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Ranger-child Chapter VII

Epilogue: Solace of the Heart

Larrkin2@yahoo.com

It was always a relief when all four hobbits were fast asleep. Frodo was often restless these nights. I feared the problem would increase the closer we moved to Mordor and the longer he wore the Ring around his slender neck. But for now, he slumbered like a contented halfling child, wrapped securely in Sam’s arms. Master Gamgee had become a blessing to the Ringbearer that even I had not foreseen that night I hauled the young spy through the window at Bag End and threatened him with my wizard’s glare. I could not now imagine how Frodo could have functioned thus far without him.

I crossed to the pile of sleeping hobbits and carefully stepped around the small mound of tangled blankets and curls that was Merry and Pippin in order to secure what I wanted from Sam’s pack. The pouch of salve had little left, but as I had hoped, Sam rationed the last of it, his frugal hobbit sensibilities forbidding him to use it all on Frodo’s well-spanked backside, although he had clearly been tempted to do so.

I smiled down now at the young gardener and the Ringbearer, remembering the scene between them earlier. It had severely challenged poor Gimli’s restraint. His eyes had glistened with the strain of suppressed laughter.

The dwarf and I were seated across the fire from the hobbits, plainly at a fair enough distance to give them a feeling of privacy within their small circle. It was a clear evening, though, one in which sound travels easily, so we could hear the amusing quibblings of the little ones quite well.

“Sam, no!” Frodo had said, scowling at Sam who stood peering unhappily down into the pouch of salve. “I don’t need that.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mister Frodo, but you do. It’ll help ease that fire on your poor little bottom and you know it.”

Frodo sniffed and grumbled, “It’s amusing to hear you speak that way since you’re the one responsible for the fire on my ‘poor little bottom.’”

Sam narrowed a sharp look upon Frodo. “’Scuse me? Who’s the one responsible for that again?”

“I-I --” Frodo blushed and resumed his pout. “I don’t like that stuff. It’s sticky.”

“That well may be, but you’ll lay quiet while I spread this on, little sir, and I’ll not be hearing any back-talk about it.”

“Sam!” Frodo glared, positively indignant.

“Why are you fussin’, Frodo?” Pippin piped up from his nest in Merry’s arms. “It helps take the edge off the sting. It really does. And it’s not sticky.”

“It is too.” Frodo’s sulk deepened, making him look all of twelve years old.

“Hush, Pip. You’re supposed to be going to sleep,” Merry said. He turned to frown at Sam. “What’s wrong?”

Young Gamgee had been glancing around, displeasure tightening his face. “Well, a bit of privacy would be nice while I do this, but I don’t want to take Frodo far from the fire now that night’s closed in and it’s getting chilly, not when I have to pull his britches down again.”

Frodo looked utterly mortified, his already-thin patience shredding. “I do happen to be standing right here,” he exclaimed. “And I’m telling you, I don’t need that sticky stuf --”

“Mister Frodo, I really don’t think you want to keep giving me sass about this, now do you?”

Frodo’s eyes grew huge. “Sass?” He paused and considered Sam’s expression, then he fumed, still rosy with embarrassment, and grumbled, “Perhaps not.”

“If you’re worried about privacy, Sam, just do what I did,” Merry offered. “Sit with your back to the fire and turn him over your lap right here.”

Frodo huffed at Merry. “Must you also talk about me as if I wasn’t here?”

Merry ignored him. “Go ahead, Sam. No one wants to watch.”

“I do.” Pippin giggled. “And I plan to watch!” Then he caught Merry’s glare, cleared his throat and made a poor attempt at sobering. “Sorry. I won’t watch, Frodo. Not much.”

Frodo’s scowl went impossibly deeper. Sam meanwhile was nudging the blankets around with his foot. He took up Frodo’s hand. “C’mon, Mister Frodo. If you behave this shouldn’t take long.”

“Sam!” Frodo cringed back. “You wouldn’t! Not here!”

“Aye. Here and right here. And you’re only calling attention to yourself with that tone. You’re going to get this salve smeared on your hot bottom, Mister Frodo, make no mistake, and if you give me trouble I can make it a little hotter, so’s you’ll be only too happy to let me do this.”

Frodo blushed so intensely his face fairly glowed in the firelight, his wide eyes full of astonishment. Watching Sam with worried fascination and clearly no idea of how to handle this new and authoritative side of his formally biddable servant, Frodo drew a finger to his teeth and started gnawing at the nail.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sam said, taking hold of Frodo’s hand. He drew the wet fingertip to his lips and kissed it, then smiled softly at his master and said, “C’mon now, Mister Frodo. You know it’s for the best. Behave for me now. Mmm? My hand already stings something fierce.”

Frodo broke into the sweetest smile, casting an adoring gaze at his servant. “Ah, my poor Sam. All right. Perhaps the salve will help your hand as well.”

I watched them for another moment now, recalling Frodo’s immediate compliance. He allowed Sam to ease him over his lap and draw his britches down from what did indeed appear to be a sore posterior, then he remained still while Sam applied the athelas salve.

Of which, I again now noted, there seemed to be precious little left. Surely not enough for what Legolas would require. However, it was better than nothing, so I left the slumbering hobbits and the snoring dwarf and the sleeping Captain of Gondor and headed out for the watch point. It would be best that Legolas have what he needed early enough to apply it in the pre-dawn hour before the others awoke.

He heard me approach, of course. I paused at the small clearing where Aragorn and Legolas lay and I held up the pouch. Legolas signaled me over and I moved towards them silently, knowing the reflexes of a Ranger, even one as clearly exhausted as Isildur’s heir was at present.

I stood over them for a moment, studying Aragorn. He looked spent, lying atop Legolas, his cloak covering his body, only his head and one arm visible, both resting upon Legolas’ chest. Aragorn looked beautiful, his features boyish and tranquil. Ah. At last. Peace for the troubled young king. And, no doubt, a flaming backside.

Legolas also looked content, his small grin luminous. His arms encircled Aragorn, and he had what appeared to be Aragorn’s breeches balled up under his head, serving as a pillow.

I squatted down and handed Legolas the pouch. “There is, I am afraid, little left,” I whispered.

“Better than nothing.”

“My thoughts exactly. Fortunately Samwise has a hobbit’s knack for husbandry. He shall wonder what happened to the rest of this when he looks for it again, though.”

“I shall not worry about that for now,” Legolas wisely murmured. “Perhaps he will not notice its absence until late tomorrow when we stop, and by then Estel will be busy making more.”

“Hmm. Perhaps.” I glanced at the young Ranger who lay so still he barely seemed to be breathing.

“He did well, Gandalf,” Legolas whispered. “His pain has been purged. The Aragorn all know and love shall return tomorrow.”

I reached out and touched the head of dark, tangled locks, feeling the peace flowing through the man and up into my palm, a quiet warmth. “Yes.” I nodded, closing my eyes. “He has returned to himself.” I lifted my hand and glanced again at Legolas. “You have done well, too, Greenleaf.”

“Nay.” He blushed. “It is he who has triumphed.”

“Legolas.” I gave him a gentle, knowing grin. “This young human is rare, but take credit where it is due. He thrives because of your love, my humble young Thranduilion and there’s an end to it.”

Blushing anew, Legolas looked away and grinned. I wondered if this resplendent prince had any understanding of his importance in the life of the extraordinary human lying atop him, sleeping so soundly.

“Thank you,” Legolas murmured, holding up the pouch. “I shall make good use of what little there is.”

I nodded and stood, releasing a soft groan and inwardly cursing my tiresome old creaky form. Then I bid Legolas goodnight and left the pretty scene. All was as it should be, at least for tonight. I neared the encampment, sensing the contented pulse of those sleeping there, reaching out to pull me in. A quiet peace invaded me. Yes, for tonight all was well within the Fellowship.

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

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” I tried to suppress a chuckle, without success.

“You have a trying sense of humor, elf.”

He was only making me chuckle more. “Estel, I truly am sorry, but I am barely touching you. You shall needs suffer some pressure if I am to spread this on your backside. And unless you plan to trek bare-bottomed all day, we must get these breeches on you.”

Aragorn growled low in his throat. “Why did you have to spank me so hard and for such a long time?”

“I felt I was being merciful. I can, however, continue last night’s lesson if you do not cease this wriggling and whimpering.”

“Whimpering?”

“I advise you to watch your tone and your position,” I said teasingly.

Aragorn pushed himself up on one stiff arm from his place over my lap, turned, and shot me a glare over his shoulder. “You are enjoying this too much, sir.”

“Aye. No doubt.” I grinned and pushed him back down. “But you shall not enjoy the feel of your breeches if I fail to spread this small bit of salve that is left onto your tender bottom. So be brave, little Ranger. After all, both Frodo and Pippin have lived through this treatment, Frodo twice now. Surely you have as much stamina as a halfling.”

“Enjoying this far too much,” he grumbled.

“Hold still.”

“OW!”

He was right. I was enjoying this far too much. But I also felt for my Ranger-child. His bottom looked quite painful, and I knew the day would be difficult for him, but at least he would enjoy this small bit of comfort. I carefully smoothed the salve onto his sculptured cheeks, struggling to behave myself despite the lovely sight spread over my lap. Aragorn's bottom, now an attractive shade of crimson, glistened beneath the salve, severely challenging my restraint.

This business of spreading a cooling salve on a hot spanked backside was new for us, a treatment Aragorn had devised out of compassion for both Sam’s worry and Frodo’s bottom following the duel spanking Boromir and I had given the Ringbearer. Would that I had enjoyed the salve’s soothing benefits lo these many years! I should have had Sam to represent my interests.

“I should deny you this comfort and let you feel your lesson in full all day,” I now told my gasping victim. He froze and went silent. “Well,” I continued, “I was never allowed to luxuriate in the benefits of this.”

“Nor was I.”

“Hmm. True.”

He fell silent, then he sighed and said, “Dawn approaches.”

I lightly glazed my fingers over his warm skin, watching it drink in the healing salve and echoed his sigh. “So it does.”

I knew that, like me, Aragorn was reluctant to end this time together. We always were after we had been through this. And yet, when we rose and left this place my young Estel would become Aragorn again, more and more so the closer we got to camp.

I thought of him as he was last night, lying atop me, safe in my arms, exhausted, yet alert, his blood coursing with the after-effects of what he had been through. It always took a lot of soothing to calm him down afterwards, but it was one of the best parts, the petting, the rubbing, the soft caresses and all the kissing and cuddling he wanted. To my delight, my Ranger-child always wanted quite a bit.

I willingly obliged, indulging him in whatever he desired, and the one thing he always needed most was to stay right in that little-boy place I had brought him to. It was difficult to get him there but, once there, Aragorn could lose himself in it, and we both delighted in that.

