exactly what this book was: Frodo's stories, all written down for him, with the most wonderful pictures, just the ones he'd been looking for when he'd searched Frodo's room not so very long before. He looked up, speechless with awe, seeking his cousin's eyes.

"I wrote the words and Regi did the pictures," Frodo told him. "And Bilbo helped us both. So now you know what's kept us so busy in the library--and we've only just finished this morning, so it's a good thing you were a slugabed, my Merry."

Merry didn't know what to say. A lump formed in his throat, but he knew he must tell Frodo something. "Thank you," he said at last, knowing that wasn't enough, but hoping Frodo would read the rest shining in his eyes. "It's the best present ever, better than my owl from the Grandfather, even."

"You're very welcome, Mer," Frodo answered, his own eyes bright.

Merry turned a few more pages, running his fingertips over the many small details of an illustration, unable to believe such a wonderful thing had been given to him for his very own. He felt extremely sorry, too, for having felt jealous of Reginard, who, though Merry didn't know him so well as Frodo, had always been kind to him. "Thank you ever so much, Regi!" he said, with his best smile. "This is the best book, and these are the very best pictures I've ever seen."

In answer, Reginard gave a shy smile and put out his hand. Merry clasped it, wondering why he and Reginard hadn't been better friends before.

His happiness was complete, sitting there in the cosy nursery with nearly everyone he loved--though he wondered where Uncle Dinny and Auntie Egg had gone to.

When he had a chance, he asked his mum about it, and she smiled, saying, "It looks as if, Merry, you were right about your new cousin's birthday after all."

X. Great Smials - 2 Yule 1390 SR

In the night Merry awakened, thinking he'd heard something dreadful. He sat upright in bed, trembling, his heart beating fast, listening with every bit of attention he possessed until the cry came again.

There it was! Merry shuddered. His Auntie Egg. His beloved Auntie Egg was crying out in agony! Something was hurting her, and he couldn't bear it, he couldn't. He must protect her and make whatever it was go away!

Merry slid out of bed so suddenly he tangled in the bedclothes and hit the floor with a thump, landing, fortunately on his backside instead of his shoulder or head.

*Stop!* he wanted to yell, *Stop hurting her!* But he didn't. He held perfectly still instead, hoping against hope that maybe he'd imagined the noise, that it had been a bad dream.

Frodo, looking half awake, hurried into Merry's room in his night-shirt. "Merry!" he called, "Did you fall?"

"Only a little," Merry answered absently. "I'm not hurt at all." Still, he allowed Frodo to pick him up because, in his confusion and distress, it was good to feel the comfort of a loving touch.

"I'm glad you're not hurt," Frodo said, tucking Merry back into bed. "Did the cries frighten you?"

Merry nodded. "Can you make it stop, Frodo?"

"No, my love," his cousin answered, shaking his head, "Nor should we want to, Merry. It's time now for our new cousin to come into the world, just as your mum told you. He'll soon be born now."

Merry listened again. "Is that why Auntie Egg is crying?"

"Yes, Merry."

"But why would my little cousin hurt his mummy so?"

"All babies hurt their mums, Merry," Frodo answered quietly.

"I never!" Merry was outraged. "I *never* hurt my mum that way."

"But you did, Mer. It's the way things are. You didn't mean to hurt your mummy, it just couldn't be helped. Hobbit babies have large heads, and there isn't so very much room for them to come through. That's what hurts. And the mummies have to push very hard to help their babies out, so that hurts too."

Merry had grown up around animals, and wasn't completely ignorant of how babies came to be, but the concept of such terrible pain was new and frightening to him. "Why do they keep having babies, then, if it hurts so badly?"

"Because when they look down on their little ones, the pain seems to go far away, and so much love takes its place."

"Then Auntie Egg will love the new baby, even though he hurt her?"

"She will, Mer. Just like your mummy loves you."

Merry pondered this, sure Frodo was right, but not quite ready to wrap his mind round the things he'd said. He couldn't stop listening until, finally, he heard another cry, not his auntie this time, but a voice he'd never heard before, a high, shrill squall like the cry of a hawk, that went on and on and on.

"He's very loud," Merry said, after a time, when the cry did not stop. He fell asleep, finally, in Frodo's arms, with the noise still in his ears.

When Merry woke again it was still dark, and the loud crying hadn't ended--if anything, it had grown louder.

Enough was enough, Merry decided, and he carefully disentangled himself from his older cousin, slipped over the side of the bed and padded from his room. The squalling grew louder the closer he came to Uncle Dinny and Auntie Egg's room.

Was his cousin *always* going to be so noisy? he wondered. That might be interesting. Though not at night when he was trying to sleep.

He crept into the little room beside his aunt and uncle's big one, where Uncle Dinny was walking with the new cousin in his arms, patting the baby's back and trying to shush him with little nonsense words and songs.

What Merry could see of the baby's face over Uncle Dinny's shoulder was round and red as a pippin apple, with a surprising amount of reddy-brown hair standing up on top. The new cousin's eyes were scrunched tight shut, but his mouth was open wider than seemed possible.

"That's enough of that, my lad," Uncle Dinny said at last. "You're fed and you are clean, do you plan to keep the family awake all night? Tenderly, he laid the baby down on his back in the little cot prepared for him. "Let's let you lie there a little, and see if you won't cry yourself out whilst I see to your mummy." He covered the new cousin over with a soft, knitted blanket, kissed his small, red forehead and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The baby cried on, but something in its wails seemed different. Merry padded closer, trying to see over the edge of the cot. All he could make out were small furry feet flailing, and small fists beating angrily at the air.

"You're a silly lad," Merry informed him. "What do you have to cry about?"

He went for the straight-backed chair over by the door, pushing it until it stood just beside the cot, then climbed up, carefully as he could (which wasn't an easy task with only one arm) onto the seat, then over the side of the cot.

The baby's hands and feet struck harder at the air, but it ceased its wailing all at once with a noise that sounded like, "Mmrlp?"

"Yes," Merry told him. "It's me, Merry. We're first cousins, which is very important, only you have to promise me not to be like Berilac. And since neither of us have any brothers, we'll have to be like brothers to each other, won't we?"

He drew back the baby's blanket, studying the new arrival. Yes, he was a lad, just as Merry had known he would be. He had a little sticking-out belly, and sturdy little arms and legs, and very fuzzy feet. Now that he'd stopped wailing, he wasn't as red as before, but he was still quite pink, shiny and new. Merry felt a complicated wave of something go through him, so strong it brought tears to his eyes, though he wasn't sad.

"Were you calling me, little cousin?" he asked. "Is that why you were crying?"

The baby's muddy-green Took's eyes turned toward him; his perfect small mouth opened. Merry touched a finger lightly to his lips, to the spot where his mum had told him the Valar touched each baby before it come into the world, telling it, "Hush, now. Don't give away the secrets."

"Yes, I can see that you were," Merry told him. "But don't cry anymore. Your Merry's here now." He curled up carefully beside his new cousin, rubbing his nose into the plump crease between the baby's neck and shoulder, breathing in the clean, sweet, special baby-smell. Here he felt absolutely at peace, and so full of love he thought it must require more than just one body to contain such a feeling.

"Pippin," he said, trying out the name. "Pippin. For when I saw you first you were so red you reminded me of a little apple. And, you know, it suits with your sisters names."

The baby gurgled, fists flying. Merry caught one, holding it gently in his good hand. "Happy Yule, Pippin, my love," he whispered, "And Happy Birthday, too."