Like Holding Sparks in Your Hand

by Lullenny

e-mail: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com

Story notes: "We hobbits can have fireworks without wizards, you know."



Despite the greatly lacking beer, Pippin and Merry brought Sam to The Bridge Inn once he settled his family for a Yule visit at Brandy Hall. Merry's mother had gently put Rosie at ease when she stammered and blushed at the front door of the great Hall, and then whisked her and Elanor into a warm circle of matronly welcome where all of the ladies could not compliment enough the radiant health and beauty of little Elanor. When Pippin and Merry dragged him off, Sam seemed relieved to be rescued from the cooing of Brandybuck gammers, aunties and maids.

"Ah, that helps take the nip out of the toes," Sam said after setting down a steaming mug. Warned off the beer, he had accepted a hot toddy.

"Only the best for our Sam," Merry said warmly, his Buckland inflection blurred by drink so that it sounded as odd as Frodo's had on occasion when the accents of his Brandyhall childhood clashed with his long Hobbiton residency.

Pippin laughed at how silly the words came out, then nodded and grinned when he caught Merry's playful wink. They had gotten a head start on their drinking, and Merry was such fun when loosened up with hard spirits. As he raised his own mug to take a draught in salute, his hand slowed because Sam didn't smile in return; in fact, he stared at Merry, stricken, as if someone had aimed for his heart and had not missed. His hurt expression passed quickly, yet while he no longer seemed in pain, he still looked faintly troubled as he cast his gaze down. Pippin set his mug back on the table without drinking. "Sam?" Pippin grasped his forearm. "Sam, what is wrong?"

Sam lifted his mug with a jerky motion and took a loud swallow. He pulled his arm from under Pippin's hand and wiped his mouth with an uneven swipe. "There's naught wrong when another Yule's here with the barns full all over the Shire, friends all round me and my Rosie and Elanor within reach." His voice sounded rough, as if the liquor was too harsh. "It's just," he said, and then he took a breath and let it gust out, "we'll never see fireworks like we used to. Now that Gandalf's gone."

"I don't --" Merry's brows came down low in hard thought, and then swept up as if he had been struck by the same hand as targeted Sam. Pippin saw his lips move soundlessly around the word, fireworks. Merry scrubbed his face with both hands and mastered himself, and then said briskly, "You're right, Sam. Fireworks would be so splendid for Yule. Wouldn't they, Pippin?" Pippin felt a sharp kick on his shin.

"Er, yes. Yes, they would. I like fireworks." He turned his head so Sam couldn't see and frowned at Merry, puzzled.

"Well then. It's decided." Merry raised up his mug. "Pippin and I shall provide fireworks for the next feast."

Sam and Pippin looked at each other blankly before facing Merry.

"We hobbits can have fireworks without wizards, you know," he said. "I'm not saying they'll be as spectacular, of course --"

"Of course," Pippin said faintly.

"-- but we shall have them," Merry said firmly. He made a motion with his mug that he held, still suspended in front of him. Belatedly, Sam and Pippin raised theirs. "To fireworks!"

They all drank deeply, for while they drank there was no need to talk.

*

Much later that night, Pippin staggered with Sam and Merry back to the Hall and his uncle's glower. Saradoc seemed rather angry that they had kidnapped his guest and gotten him so thoroughly soused. Once he gracefully ushered Sam into his wife's sympathetic care, Saradoc showed the sodden pair no mercy at all, and rather than let them sleep it off in an extra cot somewhere in the Hall, he made them walk home.

"You reek of the inn and rough spirits," he said as he ushered them firmly out of the Hall. "Take your sorry hides to your own beds. Maybe the clean air will clear your heads so you start acting more like respectable hobbits instead of spoiled tweenagers." He shut the door, leaving them in the winter night.

For a long moment they stood in the dark, and then Pippin burst out laughing. Merry started snickering, and then he said, "I wonder if Rosie's ripping up and down Sam right now." He slung his arm around Pippin's shoulders, and they stumbled away, laughing and singing a bit at first but quieting as the cold clean night and starlight drew the stuffy air from their heads.

Rather than take the long path round Brandy Hall on well-traveled roads Pippin and Merry made their own way over Buck Hill to Crickhollow. They walked softly on the roof of the topmost smial through undisturbed grass and heather dried brown in early winter. As they crested the hill, Bucklebury lay below them, and Pippin saw the sparks of glowing windows gently winking.

At Crickhollow, Pippin felt a bit steadier, though he was hardly graceful as he unbuttoned his shirt or wiped his feet clean in preparation for bed.

"Merry," he called, "what was all that talk about fireworks?"

Though he could not see Merry in the other bedroom, he could hear him move around.

"Merry?" he said a little louder.

Merry stepped in the open doorway across the hall. His braces lay dangling around his hips; a towel was slung round his neck and his hair was darker around his face from washing up. "I heard you."

"So?"

He frowned as if perplexed. "You honestly don't know?"

"About fireworks? Well, no, hardly at all." Pippin looked around his room feeling helpless. "When did you suddenly know how to make fireworks?"

Merry crossed the hall and entered Pippin's room. He rubbed the towel against his dampened hair. "I don't."

"You were quick enough to promise fireworks to Sam," Pippin retorted. He tugged at his open shirt, but it would not come off. "And it sounds like I'm stuck helping."

Merry gave him a look of exasperation and affection, stepped close, and slid his fingers under Pippin's braces that were still on his shoulders, holding his shirt captive. "I didn't say I know how, foolish Took," he said, "but I am going to learn. And yes. You're going to help."

"Oh," Pippin said softly. He moved through the small distance between them and felt Merry's hands push his braces off his shoulders, and he never closed his mouth after that small sound but laid it open and questing on Merry's. The hands on Pippin's arms tightened, and for a moment the lips under his didn't move, but then they did, and Merry's mouth opened to his, all rum and sweet from the toddies and hot just because it was Merry. "Mm, yes," he said, and his voice rumbled deep in his throat, "oh, you kiss so sweet. Come to my bed tonight."

Merry drew back enough to rest his forehead against Pippin's. "Don't you think," he whispered, "that we're getting a bit old for this?"

"Who's the fool now?" Pippin whispered back. "'Twas your bed last night, but there haven't been kisses since haying." He thought of the long weeks since the end of September and how they had taken turns seeking relief nested together like spoons, never facing each other while they found comfort. He rubbed his cheek against Merry's, and he hardly breathed his next words because they hurt to admit. "I've missed your cheerful self."

Merry drew his hands up Pippin's arms and cupped his face like it was elven glass. He regarded him with dark eyes for long moments in the flicker of candles while Pippin felt the throb of his heart in his lips and counted the beats until Merry covered them with his hard mouth and kissed him. Pippin struggled with his shirt and the braces hanging from his elbows and wrapped Merry up in his arms, braces and all.