So it was hard to get him to fully settle down and sleep. He did not wish to waste time sleeping. He fought it like a drowsy child who longs to stay up and listen to more tales in the Great Hall. Much as I knew he should sleep, I had not the heart to demand it of him. His body would demand it soon enough. But he would valiantly fight his weariness, and I loved it when he could last.

When safe in this little-boy place Aragorn was completely mine again, free of expectation, free to act as he saw fit rather than what befit him. So I would try to help him achieve his desires by talking to him, sometimes going over the points I wanted him to remember, making sure he understood all, and thoroughly enchanted by him all the while.

He would yawn, big and wide, and then shudder. He would snuggle his face down in the crook of my neck and breathe deeply, smelling me, and then murmur, “Mmmm . . . Leg’laasss, you smell soooooo goooood.” And I would chuckle and hug him closely and whisper soft endearments to him, tell him how good he was and how proud I was of him.

Aragorn would listen, embarrassed and squirming, but fascinated. He would idly play with my hair, a favorite distraction, twirling it around his fingers, drawing it up to rub the strands against his lips or his face. He would lie unmoving, and watch me, gazing as though spellbound, and I would return his transfixed gaze, allowing him to read everything he needed to find in my eyes, all the love and acceptance he yearned to see there.

And my beloved loved to kiss. Small innocent kisses, bigger longer ones, luscious, lazy ones that seemed to last forever. He sometimes even fell into exhausted slumber with his mouth still pressed to mine, drifting off to sleep with a kiss on his lips. It always made me smile.

Last night, when Aragorn’s glassy eyes had grown heavier and heavier and he kept shaking himself to keep awake, I made certain that his most important lessons followed him into oblivion:

“What did you learn tonight, sweetling?”

“uhhhh . . . learned . . . ummmm . . . .”

“Estel.”

“Learned . . . thaaa . . . thaaa I should come to you when . . . um . . . when I get sad inside.”

“Good. Sad, or what else?”

“Angry. Or if I feel outa control.”

“Mmm, very good, little one. And what else?”

“Else?”

“What is the most important thing to remember at all times?”

He buried his face against me, blushing from what I was demanding he say and slipping a bit, reality pressing to reassert itself too soon. But this was our ritual, and in the deepest part of him, Aragorn loved the release this place offered him. “Leg’laaaasssssss.”

“Now, Estel!”

I felt his grin, then, softly: “Leg’las is always watching.”

I smiled. “And?”

He groaned and I reached down towards his hot bottom. “Wait! Wait! NO! And-And-And Leg’las . . . L-Leg’las loves . . . .”

“Estel.”

“L-Loves me . . . no matter what.”

“Aye. Very, very good, little boy.”

He released a heavy sigh of obvious relief, then: “I . . . I am always watching you, too, Leg’las”

“I know, my beloved Ranger-child.”

“And I love you no matter what, too.”

“Aye, sweetling. I know.”

I had smiled again. And I smiled now, remembering his soft snores moments later.

“Why have you stopped?” Aragorn asked quietly.

I gazed sadly into the depleted pouch. “I am afraid that is all there is.”

“Oh.”

I hid a quick grin at the disappointment in his voice. “You could always reconsider using your personal athelas supply, the store you brought from Rivendell.”

“Nay. We have been over that,” he quickly grumbled. “I hope we happen across some today. In this region, I do not know.”

I reached for his breeches and started threading them over his boots.

He pushed up again and turned, saying, “I can do that.”

“Lie still and let me just get them up to your knees,” I insisted. He relented, and I worked them on and up halfway, then I helped him up from my lap and he began to ease the breeches over his bottom. Aragorn paled and released a gut-wrenching moan. He winced and bit his lower lip and concentrated. I struggled with him in spirit, but there was little else I could do. I certainly understood his distress. I had suffered the same fate often enough.

When he had managed to get his breeches fully up and fastened I handed him his belt and sword and then he donned his cloak. “Will you be all right?” I asked. “Able to walk I mean?”

“You mean able to walk without that telltale sway?”

We both grinned. “No. You usually manage to hide that quite well, although I do not know how.”

“Years of training, mellon nin.”

“Aye. Many years.”

He was quiet for a moment, then he smiled again and murmured, “I shall be all right.”

The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon. I turned my head and winced, watching the golden dawn spill over the landscape. Then I suddenly dropped my gaze. I felt it vibrate between us, the shift, elusive, trembling into form. We remained silent, unwilling to move, facing each other and breathing deeply, as though drawing in the last traces of a fading aroma before its sweetness dissolved from the air and into mere memory.

He gathered me close and placed a curled finger under my chin, forcing my gaze back up to his, and within that moment, as brief as a heartbeat, he became Aragorn again, that luster returning, that extraordinary presence and perfect authority catching fire within him as the sun’s first rays kissed his dark locks.

Wearing his soft half-smile, he cupped my face with one hand, holding it still, then he moved his fingertips over my cheek, watching their progress, mesmerized. My heart quickened. I missed my little boy, but, oh, how I thrilled at the return of the exquisite man now gazing at me so intensely, a deep radiance in his eyes.

“My beautiful Legolas,” he said, that soft resonant quality of his voice stirring my insides. “Thank you, beloved. Like Sam, you did well. Let it go now.”

I blinked in surprise.

“You answered my need, and I shall not allow you to suffer regrets for failing to do so more quickly. Let this go now. Do you understand, little one?”

I grinned and nodded, lowering my gaze to hide my sudden tears, and I felt him lean in to kiss me. Aye, my Aragorn had returned.

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

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m telling you, he’s walking funny.”

“He’s not, Pip. And stop looking over your shoulder at him. I don’t see how you can tell how he’s walking, since he’s taken the rear guard all day. And just what are you implying anyway? That Aragorn was . . .was . . . Pip. Are you even hearing what you’re implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m making a simple observation.”

“It’s perfect rubbish. Don’t you think so, Frodo?”

I was beginning to think I would drop back and walk with Sam and Bill. “Leave me out of this.”

“I know it when someone’s walking like they’ve just been spanked. Now, Frodo here,” Merry went on, “he really is walking funny.”

“Merry!” I cried. Honestly. Stubborn Brandybuck! Merry would say anything to back up his point. No one would be safe.

“And you’re walking funny, too, Pip, despite all that salve I put on you last night.”

“And you didn’t leave enough for poor Frodo, you thoughtless knave, ” Pip said with mock indignation, clearly just eager to have something to throw at Merry, as it had nothing to do with their argument. “Poor Frodo. All hot-bottomed from that heavy-handed Sam and not near enough salve to cool the sting.”

My face surged with sudden heat. “There was plenty for me, thank you.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot.” He winked at Merry. “That stuff is sticky.”

I frowned at my cousin, knowing what he was about. It was late in the day and Pip was getting bored with the trek and fidgety to stop, so he was looking to stir something up just to break his monotony. Aragorn was walking just fine as far as I could see, and what Pippin suggested with his little hints went so far beyond even the wildest imaginings that it entered the absurd. Aragorn spanked indeed! Of all the --! Pip was simply spoiling for an argument. My young cousin fell into decline towards late afternoon when he began to tire.

Aragorn had already sent Legolas to look for a place to camp. He would head off and reconnoiter, then come back with a report of the region’s goings on and the location of a fine place to stop for the night. But every day during the last hour or so of our trek, Pippin would get fussy and quarrelsome and sometimes downright feisty. The only reason Merry hadn’t tanned his little backside for it yet was because by the time we’d stopped and set up camp, Pippin was behaving himself and Merry would let it go. There would soon, no doubt, come a time when Merry would have his fill and not let it go, though, and woe to Pip when he finally pushed Merry too far.

For now, though, Pippin couldn’t seem to decide on a target to focus upon, Merry or me. He continued to be a nuisance until finally we both reached a point wherein we’d had enough and we left him to his own devices. I dropped back, let Boromir pass, then took up a place beside Sam and the pony while Merry scooted ahead to walk with Gimli.

Pip shot an angry frown over his shoulder at me, then he turned back around and began marching along in a childishly stomping manner until Boromir came up behind him, swept him up and plunked him on his hip, saying, “Come now, little one. It’s been a long day. Enough storming. You are simply irked with the monotony of the trek and looking for a distraction. I doubt you will choose to badger me however, will you?”

Pippin wisely shook his head. “No, sir. The memory of last evening is still quite fresh in my mind.”

“And back here I vow,” Boromir said with a chuckle and a squeeze to Pip’s backside that made him yelp. Sam and I exchanged a grin.

“Well, Aragorn’s salve does not completely cure, you know,” Pip said. “It just lessens the effects a bit, so to speak."

“Ah.”

“Speaking of Aragorn, do you think he’s walking fu--”

“But we are not speaking of Aragorn, Peregrin,” Boromir said firmly. He gave Pip an exaggerated frown. “Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“So we should perhaps talk of something else for now. Keep our minds from idle speculation and things that do not concern us.”

“Perhaps.”

“Come then. No need for frowning. All is well.”

“Aye, sir.”

But sometimes Pippin hears something yet fails to truly hear it. And sometimes he feels a niggling small irritation within him that soon blossoms into an unreasonable big irritation that Pippin often cannot fathom himself. He just knows something is itching at him, and it’s bothersome and he needs to do ‘something’ with his frustration. The ‘something’ almost always ends unhappily for Pip.

I’d kept an eye on him earlier as we set up camp and now I considered a few odd facts more closely. Pippin had taken far greater offense at Merry and I abandoning him than he normally would have. Had we done so at any other time, Pippin would have shrugged in his carefree manner and gone toddling off to find something else to get into. Seldom letting such things get under his skin, and rarely knocked down in spirit, Pippin was inclined to let things roll off his back.

However, yesterday had been very hard on Pip. Aragorn walking away from him had clearly affected him more deeply than he let on. And as I watched him now, dragging things from his pack and hurling them down with too much force, I realized that whatever dark wound had been born of that, it had not fully healed, and it appeared to be causing Pippin pain again.

Without question, Boromir had bandaged Pip’s wound well yesterday, even though that bandage came in the form of a sore bottom. When Sam and I returned to camp, after my introduction to the disciplinary talents of Master Gamgee, Pip was Pip again, laying on his tummy and giggling at something Merry was saying and then teasing me with far too much Tookish glee. So Boromir had settled Pippin’s heart and spirit wonderfully.

This morning I’d opened my eyes to the welcome sight of Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir eating breakfast and chuckling together, looking peaceful and calm. Clearly Aragorn was once again the Ranger we knew. He stood while eating and Legolas sat on the grass beside Boromir, who was yet a bit rumpled from sleep, his blanket tangled around his legs.

Legolas soon got up and wandered off with his empty tin, leaving Aragorn and Boromir to finish eating alone. The two of them talked for some time, then Aragorn draped an arm around the younger warrior’s neck and drew him close until their foreheads touched. I turned to Sam and he returned my private grin, and then I glanced over at Pippin.

