MERRY AND PIPPIN CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Well, I suppose I have quite a bit of explaining to do. . . which I don't have time for, and I'm sure you all would rather read this story than listen to all my pathetic excuses. All that matters, is I'M BACK! I told you I'd never give up on a story! Never ever ever! hugs everyone The only thing that saddens me, is that I know there will be some of you who will never check back on this story again. . . and you'll think I broke my promise. :-( sobs

I'm not going to take the time to answer reviews from . . . what . . . almost a year ago? You probably don't even remember what you wrote.

(By the way, if any of you know how to get the little star things I used to use as dividers back, I'd really appreciate it. It seems that has changed things around while I was gone, and I'm a bit lost)

My plan now, to avoid another one of these long awful waits, is this: I will try and stay one chapter ahead all the time, so that if I start to run into another writer's block, I will at least have something already ready to go, so you all aren't waiting in the dark wondering if I am alive. I would have gone ahead and started this plan with this chapter, but I wanted to get it out by Christmas . . . you know, it's a perfect gift for you all, and all that. So I'll start on the next one. So it may take me a bit to get the next one out, but holy hobbit, I will kill myself if it takes this long again! I won't let it happen!

And now, for the first time in longer than I can bear, I can say these words again:

On with the story!

"This is much better," Merry admitted, adjusting the quilt he had huddled inside like a small child. He was most thankful for the warmth the fireplace in the small sitting room emitted. It was very difficult keeping himself from sitting too close to the gently wavering flames, and Fatty, the only other hobbit in the room, was hard pressed to keep him on the chair instead of on the floor mere inches from the fireplace.

Estella was nowhere to be seen, and Merry could only guess where she was at the moment. As soon as her door had been broken open, Estella had gone off sulkily to her new bedroom, despite her father's urgent requests that she go down to get hot tea from the kitchens first. For all Merry knew, she could still be there.

"Well," Fatty said, his voice breaking into Merry's thoughts, "To be honest, I am amazed at how quickly you pulled it off."

"What do you mean?"

The other hobbit shifted uneasily, fiddling aimlessly with a loose thread on the edge of his armchair. "You know what I mean."

Merry raised a skeptical eyebrow, "Actually, I don't."

Fatty paused, as if unsure how to convey his thoughts, "Well . . . you were in my sister's bedroom, and I could only assume. . ."

His mouth dropping open, Merry found that he could not get his tongue to work. Finally, he forced out, "You have the wrong idea entirely!"

"So you haven't succeeded," Fatty said, "I hate to admit it, but I DID tell you Merry. My sister. . ."

"No," Merry cut in firmly with a grin, "I have not succeeded YET. I do plan on succeeding. Quite victoriously as well."

Fatty shook his head sadly. "Whatever you say, Merry. Whatever you say."

Rolling his eyes, Merry fell silent for a moment. He then looked sidelong at his friend and said, "So you all are leaving in the morning?"

"Aye." Fatty nodded slowly. "I believe our fathers are spending this day fixing up the carriage so it can travel better in the snow. There will be nothing keeping us from going tomorrow at first light. My mother is already throwing a fit that she's been gone as long as she has." He let out a quiet laugh, "She claims the maids never know what they're doing."

Joining in laughter with him, Merry smiled. The Bolgers were never a family for much travel. He was lucky he had gotten his chance this time. Quickly reminded of Estella, his laughter grew still. After a deep sigh, he murmured under his breath, "I suppose I don't have much chance of getting anywhere further with Estella before you leave."

Standing, Fatty laid a hand on Merry's shoulder, "I'm going to go do some last minute packing. I'll see you in a bit." He then walked from the room, leaving Merry alone with his thoughts. . .

. . . and thinking is hungry work, as Merry discovered a little while later, as his stomach announced it's desire with a loud grumble. How long had it been since breakfast?

Too long, he decided.

The chill had mostly disappeared from his limbs, so the quilt soon lay unfolded and forgotten on the arm of the chair. As he passed a small round window in the hallway on his way to the kitchens, he peeked out and saw a group of hobbits busily preparing the Bolgers' wagon for their trip home. Merry sighed and continued on his way, his gaze now focused on his feet.

As soon as he had walked by a painting of Rorimac Brandybuck, he began methodically counting his steps. One. . . two . . . three . . . four . . . He had begun the habit of counting how many steps it took to get to the kitchen when he was in his early tweens. A few years after that, he had decided to start his counting at the painting of his grandfather. It was an odd way of honoring his relatives. Then again, "Old Rory" had acquired quite a taste for many of Merry's favorite foods (like strawberries), so counting steps to the kitchen was not completely out of the blue.

Ten . . . eleven. . . twelve . . .

After many years of this exact same procedure, Merry had calculated that it took an average of forty-seven steps to reach the kitchen. Of course, the exact measurement would vary according to his mood. When he was sad, his shuffling stride would drive up the number to as many as fifty-two, whereas when he was excited (or just really hungry) he could bring it as low as thirty-five.

Twenty-two. . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four. . . twenty-five. . .

Watching his own steps, he estimated that today it would lie somewhere near his average.

Twenty-nine. . . thirty. . . thirty-one . . . thirty-two . . .

Perhaps keeping track of steps like this was a waste of time.

Thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-seven . . .

