Stories by Carol Lynn

To Labor and To Wait--

“I just can’t ask him, Merry. He’s an Elf. I’m a Hobbit. And he’s not just any elf, which would be hard enough. His father’s the King of Mirkwood. My father farms Tuckborough. And not just anything of his, but something he made with his own hands. It’s too good for the likes of me.”

“He must know you’d like it. You’ve mooned over it enough. What’s it going to be, anyway?” Merry asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. It’s going to be beautiful, Merry. Sometimes beauty in a thing is enough reason for it to be. It could be--” He stopped and then continued defiantly. “--an heirloom of my house.”

The pause was long enough to be obvious that Merry was discarding his first responses. “Maybe he’ll have a birthday soon.”

“Do you think so?” Pippin’s voice brightened. Legolas wondered why he was cheered by the thought.

“Even elves have to have birthdays.”

Pippin settled back, then sat bolt upright. “No, they don’t,” he hissed. “What if he was born before the sun was made? It wouldn’t be a day, then, would it?”

A Gift for Pippin--

“Pippin?” A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

Pippin swallowed against the lump in his throat, but did not turn to face Legolas. Must I hear it from everyone? “Go ahead, just say it.” He paused for Legolas’ reply. The elf’s hand still rested lightly on his shoulder, but he was silent. “‘Fool of a Took!’ There! I said it for you. Now you can go away.” Pippin curled tighter and stuffed his fist against his mouth, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.