He had the strangest look on his face. Pip seemed . . . bewildered. Sadly bewildered. From where I sat I could see my cousin and the two men beyond. Pippin watched them, then he glanced down, his young face blank and pensive. He simply stared at his half-eaten breakfast as though not even seeing it, much less knowing what to do with it, a definite sign of distress within my cousin.

I was about to get up and go to him when he glanced over at the men again and found that, to his surprise, and mine, they were now watching him. Aragorn crooked a ‘come here’ finger at Pip. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then he rose, leaving his tin of ignored first breakfast, and went over to the warriors. Ever sensible, Sam moved Pip’s tin closer to the fire to keep it warm.

Everyone was now interested in what was going on between Pippin and the two men. Hiding behind a poor front of breakfasting or packing, the rest of the Fellowship repeatedly glanced in their direction. Meanwhile, Boromir stayed but a few minutes with Aragorn and Pip before he strolled off in the direction of Legolas.

Aragorn placed a hand on Pippin’s shoulder and guided him over to some large rocks, speaking quietly to him in his gentle Ranger-like manner. He indicated a nice sized boulder, apparently inviting Pip to climb up and have a seat. I raised my brows, thinking this quite an unlikely thing for Pip to accept.

Nothing could have enticed me to sit on a hard boulder this morning, and Pip clearly felt the same way. He shook his head. Aragorn paused, then he grinned, removed his cloak, folded it up and placed it on the rock. Pip blushed and bit his lower lip, then he scrambled up and settled his sore little backside on Aragorn’s cloak.

I smiled at the scene. Pip was now at eye-level with the standing Ranger, and for some time Aragorn talked quietly to the Took. Pippin watched him, clearly riveted, nodding every so often. Aragorn kept touching Pip in some way, brushing his curls back from his face, resting a large palm on his thigh, or reaching around him to lightly rub his back.

Pip went from looking slightly wary to wide-eyed and enthralled, and finally he smiled at Aragorn so sweetly that the Ranger burst into a wonderful smile of his own. He grabbed Pippin up and into his arms, and hugged him while Pip wrapped his legs around Aragorn’s waist as he had the evening before with Boromir.

Pip’s light giggle sailed through the camp, straight into our hearts, bringing sudden grins to everyone as they continued to go about minding their own business. Boromir, however, watched openly, his smile radiant.

So it seemed all was well. Whatever Legolas had done, he’d worked elvish magic with Aragorn, although I still maintained that it was pure folly to even suggest that Isildur’s heir and heir to the Throne of Gondor would submit to a spanking from anyone. Legolas was simply close to Aragorn, as he had told me: “You must leave Aragorn to me. I have known him a long time. Trust that I can help him.” He certainly had done so.

And so now, watching Pippin descend into this strange dark cloud was bewildering. Perhaps Merry and I had truly hurt him earlier. There was no one to ask for an opinion. Sam was off with Aragorn, who had seen what looked like a likely place to find some athelas. Merry, always the inquisitive one, was once more talking to Gimli, whom he seemed to find particularly interesting since yesterday - something about axes - and Gandalf was already digging out his pipe and his pouch, an early evening ritual the wizard enjoyed and one I chose not to disturb with my troubles.

I decided to go over and have a talk with Pip myself, but suddenly Boromir approached him, and just as suddenly I heard Legolas call to me. I looked up and he tugged his head to one side, inviting me to walk with him a bit. A private stroll with Legolas? Certainly! I smiled at him, then glanced back at Pippin. Boromir was now sitting beside him, talking softly and pulling a rather pouty Pip close. Ah. Again my cousin was in good hands. So I jumped up and scooted over to join Legolas and we strolled off, walking quietly for a while, but not far.

“Has the salve helped your condition?” he soon asked.

I coughed a surprised laugh. “My ‘condition?’ I guess so, yes. Well, it may take a few days to feel completely . . . I mean, it usually does take a few days, and Sam was very thorough, but --” I paused and composed myself. “Yes, thank you. It’s somewhat better, but not completely better.”

“Good.” Legolas bent down and swooped me up under my arms and plunked me solidly atop a large boulder. I squealed and arched, my sore bottom stinging. Legolas stared directly at me, holding me right where I was, despite my wriggling. If I had thought to try scrambling down I needed to rethink that immediately.

“Legolas!” I sputtered. “What are you – stop tha – let go of – why are you – OWW! That hurts!”

“It is meant to hurt, perian-hên.”

I huffed and shot him a glare, and thought to inform him that I was not a ‘hobbit-child,’ but a fully-grown, adult hobbit who had come of age long ago, even though I felt he knew this and was trying to make a point with his Sindarin pet name. But then I paused, and really looked at him.

Although Legolas wasn’t Farmer Maggot angry, his eyes flashed in a manner that made me think twice about provoking him further. I had no idea how I’d provoked him in the first place but I felt certain he was about to tell me, and I was right.

“Frodo, did you know that elves have a very advanced degree of hearing?”

Oh. Oh dear.

“T-They do?” I squeaked, still squirming.

“Aye, we do. And should I choose to, I could hear a conversation, or even a hushed argument, that was taking place, oh, say, across an encampment.”

“Could you indeed? Oh. Well.” I released a small cough. “W-Well, wouldn’t that be an interesting gift to possess?”

“It often is.”

“Of course, one would want to examine one’s ethics when possessing such a gift, and . . . and choose to avoid listening in on private conversations, or arguments, wouldn’t one? Such a thing hardly seems appropriate.”

I have no idea what happens to my sense of self-preservation at times. I hear what comes out of my mouth and I wish I could snatch the words back from where they hang like heavy weights in the air. Legolas merely watched me, his blue eyes glittering, and I suddenly hoped that Sam and Aragorn were off finding fields and fields of athelas. Having a goodly store of salve on hand sounded very desirable.

“Master Baggins,” he said in a dangerous purr, “perhaps you should stop talking now and listen.”

“Yes.” I swallowed hard. “Perhaps I should.” Legolas leaned in a bit, so pretty and so close. My chest thrummed.

“Should you ever again speak to anyone as you spoke to Sam last night, I shall not only make what he did to you seem trifling in comparison, I shall make certain that the cooling salve is kept far away from your scalded little bottom.”

I blinked and stared at him and my mouth fell open, though no sound came out.

“Then, I shall borrow some of Master Gamgee’s strongest soap, and cleanse the insolence from your pretty mouth,” he added, running a fingertip back and forth along my bottom lip.

A hot jolt shot through me and I drew a fluttering slow breath, seeking composure.

Legolas tipped his finger under my chin, closed my mouth and murmured, “I trust I have made myself clear, Master Baggins.”

I still couldn’t speak, so I nodded, quick short nods.

“Excellent. Now that we have settled that matter, there is but one more.”

I still could not form words. I merely watched him and tried to keep from envisioning the soapy scene he’d just described.

But suddenly Legolas smiled, gentle and breathtaking. “Be at peace concerning Pippin, Frodo. No fretting. All shall be set to rights. Aragorn shall help him. Very soon. As soon as he has made more salve. Pippin will need it.”

I shook from my stupor, instantly understanding. “Oh! But . . . but Pip is already so sore from yesterday! Legolas, he cannot bear another spanking so soon!”

“Hush now.” Legolas kissed my brow, then looked at me, lifting his chin, demanding with a mere look that I settle down. “He cannot bear going without it. Can he?”

I stared at him. “N-No . . . I-I guess not, but --”

“Trust Aragorn to know what Pippin can tolerate,” Legolas said. “You know that our Ranger shall not hurt him.”

“I know. I do trust Aragorn, but-but, poor Pip!”

“Frodo, in your heart, do you think that Pippin will be worse off after Aragorn sees to his needs, or is he worse off now?”

I didn’t need to think it over. “He is worse off now.”

Of course Legolas was right. And Aragorn was right. They understood my own cousin’s needs better than I did. They knew that Pip needed what Aragorn had to do. Their wisdom and their insight surprised me. It felt wonderfully reassuring. Still, oh, poor Pip!

Legolas ran his fingers through the curls falling down on my forehead. “Aye. Then are you at peace with this, sweetling?”

I sighed deeply and nodded. “Yes.” He flashed me that dazzling soft grin. “Legolas?”

“Mmm?”

“May I please get down off this very hard rock now?”

He chuckled softly. “Of course.” And in the next instant Legolas gathered me up and I was once again straddling his hip.

“I know,” I said with a little smile. “You like doing this.”

“Aye.”

“And are you going to carry me back to camp now?” It felt like a fair question. He was just standing still, swaying slightly.

“That was my plan, aye.” His eyes glittered. “Do you mind so very much?”

“I should,” I muttered. “It seems inappropriate. Certainly unbefitting the Ringbearer.” Legolas studied me, grinning even more beautifully, something I would have considered impossible. “And yet,” I went on, “I saw Boromir do this to Pippin earlier, so he clearly enjoys it as well.”

“We big folk are a peculiar lot.”

I grinned. “Indeed you are. He carried my cousin for the last half-hour of our trek today. I should think that would have been taxing after a long day’s march. Boromir just came along and scooped Pippin up, like you did now, cheeky as you please.”

Legolas watched me for a moment, then asked with gentle seriousness, “Do you dislike being carried like this, little one?”

“No!” I shot back with a speed that made me blush.

Legolas laughed quietly and kissed my forehead again, then he began strolling back towards camp, slowly, as though wanting to make the journey last longer.

“This closeness is pleasant,” he said. “Is it not?”

Again I needed no time to think. This was pleasant. I nodded.

“Then there is no reason to fuss, Frodo. Enjoy each pleasant feeling for what it is when it comes. They are always too fleeting.”

I watched him, a warm swell rising within me, then I quickly kissed his smooth cheek and said, “That is a pleasant feeling, too, beautiful Prince.” I vow I’d completely lost my senses. My face burst with heat and I flinched and squirmed and longed to melt into a puddle.

But Legolas turned to me, all softly knowing smiles and quiet acceptance, and he stopped walking and Legolas kissed me, his sweet elvish breath entering me, dissolving me. Sam was first in my heart, now and for always, but I felt that even my Sam would not begrudge me a stolen kiss from an elf.

Legolas pressed my head down to his shoulder and I remained that way, resting quietly until we were nearly back to camp; then I lifted up, watching the movements of our Fellowship ahead through the trees.

Legolas slowed and looked at me. “What is it, Frodo?”

“Well, about Pippin, I do understand, and I agree that he needs . . . it’s just that, well . . . how will Aragorn . . . he cannot simply grab Pippin and start spanking him.”

Legolas chuckled softly. “Pippin shall provide an incentive. Watch and wait, sweetling. It shall not take him long.”

