Ring Around the Merry

Ring around the Merry:
An AU tale of what happens to Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry when Merry decides that neither the Ring nor its bearer must leave the Shire

DISCLAIMER: The author claims no legal rights to the characters, settings, situations, or other characteristics that are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, their licensees, or others, and no copyright infringement is intended. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money or other remuneration is sought or received.

_________________________________________________________________________________________
Ring Around the Merry Prelude: Part 1/5


“Goodbye Little Master”
_____________________________________________________________________________
Year 2988, Third Age

(Frodo is 20, Merry is 6)

Frodo plopped his body down upon the bed in his now nearly empty room at Brandy Hall. Clustered about the bed were all of his earthly possessions, now packed away in large lumpy bundles bound with twine and in a motley group of different sized chests coated with a thick veneer of dust from their long sojourn in storage. Many of his so called “possessions” Frodo had not laid eyes upon since his parents untimely demise, since this guestroom had become his permanent lodging, since his tranquil life at home had been replaced by life in a perpetual crowd at the broilsome Hall, since his privileged position as an only child had degraded to just another ward of the Master of Buckland.

“So Frodo,” he mused to himself. “This is it!”

Bilbo, his dear eccentric cousin whom he’d always called “Uncle,” was coming to collect Frodo from Buckland and bring him to live at Bag End as his heir. Frodo knew intrinsically that moving in with Bilbo was much more than a change of location. It would not only alter the rhythm of his life but its trajectory as well. Frodo leaned back onto his silk feather pillows and took a moment to trace his eyes along the fine brocade on the emerald-colored covers and the gorgeous silver inlay along the rim of his stately oak bed stand. He had been denied nothing here at Brandy hall, nothing that money could buy. Frodo let his eyes drift shut, taking in the muted echoes of a hundred voices emanating from any twenty tunnels, the rumble and bustle of an enormous smial that never seemed to sleep. Yes, that was it. Frodo lacked the benefit of solitude. More than that, he lacked any guardian who could lap him with all the undivided attention he required. For most hobbits such guardians took the form of parents. For Frodo, it had taken the form of Bilbo.

Bilbo - the one adult relation in Frodo’s constellation of relatives who took the time to pay attention just to him. Between the old hobbit’s wild tales of dragons and elves, to which Frodo had listened with rapt attention as a small lad, and their long walks in the country Bilbo had engineered for the benefit of the doleful-eyed lad, a true, deep affection had grown between the two hobbits that transcended generation. The eccentric old bachelor and the bookish young orphan shared much more than the same birthday. It seemed to Frodo that each supplied something the other was missing; in Bilbo, Frodo found an adult guardian, and in Frodo Bilbo found a kindred spirit with whom to share his twilight years. “Two peas in a pod,” folks would whisper, though in hindsight Frodo was now quite sure it was not meant as a compliment.

If the letter that arrived bearing Bilbo’s spidery hand had surprised the Brandybuck patriarch, it had certainly not surprised Frodo. That wily old hobbit had been dropping hints delicate as boulders that he had half a mind to bring Frodo to Bag End should he wish it—and Frodo had known that “half a mind” would transform to “whole mind” should he give the slightest indication he’d desire it. Frodo had suspected the old hobbit would come out with it at last, as Bilbo seemed determined the lad should spend his birthday at Bag End that year. And upon that September 22nd – Frodo’s twentieth birthday and Bilbo’s ninety-ninth, Bilbo’s ham-fisted hints finally coalesced into a solid, unmistakable invitation. “You had better come and live here, Frodo, my lad,” Bilbo had said after taking a great swig of the Gaffer’s homebrew “and we can celebrate our birthday parties comfortably together.”

Of course, Bilbo’s invitation was much more than a way to throw combined birthday parties; it was the old bachelor’s way of opening up his home and his life to the one hobbit in the Shire who Bilbo knew truly needed it. So the letter to Frodo’s guardian, Saradoc Brandybuck, was written on the spot and in Frodo’s presence, to be posted even as Frodo made his way home to Buckland. When Saradoc had entered his room, a familiar roll of parchment in one hand, a serious expression on his face, Frodo knew.

“Are you sure you want to do this lad?” Saradoc had asked, his firm hand upon Frodo’s shoulder. “Your Uncle Bilbo is nothing if not…peculiar.”

