Still on the Quest

Thinking of Uncle Tilnor at least gave Bergil an idea of something useful he could do.

“Mister Frodo, sir?  Would you like me to fetch you some of the willowbark tea?” Bergil asked hesitantly, blushing at his own presumption.  The Ringbearer's frown deepened again at the words, drawing a fine line between his eyebrows, but he was listening.  Bergil took a deep breath and went on, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake.  “I saved a pot of it in the kitchen, and there’s water hot I could add in, so it won’t be so strong as it was last night.”

“My headache is quite gone,” The smile that the Ringbearer gave Bergil didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “But thank you.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup,” Sam’s voice came from beyond the screen.  “Half water and half tea, if you don’t mind, lad.  And a good bit of honey.  Willowbark’s good for more than headaches.”

Now Frodo did smile properly, shaking his head as he looked at Sam.  “If that’s meant to shame me into asking for a cup of my own,” he began, and then he laughed, and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.  “Then it worked.  Prepare two cups if you please, Bergil.  But we’ll come along to the kitchen and add our own honey.”

Bergil nodded, and started to turn before he remembered. “Shouldn’t I pour the water for Mr. Sam’s hair first?” he asked.

“Gandalf did that already,” Frodo said.  

Bergil stared.  “Gandalf?” he squeaked.  Weren’t any of the King’s Companions going to act the way nobles did?  And then he shook himself, all over, to get the questions out of his head and get back to work.  He even remembered to bow, although he could tell Mr. Frodo was doing his best not to laugh.  “I’ll go and get the tea ready, then.  Sir.  Mr. Frodo.” he said, and went to make it true.

Berylla, who’d taken charge of the kitchen when Catrienne had gone back to the palace, even though she was only an apprentice and not even a proper grown up yet,  wouldn’t let Bergil lift the kettle, nor mix the tea himself, and he was still arguing with her about how much water to add when Frodo and Sam came into the kitchen, dressed to go out and about in green-gray cloaks.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” Bergil said, when he saw them.  “It’s only almost ready.”  He stopped when Berylla nudged him. She had bent down, and clearly thought Bergil should too, so he bowed very quickly and went on.  “But Berylla didn’t understand why you wanted extra water in the tea and so I had to explain that you didn’t like it so strong.”

“As long as you remembered the honey,” Frodo said, smiling.  “You did remember the honey?”

Bergil relaxed, glad that the hobbits weren’t upset with him. “Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo.”   He fetched the pot from the table.  “It’s here.”

Berylla straightened up, her face red.  “If you will guide me, I shall be glad to prepare the tea to your liking, Ringbearer,” she said, her eyes on her feet.  She looked scared, even though she hadn’t been scared at all of Pippin or Merry earlier.  And when Bergil glanced at Frodo, he was biting his lip, like he was unhappy about something.

Sam stepped forward and took the honey pot from Bergil, tugging at Berylla’s sleeve with his free hand.  “Twas me that brewed it too strong last night, miss,” he said.  “And it’s nothing that hot water and honey can’t mend.  Here, you bring that kettle and pour some water into the cups and I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Once the tea was made, Berylla pulled Bergil over to the wall, where she motioned they were meant to wait silently while the two hobbits drank the brew.  They seemed contented to talk about a green dragon, though, so while they were busy Bergil patted Berylla’s arm.  “Mr. Frodo and Mr. Sam are good at explaining,” he whispered,  “You don’t have to be scared.”

“It’s not them I’m scared of,” she whispered back.

 They hadn’t whispered quietly enough, though, because Mr. Sam stopped in the middle of a sentence and Mr. Frodo pinched the top of his nose.  “Bergil, Berylla, come here,” he said, in a voice that said the willow tea hadn’t worked yet.  “And don’t bow at me!”

Bergil came happily, but Berylla was as red as a strawberry, and nearly bowed anyway.  “Yes, Ringbearer,” she mumbled.

Mr. Frodo’s blue eyes were dark with something that Bergil wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.  “Who,” the hobbit said with strained patience, “do I tell that I have no desire to be constantly reminded of The Ring every time I ask for a cup of tea?”

Berylla’s mouth fell open, but she couldn’t seem to answer, so Bergil spoke up.  “It’s probably Master Tollovand, again, Mr. Frodo. He’s really fussy.”

“And Catrienne,” Berylla added nervously.  “But I think it’s because of Master Tollavand.”

Mr. Frodo sighed.  “Bergil, fetch me paper and pen and ink, if you know where they are to be found.  Berylla, please sit down.  I am not angry with you, but I do have some questions.”

Mr. Sam took Bergil’s arm and hustled him out of the kitchen.  “Come lad, you can show me where the paper and pens are.”