*********

What had Merry called it? “’Tweens.” A fitting name. Pippin was as Faramir had been between the ages of fifteen and twenty - probably a just reckoning in terms of maturity and time between men and hobbits - no longer quite a child, but growing into young adulthood.

In many ways, Pippin reminded me of Faramir at that age, retaining that lingering uncertainty beneath a veneer of bravado, indulging flashes of impulsiveness, making ill-advised choices, and possessing an underlying desire to be thought of as mature while harboring a playful childishness within . . . of course, such a description could fit all four of our halflings, but Pip had an extra measure of carelessness to him, a result, no doubt, of always being the youngest, something with which I had no experience.

And there were his veiled, persistent bids for notice, so like my little brother. It wasn’t always mischief with Faramir. He had many small methods of gaining attention when he needed it, and those were the memories springing forth as we set up camp and I watched Pippin’s moodiness grow.

I considered what we had talked of earlier when I’d gathered him up from the path. There was little said about his frame of mind, or where it was fast headed. After a bit of instruction about what we would not be discussing, I got him talking of his beloved Shire, especially a place he loved telling me tales about called The Green Dragon, and then he seemed to relax and ride happily. He had even become quiet several times and laid his head on my shoulder, and a warm feeling of pleasure hummed deep within me. Then he’d think of something else to say and up his curly head would pop and he was off yammering again. Pippin could talk the birds from the trees with that charming lilt of his. I enjoyed listening to him prattle on. And I sensed that Pippin delighted in this new closeness born between us as much as I did. Odd, all the gifts a sound spanking could bestow, the first being this melding of hearts through the comfort that followed the storm.

I’d gone to sleep fretful after Legolas had left to join Aragorn last night. Despite the charming distraction of hobbit antics, and even though I’d wanted to trust the elf’s assurances that he would be able to help Aragorn, peace had been long in coming. Then I was cracking my eyes open to the coming day and the sound of, “Wake up, little brother. How you humans love to sleep.”

I had flipped over, ready to do verbal battle, tangling my blanket around my legs, and there was Legolas, sitting beside me, Aragorn standing next to him . . . smiling. He truly was smiling, relaxed and smiling, gazing down at me, looking like, well, looking like Thorongil again. I grinned back, relief surging within me. Legolas shoved some breakfast in my direction and the three of us spent some time talking quietly while the drowsy hobbits indulged their last bit of slumber before beginning their morning.

It was light talk, simple talk, with no mention made of the strife of the past few days. We watched the halflings stir and come alive, always an entertaining sight as they so resemble sleep-tousled five-year olds befuddled by the intrusive waking world. Legolas had me tell of the delightful hobbit scene the night before, Sam and his salve and Frodo’s obstinate behavior. They had been surprisingly easy to overhear, so I was able to report the incident nearly word-for-word. Aragorn laughed, drawing the attention of all, followed by a continued watchfulness from the Fellowship. Not that I could blame them. The man’s transformation was fascinating to observe.

Aragorn was indeed himself again, just as Legolas had promised he would be. Legolas had done it. I could not fathom how he had managed it, nor did I care. Aragorn and Legolas had been together longer than I’d been living, so if the elf hadn’t known how to get through that thick Ranger skull, I don’t know who would have.

Whatever ancient bond connected Legolas and Aragorn, it was blessed by the Valar, and, though I could scarce allow myself to believe it true, the two warriors were clearly, incredibly, willing to include me in their close fellowship. Me. A ‘little brother.’ A ‘fledgling.’ I don’t know which was more astonishing, to be cast in such a light, or the fact that I so willingly accepted being cast in such a light, and did not mind it in the least. Oh, if the warriors of Gondor could see me now! The very thought of it made me wince. But here, amongst the three of us, I was content to be a little brother and a fledgling . . . nay, more than that – I relished it.

After a time, Legolas stood and headed off to talk to Gandalf. Aragorn grew quiet. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then he crouched before me, seemingly undecided as to whether or not he would sit. Finally he did sit, cross-legged, and his silence grew even deeper for several long moments. I waited. He stared down at his remaining breakfast, as though concentrating intensely on something, and I had no wish to interrupt his thoughts. At last he let go a long slow breath. He cleared his throat, and I expected something momentous to come out of his mouth, but he surprised me when he looked up.

“You should finish eating,” was all he said.

I watched him for a moment, then shrugged and did as he said. Once again he started in on small matters: who would take the rear-guard today, who would lead with Gandalf, who would walk amongst the hobbits, for he always liked the little ones to have a warrior in their midst if needed quickly, things like that. Finally he set aside his tin and turned to me with a contemplative gaze.

“The other day,” he ventured, “the incident with the soap --”

He paused, as if he listening to my silence. But, yes, how accurate a thought; Aragorn listened on many levels.

“We shall talk of this now, my fledgling,” he said, once more his forthright self. But he yet held back, waiting, it seemed, for a response. And, suddenly, I knew what to say.

“Aragorn, please, forgive me,” I said. “I-I should not have interfered.” A flood of realization washed over me, and I heard myself speaking what I’d managed to push aside for several days, not wanting to think on it. “All that happened, everything that happened was my fault. I disobeyed you. I remained and meddled in a matter that was none of my business. I provoked you into losing your temper. I caused it all, and I am deeply sorry.”

He gave me that small modest smile and a single half-shake of his head, saying, “Nay, Boromir. Not all. You did not cause it all.” He took the empty tin from my hands and set it aside, then took my hands in his and said, “You only did what your heart told you to do. You saw injustice, the powerful abusing the helpless.” He flashed a quick grin and added, “Although, ‘tis unlikely anyone would consider Legolas helpless. But, I think you saw more than Aragorn and Legolas that day. You saw . . . others aside from us.”

I knew in an instant that he understood everything. That day at the water’s edge, I had flown into a rage triggered by years of watching Faramir suffer injustice at my father’s hand, years spent anguishing with my little brother, infuriated that our father abused his power simply because he could, because none could gainsay him.

And Aragorn not only saw that, he understood it, and he accepted it without judgement. He did not fault me for the manner in which I, instead, had judged him, casting him in that role of Denethor. A sudden, sharp pain lodged in my throat and I lowered my gaze, struggling to hide the glassy sheen that filled my eyes. Aragorn so often defied what I’d learned to expect from the world, and each time he did, he moved me to tears.

“I-I wronged you, my lord.” The words needed to come out, broken perhaps, but I needed to say them. As ever, he seemed to understand that. He remained silent, allowing me my say. “I did not think you dishonorable. Truly, I did not. I know it seemed my words were . . . it seemed I thought you capable of such cruelty . . . and I did not!” Nothing came out sensibly. I tightened my fists and released a sigh of frustration.

“Ah, little fledgling,” Aragorn said, a soft smile in his voice. His hand came around behind my neck and he leaned in, gently pulling me towards him, until I felt his forehead touch mine. “Shhh, there is no need to explain. And there is nothing to forgive. I know you did not think me that contemptible. It was the bruise in your heart that spoke that day. Such deep pain lives on and grows. Old rage is powerful, and rarely discerning. Forgive it within yourself, Boromir, and perhaps save the fury of it for use in battle.” We both sniffed and grinned. His fingers laced through my hair, moving along the tight muscles of my neck, relaxing the tension there. “I cannot allow you to suffer guilt because of this, no more than you would see me do the same.”

I smiled quietly. “Aye, my lord. Enough suffering of guilt.” I lifted my head and gazed at him, and I had to ask: “And you are . . . you are all right now?” It seemed an ordinary way to ask such a big question.

“All right?” He grinned again. “Aye, all is well now. ‘Twas a powerful but brief madness that ruled my heart. What happened has been healed.”

“Legolas was of some help then.”

He raised his brows slightly as if considering the question, or perhaps, how to answer me. “He was.”

I smiled softly. “Ah, so wise these elves.”

He leaned in close and whispered, “I would not tell him that.”

I chuckled. “Nay, my lord. He is arrogant enough as is.”

“I would not tell him that, either.”

Again I chuckled. Aragorn glanced off to one side, then said, “There is but one more who needs this matter of guilt attended to,” he said.

I followed his gaze to the area where the halflings had slumbered. Pippin sat there, alone, but for Frodo, who sat a little ways off, studying his cousin with eyes full of concern. The youngest halfling stared down at the tin of breakfast on his lap. He just stared, without eating.

“Pippin with no appetite,” Aragorn said with a sigh.

“Aye. A sorry and worrisome picture indeed.”

He glanced back towards me. “I shall need your help in this matter.”

“You have it, of course, my lord. I answered some of the little one’s need, but clearly not all.”

“Aye, and I thank you for your efforts on his behalf.” He dropped his gaze for a moment, clearly remembering yesterday’s scene when he’d turned away and left Pippin to my care.

“Enough suffering of guilt, Aragorn,” I reminded him softly.

He looked up at me with a gentle grin and a glance of admiration that sent a sweet jolt through my veins. “Ah, my clever fledgling. Aye. No more. Now, here is what I propose we do.”

He laid out a quick strategy for dealing with Pippin. It was brilliant of course, and I instantly agreed. We glanced towards Pip once more, and a moment later he raised his sad gaze to us again, flinching when he saw we were watching him. Aragorn crooked his finger at him, bidding him to join us. Pippin hesitated, but then he slowly rose and shuffled our way, leaving his breakfast behind. Aye, a worrisome sight, almost as worrisome as Pip’s uncharacteristic wariness and his slight hostility towards Aragorn.

“Are you feeling ill, Master Took?” Aragorn asked him when he drew near.

No one pouted as Pippin pouted. “No. I’m fine.”

“Is there something wrong with your first breakfast?”

I watched, knowing from the glance that traveled between them that the term ‘first’ breakfast had some special meaning for Aragorn and Pip.

“Nay. It’s fine and I’m fine and everything’s fine.”

“Just not hungry?” Aragorn asked, ignoring Pip’s snarly tone.

He shrugged and dropped his gaze. “I guess not.”

Aragorn glanced at me, his eyes bright with dismay. My turn to act.

“Well,” I said, rising with a suddenness. “I shall go help break camp.”

“Now?” Pip said with some alarm.

I gathered our tins. “Aye. ‘Tis morning. Time to pack up and set out.”

“But --”

“Thank you, Boromir,” Aragorn said, also rising.

I nodded at him and left them without glancing back at Pip. I wasn’t brave enough to stomach the look of abandonment he would give me. In truth, I would have rather stayed and listened. It might have been an excellent lesson in how to strike a peace accord.

But what Aragorn had to say to Pippin were for the little one’s ears alone. I was still intensely curious, though, watching the Ranger’s easy treatment of his solemn charge. I tried to busy myself, but I glanced over at the two of them so often that I eventually gave up trying to look like I was doing anything but watching from a distance. A wild notion came to me to seek out Legolas and have him listen in, but I immediately flushed at the thought, ashamed of the level to which I had sunk.