“That is w lov love him, Uncle Sara,” Frodo had replied. “And, yes, I am sure. Though whou’vou’ve done for me, you and Aunt Esme---”

Frodo found he could not finish, and his normally reserved Uncle captured Frodo in his arms, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.

“Our Merry will be terribly put out, Frodo,” the Master of Buckland finally pushed out in a voice laden with emotion. “You are his favorite relation—oh, I know the lad can be a terror, but he only torments you because you’re so patient with him.”

Frodo nodded, his own face glistening with unexpected tears. “I shall miss his tugging at my knees more than anything in Buckland, Uncle,” laughed Frodo, and he felt a new flood of sorrow rise up, knowing that last words he had spoken were absolutely true.

That has been a fortnight ago. Now the time had finally come to replace the chaotic life at Brandy Hall with something akin to his childhood home. Once again he would be part of a very small family, albeit an unconventional one. “Family,” sighed Frodo and a smile danced upon his lips as he did so.

A real family at last! Frodo’s new position as Bilbo’s heir was the least of Bilbo’s gifts. After all, Frodo thought, he’d only lay reluctant hands upon these things once his most beloved Uncle had gone. Yes, the larger-than-life bachelor was a hobbit of considerable wealth - even if much of it only existed in the overactive imaginations of the townsfolk. Bag End would belong to Frodo, the grandest smial in Hobbiton, and all his uncle’s marvelous collection of books, and even that strange “magic” ring Bilbo always seemed to finger but never wore. Yes- even that mysterious trinket would pass to Frodo in due time. But to Frodo, Bilbo’s greatest gift was, and would always be his uncle’s fine company and his undivided love.

Frodo’s reverie was shattered by the unmistakable patter of small hobbit feet scurrying to the door. Frodo knew who it would be even before the door swung open, hitting the wall with a great thump. There standing in the threshold, arms akimbo, face wearing a furious expression, was the future Master of Buckland, all two feet of him, aged six.

“Merry,” said Frodo.

“Frodo!” yelled the lad, stomping a furry foot for added emphasis. “You were going to sneak off without telling me, weren’t you!”

“Come here, Merry-lad.” said Frodo with a sad smile, his arms thrown wide.

The stern line of Merry’s little jaw melted and his lower lip began to quiver. By the time he bounded into Frodo’s enclosing embrace, he was full sobbing.

“Frodo! Frodo! Please don’t leave me!”

“There, there, Meriadoc,” cooed Frodo has he ran his long fingers through Merry’s thick mop of hair. “It’s not like I’m leaving the shores of Middle-earth, lad! I’ll just be down in Hobbiton. And I’ll visit all the time!”

“IT WON’T BE THE SAME!” wailed Merry, collapsing into a fresh flood of tears. “Who will read to me? Who will tell me stories?”

“Oh Merry,” sighed Frodo with no small measure of regret. Frodo’s mouth turned up in a wry grin. “And, as I recall, you seemed to hold precious little interest in your book lessons, unless I’ve been tutoring another rascally little hobbit lad that looks just like you!”

“I liked spending time with you just fine, Frodo,” sniffed Merry. “It’s the lessons I hated.”
“Well Merry, I’m sure that your parents or one of your army of cousins will be happy to teach you your letters and read you stories.”

“But they’re not you!” whined Merry, and Frodo felt a lump rising in his throat and tears creeping into his own eyes.

“Frodo,” continued Merry, “You’re special! Why won’t you stay home wif me?”

“Merry dear,” answered Frodo as he drew Merry’s small gaze up to meet his own. “Out of all the hobbits here at the Hall, I hold you the most dear. You know how much I love you! No amount of distance can erase that, Merry.”

Merry’s bright eyes lit up suddenly as a new idea flew into his mind.

“I can come with you, Frodo!”

“No Merry,” said Frodo gently. “Not this time. Perhaps later when you are older. I’m sure your Da will allow it then. Don’t you worry, Merry, you’ll grow up before you know it.”

“Frodo?”

“Yes Merry?”

