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“I have one question,” Boromir stated, adjusting the weight of his shield at his back.
The sun would soon rise, exposing them to spying eyes, yet the Fellowship was not finding cover beneath which to sleep until the sun hid itself again. Instead, the Fellowship stared up at the tree—the one scraggly tree in this barren plain, or, more specifically, at a juncture between two of its outer branches where Pippin’s leather water pouch was caught.
“Do not waste your breath, Boromir,” Gandalf grumbled. “No answer he could give you would satisfy.”
The he in question was Pippin, who was slightly red in the face but was stubbornly maintaining a defiant lift to his chin.
“I understand why he wanted to test his aim,” Legolas began.
“Not when we have such need of haste,” Aragorn countered.
Legolas nodded briefly at him. “But my concern is: why did he have to test his aim against a squirrel? The small creature could have been injured. I find his behavior disrespectful.”
“I, for one, understand why he wanted to test his aim against a squirrel,” Boromir said. “A moving target is more of a challenge. But why was his choice of weapon his water bottle?”
“At least it was empty,” Pippin protested.
“And now it is lost,” Aragorn said grimly. “If any of us tried to climb up and retrieve it, the branches would break beneath our weight. Yet we have a long road ahead and water is a precious commodity, and now we have lost one of the few containers which might carry it.”
Pippin stepped up to the tree. “I’m not too heavy! I’ll get it back!”
“Wait!” Frodo grabbed his arm. “It’s too high.”
Pippin rolled his eyes in disgust. “Spoken like a true Baggins.”
“Spoken like your elder,” Frodo answered patiently, “who feels responsible for your safety.”
No one mentioned that even if the scaling of the tree was dangerous, the Quest itself was markedly more dangerous.
“I will do it,” Frodo announced.
“Er,” Boromir said, with a sideways glance at Gandalf to see whether the wizard would permit the Ringbearer to take such a risk. But Gandalf made no effort to stop him as Frodo dropped his pack and clambered up into the first branches. Boromir next looked to Sam, clearly assuming that Sam would never stand silently by while his master did something dangerous, not if someone else could perform the task in his stead. But though Sam was frowning, he had enough faith in Frodo’s tree-climbing abilities to refrain from protesting.
As for Pippin, he was utterly delighted. “There’s that hidden Took side of you!”
“Took?” Merry scoffed. “It’s his Brandybuck side.”
From his position halfway up the tree, Frodo raised his eyebrows. “For all you lot know, it’s my Bolger blood coming out.”
“Absolutely not!” Pippin and Merry objected in unison, and even Sam looked scandalized.
“…Sorry?” Boromir said.
Aragorn attempted to hastily hush him.
But Gimli echoed him with his much louder voice. “What is this? What difference does the name of the blood make?”
Merry whirled around to face him. “Why, all the difference in the world!”
Aragorn groaned. “Retract your question, Gimli, before it’s too late.”
But Legolas was narrowing his eyes, creating a tiny, perfect crease between his eyebrows. “For once, I echo the dwarf’s lack of understanding.”
“Family is everything!” Pippin burst out. “Not that every Took is the same as every other Took, of course, but you can certainly tell the difference between a Took and a Brandybuck, or a Brockhouse and a Hornblower.”
“Most gentlehobbit families share something of a way of being and doing, if you take my meaning,” Sam said more quietly, “but aye, there’s still a difference.”
“No one would mistake a Brandybuck for a Boffin or a Bracegirdle,” Merry agreed firmly.
Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli looked thoroughly lost.
Merry pointed at Gimli. “You, for example, Gimli. You could be a Brandybuck, maybe, but you could never be a Took.”
“Never,” Pippin and Sam agreed.
“Never,” Frodo echoed from high in the tree where he was now crawling cautiously out onto the thin branch that bore the water bottle.
“What would I be, then, as a hobbit?” Gimli asked. His expression was impassive beneath his beard, but something in his tone hinted at the seriousness of the question.
And the hobbits treated the question as a matter of utmost import. Merry and Pippin exchanged thoughtful glances.
“Mr. Gimli, sir,” Sam said shyly, peering up at the dwarf, “if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’d make a right fine Gamgee.” Then he blushed. “But we’re no gentlehobbit family, and that’s a fact.”
“No, but you are steadfast,” Frodo called down, carefully maintaining his balance, “Sturdy and loyal and reliable.”