Merry helped free him of his shirt and braces and breeches, and then let his own open shirt slip to the floor and skinned out of his breeches. Standing next to the bed, they came together like trees in a high wind, all their bare skin touching knee to chest while they kissed until dizzy; Merry swayed too far, and they pitched down onto the rumpled, open bed.

"I," said Pippin shortly, "am not too old for this."

Merry stilled a bit at that. "But we can't do this forever, Pip." He trailed a fingertip over Pippin's lower lip. "You and I are nearly all grown up, and grown up hobbits don't act like boys tumbling in the fields."

"Nearly, Merry." Pippin smiled and caught the finger with his lips, suckled it in and scraped it gently with his teeth before letting it go. "Nearly. But not yet." He reached down and clasped the hardness that felt more familiar than his own, and he watched Merry's eyes flutter closed as his mouth dropped open. The sudden warmth and pressure of Merry's hand enclosed him where he ached most, and Pippin gasped. Merry's eyes lazily opened; he smiled, and with his free hand wound his fingers into Pippin's hair and pulled their mouths together again.

They kissed and kissed, lips tensed and hungry and working as hard as their busy hands until their breath came harsh and panting and Merry groaned, sounding lost in some far place as he spilled, slick and hot, and then Pippin cried out, feeling his pleasure take him blind, feeling Merry's lips on the corner of his open mouth as if supping on his noise.

They kissed after, soft and deft, filling up the corners of contentment until sleep caught Pippin while he still felt Merry's breath on his face.

*

Though Pippin's head ached a bit, the Yule feast was perfect. His mother and father made the journey up from the Great Smials, and they brought him the kinds of presents he used to hate but now treasured: a small book about herb gardening, a nicely tooled leather pouch suitable for pipe-weed, which Pippin made immediate plans to give to Merry, and a new scarf knit by his mother with the soft wool of Tuckborough sheep, blue and green yarns twisted together, his favorite. Pippin sat next to Elanor and found her to be a perfectly charming baby who found every little thing he did worth her attention and bright laughter. And Merry had been downright jolly throughout every course. After a long autumn filled with melancholy silences, the return of his cousin's usual optimistic nature lifted the pall that had hounded Pippin's mood as well. Sitting on his other side at table, Merry even snuck wicked fingers under the napkin on Pippin's lap so that he jumped, which Elanor found as amusing as the silly faces he made on purpose.

At last, when the final plates were pushed back empty except for crumbs and the odd crust of pie, Saradoc stood up and raised his hands. Merry tinkled a fork against his glass, and the incidental chatter fell quiet.

"Blessed as we are, there is little to say at the end of another golden year except to give thanks for all that we have," said Saradoc. "And I would like to take this opportunity to thank one of those who helped bring about such good fortune." He turned to Sam and lifted his glass of wine. "My Merry and that rascal Pippin did their share to help free the Shire, it's true, yet from what they've told me, it seems that I have been remiss in giving proper thanks where they are due, for it was you, Sam, and Frodo Baggins, that did even more, helping to rid the world of that evil ring so all of you could return safe."

Pippin glanced at Merry, and found him looking surprised at his father. Sam, he saw, was turning red around the ears, and he saw Rosie pat his leg under the table.

"T'weren't me, Master Brandybuck," mumbled Sam. "T'was Mr. Frodo who did the hard part. I -- well, I just helped."

"Allow me to disagree, Sam," said Saradoc, smiling. "Merry told me what you did. You did more than just help, and for that, I honor you." There were calls of hear, hear and scattered applause, during which Merry leaned over and whispered, "After all these months, he finally listened to me about how important their task was and who deserves the most thanks."

"Maybe he thinks you've grown up," replied Pippin. Merry lifted one shoulder and smiled. Pippin leaned closer and whispered into Merry's red ear, "Good thing I know better."

Saradoc waved them quiet. "But I have to say, though it may sound selfish, that more than the easement of troubles in lands far away, I care that you returned my son to me, safe, and I thank you for that from the depths of my heart. The doors to Brandy Hall are always open to you and yours, Sam Gamgee." He bowed over the table, nimbly holding his glass steady, and then he stood tall and drank.

Pippin found himself on his feet, Merry at his side, wine goblets held out. Glasses and mugs and even one flagon raised high round the table amid cheers while Sam squirmed in his seat, looking flushed.

*

Merry took seriously his promise to deliver fireworks for Sam's next feast, and soon the back shed at Crickhollow was filled with foul-smelling compounds. When Merry went in there to work, smelly, colored smoke would issue from the open windows. Pippin helped when he could bring himself to endure the stench, but he didn't often have to make excuses because he found himself called often to Tuckborough once the winter rains passed.

Never before had Tuckborough been so full of marriageable lasses, and it seemed Pippin's mother found opportunity to introduce him to every last one each time he visited. When he returned to Crickhollow, he would tell Merry about his Eglantine's machinations.

Sometimes Merry laughed with him, and sometimes he laughed at him. Sometimes he talked of other things until the conversation turned and turned again, away from matchmaking.

As summer began Pippin was called again to the Great Smials. The message said his father had been struck with a mild brainstorm, news that terrified Pippin. He had only ever seen Uncle Ferumbras suffer a brainstorm when Pippin was in his teens, and his uncle had been rendered speechless and unable to walk until he died eight years later. Paladin had become Thain in all but name then, and though Pippin knew it was folly to worry needlessly, he could not let go the association between illness and great upheaval made by his younger self. Merry plucked the single leaf of paper from Pippin's hand, hugged him tight and said, "I'll saddle our ponies, Pip."

They did not find Paladin drooling and insensible, but his right leg would not carry his weight, and his right hand could not hold even a fork.

"This will take time to heal: a lot of time," Eglantine told Pippin outside the sickroom. She looked tired, and for the first time in Pippin's eyes, she looked old. The deep marks around her eyes and mouth were set in pleading lines. "Pippin," she said, "will you consider coming home for good to help?"

"Oh, Mother," he embraced her, "of course I will. Of course, of course," he said, and then added, "As long as I'm needed."

Merry remained with him for nearly two months, helping Pippin run Tookland at his father's direction and staying through to midsummer for a modest but happy celebration at which Paladin walked with a cane to table, fed himself with a spoon, and managed to complain about how everything done without his direct supervision was somehow lacking.

"You old badger. It's a feast; you should be eating, not complaining," said Mother, chiding, but she looked as flushed and merry as a lass. The meal wound down early in deference to Mother's need to make sure the Thain got his rest, leaving Pippin and Merry free when the last light of sun gave way to the full brilliance of the stars.

"Let's slip away for a walk," said Merry. "I seem to recall that you like walking in the dark."

"I do at that," said Pippin, and they headed south through the woods until the trees failed, and then they walked along the edge of the hayfields watching fireflies dance like seeds of flame cast by a sower's hand under the eves of the forest while grass swished past their legs.