“Frodo, why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

Frodo heaved a heavy sigh, “I was just afraid you would take it hard. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well!” exclaimed Merry, setting his small face in a determined look that belonged on much older features, “I shan’t let you give me the slip again! I’ll let you go live with Bilbo but, but,” Merry screwed up his face as he tried to dig up one of his father’s favorite phrases, “I’ll have my eyes bolted upon you, lad!”

Frodo choked back an affectionate laugh.

“Very well, young sir!” replied Frodo enthusiastically. “I’d expect nothing less from the future Mastf Buf Buckland! What would Frodo Baggins do without Meriadoc Brandybuck to keep him in line?”

Merry cast Frodo an impish grin before burying himself back in his older cousin’s arms.

“Don’t you worrrodorodo! I will always take care of you!”

TBC
___________________________________________________________________________________

Ring Around the Merry Prelude: Part 2/5

“Coming of Age”
_____________________________________________________________________________

Sept 23, 3001, Third Age

(Frodo is 33, Merry is 19, Pippin is 11)

The afternoon after Bilbo’s Eleventy-first birthday, and consequently, also Frodo’s official coming-of-age, was a trying one for the new master of Bag End. Bilbo had slipped on his ring at the end of his farewell speech and amid a gaggle of astonished hobbit gasps, disappeared into the ether. Then he was gone. Bilbo, the bedrock of Frodo’s tween years, was gone. And Frodo missed him desperately already.

The blow had been softened by the presence of his dear cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck, now a sturdy lad of nineteen. Merry had offered to put himself between Frodo and the hoards of callers and intruders alike who had come to claim (or demand) their parting gifts from the recently vanished Bilbo Baggins. Frodo had acquiesced gladly; his mind worn out with concocting a hundred different ways to say essentially the same thing- “Mr. Bilbo Baggins has gone away; as far as I know, for good.”

Merry flashed Frodo a winsome smile as he clapped his older cousin affectionately on the back.

“Well, dear cousin!” said Merry. “How does it feel to be the Master of Bag End?”

“Exhausting!” laughed Frodo and gave his eyes a mighty rub.

The stream of visitors had been relentless, and Frodo wanted nothing more than to retreat to his study and have a belated cup of tea in peace and quiet.

“Let your Merry stand guard for a bit then, Frodo dear!” offered Merry. “I promised to take care of you, and take care of you I shall!”

“You were six when you made that promise, Mer,” smiled Frodo, “So forgive me if I haven’t held you to it!”

“I’ve held myself to it, Frodo,” said Merry. “You may be older, but don’t assume you’re wiser. Perhaps you are just more decrepit now and need me more than ever!”

Frodo chuckled. “Irrepressible Brandybuck! You haven’t changed a bit, aside from your height. You are still a terror, just a bigger one.”

“I’ll take my compliments where I can, Cousin,” exclaimed Merry and took a deep drought of his afternoon ale. “Now let me handle those visitors for a spell while you relax.”

“Thank you, Merry.”

As Merry padded out of the room, Frodo had a sudden epiphany. Merry was now almost the same age as Frodo had been when he had bid the lad good-bye at Brandy Hall. How had the years passed so swiftly? The fussy baby had turned into a terrifying toddler, the toddler into a mischievous lad, and now here was Merry, a plucky but fully mature tween. Though Merry was fourteen years younger than Frodo, Merry had already surpassed him in height. Merry had grown not only in stature. With each of Merry’s annual visits to Bag End, he seemed more comfortable in his own skin, more confident, perhaps even more clever. Yes-the lad was smart, perhaps too smart for his own good. His practical jokes, many of which had been at Frodo’s expense, were legendary. Frodo recalled affectionately how Bilbo would sink into his chair after one of Merry’s visits, and sigh, “Well then, another year to recover from that one!”

Merry also had a trait that, although uncommon with hobbits in general, was a hallmark of the Brandybuck line; Merry was ambitious. At some point between childhood and his late teens, Merry had begun to take his future position as Master of Buckland very seriously. Perhaps it happened two years previously when Saradoc had fallen grievously ill and Merry feared that he might have to succeed to his office before the full flower of his maturity. Sara had recovered, bll ill in a position to see noted the change in Merry. The carefree rascal had seemingly grown up overnight. Saradoc was nothing if not pleased (perhaps a little surprised) and began giving his son greater and greater responsibilities, preparing him slowly but surely for the mantle of leadership he would one day wear. To the family’s delight, Merry completed these tasks with aplomb, and even showed uncanny promise with formerly elusive skills such as mathematics and writing – both essential skills for the Master of the Hall. Aside from the obvious stamp of common ancestry that rested upon the lad’s face, he shared his father’s deep desire that Buckland, and the Shire in which it lay, remain prosperous and protected.

