To the Bottle I Go
A/N:
This is a happy little one-shot set in Minas Tirith, after Aragorn and Arwen’s
wedding, and after the Rohirrim return to the city (i.e. during Many
Partings). Basically, it’s a bit of a lads’ night out, said lads being
Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Gimli, Legolas, Faramir, Beregond and Éomer. The
title of the story comes from the Drinking Song, featured in Three is
Company.
* *
* * * *
The
city of Minas Tirith had been in a state of celebration for many days, and they
had a good many reasons to celebrate. The most recent cause for celebration had
been the return of the King of Rohan, and with him, the White Lady of Rohan.
Faramir had been greatly joyed to see his betrothed again. This betrothal was
also a great reason for celebration.
As
night had fallen, the sounds of celebration had died down, but not in a cosy
little Inn tucked in a quiet corner of the city. It was called The Quarry,
and a great many merry voices could be heard coming from its depths from miles
away. Aside from the regular patrons, tonight the Inn had some very special
guests.
“Another
round for my good friends!” Faramir, Steward of Gondor, announced. These good
friends included four hobbits, one elf, one dwarf, one man of Rohan and another
man of Gondor and all of them cheered as the barmaid brought over another nine
mugs of ale.
Legolas
had put aside his dislike for ale for the night. It had been Beregond’s idea to
visit the Inn, so Pippin had felt it his duty to make sure that all of his
friends attended. Aragorn had, of course, been unable to attend. Duties of the
King (and with the new Queen) would keep him quite occupied for some time now.
Gandalf had also politely declined, so when it came his turn to be invited,
Legolas had thought that it would be rude for him to also decline. Besides, his
good friend Gimli had practically bullied him into coming. He was glad that he
had agreed to come, for the company was good and even the ale had its merits.
Both
Pippin and Merry had consumed more than their fill of ale, and soon they were
singing a jolly little tune. It was a song about Bilbo, which Sam and Pippin
had thought up on their way from Hobbiton to Buckland. Merry had put in his own
suggestions, but it had been Bilbo himself that had come up with the tune.
Lived
long Bilbo, dear Elf-friend.
He
wandered far to distant lands
With
a treasure hunting, dwarvish band.
Why
wander from his cosy hole
To
become supper for hungry trolls?
But
his adventure did not end there
He
made his way to Rivendell fair.
Over
mountains and through goblins’ caves
He
was left behind and all seemed grave
But
there he found a magic ring
And
much would come from that dratted thing!
Goblins,
spiders, wolves and dragons!
Keep
away from Old Mad Baggins!
Keep
away your son and daughter
Lest
they hear more than they oughta!
Wizards,
dwarves, treasure and elves!
These
all belong in books on shelves.
And
in the Shire it can be seen
Their
song roused another cheer from their little group, and it was Éomer this time
who called for more drinks. In fact, none of the Hobbits had needed to buy a
single drink the whole night. It never seemed to be their shout.
“Another
ale for the Ernil i Pheriannath!”
“Master
Holdwine, your mug is empty. Allow me to get you another!”
“More
ale for the Ringbearers!” These cries, and many of the like, had been heard for
much of the evening.
The
talk at the table soon turned to women, and strangely enough, it was Gimli who
started it.
“I
still cannot believe your choice of the fairest of ladies,” he said to Éomer.
“I
may say the same of you, Master Dwarf,” Éomer laughed in reply. “Perhaps we
should enlist the opinion of another. Master Meriadoc! Who do you say is the
fairest lady to live? The Lady Galadriel or Queen Arwen Evenstar?”
“I
say neither, lord,” Merry replied with a grin. “My choice, if one must be made,
would be your sister, the White Lady of Rohan.”
“Lord
Faramir must be warned!” Éomer cried. Faramir turned his attention to the King
of Rohan. “I believe you may have competition for my sister. Master Meriadoc
names her the fairest lady to live.”
“And
I agree with him,” Faramir replied. “Though I hope his friends will forgive me
if I am to slay him if he ever tries to steal her away.”