Pippin couldn't say that he disliked taking on the work of the Thain, for he did like it. The accounting was tedious, but it was only part of the responsibilities. He enjoyed riding fences with the herding tenants, making sure no one cried foul over boundaries and sometimes repairing a section knocked over by some disgruntled bull. Most of the farmers and herders knew him, and yet didn't, for he had grown during his adventures away, and not only in size. Pippin liked to provoke their surprise when they thought they could take advantage of the distractible lad they once knew, but found themselves dealing instead with a rather steely member of the Tower Guard. And best of all, while representing the Thain, Pippin organized and led the hunt.

It was worry about his father's health that had been the chief cause of strain for Pippin, and after seeing his father so obviously regaining his vigor, along with Merry's invitation to a walk, he felt lighter than he had in a while. In fact, he was surrounded by the things he loved most: the woods of Green Hill country, that he had missed while living in Crickhollow; fireflies dancing in sweet-smelling grass; the stars above; and Merry walking at his side. He did not think of these things full in his mind at first, but when the realization grew, he smiled, and then said aloud, "Well, song and ale would help complete the night's perfection."

"What?"

Pippin gave a little laugh. "Just a fancy of mine," he said. "It feels good to take a walk with you." He reached out and grasped Merry's hand and pulled so that they stopped. "And more than walk, too." He kissed his cousin, the first time since they had left Crickhollow. Merry held him suddenly tight, and his kiss was fierce, and it felt good, flaring all of Pippin's skin hot.

They tumbled together. The grass was dewy and soft under them, and the smell of it and the honest earth of the Shire was more heady than ale when mixed with the bouquet of Merry's curls, and the gleam of his neck, and heat of his mouth. They shucked each other bare and feasted, one upon the other, and drank, mouth to mouth. Pippin felt as though he flew, dizzy upon the ground, and he wondered at how magnificent this was, how better it got each time. A hand'll do, but better are two was part of his favorite saying, but Pippin knew now that he and Merry had left the exchange of simple favors far behind them.

Merry rolled Pippin over flat on his back so he stared up and saw Merry with grass in his hair and crowned with stars. His skin gleamed in the half-moon's light, and his eyes looked black and deep as an elf's with a fey twinkle neither gold nor silver but both. The sight of it gave Pippin a two-fold shiver, for though he loved the elves he had met on his travels, he found them beyond his understanding, strangely strong and a little cruel, and their fates, even when ultimately happy, were always fraught with loss and long toil and loneliness. And yet he shivered also because it was Merry, all generous skin and privileged laugh, inquiring nature and burning heat rocking in the furrow between Pippin's hip and leg.

Merry lowered his head and blinded Pippin to everything but him, and there was nothing fey or sinister about Merry's honest sweat and strong arms, though his cries, when they broke against the boles of the patient trees, sounded lonely. Pippin, when he felt that he would cry out, gasped against Merry's cheek instead, and Merry's sweat tasted like tears on his lips.

Merry's hand still moved lightly, which made Pippin twitch because he was spent, yet still hard, and ticklish, and Merry was speaking as he did this, breathless words Pippin heard as he slowly softened and calmed. "Oh, Pippin, if only, if only."

"If - if only?"

Merry's breathing evened, his hand trailed away, and he said quietly, "If only."

"And of us, I am called the fool."

Merry smiled and cupped Pippin's cheek. "Oh, you are. You're the best fool of them all."

"But you're the one who makes no sense."

The smile gentled into sobriety. "I got a letter from Mother. I'm going back to Buckland tomorrow."

"Buckland? So?" he retorted. "I won't be here forever -- Father is getting well much faster than the healers predicted."

"But someday you will be here forever, and I'll still be in Buckland," said Merry. Pippin abruptly turned away, but Merry kept speaking. "And your mother will find you a wife, and you'll marry and have sons and daughters, and you will be the Thain."

Pippin felt his delight bleed away into the grass. "And I suppose your mother will do the same for you?"

"She doesn't have to," he said softly. "I chose Estella Bolger. We will marry next summer."

*

Merry left the next day. Paladin's infirmity, though improving beyond all hope, still kept Pippin busy through the rest of summer and autumn. Pippin lingered at Crickhollow those few times his father's errands brought him to Buckland, but on the first occasion Stella was at Hall. Pippin could never corner Merry alone, and when he left, he rode quickly away, feeling more than a little desperate.

The next time he marched into the front door, laden with a trunk of fine cloth -- a gift from his mother to Merry's, to be used for making wedding clothes -- Merry was nowhere to be seen. When he overcame his pride to ask after Merry, his aunt said, "He's most likely playing with his smelly powders up at Crickhollow." She drew out a length of fine, green brocade and made a noise of appreciation before adding, "Tell him he'd better make an appearance at table if he wants to be fed tonight."

Pippin left the cart behind and rode bareback up the lane, his pony's hooves pounding. He found Merry in the back shed. Pippin stood in the open doorway and watched him pushing a ball of black mud into the middle of a length of cheesecloth with a wooden spoon.

"I didn't know the making of fireworks required a chef's touch," said Pippin.

Merry turned, surprised. "Why, hello to you, too."

Pippin entered and looked at the tools and substances on the workbench. He wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, just like I remembered."

"It may not smell nice, but you should see the pretty colors when I light the powder."

"Ohh!" exclaimed Pippin. "Show me!"

"Here," said Merry as he thrust a narrow tube of paper and a wooden dowel into his hands, "take these and fill them with layers of those three powders there." He pointed to three bowls, each filled with a mound of black powder. "Pour in some powder, tamp it down, and then add a different powder, and so on, until the tube is filled."

Pippin did as instructed. Merry offered more suggestions while he rolled the ball of black mud into the cloth and squeezed out a foul-smelling black liquid. "No, no, not like that. Tamp it evenly as you can, each layer the same."

"I'm not seeing any fireworks," Pippin complained as he hammered. "I thought you just had to light the powder."

"You've got to direct it somehow. Remember the elf-fountains Gandalf brought to Bilbo's party?"

"Of course." He remembered seeing them spout all over the party field, spraying colored sparks high into the air as if they were water.

"Well, they came out of little tubes of paper."

"Really? I didn't remember that." He returned to his task until the tube was filled. Then Merry took a different dowel, threaded a wick into the slot at one end, and struck it into the packed powder with sharp blows of his hammer. When it was deep enough, he withdrew the dowel and plugged the top with some soft clay, leaving a length of the wick trailing out. He held it up.

"That," said Merry, "is an elf-fountain." He carried it outside and Pippin followed with a tinder kit in hand. Merry stuck the bottom of the tube into a small hole in the ground. The grass around it was singed here and there. "All you need to do now is light the wick, stand back, and enjoy the show," he said smugly.