The man was miraculous. He soon had coaxed a relaxed look from Pippin, then an interested look, then a somewhat admiring, compassionate look, and finally a sweet Pippin smile followed by an even sweeter laugh. Then Pippin was giggling in Aragorn’s arms, grabbed up and held and simply giggling. My cheeks began to hurt and I realized I’d been smiling to ridiculous excess, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I just watched, loving the sight, remembering what it felt like last night to have those little halfling legs wrapped around my waist as they were now wrapped around Aragorn’s. It looked as exquisite as it had felt.

All was indeed well. I entertained the thought that it might stay that way, that Pippin could perhaps be spared, but Aragorn was right; the deeper matter between them was yet unresolved and it would remain so until dealt with, regardless of how many pleasant moments passed.

Pip’s mood had started sinking towards late afternoon. Aragorn had deliberately placed me amongst the halflings during our march, “Stay close to Pippin. Watch him. He will begin to show his true self late in the day.” And he had, picking on Frodo and Merry with even more zeal than usual until his two kinfolk quit his company altogether. I had stepped in and done what I could for him, carrying him and trying to lighten his troubled heart, and for a small, blissful time he was himself. But now, as he fumed about, fussing over a number of matters that displeased him, it was clear that Aragorn’s predictions were about to come true. What needed to happen was indeed going to take place.

We had stopped for the evening, camp was set up, the fire started, and the halflings were pulling things from their packs. All was in readiness. Legolas was set; the dwarf was prepared; Aragorn and I were primed and Gandalf, ever content to remain on the periphery of these matters, had found himself a nice high perch upon a boulder where he could smoke and watch the drama of the evening unfold.

Aragorn moved first, asking Sam to join him in seeking out some athelas, and helping him make more salve.

“Aye! Thank you, Strider! I’d love to!” He’d paused and thrown a concerned look to Frodo. “You’ll be all right while I’m gone, Mister Frodo?”

“Sam.” Frodo had ruffled a bit. “Of course I’ll be all right. For pity’s sake, I’m fine. Run along.”

And Sam did, trotting after ‘Strider’s’ strides, off towards the woods a short distance away. Gimli was up next. He meandered over to where Merry had been sitting silently with a stony-faced Pip.

“Master Meriadoc, I thought of some more points regarding my axe and its many fine uses. Would you like to come share a pipe with me and pick up where we left off last night? I have some fine stories of orc bashing to share, if you’re of a mind to hear.”

“Would I?” Merry jumped up, then he suddenly sobered and glanced down at Pippin.

“Go on,” Pip grumbled. “Enjoy the fine stories of orc bashing.”

And Merry did, scooting off alongside the dwarf, who just couldn’t resist calling back a comment that was most unsuitable: “I would ask you along as well, Master Peregrin, but I cannot recount a story when I must tell it to such a long face.”

Pippin’s return scowl defied belief. Frodo studied him from a short distance. The Ringbearer’s large eyes reflected his every emotion, and he clearly was beside himself with concern. He looked prepared to rise and go talk to Pippin. Time for Legolas and I to move in.

I crossed to Pip, seeing Legolas from the corner of my eye as he stepped from the shadows of the trees and headed for Frodo. The Ringbearer took notice of my approach, but an instant later, Legolas softly called his name and Frodo’s attention immediately shifted to the elf, who gracefully tugged his head to one side in silent invitation. Frodo’s eyes lit up.

Neither Aragorn nor I had been so unmannerly as to speak of this before, outside of a few small hints and teasing remarks, but it was understood, at least amongst the three of us and, as we now knew, the secretly observant Gimli, that Frodo harbored a quiet, but profound, fascination with Legolas – not quite what Faramir and his mates would have called a ‘crush,’ but close to it. It was too endearing, although Frodo would have certainly been horrified to learn that we knew of it. I doubt he had admitted the truth even to himself.

But small mention of the matter was made earlier today, when we had nearly finished packing up and were moving casually about, far enough from the hobbits to discuss the evening’s plans with Gimli and Legolas, making sure we all understood what role we would play later.

“Aye, young Merry will no doubt take me up on the offer. He was interested in all my talk of axes last night. I’m certain he will want to hear more.”

“Good,” Aragorn had said. “And Legolas, I know you shall have no trouble taking Frodo off for awhile.”

“Naaayyy, no trouble whatsoever!” the dwarf had chuckled, eyes twinkling. “He’ll get the captivated Ringbearer off alone just fine, but will the Ringbearer suffer returning quite as easily?”

Legolas, blushing furiously, had fired him a frown. “You dwarves are a coarse lot.”

“Perhaps, but we are not blind, Master Elf.”

“Nor, unfortunately, dumb,” Legolas sneered.

I’d struggled back a laugh at Aragorn’s sigh of vexation. “Gentlemen, this is neither the time, nor the place --”

“One would have to be dumb indeed to not see how the little one watches you.”

“Frodo watches everyone, you ignorant lout,” Legolas returned, a bit too defensively. “There is none but Sam in his heart.”

“True.” Gimli was obviously enjoying himself now. “But --”

“Enough of this!” Aragorn rumbled. “Let us stay our course, shall we? We are not here to discuss Frodo’s secret passions.”

“Aragorn, please!” Legolas had chided, his voice hushed.

It was some time before the dwarf could bring his chuckling under control.

I fought back a smile remembering it now as I sat down near Pippin. He looked up at me expectantly, all but saying, ‘Aye? What can I do for you?’ I reached over and began drawing him close, aware that Frodo had jumped up and was scooting off to catch up with Legolas. Good. But my small problem was feeling quarrelsome and he struggled against me a bit.

“I prefer to stay seated right where I am, thank you,” Pip grumbled, his wriggling something less than sincere when I pulled him up onto my lap, as was his muttered, “Stop that!”

I held Pippin firmly, fielding his huffs and his small fidgets, and I talked quietly to him, ignoring his curt replies. Eventually he just fell into a testy silence and sat still. But he soon leaned back against my chest, allowing me to run my fingers through his curls and play with the fringe on his little scarf. He enjoyed my touch and this closeness, but Pippin was surely lost in his abiding discontent. His grouchiness was not directed at me. He was vexed by the anger he could not control, and fearful of its power over him. I was merely a stand-in for an enemy he could not see. I felt for him. Poor petulant lad.

At least I had soothed Pippin’s most immediate pain last night, and it ended up being a time we both treasured. He understood about Aragorn. He even sympathized with him, and he found contentment within his own compassion. What passed between Pippin and me did not vanish in the face of what he felt now.

But Pippin had awakened this morning to the sight of a Ranger who was clearly no longer suffering, and last night’s contentment, while cherished, suddenly became a memory. Seeing Aragorn this morning, laughing, and obviously himself again was no doubt as much a relief to Pip as it was to us all, but it also aroused in him the hurt he’d experienced yesterday when he’d been humiliated, ignored, wounded and left alone by Aragorn. All that came roaring back, along with his fury. And now Pippin wasn’t about to let the comfort he had received from me be the end of it.

He needed what Aragorn had denied him yesterday, to feel that Aragorn cared about him and valued him enough to take him over his knee. Pippin did not feel valued or cared about now, and he wouldn’t feel so without that one particular demonstration, despite the amends Aragorn had made this morning. Part of Pippin’s aggravation was with himself for having accepted those amends in the first place, thereby allowing Aragorn to think that all was well now, that he didn’t need to confirm his care by means of a spanking. Oh, Pippin was furious with himself for that!

I observed the position of the shadows, judging that the time was now right, and I said, “You are certainly ill-tempered this evening.” I hadn’t spoken for a while, so he looked up at me in surprise. “Just what is it that keeps galling you?” I asked.

He frowned at once. “Nothing is ‘galling’ me.”

“Explain this to me then, young petulant sir. Last night you were well spanked and contented --”

“Ugh!” he exclaimed, struggling up straight. “That’s an objectionable way of putting it, sir!”

“Nevertheless, you were, and after you took a nice nap upon me, I delivered you to your cousin where you received some soothing salve for your hot bottom.”

He tried to scramble from my lap, muttering, “I don’t have to stay here and listen to th --”

“You do as long as I have hold of you, Master Took,” I said, snatching him back into place and holding him still. “You’ve been disagreeable since we stopped to camp, so you will listen, and we will discuss this.”

“And I have no say in it?”

“Hear me out, Pip; then you can leave or have all the say you like.”

He set his mouth into a stubborn frown, crossed his arms firmly over his chest and said, “Very well.”

“Better. Now, where was I?”

“Salve.”

“Ah, yes. After what looked like some pleasant salving and general fussing-over from your loving Merry, and a vocal concert from Frodo, conducted by Master Gamgee, you then got to tease your equally well-spanked cousin and watch him turn twelve shades of red.”

He couldn’t help it. A little grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Then after a good night’s sleep wrapped within your Merry blanket, you had what looked to be a fine talk with Aragorn this morning, and it seemed all was well.”

The grin vanished.

“Your good mood lasted most of the day, until the time when you usually get fussy and grumpy to stop for the night.”

“I do not get ‘fussy and grumpy!’”

“And you began to pester Frodo and Merry until they found more pleasant company to walk with. At which time I gathered up your bothersome self and you and I shared what I thought was a very nice trip until we stopped to camp. Am I right?”

“Your manner of telling it leaves much to be desired, sir. But --” He softened a look up at me, the sweet Pippin peeking out. “You’re right about the nice trip. It was nice, Boromir. Thank you.”

Now I couldn’t help smiling. I kissed his cheek. “You are welcome. It was nice for me as well.” He grinned and lowered his gaze. I studied him for a long moment, then I brushed the curls from his forehead, saying, “Let me help you, little one.”

I knew what his answer would be. Indeed, he just wiggled his feet nervously and shook his head.

“I-I canna think of a way for you to help me, but thank you, Boromir. Yer’ so good to me, and I --”

Suddenly he straightened, his back going rigid. I heard them, too. Aragorn and Sam were returning. Sam’s chatter flowed before them into the camp, and I thought of Aragorn’s earlier words: “It will not take me long to make the salve once Sam and I return. I shall chew the athelas on the walk back so it will be ready to add to the ointment, but you will hear Sam. When I return, Boromir, you begin.”

It was time. I took a breath, closed my eyes, opened them and set my part into motion.

“I have an idea,” I said. Pippin looked up, interested in spite of his peevishness at Aragorn’s return. “You and I should engage in a small bit of sparring.”

He stared at me. “Now? Before dinner?”

“Why not? You and Frodo did so just for fun last evening, remember?”

“Aye,” he muttered. “How could I forget? I skewered the Ranger’s coat and you favored a spanking.”