Merry
bowed. “You have little to fear, lord. For the second fairest lady to live
waits for me back in the Shire, and she is a more fitting height for myself to
wed.”
Faramir
had heard of Merry’s betrothed from Peregrin, but this was the first mention
Éomer had heard and he called for a toast. “To Meriadoc and his waiting bride!
May their house be blessed with many children!”
“We
should also have a toast for you, soon to be brother,” Faramir said. “I saw
your eyes fall much upon my sweet cousin, Lothíriel, during the feasts.”
“I
see I can hide nothing from you, lord,” said Éomer. “Perhaps we will soon be
cousins as well as brothers.”
And
Faramir then made a toast to Éomer and Lothíriel, very similar to the one Éomer
had made for Merry.
“And
you, friend Gimli?” Éomer asked. “Is there a fine lady waiting for you in your
halls?”
“Nay,
lord,” Gimli replied. “Dwarvish women are few, and marriages even fewer. I
would wager that when I return to my own lands, I would be the most desirable
of husbands for my deeds. But my friendship with this elvish princeling will
not work in my favour, and my love of the Golden Lady will not allow me to see
anything else as fair.”
Éomer
was embarrassed, fearing that he had upset the dwarf. But Gimli smiled behind
his mug and seemed content.
“I
fear my reputation may also be marred by our friendship,” Legolas announced.
“There were several elvish ladies lined up for me, though they were chosen by
my father. I believe their affection will probably wane once word gets out that
I have been spending time with one of Durin’s folk.”
Legolas
and Gimli laughed and clinked their mugs together. “To many years of
bachelorhood!”
“Hear,
hear!” cried Pippin.
“What
is this?” Beregond laughed. “The Prince of the Halflings does not have a
Princess?”
“No,
Beregond. I do not, though I am counting on being able to pick and choose from
the hoards of lasses.”
“And
when he does find that special lady,” declared Faramir, “he has my permission
to name their son after me.”
“And
what do you plan to do when you have five daughters?” Merry asked. “That seems
to be how it works in your family. Your father had three sisters before he came
along, and you had four, so young Faramir will have to wait until five little
lasses are calling you Daddy.”
“Then
he will wait,” Pippin replied. “The Took lads like to take their time. I shall
have as many daughters as it takes to get to the lad!”
“Master
Samwise! It is your turn now,” Éomer stated.
“M-me,
sir?” Sam stammered. “I don’t rightly know what you mean.”
“Shall
you be joining Master Peregrin in picking and choosing from the hoards, or does
a special lass look to the South for her knight?”
Sam
blushed, and the other hobbits laughed, even Frodo, who had been sitting
quietly for most of the night.
“The
fairest lass in all the Shire waits for our Sam,” said Frodo. “Let me tell you,
lords, Sam here is the envy of every hobbit living. I am sure if you had asked
him your earlier question about who is the fairest lady to live, he would not
have hesitated to say Rosie Cotton.”
The
rest of the table was quick to congratulate Sam, and of course, a grand toast
to Sam and Rosie was made. They also pressed him to tell them a little about
her.
“Well,
sirs,” Sam murmured, “She’s the barmaid at our local, The Green Dragon.
I won’t deny the ale here is good, and I have tasted many a good ale on my
journeys, but I’d have to say that The Dragon is best, if only because
the ale there is served by her.”
“That’s
our Sam!” Merry and Pippin cried, together.
Éomer
smiled. “Rosie is a lucky lass, if one so great thinks so highly of her. To
Rosie Cotton!” He seemed to have forgotten that they had already toasted Sam’s
waiting bride, but everyone else had forgotten too, and they all raised their
mugs.
“Frodo?”
Éomer asked at length.
“No,
lord,” Frodo replied, with a sad smile. “There is no Mrs. Baggins waiting for
me to return from some stupid adventure. And to be honest, I am getting on in
my years, though I may not look it. Too old to be getting married…”
“Nonsense,
Cousin Frodo!” Pippin interrupted in a loud voice. “When we get back to the Shire,
you and I will have our pick of the finest lasses the Shire has to offer. With
the exception, of course,” He glanced at Merry and Sam, “of Estella Bolger and
Rose Cotton!”