They dropped to their knees on either side of the fountain. Pippin held the flint close and struck the stone three times with the habit of long years, tat tat tat.

BOOM!

For a moment, Pippin wondered why he was on his back, looking up into the night sky through trees. He struggled to raise himself on his elbows and saw Merry doing the same across a small pit of burned earth and grass.

"Merry," he said, "your face is all black."

Merry blinked at him confusedly. Then he grinned wryly, and his teeth looked as if they were lights beaming out of his dark face. "So is yours."

They staggered to their feet and into the house to wash up. Merry bent over one basin and splashed his face while Pippin stared in the small mirror hanging from a nail on the wall over it and made small noises of dismay over his singed eyebrows.

Merry straightened and patted his face. Streaks of black ran down his jaw and neck. "Oh, they'll grow back."

"That's easy for you to say," Pippin said. "You've still got yours."

"How's the rest of you, then?" Merry daubed his damp towel over Pippin's face, looking for injury under the soot.

"Disfigured, I'm sure," he replied huffily.

Merry dipped his face close and kissed Pippin's cheek, surprising him. "Never fear. I'll always love you, even if you look like an orc," he said lightly.

"Ah, but will you always want to kiss me like you mean it?"

Merry demonstrated his willingness to do just that. After a few moments, he drew back. "I'll always want to, Pip," he said softly.

"Good," said Pippin as he began tugging at Merry's shirt, "because I want to, Merry. I really really want to." Like a sudden flare of sparks, the loneliness of the past months struck Pippin with the desperate feeling he'd had the last time he left Buckland.

Merry raised his head, listening. "Sh!" Regret steeled his expression. "It sounds like a pony coming down the lane," he said as he gently drew away. "Someone probably heard the noise and wants to see if we blew ourselves to bits or not."

"Bugger!" Pippin said savagely. He turned his back to Merry and splashed water on his face with great energy. He felt Merry's hand on his shoulder but shrugged it off, and he heard Merry withdraw from the room.

Much later, after a thorough clean up and change of clothes, a lingering dinner at the Hall that lasted five courses and included long, boring discussion about the upcoming wedding, two cups of coffee with a short glass of sherry after, and then the long walk back up the lane, Merry seemed to catch fire with the same urgency that Pippin had struggled with for weeks. Merry pushed him flat on the wall inside the door of Crickhollow and pulled his breeches open. They struggled against each other, supported by the wall, until they tensed, one after the other, and then slumped, spent.

Just before Yule, Paladin could manage all his activities, and Pippin returned to Crickhollow as soon as the festivities ended. The little house was empty; Merry passed the holiday with the Bolgers in Bywater, and he remained there most of January. When he rode back to Buckland he spent most his time at the Hall, helping his father in his business dealings and preparing for his own wedding.

Pippin divided his time between Tuckborough and Bucklebury, and the stretches spent in Tookland grew longer.

*

Pippin came of age in the spring. After the party he and Merry had a silent, urgent clash in Merry's bed that felt more like a battle than pleasure and left Pippin with a split in his bottom lip. After his lip healed, Pippin saddled up and rode to Tuckborough one morning before Merry woke.

Despite the mud, Pippin inspected all the fences, repaired the rock wall on the north side of the Smials, plowed his mother's kitchen garden, and helped raise two barns. After that, he volunteered to bring tithe reports to Mayor Whitfoot in Michel Delving and remained in the Westfarthing for nearly a fortnight. When he returned to Tookland, he found an invitation to Merry's wedding waiting. Merry asked for Pippin to stand with him.

Pippin returned to Crickhollow.

Merry said nothing when he opened the door and the lamplight streamed out, and when he led Pippin to his bed he remained silent and open and warm. As Pippin fumbled to peel off his clothes, Merry stilled his hands and kissed him for so long the candles guttered. When the last one flared and died Merry slid one button through its hole, parted the cloth, kissed the bare flesh revealed. His hair smelled faintly of the blackpowder he toyed with in the back shed, and his skin tasted of raw pipeweed. He freed another button, and then another, and another, shirt and breeches, putting his mouth where he had never done before but so slowly and carefully that Pippin made no sound but a few hitched breaths.

When he could bear no more he pulled Merry up with the muscles he had gained that spring and toppled them into the bed. He pulled off Merry's clothes. Merry looked painted in flame from the red light of embers on the hearth. When Pippin lay on him and pushed him into the soft bedding, Merry shuddered.

The old joints of the bed squealed, and their breathing hasped the silence, and Merry buried an inarticulate shout in the crook of Pippin's shoulder, and Pippin rumbled with his own throttled groan as he felt more wet heat stripe his stomach.

Neither said a word. Merry turned away and Pippin moved up behind them and both shed quiet tears that did not disturb the silence.

Grown up hobbits don't tumble like lads.

*

Other than her increased presence in Merry's life as they prepared for the wedding, Estella Bolger had not changed a bit. She was part of the gang of friends that had slowly gathered from all over the Shire: Stella and her brother Fatty whose family had moved from Tookbank to Bywater, Folco Boffin from Hobbiton, Merry from Brandy Hall, Pippin from Tuckborough, and Sam Gamgee from the very same Hill as the lonely Brandybuck orphan who drew them all to Bag End. Other young hobbits came and went, but through the years, only these six remained undaunted by crazy old Bilbo, braving his peculiarities for his nephew's sake -- and for his free ways with stories and cakes.

Stella was the only girl in the bunch. Pippin knew she was Merry's very first special friend because Merry told him when she bestowed her first favor. Her hand was soft like a cattail, he had said, but tight. Merry had been twenty-four, and bragging more than a little. Seven years later, she did Pippin a favor, too, and not his first, which he considered a point of pride at the time.

Stella, like the others, shared with Pippin her childish fears and joys: she played the same games; suffered the same fits of temper and pique that would have her mad at Folco one week and Merry the next; and at one of Bilbo's double birthday parties, after too much wine, she confessed to Pippin that she was in love with the younger guest of honor, but if she couldn't have him, Merry would do. Since Merry held Pippin's attention almost exclusively that summer, he had felt less than charitable about her attitude. He plied her with more wine, and when she fell asleep, he removed her knickers, wrapped them in the paper his gift from Bilbo had been wrapped in, and stuck it where the younger Baggins would be sure to find it.

The prank backfired for the most part because Pippin had been found out and chastised that very night, while Stella slept, oblivious, but he was privileged to witness her mortification the next morning when Fatty loudly recounted the entire story to her at the open-air breakfast with all the family around -- including the hosts. She refused to visit Bag End or speak to Pippin until she paid him back, after which she forgave him completely. He still bore the scar, but only Merry had seen it.