As Frodo sat thinking, a cup of tea untouched between his elbows, his eyes half-closed, a rap at the door called him back to the present.

“Frodo!” called Merry’s voice. “Sorry, I could not keep them out! The Sackville-Bagginses are in the hall, with faces as sour as half-ripe lemons.”

Frodo heaved a defeated sigh.

“Well show them in!”

The Sackville-Bagginses stomped in, all sneers and snorts, and Merry noted with more than a little curiosity how Frodo seemed to finger something in his pocket at the sight of them. Merry smiled inwardly, knowing exactly what the mystery object was, and thinking to himself that he hardly blamed Frodo for wanting to use it.

The S-Bs were clearly put out, and upon being shown a copy of Bilbo’s will (offering irrefutable proof that they were not in it), they thundered out under a cloud of disgust, but not before Lobelia turned to Frodo with her final riposte.

“You’ll live to regret it, young fellow! Why dt yot you go too? You don’t belong here; you’re no Baggins – you- you’re a Brandybuck!”

“Did you hear that, Merry?” asked Frodo. “That was an insult if you like!”

Merry laughed as the sound of a slamming door shook the room.

“It was a compliment, and so, of course, not true.”

“Well,” laughed Frodo, “we two are equal parts Brandybuck, aren’t we; just you carry the name.”

Merry bowed with flourish. “At your service!”

Frodo stared wistfully at his closed door. “sh tsh those rumors of all the gold hidden in secret tunnels here would just die.”

Merry smiled sympathetically. “What-no secret troves here?!” he asked with fake incredulity.

“Just one aged Baggins, his Brandybuck guest, and a whole stack of dusty books,” sighed Frodo.

“Surely Bilbo left you //something// of value, dear cousin,” said Merry, his face growing suddenly solemn. “Mementos of his travels? Weapons from strange lands?” Merry paused for a long moment. “Jewelry?”

Merry made a quick study of Frodo’s face as he dropped the last word. A barely perceptible spasm of alarm passed over his cousin’s face. Merry’s suspicions had been correct. Frodo had inherited Bilbo’s magic ring, the one which rendered its wearer invisible.

Merry made as if he’d spoken in jest and had not expected a reply.

“No matter, Frodo, let foolish mouths prattle! And if you don’t mind me saying, let the rest of your visitors wait until tomorrow. You look as if you’re just about done in.”

Frodo nodded.

“Let’s shut the front door, then, Frodo love,” Merry suggested as he gave his exhausted cousin a gentle pat on the back. “Besides, I should nap a bit before popping over to see Pip. I made the ill-considered promise to give young Master Took a full report of the day’s events before supper.”

“The same promise you’d always wheedle out of me after every ‘adult’ gathering, as I recall!” Frodo replied with a knowing grin.

“What a pain that little squirrel has grown into!” but as Merry said it, there was affection in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, Pippin!” said Frodo with a grin. “The so-called little imp is almost a teen, and eventually he’ll be Thain, mind you!”

“Always dangling about my knees.” continued MerryAnd And teaching the imp to read was like taming a wild pony.”

“You’ll be looking up to that ‘imp’ in more ways than one before you know it, so you’d best be careful how you treat him,” teased Frodo. “And I seem to remember a nuisance of a hobbit lad that used to dangle about my knees at that age. A hobbit who’d make each lesson a study in patience for his beleaguered older cousin. A hobbit who is now about yeah high.”

Frodo brought his hand up to rest on Merry’s head. “Yes-exactly your height!”

“I turned out alright! Merry snorted.

“As will the small rag-tag that you’re trying to mold into a proper Thain!”

Merry suppressed a snicker. “At least his folks appreciate my efforts.”

“Just as I appreciate all your helday,day, Merry lad,” said Frodo as he collapsed into a chair in the hall. “Well, you’re right about calling it a day. It’s time to close the shop, Merry. Lock the door, and don’t open it to anyone today, not even if they bring a battering ram.”