“If
you say so, Cousin.” And Frodo had to smile as the men around him raised their
mugs to the Mrs. Baggins that would never be.
“Well,
Beregond,” said Faramir, placing his hand on the guardsman’s shoulder. “I
believe you are the only one we have not yet made a toast for.”
“A
pity Bergil could not come tonight,” Pippin sighed. “But I suppose he is just a
lad.”
“I
seem to recall you having an experience with ale when you were around his age,”
said Merry.
“I
was eleven, and I seem to recall that experience being your
fault, Meriadoc.”
Faramir
laughed. “Well, this sounds like an interesting tale! Let’s hear it in full.”
“There’s
not much to tell.” Merry was also laughing. “At Frodo, and his Uncle, Bilbo’s
birthday party, young Peregrin and myself decided that we would cause a little
innocent mischief. My idea was to make holes in the bottom of the ale
kegs, but my girth,” He patted his stomach, which had almost returned to a
healthy hobbit shape, “meant that it was my sweet cousin who had to make the
holes. It was all going fine, until he decided that he was thirsty…”
“Pardon
me, dear cousin, but that was not what happened,” Pippin grumbled. “I don’t
actually remember what did happen, but it was not that!”
“If
I may continue – I dragged Pip out by his ankles and found that I had one
rather intoxicated Took on my hands.”
“You’re
just lucky no one found us until I was sobered up, and that Pervinca was nice
enough to lend you a hand!” said Pippin.
“I
always wondered where the three of you disappeared to,” Frodo laughed. The
other hobbits took a moment to simply listen to a sound that they had missed
much. “And that also explains why you were in such a vile mood the next day,
Peregrin!”
“Perhaps
I should be thankful that the Inn would not allow Bergil inside,” Beregond
mused. “I cannot imagine what horrid things you would put my son through.”
“We
could have messed up his hair a little,” suggested Pippin, “stuck some to his
feet and made him walk around bare foot. He would have passed for hobbit, I am
sure!”
The
group roared with laughter. Faramir was about to call for another round when
one of the barmaids timidly came to the table.
“Beggin’
your pardons, sirs,” she said, “but it’s gettin’ near close time. I hate askin’
you ta leave, but we need ta close eventually…”
“No,
m’lady,” Éomer apologised, “It is we who should be begging your pardon. The
time has simply escaped us. We thank you for tolerating this rowdy bunch for
most of the night.” He bowed low and the barmaid blushed. She was not used to
being treated so grandly, and for it to come from a handsome young King was
especially flattering.
“You’re
quite welcome, lord,” she stammered. “The Quarry’s door is always open
for ye, as long as it’s durin’ tradin’ times.”
“Come
friends,” Éomer called. Aside from Peregrin and Meriadoc, he had probably
consumed the most ale that night. “Let us bid this fine establishment
farewell!”
Beregond
and Faramir left the cheery group almost as soon as they had left the Inn. It
was fortunate that the King of Rohan was staying in a house close to that of
the Companions of the Ring. Legolas helped Éomer as he stumbled down the road,
and the elf wondered what he would have done if no one had been able to aid
him. Merry and Pippin were helping (or hindering) each other, singing many
songs about nonsense as they did. Sam was a stout little fellow, and had always
been able to hold his own when it came to ale. He walked by his master, though
Frodo had no need of help, since he had drunk the least. Sam looked at the man,
elf and hobbits that walked in front of he and Frodo. If he tried very hard, it
was almost possible to imagine the two overly tall figures being much shorter
and with curly hair and bare feet. When he did, it almost felt like a normal
night back in the Shire, going back to Bag-End with his master and his master’s
friends.
Gimli
came last, and anyone who came near him would have heard him humming a little
tune about a certain hobbit named Bilbo.
* *
* * * *
A/N:
Yes, that horrible piece of poetry was written by me. It seemed like a good
idea at the time! It’s been a while since I’ve written any poems, so let’s hope
I can be forgiven.
And
I hope you all liked the story. Come on; admit it! You can all picture Éomer
drinking everyone under the table!