Bergil let himself be hustled, and waited until he and Sam were well away from the kitchen to speak.  “I hope Mister Frodo doesn’t need the paper right away, but I didn’t see where the King found paper before.  But he was in your room, so maybe it’s there,” he said.  “But I can run to the scrivener if we can’t find it.”

Sam smiled but it wasn’t a very happy smile.  “He’s a bit fratchety this morning, right enough.  But no matter.  I expect Strider went along to Gandalf for paper and pen this morning.  Which room is that, do you know?”

“The one on the left.”  Bergil led Sam to the door, and knocked, even though he knew the wizard had gone to the palace with the others, just in case.  “Do you think  Mithrandir will be angry if we just go in?” he asked.  Having a wizard angry with him was probably worse than even having Master Tollovand angry.

“We were all in each other’s pockets on the road from Rivendell,” Sam said easily, pushing open the door.  “And Gandalf won’t mind if he knows it’s for Mr Frodo.”  Bergil waited in the corridor, hoping not to have to go in himself, as Sam clambered up the chair by the table and rummaged a moment before saying ‘ah’.  “Come here and carry the inkpot,” he told Bergil.  “I don’t want to spill it.”

Torn between curiosity and trepidation, Bergil scooted forward, craning his neck around the door. But there was only a bed with its curtains drawn, and nothing magical at all to see.  Unless perhaps the magic was in the books and scrolls piled onto the table where Sam was waiting for him.  “Did Mithrandir do magic to get you into his pocket?” he asked, taking the inkpot and holding it carefully as Sam jumped down with paper and pen.

Sam gave a shout of laughter.  “Now that would have been something!  A good deal less walking for some and a good deal more to carry for the rest.  But no,” he nudged Bergil out into the corridor and bade him wait while he secured the door.  “Being in each other’s pockets means we shared what we had to make the journey easier.  Gandalf kept a record of the days.  That’s how I knew he had a pen.  He’d mix up a little ink each morning, no more than he needed, and write in his book.”

Bergil peered into the brimming inkpot.  “He must have decided to write a lot of things today.”

“I expect so,” Sam said, leading the way back to the kitchen.  “There’s been a good deal that’s happened of late.”

Berylla was smiling by the time they returned, and had fetched over the bowl of peas for shelling to the table, her hands busy at the task as she said, “Not that I’ve ever heard, Mr. Frodo.  But there are so many storehouses full, I expect that I could find something like it.”

Mr Frodo turned to Sam, and he looked less upset now. “They don’t have oats here, Sam!  At least not by that name. Small wonder there was no porridge with breakfast.”

“We’ll have to make do with pease I expect, Mr Frodo.  Here’s paper and pen for you.”

“And ink,” Bergil said, placing it carefully on the table away from any elbows.  “But if oats is something that grows, Mardil will know if we have any.  He knows everything about plants.  Well, almost everything,” he added, remembering that it was Ioreth who had known where Bergil should look to find someone who might have kingsfoil.  “But he’ll know about plants we like to eat for certain.  He’s the herbmaster, you see.”

“So I’ve been told,” Mr. Frodo said with a corner of his mouth turning up, even as he was writing.  "You mentioned him in the middle of the night."

“So I did,” Mr. Sam agreed.  “And seeing as Strider wants us to go along and see his gardens, I expect you’ll meet him before long.”

“Just let me finish this.”  Mr. Frodo wrote a bit more and blew on the ink to dry it.  “Bergil, fetch me a candle, please.”

“They’re on the highest shelf left of the basin,” Berylla said quickly, as if she were glad to have something she knew how to do.  “I’ll get one for you, sir.”

“Thank you.”  Mr Frodo nodded to her.  He looked over his note again.  “What do you think of this, Sam?  ‘To Whom It May Concern, I have instructed the people who have been assigned to my service that they should address me as Mr. Frodo, or sir, and need not bow at every turn’.”

Sam’s cheeks reddened and he bit his lip around a grin.  “It suits me, well enough, Mr. Frodo, but I expect the others might have a word to say.  Especially Strider.”

“He might, at that, but I am not he,” Frodo said, adding his signature with a flourish.   “There.”  He folded the paper and sealed it with a drip from the candle that Berylla had lit at the fire.  “Keep that in your pocket, and if anyone chastises you for addressing me as I wish, show it to them,” he said, handing the paper to Berylla.  “Bergil, I will write a note for you and the other lads as well, but as Sam has reminded me, we are expected to go to see the herbmaster this morning.  Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, Mr Frodo,” Bergil said, hoping that Ansell would know to empty the bath.  “I’m ready.”