Stella knew that Merry and Pippin had granted each other favors in their youth; all their gang knew, and many within their circle had given or received the same favors as well. But Pippin doubted she knew how the favors had become less like favors over the past few years and more like something grander. Even before the War of the Ring, Merry especially was sensitive to his age and the opinions of others who were looking for him to grow up, behave like a sensible hobbit, and marry, so they were very circumspect. The War demanded its own limitations, but they emerged from it bound more tightly together.

Not that any of that particular history mattered one whit.

Meriadoc Brandybuck married Estella Bolger on the 8th of June in 1423. Pippin stood at Merry's side, toasted the couple's happiness, and danced at their wedding. He even meant it.

Though Crickhollow was traditionally for honeymoons, and in the past Pippin and Merry had vacated the house on occasion to accommodate such trysts, Merry moved with his bride that very night into a suite of rooms at the Hall.

*

After the wedding, the silence of Crickhollow chased Pippin away. He moved all his things to Tuckborough before a week passed, and while letters came and went between them, they were full only of news and questions dealing with their positions as Thain- and Master-to-be. The enthusiastic tone of Merry's letters, oddly, only worsened Pippin's glum feelings. There was no more spooning for Merry and Pippin, and for a very long while, no visits at all.

Pippin managed to hold an air of polite interest while out and about, but he could not hide his unhappiness from his mother now that Paladin was well.

She showed her usual motherly concern and wisdom when Pippin moped into the kitchen one morning. September winds blew colored leaves and a spit of rain past the window. Mother sat at the table, writing in her kitchen ledger as he readied a pot of tea and sighed heavily at the weather. It was a morning for sleeping late, cozy and companionable.

The scratch-scratch of quill against paper stopped. "Perigrin Took, you get your disrespectable self dressed, pack some clothes and get out from here -- anywhere but Buckland," she said. "And don't you come back until you can smile at me and mean it."

Pippin turned from the window, pot in hand and his mouth dropped open. "What?"

"Look at you, like a scoundrel walking about shirtless --"

"I just woke up --"

"-- and when's the last time those bed-trousers saw a washtub? Or your hair some soap? And when will you let me trim that mop?"

Pippin made protesting noises his mother overrode.

"I am mightily tired of you glooming about like a tweenager, and I want you to put a stop to it," she said. "You're not the Thain yet, but you will be, and it's past time you started practicing for when you are. That means putting on a good face for those around you."

Pippin said nothing for a long moment, and then waggled the teapot. "Can it wait until after I've had my tea?"

"Hmph. I suppose." She bent to the ledgers, and Pippin frowned heavily at her. "And don't give me that look," she said without looking up. "You know well enough what you need to be doing. You always do."

He blinked a few times and asked wryly, "Since when do I know how to do anything?"

She looked up at him and smiled. "I wouldn't know since you manage to be out of my sight when impossible things drop on your head, and yet you return, every time." She said nothing for a moment as she regarded him thoughtfully. The quill looked very dark against her gray hair as she tapped her temple with it. "You and Merry have been in each other's pockets forever. I think your boyhood has been too short and his has been too long, and not all of that can be attributed to the war. Mourn what is gone, and then move on and find something new. Friendships aren't only for children. And mark my words: Merry is still your best friend. You'll both remember that before too long."

*

Of the hobbits he wanted most to visit, one would be busy with his new wife and one was gone forever, but Sam, he knew, would be right where Pippin could always find him, no different than he ever was. Pippin did not allow his mother to touch his hair, but he did bathe and pack clean laundry. He hesitated when he unwrapped his mail-shirt but told himself it was prudent to wear. The wilds around the Shire were safer, yet there persisted rumors of lone goblins and wild Men lurking about. That seemed excuse enough for him to slide the heavy hauberk over his head, never mind that he had a need to feel the weight of the mail like an itch under the skin. He left off the livery of the Tower Guard: only when he went to battle the remnants of the Enemy did he don the helm and the surcoat with its gleaming white tree. The faint chime of the black rings kept him company all the way to Hobbiton.

He found Sam working outside of Bag End, shaping new sections of split-rail fence to replace those that had rotted. From atop his pony, Pippin called a greeting.

"Master Pippin!" exclaimed Sam. He straightened from his task. "Mr. Peregrin Took I should say."

"You always do." Pippin moved his pony closer but remained mounted.

"What brings you to this part of the Shire?"

"You, Sam," Pippin replied. "If I may be so bold, I would like to invite myself over for a day or three, if that is all right with you and missus Rose?"

"Why of course," said Sam. "You know there's always room for you here. You can go on into the kitchen and let Rosie fuss over you while I finish this."

"There's time enough for fussing later. Let me nip down to the Ivy Bush and rent a stall in their stable, and I'll help you with the fence. Then you and I can visit that much sooner, and Rosie can feed us both at once."

"Sounds fair." Sam waved him off with a smile.

Pippin quickly settled with the innkeeper, slung his pack over one shoulder, and walked back up the Hill. As he passed through the gate he watched Sam smooth the top rail with a plane. "That is a lot of fine work for a rail fence, Sam," he said, and let his pack slide down and thump on the ground to lean on a post.

"Aye, it is at that," Sam said. The blade caught on a knothole and he pushed it free with a grunt. He ran his fingertips over the wood, nodded, and set down the plane. "But it's best to make it smooth so the wee ones won't catch slivers in their fingers."

"Oh, I should have said first thing! Congratulations, Sam," said Pippin. "A fine little brother, born just for Elanor to torment, no doubt."

Sam straightened and cast him a satisfied look. "Little Frodo is a bonny lad and lucky as his sister to take after Rose more'n me."

"Let's put this together." Pippin stooped to pick up one end of the rail. Sam took the other end, and they maneuvered the rail into position. Pippin pinned it in place while Sam did the same at the other end. Pippin gave it a good shake: it was solid.

"That's a good job done and no doubt," said Sam.

"Seems all I've been doing is mending fences this year," replied Pippin, "but there are always more to fix whenever I turn around."

"Fences are like that," agreed Sam.

*

There had never been any lack of babies at the Great Smials, but none had ever held any great interest for Pippin. Elanor and Frodo-lad, however, captivated him. Elanor was as pretty as an elf-maid, just like he remembered, but as the days turned into a fortnight, what Pippin noticed more was her manner so earnest and gay all at the same time, just like the merry elves he remembered in Rivendell. But the most magical thing about Elanor was that she did look like Sam, no matter how much he denied it.

Though hardly a handsome hobbit, Sam was far from homely. The casual put-downs he gave himself sounded like old echoes of his father's voice, and Pippin secretly thought that the Gaffer was more than a little harsh on his son. But after spending time with Elanor, Pippin saw Sam differently, and what he saw was a marvelous hobbit: touched with the same gold that shone so bright in his daughter, radiant with vigor and love of small things, just as Elanor would cup a daisy's head as if it were an elf-jewel. And her beautiful eyes were Sam's eyes; they shone for all to see in their new setting, but once he saw just how lovely they were, Pippin saw how Sam's were beautiful, too.