Then again, not only did it cheer him up at the prospect of a potential snack, it could also make him look at the bright side of things.

Thirty-nine . . . forty . . . forty-one . . .

Did Estella like strawberries?

Forty-three . . . forty-four . . .

It looked like he was actually going to hit right on his average this time. Merry hoped that luck would be with him again. Last time he hit his average, one of the cute kitchen girls allowed him to sneak off with a delicious pie.

Forty-five . . . forty-six. . .

As Merry counted the final number . . . forty-seven . . . he turned the corner into the kitchen.

His heart leapt at the sight of not one kitchen girl, but THREE who were all smiling gorgeously and apparently had heaped a large pile of various foods upon the table. The smell of fresh baked bread reached Merry's nose, and he almost smiled. But then he realized that it was not he whom they were fawning over.

"Pippin!"

His young cousin was quite a sight. He lounged languorously over three chairs with his curly head resting against the soft body of one of the kitchen maids behind him, while another one popped small fruit into his mouth. The third, trying vainly to hide her jealous glares at the other two, was hastily preparing another dish of food that would certainly be Pippin's greatest delight.

At his older cousin's exclamation, Pippin looked up and grinned, "Finally! Merry, my goodness, I cannot believe you haven't visited the kitchens for the past two days! I must say these gorgeous ladies were feeling the loneliness quite strongly. You should be ashamed of yourself! Then again, you have Estella to consider now and I doubt that she'd accept your invitation after finding you with these much more beautiful lasses." He punctuated his last sentence by reaching up and patting the cheek of the nearest maid. At his touch, she smiled broadly and leaned down to kiss his cheek.

Meanwhile, throughout Pippin's quite unexpected appearance and scolding speech, Merry had stood transfixed to the spot, his jaw hanging wide open. Finally, as Pippin paused, Merry leaped at the opportunity to get a word in edgewise, "Pippin, what on earth are you doing in Brandy Hall? When did you get here?"

"Just after you did, and just before the Bolgers," Pippin explained around a mouthful of food, "I came in through the kitchen door to not attract attention."

Merry rolled his eyes. "May I ask why?"

"Well," Pippin said logically, "I wished to check up on your progress."

"Without me knowing, of course."

"Exactly!" Pippin nodded, as he was handed a cloth by one of the girls to clean his mouth and fingers. "However else do you think I could efficiently get an idea of how quickly you were losing the bet?"

"Winning the bet, you mean," said Merry with a smirk.

"Whatever you say," Pippin laughed. "But while we're speaking of the bet, I thought we could clear up a few points."

"Such as?"

"My dear cousin," Pippin smiled and shook his head, "we neglected to make wagers! At this point, we have a conflict of predictions for the potential impending effects of our current circumstances."

Merry raised an eyebrow skeptically, "Where did you look up all that vocabulary?"

"Actually, I took that last sentence from one of my father's letters to a nearby farming community who supplies Great Smials with a lot of its food," Pippin said, hiding a grin, "but that's not the point here. The point is that if either one of us loses the bet, we won't actually be losing anything even though we lost!"

"Well, you can tell which sentences you write and which your father writes. I still can't believe you go through the Thain's mail."

"Merry!" The younger lad pouted. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, yes," Merry chuckled, and sat down in a chair facing Pippin. "What do you propose?"

Shifting out of his recline (much to the sulking displeasure of the lass behind him), Pippin pulled out a small, folded sheet of paper. "I have written here a full description of what must be done by when I win the bet."

Merry leaned back and crossed his arms. This was going to be interesting.

Clearing his throat once . . . twice. . . three times, Pippin held the paper high and stated in an authoritative voice, "In the event that Peregrin Took, son of Paladin, Thain of the Shire, emerges victorious, Meriadoc Brandybuck must open and keep available all areas of Brandy Hall's pantries for the winner, who may require sustenance at any hour of the day, any day of the week. And should Peregrin be found making the most of his situation by one to whom the bet is simply rubbish, Meriadoc must bear the full brunt of any punishment and/or admonishment that may come as a result."

Merry grinned, "I should have known it would be about food."

"But do you accept, Merry?" Pippin folded the paper and swept into his pocket with a flourish. "And if you do, what will your half of the wager be?"

Twiddling his thumb, Merry thought about this for a long moment, his eyes darting about the room as he weighed various outcomes. Then, a tiny look of glee dawned across his face, and he looked up to meet his cousin's eyes. "I accept."

"Good," Pippin giggled, "and your wager?"

As a mischievous smile blossomed, Merry rubbed his hands together, "Since you have seemed to become interested in meddling with my love life. . . perhaps I should meddle in yours."

"You wouldn't . . ."

"In the event that I, Meriadoc Brandybuck, win this bet . . ."

"Merry . . ."

"You must kiss a lass . . ."

"Merry, are you listening to me?"

"Of my choosing."

Pippin's breath caught in his throat. "Your choosing? Merry, you will without a doubt pick the most repulsive lass in all the Shire!"

"Perhaps."

Blinking bemusedly, Pippin let loose a forced shrug. "Well, it doesn't matter anyways," He stammered, "You won't win anyways."

Merry winked at the younger hobbit, "You don't know that for sure."

"B-but . . . it's not like you've got a plan or anything."

"That, my dear cousin, is where you are wrong."

TBC