Frodo dragged himself up from the chair and plodded to his study. In minutes, Merry came through the door with a steaming cup of tea.

“You’ve earned this, Frodo,” said Merry. “Or shall I say, //Master// Frodo?”

Frodo groaned and shut the door.

The soft knock at the front door as Frodo sank back in his chair was soundly ignored. The second louder knock was treated in the same fashion. The rap on the window accompanied by baritone voice threatening to blow the door down, wisely, was not ignored.

Frodo rushed down the hall and opened the round door.

“Gandalf!” Frodo exclaimed, though hardly surprised.

Merry, who had been in an adjoining room ignoring the same series of knocks, d nod not have pressed his ear to the door any harder. Gandalf always had interesting things to say; and these things presumably got more interesting when Merry wasn’t meant to hear them. The conversation had become irresistible when the discussion landed upon Bilbo’s ring. The ring had been one of the chief objects of his curiosity even since he had spotted Bilbo using it to vanish from the S-Bs. ‘What now?’ Merry whispered to himself as Gandalf warned Frodo not to wear it. Perhaps this ring was a more serious matter than Merry had suspected. Perhaps his beloved Frodo was in some kind of peril. The side of Merry’s face that was mashed against the door grew numb, yet the inquisitive hobbit did not budge. Merry did not wish to miss a single word.

“Keep it safe, and keep it secret,” Gandalf warned Frodo inside the firelit room.

Unbeknownst to them both, they had already failed in this matter. Merry had heard everything, and his mind was swirling. If this ring had, as Gandalf had said, ‘other powers than just making you vanish when you wish to’ then what might it do to his Frodo? Did the wizard even know? And if he did not know, why dhe whe wizard leave the thing in Frodo’s care while he disappeared ‘for a good while’? As much as Merry was in awe of the old wizard, he could not help but feel deep resentment. He did not trust Gandalf. No, Frodo needed someone of his own kind, of his own blood, to protecm. m. Frodo needed a friend who would have only his interests in mind. From behind the door, Merry vowed to himself that he would be that friend.

TBC
________________________________________________________________________________________

Ring Around the Merry Prelude Part 3/5

“A Conspiracy Formed”
_____________________________________________________________________________


April, 3018, Third Age

(Frodo is 49, Samwise is 38, Merry is 36, Pippin is 28)


Merry and Pippin had already drained more than their fair share of ales by the time the darkness outside the foggy pub windows alerted them that their spy was late.

“Perhaps he went to the Ivy Bush by mistake,” offered Pippin Took bleakly as he stared into the empty depths of his third tankard.

“No, Pip,” answered Merry. “I made our meeting place quite plain. Besides, his gaffer holds court at the Ivy Bush, and he knows full well the sharp words about “His place” the Gaffer would spurt out if he found out his son was spying upon his employer. For that reason alone the Green Dragon was the only option.”

Unconvinced, Pip gave an absent nod. He noticed Merry’s foot tapping anxiously on the sticky pub floor and his repeated attempts to draw a sip of ale from his long-drained mug. Pip smiled inwardly. It was these little moments he treasured in his older cousin—moments where Merry’s thick veneer of irrepressible self-confidence was momentarily drawn back to reveal a layer of vulnerability that only Pippin could see.

Pippin stared down at the concentric tankard-sized circles of moisture on the tabletop, rubbing several of them out with a finger before turning his eyes back to their favorite target. Merry. Merry was much more than a cousin to Pippin. The future Thain was surrounded by a constellation of older sisters, but had no brothers. Merry was the closest thing to a brother Pippin would ever have.

Perhaps the root of Pippin’s adulation of his older cousin could be found in the spread of their ages. Those eight years that separated Merry’s birth from his own seemed an eternity to the small lad. Those years meant that Merry was always destined to be bigger, stronger, smarter, faster than his younger cousin. Pippin noted with awe how Merry was always the chosen leader of any group of same hob hobbit lads. Yet Merry had always made himself accessible to the pint-sized tag-a-long. Even when in the company of a herd of swaggering tweens, Merry never turned his cousin aside. Merry had lavished attention upon Pip as a child, not the girly pinching of cheeks and straightening of collars, but //lad// things. Merry had taken Pip traipsing through the woods, showed him the hidden paths only known by Merry and shared with no one else. Merry had taught Pippin to skip rocks over clear pools, how to raid crops in the glare of broad daylight, and how to snatch unsuspecting pies cooling vulnerable and tantalizing upon open window sills.