His son's eyes the same golden brown. Frodo-lad had Rosie's dimple, Sam's ears, and a petulant pout that Pippin recognized as the Gaffer's soon as he saw it. And though not yet two months old, he had the same accepting curiosity that Sam did, and Pippin saw it clear as day when Sam held the babe bundled on his lap while he sat on the bench outside Bag End's green door. Their expressions were just the same.

It was the best magic Pippin had ever seen, to see a dear friend's features on new faces. He wondered if any child of his would have his pointy chin or green eyes, or maybe the mole on his foot, or his love of hunting.

Rosie seemed amused by his sudden enthusiasm and, apparently, considered it sufficient reason to treat him as familiar as a brother. She put him to work, fixing Elanor a snack, reading her a story, and even changing Frodo-lad's smelly bottom. When Sam protested, she said, "I'm educating him. Some hobbit-lass will thank me in the future. Goodness knows you could have done with a bit of training at first."

Rosie also took it upon her to pick up where his mother had left off about his hair. She sat him down outside in mid-September sunshine and trimmed him up until, she declared, he was fit to be seen in town. And, like his mother, she had an ulterior motive.

"Took or no," she said as she brushed bits of hair from his shoulders, "the lasses won't give you the time of day if you look as though you've been associating with trolls."

"The only trolls I ever saw were bald," Pippin muttered.

"And there you go and prove my point!" said Rosie. Sam, sitting with Elanor on his lap as they watched the proceedings, chuckled. "Gallivanting all over the wilds, chasing after orcs and trolls and evil things, and then coming back just to gallivant all over the Shire with Master Brandybuck like lads playing a game. No wonder you have no prospects for a wife." She clucked disapprovingly. "They won't all wait for you to come to your senses, you know."

"You waited for me," pointed out Sam.

She flashed him a fiery glance. "You didn't give me much choice, Mr. Gamgee."

Sam seemed nonplussed. "I was busy. I got back soon as I could."

"Their birthday is soon." The words came out of Pippin abruptly and without thought, surprising him. Rosie's hands stilled on his shoulders. He felt chagrinned, but then it came to him that he'd been busy with his father's illness last September and missed the date completely. He wondered about the odd tradition held at Bag End around the Bagginses' shared birthday, and if it had continued. He honestly didn't know if either one was beyond caring about such things as birthdays or not.

Rosie cleared her throat softly. "I'll be making a nice dinner, just for us: some soup and meat and a cake or two. We hope you stay on until then, at least, Pippin dear."

Pippin stood and brushed clippings from his clothes. "Of course I'll stay, thank you." He flicked a glance at Sam. Sam remained on the bench, thoughtful but placid, Elanor drowsing in his lap. Pippin remembered a promise Merry once made but never kept. Sam, however, seemed accepting to the fact that there would be no fireworks this year, or any other for that matter.

Pippin suddenly wished he could see a great, red dragon trail sparks over Bag End.

*

He would never admit it to his mother, but it seemed there was something to washing up, trimming his hair, and getting out of Tookland for a bit because shortly after Rosie brought him up to the same standards of grooming his mother demanded, Pippin discovered the real difference between lads and lasses.

A hand'll do, but better are two / and good friends shouldn't misconstrue / that if your lass says no to you / then ask a lad; he has one, too. as the entire saying went, and in his early twenties he'd had many friends, both lasses and lads. What the barmaid in Bywater showed him had little to do with her hands, though, which was the method of favor with which he was most accustomed. She showed him in a bed, where neither of them wore a stitch of clothing. Other than with Merry, Pippin had never shared such intimacy with another.

The coupling was not a complete mystery, for he had a theoretical knowledge of the proceedings backed by a memorable demonstration when he caught Everard Took and Melilot Brandybuck in the hay barn. What he did not expected was how the very world fell away as he sank into her, and he was aware only of the bounty of her curls and breasts, the lushness of her skin, and the cunning, damp pressure that seemed to pull him in. His pleasure, when it came, struck him senseless.

Once he could reason again, the thought did occur to Pippin that maybe this was the motivation why Merry spent rather a lot of time with his wife instead of galloping across the Shire to visit him. To share such pleasure with a dear friend like Stella would make a marriage as wonderful, almost, as what he used to share with Merry. Though it came not without a flash of jealousy, the epiphany softened the brittleness that accompanied thoughts of Merry since last spring. And though they were miles apart, he felt they shared an oddly empathetic moment. After all, Pippin, too, would have to marry one day.

By the time October ended, his mother commented about the four trips he took to Hobbiton. She approved because the visits to see Sam seemed to cheer him so. "Your sparkle has finally returned," she said as she hugged him, "bright as before."

*

A letter came from Merry on the first of December. The paper smelled of pipeweed smoke, and the breath of it as he unfolded the envelope was like expecting a caress. The letter said nothing about Buckland farms, road repair, or requests for old Took writings on various plants. It was a single page filled with a long, eloquent plea that Pippin come visit for Yule. Pippin reread the last paragraph several times: Nearly six months have passed without even the briefest of visits, and that, dear cousin, is far too long for us to be apart. I beg you to come to Brandy Hall for Yule. Crickhollow will be readied for your use, and your seat at the table will be waiting, as will I.

That night the company of Pippin's hand struck him more profoundly than it had in months.

*

Pippin felt just a bit foolish showing up two days early, and so he bypassed the Hall and rode straight to Crickhollow. The windows were dark but the door was unlocked, and a tinder kit was right where he expected it to be, on a shelf just inside the door.

It was terribly tidy and smelled faintly of camphor. He slept poorly.

The next morning Pippin took a handful of dried currants and a wrinkled apple from his pack to munch while he walked down to the Hall for a real breakfast. A gaggle of young hobbits passed him as they tore down the lane. He recognized a few faces and surmised that they most likely sought the very same meal so he shouted after them.

"Don't tell anyone I'm here! I want to surprise them!" he called, but an older one, the son of Fenmac, a notorious bully at Brandy Hall, slowed long enough to turn round and stick out his tongue. Pippin predicted the boy would rat on him soon as he reached the Hall, and he was proved right when he strolled up to the main door and found Merry sitting on the doorstep.

"Fenmac's whelp gave me away, didn't he?" said Pippin as he approached.

Merry stood and nodded. "Before the door swung closed."

They embraced, and it was as if the past half year folded into nothing. Merry's breath stirred Pippin's hair as he said, "Oh, I have so much to tell you."

They broke apart. "Tell me over breakfast," said Pippin. "I'm starving."

But once they entered the busy dining room, Merry didn't have to say a thing. Estella's belly gently pushed out her apron, just enough for surety. She spied them standing at the door and hurried around the table. Heads turned, and various Brandybucks called out a greeting.

