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Merry squinted at the mountain peaks on the horizon. He had studied map after map in Rivendell, but none of them quite captured how grueling the distance was between Rivendell and Caradhras.
Suddenly, Pippin dropped back to walk beside him. “I’m bored.”
Merry cocked his head. “The last time you said that, we had to fish you out of the stream, remember?”
“Well, I thought I saw something shiny.”
“Everyone had to wait so Boromir and Aragorn could get you out again!”
“So play a game with me,” Pippin said brightly, “and I won’t have to bother anyone else!”
Merry made a show of glancing around at the grasslands surrounding them on their journey to the mountains. “What game could we possibly play here?”
“Where’s your imagination?” Pippin suddenly stooped and snatched up two tiny pebbles. One he handed to Merry; the other he kept for himself. “Let’s play Marketplace.”
“What did you say about not bothering anyone else?”
“We won’t bother anyone else much,” Pippin amended.
Merry opened his mouth to point out the absurdity of playing Marketplace while on a dangerous stealth mission into enemy territory. But then again, the game was Pip’s idea. It wasn’t Merry’s fault if it turned out to be a dud. And if it kept Pippin occupied, so much the better. Reluctantly, he gave in. “All right. May the best hobbit win.”
The game was quite simple: each player started with a small, worthless item, and the objective was to trade the item for something of more value, and then trade that for something of even more value, until time ran out—or, in this case, until there was no one else to trade with.
“Begin!” Pippin cried, and he scurried off, heading straight for Gimli—no doubt believing Gimli had jewels and things hidden in a pouch somewhere.
Merry just shrugged. Win or lose, it didn’t matter to him as long as Pippin didn’t end up in a body of water again. He wandered over to Legolas, who happened to be closest.
“Hullo, Legolas,” he began.
Legolas turned towards him with shining eyes. “Do you feel the whisper of the breeze, Merry? It tells tales of distant forests.”
Merry blinked. “Oh. Well. Um. Now that you mention it, I suppose…?”
“How I long for a roof of green above my head once more. Grass has so short a life.” With that, he knelt swiftly and pressed his hand to a patch of windswept grass. “But beneath it, the earth itself remembers lost history. How relentless are the circles of time!”
Merry thought he really ought to have tried Gimli first. He cleared his throat. “Um, Legolas, I had a question.”
The elf rose to his full height. “Yes, of course. What is it?”
Feeling suddenly rather foolish, Merry stuck out his hand with the pebble in his palm. “What would you trade me for this?”
Legolas eyed the pebble. “Trade?”
“It’s…it’s a game,” Merry explained awkwardly. “Pip and I are trying to see who can get the best thing in exchange for a pebble.”
“…I see,” Legolas said, as one who does not. He carried little—another reason Merry ought to have tried to beat Pippin to Gimli. But he put a hand in his pocket and withdrew slender twine, the slenderest twine Merry had ever seen, and it seemed to glimmer where it lay across his fingers.
“Is that magic?” Merry gasped.
Legolas gave him an odd look. “No. I was saving it to mend any tears in my clothes. But you may have it.”
Magic elf string! That had got to be better than any dwarf jewels. “Thank you very much, sir!” Merry said earnestly.
Still looking bemused, Legolas nodded and smiled. “A pleasure to assist you.”
Magic elf string acquired, Merry glanced around to see Pippin walking away from Gimli up ahead with a smug look on his face. Merry hurried to catch up.
“I’m going to win,” Pippin said as soon as Merry was beside him. He held out his hand to reveal…well, Merry wasn’t quite sure what it was. A thin strip of metal, maybe iron.
Merry frowned at it. “What’s that?”
Pippin beamed and lifted his chin in a haughty imitation of Frodo’s most scholarly attitude. “This, my friend, is a dwarven moon chisel. It allows dwarves to chisel runes into stone, but the runes are only visible under the right kind of moon.”
“Oh.” That was much more impressive than a jewel. “Oh, that’s…”
“What did Legolas give you?”
Merry held up the string. “It’s magic.”
“Really?” Pippin’s eyes widened. “What does it do?”
“It…mends clothes.”
Pippin snorted.
“Oh, come off it,” Merry muttered. To his annoyance, his competitive side was rearing up.
“I’m going to see if Aragorn can give me something even better than the dwarf chisel!”