Pippin’s parents initially believed that the future Master of Buckland might have a thing or two to teach the sapling Thain; though they immediately came to question the quality of those lessons young Master Meriadoc had to teach. Pippin, however, could not have been a quicker study. By the age of eight, Pippin was gaining a reputation equal to that of his mentor. Merry had been compelled to teach Pippin a follow-up lesson – how to escape righteous punishments.

Then the change had come. The Master of Buckland had fallen ill, and Merry had seen the shadow of future responsibility upon him. Mischievous Merry became mature Merry. The change was so evident that Pippin’s parents swept away their reservations about Merry; Merry’s lessons were suddenly ideal ones for a future Thain to take to heart. Their nephew was invited to come to Tookland for extended stays to tutor the young lad in letters, numbers, and, most importantly, responsibility. Merry went from coaching Pippin on how to escape punishments to doling them out himself. As with all matters that involved the future of the Shire, Merry took his role as Pippin’s teacher and mentor very seriously. Merry had been determined to shape the squirmy, flitty lad into a hobbit well prepared to come into his titular inheritance when the time came. And Pippin loved his Merry all the more for it.

Pippin often had to remind himself that Merry was only three years deep into his majority. To Pippin, Merry had carried the mien of authority ever since he could remember.

Pippin vividly remembered Merry’s coming of age party. Merry’s parents had spared no expense for their handsome son, the future Master of Buckland. Merry had never looked so magnificent as as he did while standing in front of the throng of well-wishers, delivering a speech that elicited uproarious laughter and uproarious cheers in equal measure. The glow of ale lit his strong features, and Pippin thought him a lovely creature. Pippin had raced to the side of the podium to congratulate his cousin, only to be shunted to the side by a knot of giggling hobbit lasses vying for the opportunity for a word, a kiss on the hand, perhaps more from the most eligible bachelor in Buckland. Fair in form and face they were, but Merry broke through them as if they were cloying mist, and embraced Pippin in a violent hug.

“Pip!” he’d said. “Let’s escape all this madness for a bit, Cousin, just you and I!”

And they’d snuck off along their “secret” trail, plopping down under a tall willow on the shore of the sparkling Brandywine to reminisce until dawn. As they sat in perfect happiness, Pippin asked the question he’d been dying to ask for years.

“Why have you been so good to me, Merry? I must have driven you mad as a child, though you never seemed to mind.”

Pip remembered the slow smile that had spread across Merry’s beautiful face as he gathered the right words.

“I have a debt to pay, Pippin, to my older cousin who did the same for me.” Merry then had set his wine glass down upon the long damp grass and wrapped his arm around Pippin’s shoulders. “And because, dear Pip, I love you!”

Of course, it was to Frodo that Merry had referred. Frodo who Merry had looked up to the same way that Pippin had looked up to Merry. Frodo, for whose sake he and Merry had found themselves waiting at the Green Dragon this night. Frodo, whose recent strange behavior and tendency to keep to himself had alarmed his cousins to no end.

Pippin had noticed the change in his dear cousin. If Merry had been like a brother to Pippin as a child, then Frodo had played the role of Uncle. Pippin had seen the excitement in Merry’s eyes whenever it was mentioned that cousin Frodo was coming to visit, an excitement that did not diminish with age. By the time Pippin had hit his early teens, Merry had been on his personal quest to mold him into Thain material. Frodo had no such ambitions, and treated the teen like a teen. He’d offered Pippin guidance untainted by judgment, and untrammeled companionship. Pippin could ask Frodo about anything, and often did. Sometimes it seemed to Pippin that Frodo was the only adult hobbit who was not try to transform him into anything. Frodo was a quiet, soothing presence with whom the young heir could feel completely at ease.