“Then I am honored,” Gimli said, and bowed low to Sam, who turned an even brighter shade of red.
The sky above was now quite blue, and the sun was soon to break over the mountains on the horizon, yet the Fellowship still made no move to make camp.
“Legolas would be a Took,” Pippin announced confidently.
“Took?” Merry scoffed again. Sam looked doubtful as well.
Legolas glanced uncertainly between the hobbits. “And what does being a Took entail?”
Pippin’s eyes lit up. “Adventure!”
“Chaos,” Merry corrected.
“We think one of the Tooks married a fairy,” Frodo explained helpfully. No one had quite noticed, but he had at some point snatched Pippin’s water bottle and was now shimmying back towards the trunk of the tree while clutching the leather tightly in one hand. The other hobbits nodded their appreciation of his contribution, and made no mention of the recovery of said water bottle.
“My number of questions has doubled,” Boromir said.
Frodo reached the trunk of the tree. But he made no move yet to climb down, and several members of the Fellowship were rather anxious. Proficient climber though he apparently was, how did he expect to maneuver down the trunk while holding Pippin’s water bottle in one hand?
Merry elbowed Pippin. “Legolas wouldn’t be a Took, Pip. Look at him. He’s too calm and elegant and mature.”
The crease between Legolas’ eyebrows remained. “Am I?”
Aragorn snorted. “You are not. I am afraid Pippin is right, my friends.”
Pippin punched the air. “Aragorn says I’m right!”
Gandalf cast Aragorn a disapproving look.
“Then what am I?” Boromir asked, in the tone of one who is slightly concerned that he might be forgotten or otherwise left out of the game. “Frodo, you said you’re a Baggins, did you not? The family that produced the Ringbearer must be great indeed. Could I not be considered a Baggins?”
The three grounded hobbits looked first at each other, then up at Frodo, who remained in his place by the trunk of the tree, still holding the water bottle.
“No,” Frodo said decisively.
The others nodded.
“Oh.” Boromir looked disappointed.
“Could I be a Baggins?” Gimli asked. “I would be proud to worthy of the name of Bilbo’s family.”
“Heavens,” Frodo said. “Absolutely not.”
Gimli gave away nothing in response, except that those who knew him well would have discerned disappointment like to Boromir’s in his eyes.
A small smile flitted about Legolas’ lips. “Frodo?” he asked expectantly.
Frodo sighed. “Please, you must understand that the very fact that all of you are here on this Quest rules out the slightest possibility of any of you being a Baggins.”
“But…” Boromir glanced at Legolas and Gimli, then at Aragorn and Gandalf, as if desperate for someone to make plain the obvious riddle.
“A Baggins never does anything,” Pippin explained. “They’re a nice enough lot, of course, except for the S.B.’s—”
“The what?” Boromir set down his shield, resigned to the probability that they would not advance from this location for a while yet.
“Do not,” Gandalf and Aragorn warned in unison.
“But they’re dull,” Pippin finished.
“Dreadfully dull,” Frodo agreed cheerfully from his perch in the tree. “That is, until Gandalf comes along and drags one of us off on an adventure to be changed irrevocably.”
Gandalf did not appear to be listening, but Aragorn, who alone of the Fellowship knew him well, detected a hint of pain in the set of his mouth.
“Then it is not an honor to be a Baggins?” Boromir asked confusedly.
“Honor?” Frodo repeated, lips pursed. “No, not really.”
“Then would you not rather be a Took or—”
“Gracious, no!” Frodo gasped.
“He really should go by Brandybuck,” Merry put in. “It’s his family on his mother’s side.”
“I would never,” Frodo shot back. “Growing up with you lot was bad enough. I’m a Baggins through and through, and proud of it.”
“What’s to be proud of?” Merry demanded.
“Nothing,” Frodo replied, “and that’s the point.”
Boromir looked hopelessly lost.
Frodo seemed to remember him. “You could be a Brandybuck, though,” he offered. He then, to the astonishment of the rest of the Fellowship, with the exception of his fellow hobbits and Gandalf, set Pippin’s water bottle between his teeth.
“Wait!” Legolas cried. “What are you doing? Let us help you—throw the bottle down to us!”
But it was no use. Gripping the trunk with both hands, Frodo merely shook his head.
“Carefully!” Gimli called, gripping the handle of his axe tightly in his consternation.
Frodo had already begun his descent, the leather swinging tightly from between his clamped jaws, with the eyes of the rest of the Fellowship following him in amazement.