“No—don’t bother him!” Merry grabbed his arm and pointed to where Aragorn and Gandalf were huddled towards each other while they walked. “Look, he and Gandalf are debating something.”
Pippin was not to be daunted. “Frodo and Sam, then,” he announced, and spun around to trot back to Frodo and Sam, who were at the back of the group, other than Boromir who was the rear guard. “Oh, Cousin!” Pippin looped his arm through Frodo’s. “Merry and I are playing Marketplace, and—”
“What, out here?” Sam asked, with confusion scrunching his forehead.
“Look what I got!” Pippin shoved his chisel in Frodo’s face. “Don’t worry if you don’t know what it is—Gimli said it’s a chisel for writing runes that reflect the moon!”
But Frodo’s mouth was twitching. Merry began to feel marginally better about his prospects of winning the game.
“What?” Pippin asked suspiciously.
“I—I’m so sorry, Pip,” Frodo said, his apologetic tone defeated by the way his mouth was still twitching, “but I’m afraid Gimli has mislead you. You’re talking about mithril, which is a type of metal, not a chisel. And this is no chisel at all. Bilbo used to give these away as presents to his friends in the Misty Mountains. It’s a file.”
“A what?”
“Here, let me see.” Frodo took the metal thing and looked at it closely. “Yes, this is only an ordinary file for sharpening an axe.”
Pippin wilted like a flower in a rainstorm. “So it’s not valuable, then?”
Frodo turned the file over in his hand. “Oh, it’s very valuable to me.” His voice softened. “This was Bilbo’s gift to Gloin.”
Oh, Bilbo. Merry missed the old fellow fiercely, and wondered anew at Frodo’s ability to leave him behind in Rivendell, after only just being reunited with him.
Indeed, Frodo had stopped walking now, and was now standing quite still and doing nothing but turning the file over and over in his hand. Merry felt sudden dismay that their silly game should reignite such longing. He shot a look at Pippin, and saw the same dismay in his eyes.
But Pippin wasted no time in diverting Frodo’s focus. “So!” he said brightly. “What shall you give me for it—how about the Ring?”
Merry’s jaw dropped. Pippin’s high voice carried and every member of the Company came to a dead halt. Sam could not have looked more stunned if he’d been whacked upside the head with a branch.
But Frodo burst out in laughter. “I thought the game was to trade up, not down? Trust me, you don’t want it. Here…” He swung his pack off his shoulders, opened it, and pulled something out: a pen. “This pen is from Elrond. He told me it will be years before it runs dry.”
Pippin did not look entirely pleased at receiving a pen, Elvishness notwithstanding, but even he had to admit it was more valuable than an axe file…and he couldn’t very well say no and not let Frodo keep Bilbo’s gift. “Erm. Thank you,” he managed.
Merry turned promptly to Sam, holding up the string from Legolas and dangling it in his eyes like a toy in front of a cat. “Well? What will you give me in exchange for this Elvish thread?”
And Sam definitely looked like a cat with a string. “Real Elvish thread?”
Frodo leaned in close to check. “It looks real enough to me.”
But Sam heaved a sigh. “I haven’t got anything more valuable to trade for it.”
“Oh, dear.” Frodo started digging through his pack again. “Perhaps I have something else—”
“No!” Pippin yelped, seizing his pack. “You already traded with me! You can’t trade with him too!”
“But…” Sam gave Merry a pleading look.
Merry was torn. It was just a silly game. But he could not let Pippin win! And let Pippin claim victory even after he had allowed himself to be tricked by Gimli? That stung even worse! “Well…let me just see what you have, Sam.”
“Hold up, now,” a deeper voice interrupted, and all four hobbits jumped sightly at Boromir’s sudden nearness. “What is it you need, Sam? Something more valuable than that string?”
Sam nodded eagerly.
“I’ve just the thing.” Boromir opened the flap on a pouch at his belt, and withdrew something. “Here.” He dropped it in Merry’s hand.
Merry gaped. It was a huge, ornate ring with a black jewel on a silver band, marked with a D. “What’s this?”
Boromir smiled. “It’s my father’s signet ring.”
Pippin’s eyes flew wide. “But—but isn’t your father—”
“The Steward of Gondor? Yes.” Boromir shrugged. “I can always get a new ring, and I was never much one for politics anyway.”