As Pippin grew into young adulthold, he and Merry became Frodo’s constant companions, tramping all over the Shire with him, telling stories under the stars, reminiscing over streaming cups of tea, laughing over frothing mugs of ale. Frodo was a serious chap, but not //too// serious. Perhaps //peaceful// was a better term. But Frodo’s serenity had begun to crack of late. Pippin saw that his elder cousin held his shoulders as if they carried a great weight, and often stared into the flames of his hearth as if they held some nameless threat. He’d stopped confiding in Pippin when they were alone together, and the clear laughter that had been Frodo’s trademark when sharing ales and tales at the pub seemed a distant memory.

“Something is up, Pip,” Merry had said. “There is something dark and serious hanging over Frodo’s head, Pippin! And if he won’t tell us himself, it’s up to us to find out on our own and help him however we might.”

“Frodo’s a hard nut to crack,” Pippin had replied sorrowfully. “But what do you have in mind?”

“Who better to crack a nut,” Merry had answered, “than a gardener.”

It was Merry who had approached the reluctant gardener for this “secret” assignment. It had taken some doing, as Sam was as honest a fellow as one could hope to meet, but Merry had a way with words. He’d convinced Sam that his master might very well be in grave danger, and only Sam stood between his Mr. Frodo and some unspeakable doom.

At first the information came slow, hints here and there about dark events far outside the Shire boundaries. But Sam eventually found his feet as a spy and was, it turned out, a very capable one. Fredgar Bolger, their longtime friend, had been brought into the conspiracy within a week for his full-time residence in Hobbiton and for his ability to ask the right kinds of questions to supplement Sam’s information in a non-suspicious way. And only a month into their conspiracy, the three hobbits knew that Frodo’s problem was somehow connected with Bilbo’s adventures, and more particularly, with the magic ring that never left Frodo’s pocket.

“Have you ever looked at the ring up close, Pippin?”

Pippin jerked his head up from his palms. He had been so lost in thought that the sound of Merry’s voice had startled him.

“No, Merry, not up close,” answered Pippin in a daze.

“I have,” said Merry out of the blue. “I’ve held it.”

“When?” blurted Pippin incredulously? “How?”

“A few months ago when we visited Bag End. While Frodo and you went off to fetch the rest of your walking clothes, I noticed Frodo’s weskit draped over a chair. I couldn’t resist. I took it out for just a matter of seconds.”

“Did you turn invisible?” asked Pippin

“I’m no fool, Pip—I didn’t dare wear the thing! But I did hold it. Up close, Pip, it was so very perfect, perhaps the smoothest most flawless piece of jewelry I’ve ever set eyes upon. It felt cold and heavy in my hand, and seemed to reflect lights that were not present in the room.”

A faraway look entered Merry’s eyes that Pippin had never seen before. Merry stared at his unadorned hand with a longing that Pippin did not quite understand.

“It seemed such a small thing back then, Pip. Such a small thing, but so lovely a thing. It really is a preci---”

“That was, of course, before you knew where it came from,” interrupted Pippin who had suddenly become uncomfortable.

Merry tore his eyes from his own hand and drew them back to his cousin.

“Yes, of course,” answered Merry with a discomfited smile. “Before I knew.” Merry took another abortive sip from his empty mug before huffing impatiently. “Where IS that Sam? We’ve been waiting ages!”

Silence descended between the two cousins as they both took to boring into the pub’s door with unblinking eyes.

Suddenly the door opened with crunch and in fell a stout red-faced hobbit looking very flustered and with a face beaded with perspiration.

“Sam!” Merry and Pippin said in tandem and louder than they’d intended.

Sam stumbled over their table and sat himself down, huffing and puffing hard.

“Sam, would you like an al----?”

“He’s leaving!” Sam spluttered out. “He’s leaving to take the Ring to the elves!” Sam paused to swallow a sloppy breath of air. “And I’m to go with him!”

“Very well then!” answered Merry. “Then it’s settled! We’ll go too!”

“But Merry,” offered Pippin. “What if Frodo does not wish for us to come?”

“Pippin,” said Merry. “He’ll have no choice! We won’t let him do this alone. It is tery ery important.”

“Important for who?” asked Pippin, responding to Sam’s befuddled expression.

“All of us, Pip.”

“Us?” questioned Sam.

“For all of us that care for Frodo,” replied Merry. “And perhaps for all the Shire as well.”

Merry turned his eyes back to Sam, a thoughtful expression cast upon his face.

“So Sam. Tell us exactly what you found out about this ring.”

TBC