I knew the mention of it would kindle his memory and those feelings would flow even hotter. I didn’t like doing this, but it needed doing for our plan to succeed, so I leveled a stern frown at Pip, and said, “Had you been in my charge at the time, rest assured, my lad, you would have been soundly spanked.”

“I wish I had been in your charge,” he murmured in full sulk.

“As do I, my impossible young Took. There would have been no more sword flinging, and Legolas would not have needed to be dangled over the cliff to retrieve Merry’s weapon.”

He turned a frustrated gaze up at me. “But, Frodo and I were not engaged in actual training at the time, so that’s why Aragorn was in charge, right?”

“You know it is. I decide your fate only when you are under my care in training. At all other times, Aragorn’s rule is law.”

He studied me for a moment, then said, “Boromir, if you and I go a few rounds now, would it be considered training?”

I shook my head. “It is only training when I call the four of you together and give you drills to practice. Nay, Pip. This would just be for fun, like you and Frodo did, a way to release some strain from the day. What say you?”

I sat quietly and waited, watching him think. He stared off, his eyes focused intently on some remote point, and oh, how his sharp mind was clicking away! Within moments, he had it all. It was extraordinary, watching his eyes light up with a gleam of excitement and sudden purpose.

“Aye!” he exclaimed. “Aye, Boromir!” He scooted from my lap as though he’d just caught fire. “A bit of sparring for fun sounds just fine!”

I rose, watching him scurry to strap on his sword, a bit stunned by how easy it had been. Aragorn was indeed brilliant! Turning to him, I saw that he and Sam were busily mixing the salve. Aragorn’s clever gaze lifted to mine and we exchanged slight nods, then I shot a quick look to Merry and Gimli. They were still talking a little ways off, Merry holding Gimli’s axe while the dwarf talked and pointed at the weapon in places. Gimli and I exchanged a nod as well. And, firing a quick look into the woods, I saw Legolas, clearly returning Frodo to the ground after carrying him. I grinned. Shameless elf. He gave the little one a slight tap forward on the backside, making Frodo’s pretty grin blaze forth. Utterly shameless elf.

“I’m ready,” Pippin announced, marching past me, his sword strapped on and a bright green fire sparkling in his eyes. He looked like he couldn’t wait to hack away at me.

I gathered my sword, strapping it on and following him, feeling all eyes upon us as we entered the one clear area of packed dirt near the campsite. It lay waiting like a stage ready for players. It was quite an odd feeling. Pip and I took stances across from each other, raised our weapons, and I barked my first, “Come! Begin!” wondering if all of Aragorn’s predictions were about to come true.

I had no trouble accepting my role. If it would help Pippin, I would gladly do what I must. I had not hesitated to provoke Frodo in the same manner, and Pip’s temper was already up, so it shouldn’t take as long to rile him. And Pippin had a purpose. His beginning assault surprised me, though. I’d been the one attacking Frodo, but Pip was the aggressor in our match, coming after me with a keen intensity that made me proud of him.

He engaged me for a goodly time before he paused, lowered his sword and stepped back to breathe a bit. I glanced at our audience. Aragorn had been right to pair a hobbit to each warrior. All had now gathered to watch, the little ones transfixed, their expressions of alarm locked on their youngest. Pippin was obviously not himself, and that meant trouble.

“Come!” Pip cried. “Again!” And he came at me.

Had I not been so taken aback by his insolent call of command, I’d have laughed, then maneuvered behind him and whacked his saucy bottom with the flat of my sword. But there was no time for such pleasantries. Pip was once again having at me with admirable poise, and now, finally, he had decided to make his move.

He tried. He tried again. He tried several more times to achieve his purpose. But I’d taught him the trick, and, unlike the hobbits, I knew how to ward it off. This would not happen as Pip wanted.

He was wearing down now, huffing and frustrated to a tearful degree with my constant parrying. Each time I thwarted his attempt, his fury grew and grew, and soon it became overpowering, reducing Pip to a jerking mess of useless limbs. He bounced around too much, exerting too much energy, tiring himself, and making my task much easier.

Now I took the offensive. All I had to do was keep outflanking him, then attack him, again and again and again, following a pattern similar to the one I’d used with Frodo. At last he stepped back and lowered his sword a second time, panting, his eyes bright with rage.

Merry had endured enough. “Stop it, Pippin!” he growled. “You’re exhausted. Come on. You’re going back to the fire and sit down for a while.”

Merry took a step forward, but got no further. Gimli’s hand on his arm stopped him. He shot the dwarf a look of surprise, defiance entering his gaze, much good it would do him should he press the matter with Gimli.

“Merry,” Aragorn said, and his name on the Ranger’s lips said everything. Merry accepted his need to stand down. But he glanced at us all, bewildered, yet now obviously aware that something beyond his say-so was about to happen to his Pippin.

Frodo was another matter. We should have predicted the Ringbearer’s distress. He’d been through this with me before.

“No,” he said with a commanding finality. “Merry’s right. That is indeed enough. Leave off, Pippin. Boromir, no more of this. Aragorn, tell them to stop at once.”

His shocking audacity stunned everyone to silence. Aragorn stared at Frodo as though he didn’t know what to make of him, nor what to do with him, and for some unknown reason, a notion popped into my mind – the Ring.

But Legolas acted with smooth elvish confidence. He leaned over, took Frodo by the shoulders, and turned the Ringbearer to face him. Legolas looked directly into Frodo’s wide eyes for a long moment, then he said something in a firm tone – and in elvish. All heard it, but of course no one save Aragorn, Gandalf and, to my surprise, Frodo, understood the elf’s words.

Frodo paled. His startled gaze fixed on Legolas, he murmured, “You would not.”

“Do not test my resolve, little one,” Legolas said, in the Westron this time. He straightened, watching Frodo intensely, murmured something else to him in elvish, then added, “Now.”

The Ringbearer swallowed hard, turned to the Ranger, and said, “I’m sorry, Aragorn. Please forgive my . . . my . . . .” He shot a glance up at Legolas who gave him a stern nod. Frodo swallowed hard. “Please forgive my impudence.”

“By all means,” Aragorn replied, still looking a bit astounded.

Pippin, meanwhile, had caught his breath. Clearly aggravated to have lost his audience, he now made his presence known. “WELL?” he thundered at me in a most un-Pippin-like tone, drawing every shocked eye.

It was becoming an evening of astonishing hobbit effrontery. I glanced at Aragorn, catching the smile in his eyes. His mouth remained still, but his eyes smiled. Drawing his sword, he stepped forth, striding onto our stage with a casual air.

“Boromir, you look in need of a break,” he said, swinging his sword with casual ease. “Allow me to relieve you.”

Four hobbits sucked an inward gasp. I turned to Pippin, and in a flash, in one bright instant, I saw understanding alight in his gaze. He glared at Aragorn with absolute fearlessness, his eyes full of alarming zeal, as though Pippin saw his fate written out and he couldn’t wait to assist in his own doom.

“By your leave, sir?” I said to Pippin.

“Aye, my lord,” Pip said. “By all means. I’ve no desire to tucker you out.”

I nodded at Aragorn. He took my place across from Pippin and I moved off, joining the others, stationing myself beside a tense and fretful Sam.

The dark Ranger and the boyish halfling moved cautiously, sidestepping in a circle like a slow dance, their swords raised. Pippin’s curls fluttered, his white shirt billowed around his slender little form and his scarf hung disheveled at his neck. He looked both weary and alert, intent on his goal. Aragorn was doing what I would’ve done, giving Pippin a chance to attack first, allowing him the opportunity to release a little fury. Pip would not wait much longer, though, and, when it came, Aragorn would not parry the move I’d been blocking, the move that all but perhaps the hobbits knew was coming.

Pip released a sudden cry and attacked and they were engaged. Indeed, it did not take Pippin long. After only a few minutes, a wicked light ignited in his eyes. If he knew he’d been given this chance, he did not show it. He simply played his part as though he had been in on the planning of it all along.

And it was by far Peregrin’s finest fling ever. He twirled his little blade around Aragorn’s long heavy sword and whooshed the Ranger’s weapon so high it practically took wing.

“’Ware!” Gimli bellowed, though I’m uncertain as to why, since we were all plainly fascinated and already staring with rapt expressions. We watched Aragorn’s sword gracefully sail, end over end, spinning gloriously, glittering as the sun flashed across its surface. It finally descended and hit the ground, bounced up upon impact, sailed end over end again and came down point first upon a blanket Merry had spread out earlier by the fire.

No one made a sound. Then Gandalf, sitting upon that high rock, cleared his throat and said, “Samwise, have you that salve?”

The hobbits seemed too shocked to breathe, but Sam nodded as if dazed and held up the full pouch of salve. Of course, the warriors had known what to expect. At least we had known what Aragorn had predicted we could expect. I’m not certain I fully believed Aragorn could be right since just last evening Pip had given me his word. He wouldn’t dare do what he’d promised he wouldn’t! But he had done it! I could scarce believe it. Pippin had actually flung Aragorn’s sword! I had no trouble making my next words sound sincere. I meant them most sincerely.

I took a step towards Pippin and roared, “Peregrin Took! Just yesterday you promised me never to do that again!”

“Aye!” Pip returned with hot fury. “So I did!” He pointed his sword at me and said, “But my promise was to YOU!” He whirled on Aragorn, pointed his sword up at the Ranger, and snarled, “I did NOT promise HIM!” He then threw his sword to the ground and stood huffing at Aragorn, tears in his eyes, a picture of utter hobbit rage.

Pippin’s anguish hit the Fellowship like a mighty wave, and it wasn’t as if it surprised a one of us. In those quiet seconds following his broken cry, we were all seeing Pippin as he looked in those moments after Aragorn had turned away and left him yesterday, standing there, alone and abandoned. Memories of his shattered, desolate wails while I spanked him, his inconsolable weeping, far surpassing the pain of his spanking, echoed amongst us, yanking at our hearts, stirring our compassion. We all stood stunned, unable to even react . . . all save one.

Aragorn turned to me. “Boromir,” he said, demanding my attention. “This hobbit is under your command while training, is he not?”

“Aye. He is that.”

“Was this a training exercise, sir? Or were you two engaged in this for sport?”

“We were engaged in this for sport, my lord.”

“Then he is not under your command at this time, is that right?”

“Nay. I believe, sir,” I replied, “he is under yours.”

*********

Pippin stood there, glaring at me, quivering with fury and drenched in defiance, and the contrast between this Peregrin Took, and the one who just this morning had been giggling in my arms, his legs wrapped around my waist, was enough to stun me to momentary silence – as it obviously did the entire Fellowship.

But our plan had succeeded, and now it was time to tie off this tapestry of interwoven threads that had been started several days ago with the fulfillment of a promise and a bar of soap. I decided to push him just a bit further. He deserved the pleasure of flouting my authority with no holds barred.

