[piosenniel]

Orual's Post

"My dear Marigold,

"I hope that this letter finds you in good health and good spirits. It has been far too long since I last wrote you. Being Mayor, husband, and father keeps me from the pen, and I have missed hearing from you. I hope that you will forgive your brother for failing to write to you for so long.

"The children are growing before my very eyes. Elanor is now thirteen, and you can work out for yourself what the ages of the rest are, more or less: two years apart, save Goldilocks and Hamfast, who are a year apart. Rose often complains that since she married me she's done little but have children. I trust that your own children are doing well, and tell them that their Uncle Sam sends his love, as do their Aunt Rose and their cousins...all of them.

"I have to admit, things have been a bit insane around here. I have just begun my second term as Mayor, and am continuing my duties, though I'll say that it has become easier with practice. My ever-expanding brood has reached the respectable number of eight. However, Rosie will tell you grimly that she doubts it will stay there long, for she's still young and we're trying for at least ten, though our secret goal is to continue Mr. Bilbo's tradition of trying to beat the Old Took and have thirteen to his twelve.

"Adding to the craziness here in Hobbiton is my putting the finishing touches to the Red Book that Mr. Frodo left me. Ellie's begun to help me some with sorting through papers, and Frodo-lad is begging to do his own part, and I've let him, though sometimes having two children in the room while I try to work is not the best atmosphere in which to get...well, to get anything done. But they're enthusiastic, and I do want them to remember this Book, and this Story, long after I'm gone, so I don't mind putting a little extra time and effort into it so long as they're interested. I'll let Rosie-lass help soon, once she's ready.

"It's funny how things never end, isn't it? I thought so many times that my part in history was over...first at Rivendell, then at the Fields of Cormallen, then after the Scouring, and finally after Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo left to the West. But it seems that I'm still the bearer of the flame, my duty being not to let anybody forget what happened.

"But while I keep dwelling on the past, you live in the present, and I've taken up enough of your present. Again, my deepest and most heartfelt apologies for my long absence from your post-box, dear sister. Please do not keep your own pen from the paper to punish me!

Your loving brother,

Samwise Gamgee."

Sam blew gently on the papers to dry the ink, then carefully folded the pages, tucked them into an envelope, and addressed it. He set it aside on his desk; he'd put it out later. For now, he was going to check on Rosie, see if she needed anything. She was well along in her pregnancy now.

He had just got up to leave when he heard footsteps and the excited voice of his daughter Rose, as well as another voice that he did not recognize. Curious, his attention wavered from the task at hand, and he went up to the door. "Rosie-lass?" he called. "Is somebody here?"

He couldn't understand his daughter's muffled reply, and, a little worried, he picked up his pace and quickly arrived at the door. To his surprise, Rosie-lass was standing there with a stranger--and an Elf, no less. In his astonishment, Sam didn't say anything for a slightly impolite length of time, then hastened to introduce himself.

The visitor returned the courtesy, introducing herself as Piosenniel, but assured him that such introductions were unnecessary, and that she knew who he was, and had something for him. She then proceeded to give him a cream-coloured envelope with his name written on it in elegant, spidery calligraphy, though he did not recognize the handwriting. He thanked her very politely and saw her off, thanked Rosie-lass for keeping Piosenniel company before he came, and left to his study to read the letter.

Sam opened the envelope carefully, took the letter out and unfolded it. It was to his complete and lasting shock that it turned out to be from his cousin and childhood friend, Camellia Goodchild, from whom he had not heard for years. Preoccupied with memories, his eyes read over the rest of the page but he didn't truly read it. However, he caught sight of two names that stopped him dead in his tracks: Frodo and Bilbo Baggins.

He re-read that sentence, that said they were returning to Middle-earth, well approaching fifteen times. He wanted to make sure that it hadn't been a misread. How could this be? They were returning? From the West? Was that even possible? Sam put the letter down and rubbed his eye. It couldn't be true. But Cami wouldn't lie to him, especially not about this. And the signature was most certainly Cami's handwriting; he hadn't seen her in a long time, but he knew her hand when he saw it. This was authentic; this was from Cami, and thus he was sure that it must be true.

And he was truly convinced, in his heart, that it was. But that didn't make it any easier for him to deal with. He glanced at his own envelope, the one which contained his letter to his sister Marigold. He had written, just a few minutes ago, It's funny how things never end, isn't it? He shook his head. "Things never do end, apparently," he whispered to himself.

It had been twelve years since he had last seen Frodo and Bilbo. Over the course of those twelve long years, he had changed, naturally, his life had changed. How much more had Frodo changed, having spent those years west of West? Sam was pretty sure that he himself was still more or less the same; a little older, hopefully a little wiser, and with several more children, to be sure, but basically the same Sam Gamgee who had been eavesdropping under the windows at Bag-End all those years ago. But was Frodo the same person who had tried not to laugh when Sam was caught at it?