"Oh, Merry!" said Pippin amid the loud hails, and he grinned as he pounded Merry's shoulder. Merry grinned, too, and looked rather flushed. Pippin immediately hoped Merry's child would blush just like that. And maybe the babe would be a boy, with that nose, or maybe a girl, with her father's dark eyes. Maybe the babe would have Stella's delicate lips, or her razor sharp sense of justice.

He found he could hardly wait to see.

"Pippin!" exclaimed Estella. She hugged him and tiptoed to kiss his cheek.

He patted her belly and declared, "His name is going to be Pippin, of course."

She playfully lashed him with the dishtowel in her hand.

"Sam beat us to our first choice if it's a boy," said Merry.

"That is as it should be," said Stella, "and I'm glad of it. Bag End is where that name belongs."

"Well, then," said Pippin, "that leaves Pippin for the lad."

"If it's a lad," Stella retorted, "we will name him for someone less silly than you."

"I rather thought Boromir would make a good name for a hobbit lad. Th�oden has a nice sound, too," said Merry.

Pippin saw Stella wince. "How would you shorten either one to call them to tea out the back door?" she asked.

"Theo? Odin? Boro? Omir?" Pippin suggested.

"You're not helping, Pip." Merry glowered at him, but the effect was ruined by a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

*

In the afternoon, Merry drove him in a little cart back to Crickhollow. In the cart were baskets of food and clean linens and towels and an extra copper to heat water by the fire for his bath.

"I see you haven't blown up the shed out back," said Pippin as they lugged their burdens into the house.

"Yes, well, I haven't had much time for that since spring," he said.

"I thought about it, a little, when I visited Sam, but he seemed to have forgotten your promise to make him some fireworks."

"He mentioned your visit in a letter." Merry set a basket on the table. "I was stunned to read the bit about you and the smelly end of a baby. If it had come from anyone but Sam, I'd suspect they were having a joke at my expense."

Pippin stood by the window in the kitchen as he put the dry food into cupboards. "His children are so delightful. And they look just like him. If he tells you otherwise it's because he doesn't know how to use a mirror." He closed one door and opened another. "You know, I used to wonder what a pretty girl like Rosie saw in him -- beyond the fact that he's a marvelous hobbit, of course! -- but I never gave him enough credit. He's not a bad looking fellow at all." Pippin turned around to face Merry. "I am so happy for you, having your own family."

Merry had moved and now stood very close. At Pippin's words, he stepped back quickly, smiling a small, awkward smile.

"What," said Pippin, "are you doing?"

Merry looked wry. "Not a thing. But you smell good."

"Really," he said.

"Really."

Pippin turned back and resumed putting things away. "That's good to know, Merry."

*

After the Yule feast, Pippin remained at Crickhollow. He found the solitude soothing this time round. He spent the mornings reading in bed, and he puttered through the small house when he felt like it, fixing the odd squeaky window or stuck drawer. Sometimes he would go walking all over Buckland. Soon the days added up to a fortnight, and he knew he would soon have to leave. The next afternoon, he ventured into the shack furthest from the house.

Dark and dusty, it smelled of sulfur and saltpeter and an odd tang of something metallic. Various sizes of old jars stood in rows on shelves over the workbench, each labeled in Merry's handwriting. Pippin took down the jar three-quarters full of Merry's Black Powder. He shook it gently and watched the grains shift and slide. His gaze fell on two wooden boxes on the bench top; they held narrow tubes of paper. He set the jar down on the bench and drew a tube from one box. He held it to his eye and could see right through. Those in the other box were weighted on one end, plugged with what looked like dried clay.

The light dimmed. Pippin turned. Merry stood leaning against the jamb of the open doorway. He folded his arms. "Are you picking up where I left off?"

"Hardly, though the thought occurs that it's a shame we never managed to do more than singe our eyebrows." He slid the tube back into its box.

"Maybe we should try again," said Merry.

"If nothing else, it would be worth the look on Sam Gamgee's face if we could manage an elf-fountain." He picked up another jar, peered through the glass and shook it. "His birthday is in April." He opened it and sniffed.

Merry stepped up quickly and took the jar from Pippin. "Whoa, careful there." He gently replaced the lid and set it on the shelf. "You have to be very particular about how you handle some of these."

"I'm particular," said Pippin.

"Peculiar more like."

Pippin shoved Merry's shoulder. "Show me what to do, then."

Merry frowned. "I'm not sure if the powder hasn't gotten too damp," he said, "and I never was satisfied with how it burned. I think I'm lacking some key ingredient, or maybe I'm not processing it correctly." He stared at the row of jars and stroked his chin.

"Well, it explodes well enough when you don't want it too," remarked Pippin. "Maybe the trick is to convince it to go off when you do want."

Merry came back from his contemplation of the contents on the shelf to a different mood. He turned towards Pippin and raised his hand so his fingertips hovered just by Pippin's mouth. Pippin felt as though every hair on his body leapt to attention, and he drew in a deep breath.

"I've always loved her, you know," Merry said. His fingers made the tiny drop and traced Pippin's lower lip. "But never as much as you."

"But," said Pippin, and Merry's fingers dragged over his lip as he spoke, "grown up hobbits --"

"-- don't tumble like lads, I know." He slipped his hand around Pippin's neck, his thumb stroking along the line of his cheek. Merry was the only person in the Shire taller than Pippin, if only a little; he was grand and even a bit stern as he regarded Pippin solemnly. "Maybe...maybe what we need is to find a way to tumble like grown-up hobbits."

Pippin's mouth dropped open of its own accord: a habit of desire, mostly, and surprise, but his hand came up and grasped Merry's wrist, holding tight. "You," he started, but that sounded too much like an accusation. He licked his lips and swallowed and tried again. "I do not want another year like this one. And now that I'm grown up, I will have to marry, too."

"We will be grown up hobbits for a very long time," said Merry.

"I know." Pippin felt keenly a year-old tear inside threaten to rip more. "We will be, but --" His grip tightened.

"But you still love me," Merry whispered.

"More than anyone," he said, the words rushing with his breath. Admitting to love did not mend the confusion in his heart, but it did make bearing it easier.

"It would be foolish to do, you know. We would have fireworks more often than each other." Merry smiled at him crookedly. "Rolling up fire into paper is easier."

"More like holding sparks in your hand." Pippin released his hold on Merry's wrist and leaned back a little on the workbench so that Merry's hand trailed to his shoulder. "Why does it seem worse than facing down a troll on the battlefield, when it used to be easy?"

"Maybe," replied Merry, "because being grown up means being wise, but you and I are best when we're being fools."

"It's a good thing we are brave fools, then," said Pippin and drew Merry close.