“Master Took, retrieve my sword and bring it to me,” I ordered. “Now.”

A deafening thunder of silence resounded from the Fellowship, and Pip’s eyes widened, flashing with even brighter sparks of wrath.

“No. Get it yerself.”

I moved swiftly, closing on him in rapid strides, but Pippin did not so much as flinch. He just stood there, fists clenched, waiting for me. His kinfolk were another matter. I glanced their way, catching an instant image of three halflings surging forward, gasping desperate, ‘No’s! and other small cries of incoherent dismay.

Boromir stopped Sam in mid dash, lifted him with one arm, and started carrying him back to where the others were being restrained, Legolas snatching up a struggling Ringbearer and Gimli wrapping his thick arm around Merry’s waist. The little ones had not stopped to consider what was best for Pippin. They were merely panicking and acting in concern.

But they had no reason to fear for Pip, and an instant later they realized that, quieting in mid-struggle and listening to their keepers’ murmured words. Meanwhile Pip snarled and launched his small body at me before my final stride.

It took a moment to get hold of him. He was all flailing arms and legs and fists, pure frenzy, none of it effective. One would think Pippin had completely taken leave of his senses. In a way, he had, and as I finally turned him, then lifted him up and clamped my arms around his kicking, bucking body, I felt a hot surge of sorrow over the pain I had caused him, so much pain to cause such a violent reaction. I am not sure which of us was more eager to end this.

With Pippin now secured in my arms, I suddenly realized that I did not know where to take him. Not one of us had thought to locate a suitable place for me to sit and turn him over my knee. I darted a look around. The others darted a look around. And, for once, there was not a decent rock or stump or log in sight. Of all the times for Middle Earth to let me down! We all glanced at each other with blank expressions while Pip kept struggling and snarling like some wild little thing.

“Aragorn.”

I turned and looked up at Gandalf’s call. From atop his boulder he could see further. He withdrew his pipe and pointed over his shoulder with it. I moved around his bulky perch, and there, hitherto hidden from my view, were several smaller boulders, one of them perfect for a man in need of a place to spank a hobbit. I headed there with my writhing bundle, pleased that I did not have to go far, as Pippin was so unrestrained, but also recalling the state of my own backside. This was going to be painful for both of us.

To my shock, Pip suddenly blew all the air from his lungs and slithered down from my grasp, landing at my feet in a heap, and seeming as stunned as I. Little imp! I snatched him back up and tossed him over my shoulder.

“That will be enough of that,” I said. “You just earned yourself a longer stay over my knee, little one.”

Incredible, the energy he had. He wriggled and tried to kick. He hammered on my back. He even reached up and pulled my hair, for which I gave him some powerful preliminary swats. It seemed Pippin had gone beyond caring about what I was going to do to him.

Thankfully, we reached the rock within moments and I instantly had him down and flung over my lap. Sitting on that hard boulder had been an awful jolt, but I had little time to think about it. I was too busy trying to unfasten Pip’s braces while he squirmed. At last I just yanked and they popped loose, and I ripped his britches down, revealing a rounded little bottom still pinkish from yesterday’s encounter with Boromir’s capable hand. The salve had helped, but Pippin was still about to be one unhappy young halfling.

I saw the others from the periphery of my vision, wandering around to where they could witness this, but staying back, allowing Pip and me a small illusion of privacy, not that such a thing was important to either one of us. I glanced at them, noting that each warrior kept near his hobbit charge in case one of them suffered a sudden urge to play hero.

But I sincerely doubted they would. In fact, I felt that they would likely go about their business in a moment, perhaps peer over, but not intrusively. Of course, they would have no need to actually see what was going on. Pippin was going to be loud enough to be heard back in the Shire.

He was already crying, lost in some personal cloud of bewildering rage. He was yammering too, the typical empty statements of a poor soul held over a knee and about to have his bottom reddened. Pippin knew what he wanted and what he needed, but he was also suffering a healthy dose of dread. His rage, however, controlled him most – a fact Pippin revealed in sure terms, and to the shock of us all, by suddenly mixing some foul language into his tirade.

My hand raised over his bottom, I paused at his vulgar words. “What did you say?” He actually repeated them, and a hobbity gasp could be heard from his kin even from our distance. Aye, Pip was indeed beyond caring what I was about to do to him.

“Peregrin, you have also just earned some time alone with me and a bar of soap.”

He bucked up and wailed, perhaps because of my soap notice, but probably because I ended my sentence with the first swat. Ah, poor Pip. It had to sting. I planned to keep close watch on him. I would never hurt anyone in this position, least of all this sweet, broken moppet. But I would do what he needed, and he did need to feel a certain level of true discomfort if the torments inside him were to be purged.

I knew those torments too well, and I relished the chance being given to me, to right the wrong I had done him, to heal that wound I had inflicted. I could thank him for this second chance by not letting him down, by giving Pippin what he so deserved, and I took that honor most seriously.

So I spanked him with concentrated intent, monitoring his breathing and keeping alert to the color of his pretty backside. I listened closely, but I listened to Pip’s body, not his voice. One could not go by the actual sounds made by this halfling. Pippin’s vocal level was impressive from the outset and not to be credited when considering his endurance. His kicking and attempted wrenching about was no measure of his distress, either.

But I never let the hobbits wrench around much when spanking them. I hold them somewhat still so that every swat meets its target squarely, and because that feeling of control is soothing. But I allow kicking, and Pip was an admirable kicker. In his frenzy, he often kicked his little britches right off. He looked to be doing so now. I suddenly wondered if he had managed to keep them on yesterday when Boromir had spanked him. I would ask my fledgling about it later.

Of course, Pippin always lost control early and threw a small hand back to cover his bottom, so I had learned to watch for that and I would simply push it away. Pip, apparently feeling better for having made the attempt, would remove it.

This understanding of how much strength was needed and how much spanking was required was pure instinct, sensing when enough was enough. I kept spanking Pippin in silence for now, letting him feel all he needed to feel. He squalled and bellowed, becoming frantic quickly, even for him. And he cried. Oh, how he cried. He had much to purge.

But Pippin had suddenly stopped talking, an odd silence, since along with his wild bellows, the garrulous Master Took always yelled out a litany of beseeching, and not only when I was the one spanking him. He pleaded fiercely every time I overheard Merry disciplining him.

But Merry had spanking Pip down to an art, a proficiency he had built, no doubt, from sheer abundance of experience. Regardless of how many times Pip yelled, “No! Please, no more!” or, “Merry, stop! I’m sorry! STOP!” and similar useless phrases, Merry ignored him and spanked on, having clearly fashioned a deaf ear to Pip’s appeals long ago.

But I had nothing to ignore. Pip had uttered not a word since my promise of a session with the soap. It worried me for only a moment before I realized that, despite his pain and panic, Pip definitely did not want to protest what I was doing to him.

After a while, I glanced up and noted that our audience had drifted away, all but one wide-eyed little Ringbearer who I nearly missed seeing at first, hidden as he was in the shadow of Gandalf’s great boulder, his knees tugged against his chest, his head resting upon them as he watched us, and his pink cheeks shiny with tears.

But Frodo was not weeping for Pippin’s pain. Neither was he afraid for Pippin, nor sorry for him. He was simply awash with compassion for his cousin. This was Frodo’s unique manner. He stood witness out of loyalty, out of devotion. And though the others also had those qualities, Frodo felt compelled to act on his. Such had been Frodo’s way since that first night at the Prancing Pony when I had met the hobbits and secured their safety from the Nazgul, the night I had spanked each little one in turn while Frodo stayed faithfully present and attentive to his kin, his enormous eyes glistening with tenderness.

So there he now sat, despite his sore backside, and there he would stay until I had finished spanking Pippin and begun to comfort him. Frodo would then slip away and allow us our privacy, but until then he remained nearby for Pippin – if his cousin glanced over for him, he would see Frodo there.

Pip, however, was not seeing much. He lay, drenched in sobs, his arm curled along my thigh, his face buried against both the wilted linen of his shirt and my breeches. I felt the warmth from his open mouth, moist against the tear-soaked wetness of my clothing, his small explosions of breath melting into me . . . and, as I watched his childlike fist desperately clutching and twisting the material near my knee, that moment burst forth, as it always did, that instant when the exquisite, fundamental essence of a spanking slammed into me so intensely it became almost too sweet to bear.

It was an inexplicable moment, impossible to describe. It could only be felt, a warm, fervent glow deep in my core, radiating through me, and from me, and into the beloved individual over my knee. Each disciplined soul - hobbit, man or elf - bathed in that luscious, intimate moment with me, sharing the mysterious connection unique to this profound, yet simple, act.

“Shhh, easy now, little one,” I murmured. “You are safe . . . doing so well, Pippin . . . breathe now, nice deep breaths.”

He responded, sucking several large gulps of air, coughing and sputtering, then resuming his repeated sobs. I held Pippin tucked close to my stomach, my arm resting over his back, keeping him secured, my palm cupped around his slender waist. He nestled there, his shuddering body snug over my thighs, safely under my control, his bottom aglow once more, freshly rosy and warm. I imagined those soft halfling cheeks looked much like this to Boromir last eve.

I found myself wishing I had witnessed it, and a quick memory flashed through my mind – Boromir and I, talking quietly in his room by the fire that first night I had revealed myself as Thorongil . . . .

“ . . . . I do discipline the hobbits in just that way, as in fact you may find yourself wanting and needing to do sometime.”

How astonished my fledgling had looked! He had gaped at me and said, “Spank a hobbit?”

And yesterday Boromir had all but demanded I paddle this particular hobbit after the little one had flaunted my fledgling’s authority yet again and a well-flung Sting had pierced my coat tail. I smiled.

Pip’s britches now lay spread on the ground beneath his feet. He was tiring, but I still felt resistance in his rigid body. Ah, stubborn, stubborn Took! I began to fear for his fiery little bottom, so I lightened the strength of my blows, knowing that if he yet needed a harder degree of attention, he would respond at once with more rebellion. To my relief, Pippin simply shuddered and continued to squall piteously. No more fighting. Good. Time to help him along some more.

“Pippin, your behavior has been unacceptable.” He responded with a hiccupped pause, clearly listening, then he resumed his weeping. I kept spanking, giving him that mainstay to count on. “Do you not agree?”

“I-I-I . . . .” He gasped and shuddered, making it hard for him to form words. I waited. “Aye, s-s-s-ir.”

“Yesterday you continued to perform a dangerous trick with your sword,” I said. “Boromir had told you many times to stop and you disobeyed him over and over.”

He paused again, flinching with each swat, but drawn up short in his crying, obviously startled to hear me speak of yesterday instead of the matter at hand.