Sam sighed. One of the last things Frodo had said to him before he left was, "You cannot be always torn in two." Now once again he was torn in two; half of him was happier than words could express that he would see his dear master again, and the other half of him wondered if he indeed was seeing his dear master again, and worried. He laughed, and wondered what Frodo would say, were he in that room to see Sam's predicament. "Even sad when I'm happy," Sam murmured to himself, as he wrote out an R.S.V.P. "I ought to be waiting for this meeting, for what it is!" With that thought, and that letter written, he went back to his task to see if his wife needed anything.

Pio’s Post

Miz Rose was back in the kitchen when Pio wandered out toward the front door. Rosie had left her to join a game of tag Merry and Pippin were playing, and Pio waved her on, saying she would see her tomorrow night.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Miz Rose walked with Pio to the front door, and paused in the entry way with her to tell her of Amarantha’s visit earlier that afternoon. ‘And were you agreeable to what she suggested?’ asked the Elf, her brow furrowed. Her face creased into a smile when heard Rose say ‘yes’. ‘Ah! Good. Then let us speak more about it once the party is over and done with. I can come to your house again, if you wish, or you can come to see me at the Inn. Let me know tomorrow at the party, what would be most convenient for you.’

Rose smiled and said she would indeed do that. She walked with Pio to the end of the stone walk, to the little gate there. Miz Rose clucked her tongue as she saw her mount her horse and head down the lane. What was that Elf thinking!

Pio waved back at her as ‘Falmar bore her down the road, blithely unaware that Rose and Amaranthas both shared the same opinions about the riding of horses . . .

*********************************************

Amaranthas was her usual curt self as she hobbled to the door. ‘Who’s bothering an old lady’s rest at this time of the afternoon!’ she hollered. Her long walk to Rose Gamgee’s had not done her hips any good. They ached even though she had drunk an infusion of willow bark in branch water and had laid hot bricks wrapped in thick flannel up against them.

Minto Boffin sighed, as he waited patiently for the door to open. He had purposely made this his last stop in delivering the invitations, hoping somehow that the one belonging to the old Hobbit would somehow be lost. He felt foolish, too. Here he was, a respectable thirty-five year old young man, still afraid of catching the thin end of the stick from the Old Dragon.

He winced, thinking of how he and his brothers had bedeviled her one summer, in their younger days. Pinching the heads off her prize flowers and eating the sweet middles from many of her melons. She had stood in her melon patch under a new moon, dressed in rag tag fashion, like a small scarecrow, right next to the biggest melon in the patch – the one they had their eyes on for weeks.

Laughing and joking that the Dragon was sleeping while they plucked the treasure, the three brothers sneaked into the patch and sat around the melon in a ring. Moro had taken out his knife and was just about to cut into the prize, when the ‘scarecrow’ stepped forward and laid into the thieves with her blackthorn stick, stinging them soundly on their legs as they popped up and made a run for it.

Worse yet, they lied the next day when she came to speak to their parents, saying that they had been nowhere near Miz Amaranthas’ garden patch. It was then that Amaranthas stuck out her stick and picked up the cuff of Minto’s breeches, revealing the angry red stripes still evident on his legs. Needless to say their Mother was mortified, and they spent a very dull summer at home, helping with all the household chores under her watchful eye. And one day a week, the three of them trooped to Miz Amaranthas’ house and weeded the garden and the flower beds.

It was a long time ago, but the respect for the Old Dragon and her stick had not diminished with the passing years.

‘It’s Minto, Miz Amaranthas.’ He yelled back at her through the still closed door. ‘Minto Boffin. With an invitation from Mistress Piosenniel at the Green Dragon.’

I’m not deaf, you ninny! Just a little achy and slow today.’ The door had opened and Amaranthas stepped forward to take the invitation from Minto’s outstretched hand. He gaped in surprise when she asked him to wait as she fished a silver penny from the bag at her waist. ‘Don’t tempt the flies, Minto!’ she told him, placing the penny in his hand.

She dismissed him with a wave of her stick and turned to go back inside. He hurried off the step and down the path, her last words chasing after his hastily retreating form. ‘And don’t pick any of my flowers, you young scamp, or I’ll be seeing your mother again about you!’

Once back in her house, she opened the invitation slowly, savoring the feel of the rich vellum and the smell of the ink. Her eyes lit up when she read the words written by Cami. There was to be a party! For Bilbo and Frodo – of all people! And she was to go to it.

Her hips protested as she walked to her chair and sat down to finish her tea. She sighed, wondering how she was to make it to the Inn. A small thin slip of paper fell from the envelope, fluttering in the breeze from her open window. It landed on the rug in front of her. She leaned over and picked it up. It was a short note, written in a bold hand.

Miz Pio was coming to pick her up with the pony cart! She would be there promptly at five p.m. tomorrow evening, the note said, and would dear Amaranthas please be ready to go by then. ‘Bless that child!’ she said to herself, hoisting herself up from the depths of the chair. Only a day away. What would she wear. These old widow’s weeds would not do to meet the legends of the Shire!