*

Merry had found some success teaching Pippin how to make the elf-fountains, because of those tubes they made together, and Pippin lit, five fountained over very prettily. One never lit, two only smoked, and one exploded before Pippin could duck back, shooting burning sparks into his face and causing a rash of tiny blisters to raise along his cheek. Despite Merry's panic that night over his injuries, Pippin had declared that the odds still fell to the good, and demanded they bring the rest for Sam's birthday. Merry, however, insisted that all the spectators would have to stand well back when Pippin struck a flint anywhere near the things. Pippin agreed. He wanted to light them all himself.

On the day of Sam's birthday, Merry and Pippin drove a small cart up to Bag End. In the back were the fountains, several packages of tiny tubes that popped loudly when lit, a few larger ones that Pippin was rather fond of, though Merry figured they would probably only annoy the folks around Hobbiton, and a special large package Merry had painstakingly assembled himself that would, he hoped, loft colored stars high into the air where they would burst open.

Sam was speechless.

"We promised you fireworks," said Pippin, "and here they are."

"A little late, perhaps," added Merry, "and they are still rather an experiment, but we might get one or two to work properly."

"Bless me!" said Sam. "I hardly know what to say!"

"'Come have some tea, Pippin,' would be a good start," said Pippin. "And 'I've just filled the beer kegs' would be continue the conversation rather nicely."

Amid laughter and jesting, they all went into Bag End and visited and ate. Rosie asked about Stella, and Merry said she sent her regrets. "The baby has a fortnight or two before it makes an appearance, and Stella is feeling rather shut in."

"Oh, of course," said Rosie. "Poor dear. The last weeks are the hardest."

"She should have come anyhow." Pippin puffed his cheeks out and held his arms in a big circle in front of his stomach. He said, "We could have rolled her along behind the cart--" but ended in a squawk when Merry caught him round the neck with his forearm and pulled tight.

*

When the sun went to bed and the stars turned their eyes to the Shire, Merry and Pippin led Sam and his family to the Party Tree. They gathered others as the cart bumped over the grass. Several of the Cottons showed up along with the inhabitants of New Row, the Gaffer leaning heavily on a cane. Children crept up along the edges, curious, and soon the word spread round and a sizable crowd found places to sit and watch as Merry and Pippin carefully set up the fountains.

One by one, they alternately lit the elf-fountains. When the first one spewed yellow sparks high into the air, every hobbit gasped as if with one throat. After that, there was a blue one and a green one and one that only smoked, and then another yellow and a red. Cheers and applause followed each one, and when a lit fuse brought only smoke and silence, the folks sent their disappointment lowing into the night with long boos. One tube exploded loudly under Merry's hand, and the crowd shouted in excitement, but it did him no injury but for a small burn on his palm.

Pippin pulled the hand close to examine it in the dim light of stars.

"It's fine," said Merry. "It's just a small blister."

"But it's in a very inconvenient place," said Pippin. In the darkness, standing at a distance with his back to those watching, he felt it safe enough to press a kiss into Merry's hand. "I have rather fond hopes for this right hand of yours, you know."

"Unless you want to go without a hand at all, you'll just have to make do with my left for a few days," replied Merry.

The last four fountains lofted bright sparks perfectly. Merry and Pippin walked to the edge of the field where the Gamgees sat on a blanket, and they bowed low to much clapping before finding bottles of ale and dropping into the grass to lounge next to Sam.

Sam regarded them both thoughtfully as the applause pattered to a stop and the talk quieted while folks waited to see what was next. "You know, I always loved fireworks," he said slowly. "Magic, as I used to call it, but it seems that I was wrong, and he was right. It's the little things you miss." He sniffed. "But thank you, lads. Thank you."

Merry sniffed, too, and Pippin stared at them, puzzled, thinking that no one had imbibed enough ale to be so maudlin this early in the evening. The Gaffer stamped up just then.

"T'weren't no dragon," said the Gaffer loudly, "and for that I thank'ee. Seems like a lot of stuff and noise for no real purpose than to frighten decent folk into diving for the ground."

"Well, then, you'd better get back to your hole," said Pippin. "Merry's got one left, and it's big." He nodded to Merry. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, let's."

They scrambled up from the grass. While Merry fussed with the last bundle, Pippin stepped in front of the throng still sitting in the grass. "I hope you've all enjoyed the show so far," he said. Cries of yes and more applause answered him. "As you can see, the elf-fountains worked --"

"-- mostly worked, you mean," called out an anonymous wit.

"Hoy, back there, I heard your voice cheering!" Pippin retorted cheerfully to general laughter. "But this last one is an experiment. We've never tested one successfully, but we're feeling lucky, and tonight could be the night."

The crowd oooo'ed appreciatively. Pippin could hear Sam's distinctively skeptical snort in the lull.

"Now, it's not a dragon, Gaffer --"

"--wot's that?"

"--but if fires right, it will be a burst of stars enough to rain all over the field."

The gathering buzzed with anticipation. Merry called Pippin to the middle of the field.

"Ready?" asked Pippin.

"As we'll ever be," he replied.

"Here, I'll light it. You stand back." Merry hesitated, plainly worried. "Go on, stand back. If the thing blows up, I'll need you to drag me to the Water to douse the flames."

"That's not funny," said Merry.

Pippin just grinned and waved him off, and when Merry had backed up several yards, Pippin bent to the large tube sticking out of the ground and set his flint to the wick. He struck, tap tap tap, and the wick caught, and Pippin began backing away, and the wick flared, and the tube erupted with a crackling whooosh! Before he could turn to run, a great ball of golden light expanded just above his head and pushed him into the ground so hard his breath was knocked from his lungs, and the instant noontime was just as quickly eclipsed by a sudden midnight.

Pippin's ears were ringing as he struggled to sitting and hauled in a painful breath. Sparks still fell on him like a magical twilit rain, and he heard shouting as hobbits came running toward him. He realized that he had fainted, just for a moment, and then he laughed.

Merry was at his side, his eyes showing white all around, and he clutched Pippin's hand. Before Merry could say anything, Pippin said, "Oh, Merry, it worked! You've got to make another one!"

Sam was there, and Rosie, and many concerned Hobbiton and Bywater faces, all looking down at him. Merry husked, "You fool of a Took. You've singed your eyebrows off again."

"But it worked!"

"Aye," agreed Sam, impressed. "That was a bit of magic like what Gandalf himself used to do, even if he never risked no broken neck to do it."

"We'll do it again next year, Sam," vowed Pippin. "We'll do it every year, right on your birthday."

At Sam's side, holding his hand, Elanor stared down at Pippin with her finger in her mouth, eyes huge and reflecting a spark like the twinkle of Frodo's star glass.




Notes: From the appendix (pg. 486): There is no record of the Shire-folk commemorating either March 25 or September 22; but in the Westfarthing, especially in the country round Hobbiton Hill, there grew up a custom of making holiday and dancing in the Party Field on April 6. Some say that it was old Sam Gardener's birthday, some that it was the day on which the Golden Tree first flowered in 1420, and some say that it was the Elves' New Year.

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