“B-But, that was yesterd-day, and . . . n-nooo! No! Y-You can-na--! No! B-Bor’mir already sp-spanked me for that!” he sputtered.

“He spanked you for sending Merry’s sword over the cliff, and for disobeying him again and again in training, as he was right to do. But he did not discipline you for flinging Sting into my coattail. You were not training when you did that. You were sparring with Frodo, so you were under my care, not Boromir’s.

“I failed to discipline you properly then, Pippin. Had I spanked you for that, you would have learned your lesson and stopped flinging swords. So I am correcting that oversight now. I shall not permit you to behave in such a naughty manner without reaping what you so richly deserve.”

Pippin froze, and it seemed that he stopped breathing for a moment. Then he burst into a torrent of fresh sobbing, as though he had just heard the words he had very much needed to hear, as though he had to hold still and wonder at the fact that – oh! I understood him! I saw the hurt I had caused him!

And suddenly Pippin found more energy to kick, and he bucked his bottom again, punishing me for walking away from him, letting that anger control his limbs, his wild curls flopping about in childish disorder, his small hands now grasping fistfuls of my breeches and twisting. I pressed my arm down more snugly on his back, allowing him to feel safe in his resistance. He deserved to feel angry about my callous treatment of him, and to defy me in retaliation, and I allowed him to do so.

Finally he quieted a bit, clearly feeling better for having avenged himself. I loosened my hold on his trembling back, then patted it and rubbed small circles there, calming him while slowing my swats.

“You could not stop, could you, little one?” I said in a gentle tone. “It was fun, flinging everyone’s weapon and then making them go retrieve it. You alone could do a trick that the others could not. And soon you could not resist ‘forgetting’ that Boromir forbade it.”

Again, he hesitated. A tremor passed through him, and on a low explosion of breath, he said, “Oh! Oh, Ar’gorn!” Pippin shattered, his whimpered words, muffled against my leg, sounding shivery. “Yer r-right! I-I could’na s-stop! Tried, but I could’na! K-Kept doing it! Wanting to s-show off! So n-naughty. I-I knew it was b-bad! Bor’mir said,’No!’ But I h-had to keep doing it! Again and again! Ha-Had to Ar’gorn! Just could’na stop!”

“Ah, poor Pip,” I murmured, slowing my spanks even more. “So tempting, was it not?” He nodded frantically and wailed. “So you kept flinging, hoping to be brought up short for it, hoping someone would see that you could not stop alone, that you needed help, you needed a strong hand to force you to stop. And finally, when something truly dangerous happened, you thought I would step in and spank your insubordinate backside and make you quit--”

“AYE!”

He collapsed into renewed crying, all his remorse and anguish and anger and fear spilling forth. I would have felt concerned for how much he was weeping, but it needed to be done; this needed out of him. Pippin’s small body vibrated with the aftershocks of all he had been through since yesterday. In part, I felt he had endured enough. I would have preferred to stop spanking him. But I knew that, in this moment, he needed to feel my hand connecting to his backside, a solid promise and reminder of my steadfastness.

“Let it go,” I said. “Release it now, Pippin. No more. I am here. I am watching. I shall not fail you again. Your sword-flinging days have come to an end, young hobbit. You shall be swiftly attended to if you ever dare fling another sword. Is that understood, Peregrin?” I delivered an especially hard swat that made his head shoot up and a howl surge from his lungs.

“AHHHH! I understand! AYE! I unders-stand! W-Won’t ever do it again!”

“I dare say you shall not, lest you never sit again. Have I your promise, Peregrin Took?”

“Aye, s-sir! P-Promise! You have my p-promise!”

“And do all, save the enemy, have the promise of Peregrin Took, never again to fling their weapons skyward?”

“AYE! Prom-mise! Aye, s-sir! All have my p-promise!” Pippin broke into a wave of deep shudders, then gasped, “OWW! OW OW OW ! Oh, pleeeeease! P-Please, Ar’gorn! No more! P-Please, stop sp-spanking me! I’ll b-be gooood!”

I smiled softly at his sudden pleas, so like him, and again I slowed and lightened my swats, rubbing his shiny bottom between blows. “We are nearly done, but we still need to discuss your ill-mannered rebellion today, little one. Amends will need to be made to Boromir.”

“Aye! Am-mends! Aye, sir!”

“You shall apologize to him in full hearing of the Fellowship tonight.”

“Aye, sir.”

“You shall then go to each of your fellow halflings whose swords you flung and apologize for your discourtesy.”

He paused over this one - amazing, considering that he was still twitching with each swat to his burning backside. Apologize to his hobbit kinfolk? Pip probably felt they deserved his apology, but still, how humbling! Not that he had much choice. I helped him along with a harder spank.

“OWWW! AYE! AYE, my l-lord! Apol-pologize! To all! I-I will!”

“Ahh, very good. And now, Pippin, perhaps you have something to say to me?”

“Oh!” He drew a quivering breath, then blurted out, “I’m sorryyy! Please forgive m-me, Ar’gorn! I’m so-so sorry!”

“What for?”

“For flinging Sting into yer coat yesterd-day! For nearly k-kill . . . kill - Oh! Ar’gorn! I c-could have k-killed you!”

Clearly the thought had haunted him, terrifying poor Pippin. His voice had fallen to a low level, hushed and steeped in horror. Perhaps the others had thought of this as well, pushing the thought away. But Pippin’s fright had been inescapable, and he shook violently now, crying newly miserable sobs.

“Shhh, Pip,” I soothed, swatting lightly, reassuringly. “Think back on it, little one. I was watching. I saw Sting fly and took note of its path. I knew it would not hit me, and had it been any closer I would have moved clear. I did not know it would puncture my surcoat, though. Aye, it was dangerous and you should not have been flinging swords as you were, and someone could have been hurt at any time, but trust that I would have jumped clear if I had needed to.”

He shuddered and quieted a bit, then said, “Is that why you didn’t get ang-gry? Be-Because you knew you were not in dan-ger?”

I thought about it. I had not become angry because I was stuck in a place wherein I felt little, but I answered, “Aye. That is one reason why I did not get angry.”

He lay quietly, thinking, still flinching with each swat, and before he got curious and asked about my other reasons, I steered him back on course. “Keep going. What else are you sorry for?”

“Else?” He paused to release a few sobs. “W-What else? . . . uhhh . . . For-for-for--”

“For flinging my sword today?”

“AYE!”

“And for using vulgar language and behaving like a ferocious, hair-pulling, nasty little orc who slithered from my grasp?”

He hesitated again, but then quickly wailed, “Aye!”

“And, Pippin, I have not forgotten the soap.”

A soft whine escaped his throat along with a quick sob and a barely uttered, “Aye.”

“You have been through enough for tonight,” I said. “However, when we stop tomorrow, I shall attend to it.”

Another shudder: “Aye, sir.”

I stopped spanking then and lightly rubbed his hot little cheeks, amazed that he could tolerate any touch at all. But, although his time over my knee had been long and intense and most certainly meaningful for a hobbit with an already tender bottom, I had not been overly harsh with him.

Pippin sniffled, still weeping softly. And he suddenly seemed so very tired. He turned his head to one side and lowered it to my thigh, his body collapsing heavily upon me. I could see his features now, the side of his face that was turned towards my stomach. He sniffled some more, raised his head and swiped his sleeve all over his face, then dropped his head to my leg again.

I raised my brows and smiled down at him, just watching him, lying there, behaving, quieting down, awaiting my pleasure, so helpless and trusting and completely vulnerable, his bare, crimson bottom practically casting a glow. His eyes, swollen and glassy with tears, stared straight ahead at nothing; his bowed mouth - poised in that slightly open pout that was so uniquely his - looked a bit too puffy and darkly pink, as did his small nose. Pippin, like his Ringbearer cousin, was remarkably fair, and his features took on a ruddy flush when he had been crying.

I suddenly remembered our witness, glancing over just in time to see Frodo getting up and stretching, then casting Pip and me one last look. Suddenly he turned his head in the other direction and smiled. Following his gaze, I saw why. Sam stood there, waiting, clearly having come to find him. Frodo strolled over to him. When he drew near, his servant reached out and fussed with the Ringbearer’s cloak, pulling it around to cover him more in front. Then Sam put his arm around Frodo’s shoulder and they both disappeared into the growing shadows of twilight.

I dropped my gaze to Pippin, leaned down and kissed his dewy cheek, then I gathered him up, ‘shushing’ his mewling and small fussing noises. Again he straddled me, his arms curling over my chest, his face buried against my shoulder. I spread my legs as best I could so his sore bottom nestled between my thighs, sparing it from direct pressure. The pose would have been incredibly intimate but for Pippin’s long billowy shirt drooping down in front and behind him, covering him to mid-thigh. Of course, I doubted that Pippin would have noticed, or cared, even if he had not had a blessed stitch on at the moment.

“Pip, this morning, when I talked to you, do you remember what I said?”

He was silent for a moment, thinking, then he murmured, “You s-said many th-things. And y-you told me a story.”

I rubbed his back, grinning softly to myself. “But, what was the first thing I said?”

“I liked y-your story.”

“I know you did.”

“Maybe – maybe you could tell me another s-story.”

“Pippin.”

“Or you could tell me that same story again.”

I sighed.

“I liked it.”

“Peregrin. What were my first words to you?”

“You apologized to me. You said you were s-sorry for walking away from me when I-I --”

“Aye. I was sorry for my part in your unhappiness. And I am sorry for failing you, little one. As I promised you this morning, and again just now, I shall never do so again. Should you prove disobedient, I shall answer your behavior as needed.” I hugged him to me, brushing my cheek against his soft curls. “We both had apologies to make to each other this day. And we both now have promises to keep to each other.”

“Aye,” he said in a hushed voice. He hiccupped a few times, then drew several quavering breaths and rubbed his tear-soaked face against me.

“Aragorn?”

“Aye, Pip?”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll be forgettin’ that one promise of yours, the one about . . . well, about--”

“The soap?” I smiled at his tensing body and his sharp nod. “Not likely.”

“Oh.”

It was early dusk, the sky soft, dark bluish and gray. I had more to discuss with him, and now that he was calming, he would be able to hear me, but I needed to get off of this unforgiving rock. So I stood, cupped my right hand under Pippin’s thigh, and my left around his waist and headed off towards a small open field. It felt better to move, although the immediate sensation of blood coursing into my still-enflamed hindquarters was enough to make me bite back a groan. Wretched painstaking elf.

My passenger wrapped his legs a bit tighter around my waist and coiled his arms about my neck to hold on, and I steered us out into the soft pre-evening meadow. I did not want to go far, just a little ways off to isolate us more for what I needed to say to him. I had been walking for perhaps five minutes when it occurred to me that I was holding a half-naked halfling. I could go back for his britches and dress him, but it seemed too bothersome a notion.

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