“But—” Pippin sounded horrified. “Doesn’t that mean you’re basically giving him control over all of Gondor?”
Merry held the ring aloft with a maniacal laugh.
“Oh, dear,” Frodo said mildly.
“I trust he’ll use his power well,” Boromir said with a grin.
Frodo winced. “Oh, dear.”
“Does that mean the Elvish string goes to Mr. Boromir, then?” Sam asked resolutely.
Merry swallowed his laughter long enough to say, “Sorry, Sam,” as he passed the string to Boromir.
Who handed it to Sam.
It was technically against the rules, of course. But Merry was too pleased with his signet ring to say anything about it, and Frodo, who normally enforced the rules as adamantly as he did, evidently had no interest in enforcing any rule that would deprive Sam of something Elvish.
Pippin took another look at the ring, as if to compare it to his pen. Then, without a word, he spun around and raced off at a mad sprint to where Aragorn and Gandalf were walking close together, muttering intently with one another.
“Wait!” Merry shouted, but it was no good. Pippin darted right between Aragorn and Gandalf to start begging for something to beat the signet ring. Merry ran after him and clapped a hand over Pippin’s mouth. “I’m so sorry for him for interrupting you—”
Pippin made a muffled yet indignant noise at Merry’s brazenness in apologizing on his behalf.
“Not at all,” Aragorn said, with a smile that seemed rather tight at the corners, as if his debate with Gandalf remained quite unresolved. “What is it you need, Master Peregrin? Something of more value than Lord Elrond’s pen?”
Merry watched the recognition dawn on Pippin: the fact that Elrond was Aragorn’s foster-father, and that a pen from Elrond would probably be as valuable to Aragorn as Bilbo’s chisel was to Frodo.
“Yes, exactly,” Pippin breathed, “so it would have to be very valuable, wouldn’t it?”
“Very valuable indeed.” Aragorn looked thoughtful. “And you need it to be more valuable than Gondor’s signet ring in order to win?”
Pippin nodded desperately.
“Well…” Aragorn’s hand strayed to his sheathe.
Merry felt the world spin beneath his feet. “No,” he whispered in abject horror.
“It’s just a game, Merry,” Aragorn said gently, and unsheathed his sword. “Take this, Pippin, and rule of Gondor is yours.”
“Unfair!” Merry exploded. “You can’t mean to let him keep it!”
“He only needs to keep it until the game ends, does he not?” Aragorn asked as he held out the sword. “Carefully now, young hobbit.”
Pippin’s face was more full of joy than Merry had ever seen as he gave Aragorn Elrond’s pen and then, with the utmost care, grasped the handle of the sword over Aragorn’s fingers. Aragorn slid his hand away, and the sword immediately dropped to stick, point-first, in the grass.
“But!” Merry squeezed the signet ring in his hand. The ring was now worthless compared to the sword. Pippin had won after all! He got to run around, interrupting the rest of the Fellowship, causing chaos, and he was rewarded with victory? It was unfair. It was unjust. It could not be borne.
There was only one thing to do.
Drawing a deep breath, Merry turned to Gandalf. “Please,” he said very quietly. “Don’t let Pippin win.”
The wizard’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “No,” he replied immediately, “we certainly cannot let that happen.”
“You don’t have anything more valuable than Andúril, do you?” Merry couldn’t help the resigned tone in his voice. The wizard never seemed to carry much of anything. No doubt he would just give Merry some of his extra pipeweed, which was quite valuable indeed, but alas, could not possibly be more valuable than the Flame of the West.
The wizard’s face was impassive. “Hold out your hand, Merry.”
Merry obeyed. The rest of the Fellowship had, by this point, gathered around them. He looked from one to the other to see that all of them, even Legolas, were watching in anticipation. Last of all, he glanced at Pippin, who was still struggling to hold Aragorn’s sword. His eyes were round as saucers and his face paled as the reality of his imminent defeat struck him as if by mortal blow.
Gandalf set his staff in Merry’s hand.
Merry closed his eyes as a thrill of power went through him. Real or imagined, he did not know and did not care. Whether he could even wield the wizard’s staff mattered not.
None could now deny that he had won.
“Impossible,” Pippin breathed.
“Think longer beforehand, young Peregrin Took,” Gandalf warned, “the next time you claim to be bored.”