Aside from the other hobbits, who were quite used to this sort of thing and naturally paid no attention. “Couldn’t Boromir be a Took?” Pippin asked eagerly.
“Not if Mr. Legolas is a Took,” Sam said.
“Oh. Yes.” Pippin shrugged. “I can’t argue with that.”
“Brandybuck it is!” Merry said triumphantly, and grinned up at Boromir. “Can you teach me to swordfight? Aragorn gave us swords, but never bothered showing us how to use them.”
Frodo finally landed both feet on the ground, to the visible relief of Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli. He spat out the water bottle, but refused to return it to Pippin’s expectant hands. “Now, that’s real Brandybuck behavior.”
Boromir cleared his throat. “I think I am beginning to understand. If I am a Brandybuck, would Aragorn not also be a Brandybuck?”
The hobbits consulted with one another.
“No,” they decided.
“You do have some Brandybuck traits,” Frodo told Aragorn, “but not quite enough. I’m sorry.”
Aragorn accepted this proclamation graciously enough. “Very well.”
“He might be a Bolger,” Pippin suggested with a snicker.
“Pippin,” Frodo said patiently, “that isn’t kind.”
Even Aragorn, who had successfully grasped most of the conversation so far, was at a loss as to whether Frodo was rebuking Pippin for insulting him—or the Bolgers.
“His father is Elrond,” Merry pointed out, “and he’s going to rule Gondor one day. Doesn’t that suggest Whitfoot to you?”
This caused the hobbits to huddle together again in hushed consultation.
“We’ve got it,” Merry declared at last. “Aragorn is a Brandybuck on his mother’s side, but a Whitfoot on his father’s.”
“…Yes,” Aragorn said, though whether he was in genuine agreement or simply lacked the requisite knowledge to argue, none could say.
Pippin turned his eyes to the remaining member of the Fellowship. “Now for Gandalf!”
Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows quivered menacingly.
But Pippin was undaunted. “He can’t be a Brandybuck, because Boromir is a Brandybuck.”
“He can’t be a Took either, then,” Merry said at once, “because Legolas is a Took.”
“He’d never be a Gamgee,” Sam said humbly.
The four hobbits now furrowed their brows in collective befuddlement.
“Well…he does like adventures,” Merry reasoned slowly.
“Because he’s got an important job to do,” Frodo clarified. “I think, given the choice, he’d be more content somewhere peaceful.”
“He’s very clever,” Sam added.
“And proud,” said Merry.
“And stubborn,” said Frodo.
“And dramatic,” said Pippin.
They all looked at one another.
“Baggins it is,” they proclaimed in unison, and Pippin doubled over, overwhelmed as he was by a fit of mirth.
Gandalf’s eyebrows twitched.
“Are you all certain?” Boromir asked helplessly. “I thought a Baggins was nothing to be proud of?”
Merry waved him off. “Oh, we don’t care about that. The name fits, and that is all that matters.”
Boromir began muttering to himself under his breath, as if attempting to solve an impossible equation. Gimli was staring off into the distance, content to never understand this particular mystery. Legolas was simply rather pleased to be called a Took.
Frodo approached Gandalf, and held up Pippin’s water bottle, which Gandalf accepted for safe-keeping. “I hope you are not offended,” he said in a quieter voice. “It really can be a compliment, in a way.”
“I have not lived for three hundred lives of Men to be offended by classification into a particular family of hobbits, Frodo,” Gandalf replied regally. He paused, then said more gently, “And even if that were not so, I would not consider association with your family to be an insult.”
Frodo’s answering smile was small and brief, but sincere.
The sun was now well above the mountains. “Come now,” Aragorn said. “We have lingered in the open for too long. If the sorting of hobbit families has reached its conclusion, we must set up camp. We make for that copse.” He pointed to a shadowy cluster of small trees in the distance.
This was acceptable to the rest of the party. Boromir shouldered his shield once more, and Frodo his pack. Pippin complained briefly about Gandalf keeping possession of his water bottle, but to no avail. The company started on.
Boromir fell back to walk alongside Frodo. “May I ask you something?”
Frodo glanced sidelong at him. “Yes.”
“You could have easily thrown Pippin’s water bottle down from the tree to the rest of us. We were all offering to help. Why did you feel the need to carry it down in your mouth?”
“Oh, well…” Frodo shrugged. “I am a Baggins.”