She cackled to herself as she hobbled to the closet. Legends indeed! Why she could remember Frodo when he was a mere slip of a lad. And Bilbo she remembered as being thought the prize catch for young girls by their mothers, at one time. Him and Bag End, that is.

In the back of her closet, in the long cedar chest made for her by her late husband, was her long, dark green, silk party dress. She had put it away many years ago with some dried flowers of fragrant niphredil to keep it fresh, thinking never to have the occasion to wear it again. It was a deep green, dark, the color of kale grown in rich soil, with small jet buttons on the bodice.

She plucked it out, shaking off the long dried to dust petals, and held it up to her. It would still fit her small, spare body, though she had shrunk in height, and what once had been ankle length now touched the floor. She pulled out her small jewelry box and opened it as she sat down on the edge of her bed. Her fingers ran lovingly over the few small treasures she had in there. A strand of amber beads from her mother’s mother. A silver chain with a single pearl, a present form her husband on the birth of their first child. A bracelet set with sparkling yellow topaz, a gift from her father on her twenty-fifth birthday.

*********************************************

Minto Boffin had promised his brother Moro a silver penny if he would saddle the pony and make his way to Buckland. ‘Why should I ride all the way there? Isn’t there someone around here I could deliver to? You ride the pony.’ He stood firm on this until Minto handed him the other invitation to be delivered. Amaranthas Bolger! Oh my! He grabbed the invitation to Merry from Minto’s hands and ran out to saddle Buttercup.

He didn’t stray often out of Hobbiton and Bywater, so the way to Master Meriadoc’s was not known to him. It was early afternoon when he and Buttercup crossed the Bridge of Stonebows where the Great East Road met the Brandywine River. The farmer’s market near Hay Gate was still in full swing, local Hobbits buying things to fill out the evening meal. He stopped at the stall of a root vegetables vendor and pulling the invitation from his satchel showed it to the weathered farmer.

Meriadoc Brandybuck, Esq.
Brandy Hall
Buckland, The Shire

‘Oh, it’s Himself that you’ll be wanting. Meriadoc the Magnificent, Master of Buckland.’ The farmer began gesturing to the south, down the well beaten path that lay along the Brandywine River. By this time, a small crowd had gathered, all wanting to see the invitation, and all offering helpful tips on how to get to Brandy Hall. Comments and questions flew fast, and soon Moro’s head was spinning. ‘No’, he didn’t know what the invitation was about. Some dinner party at the Green Dragon he thought. And ‘no’, he had no idea that Master Merry had been called Holdwine of the Shire in Rohan. And how interesting, that he was interested in the local Shire herbs and was writing a book about them.

The farmer he had first approached retrieved the invitation from the others’ hands and gave it back to Moro. He called his goodwife to him, saying that he would be gone just a short while. Then taking Moro firmly by the elbow, he urged him up to his wagon’s seat and the two of them headed south to Brandy Hall, Buttercup trotting along behind.

*********************************************

Merry was in his study when Moro was shown in to him. His smile was infectious as he waved the messenger nearer, asking how things were in Bywater, and inquiring after Moro’s family as if he knew them. He broke the seal on the invitation and read through it quickly, his brows knitting in a frown as he saw the names listed as the guests.

Laying the invitation aside, he asked if Moro would join him in a drink to celebrate this wondrous news which he had just delivered. Moro was put quite at ease by Merry’s gracious manner. And just as well, because when the Master of Buckland stood to fetch some wine for the visitor, his height quite astounded him. ‘It’s no wonder he’s called the Magnificent.’ thought Moro, looking up at the very tall figure now offering him a glass of wine.

Moro could not wait to get back to Bywater to tell his brother what he had seen, and after a few pleasantries and a small glass of wine, he excused himself saying he should get back to his own home, and let Master Merry get back to his pursuits.

‘A moment, if you please.’ asked Merry, picking out a half sheet of vellum from his desk drawer. Seating himself at the desk, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and penned an acceptance to the invitation. He placed it in an envelope, addressing it to Mistress Cami Goodchild, and sealed it with wax, impressing it with his ring which bore the Shield of Rohan upon it. Handing Moro a silver penny, he asked that he deliver the acceptance as soon as he returned to Bywater.

Once Moro had been seen off, Merry returned to his desk, his unseeing gaze seemingly glued to the monograph on pipeweed he had been writing, prior to the delivery of the invitation. He shook himself from his reverie and picked up the invitation, reading it slowly once again. He rubbed his eyes, thinking they might be playing tricks on him.

‘Bilbo. And dear Frodo.’ he said quietly into the empty room. Two faces he thought never to see again in his life.

He rose from his chair and strode quickly to the door of the study. ‘Estella!’ he called loudly to his wife. ‘Drop whatever you are doing and come here quickly. There’s a party tomorrow at the Green Dragon Inn. And we’ll be attending.’

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]