For the fifth time in as many minutes, Arathorn looked into the depths of his empty tobacco pouch.  And for the fifth time in as many minutes, he observed that no Longbottom leaf had materialized there.  He looked over at Cirdan to see how he was progressing with the liquid remedy.  He found the venerable Elf looking back at him with a look of mild concern on his gentle face.

“I wish I had some leaf to give you, but since we Elves do not partake, I tend not to keep any about.  I am sorry.”

“Oh, my friend, I care little.  I am just concerned for little Aragorn.  I suppose my nerves are getting the better of me,” responded the Dunadan.  “Gilraen and I have been worrying ever since he came down with this cold.  It is the first time he has been sick and he has yet to reach his first birthday.  Gilraen tells me that at that age a cold can turn into a more serious illness very quickly.”

A wrinkle creased Cirdan’s brow.  “She is right to be concerned and you should have sent word to me as soon as he showed signs of sickness.  Instead you spent the time needlessly pacing the halls of your home smoking away your whole winter’s ration of pipe-weed, did you not?” he queried.

A wry smile threatened the corners of Arathorn’s mouth.  “I did just that,” he confessed, “until my wife reminded me that breathing even a small amount of smoke was probably doing our son no good.  At which point, she sent me out to fetch kindling.  After I gathered enough to last until early summer -- and smoked the rest of the leaf -- Elladan and Elrohir came to call.  It was they who reminded me that you kept the most varied and well-stocked medicine cabinet West of Rivendell.”

“Well, the brew is ready now so you may depart as soon as you care to, but please send word when the little one is better lest I pace the halls and my wife sends me out into the winter winds to fetch kindling,”  Cirdan said as he handed the healing mixture to the ranger chieftain.

Outside the hall of Cirdan, Arathorn was joined by the twins, whom he noted were leading a stallion of Cirdan’s stable.  It was lightly encumbered with packages.  Seeing his quizzical look, Elladan explained that the horse carried goods which Cirdan wished Arathorn to have for trade with the little folk of the Shire.  “That is most thoughtful,” said the a Ranger. “He does so much.”

“The Lord of the Havens sometimes enjoys celebrating the holidays of the Periannath and the Yuletide is his most favored.  He has even introduced the concept to my maternal grandparents.  You should have seen the beautiful, exotic spear and shield grandmother gave to grandfather last year.  Of course, this year they are visiting our Ada,” Elladan said as they rode for Arathorn’s house.

“Ha!  This year father wants to teach our grandfather to ice skate,” laughed Elrohir.  “I am sorry my friend, I do not mean to make merry while the young one lies ill in his bed.”

“Do not apologize, Elrohir.  Grim faces and silence will not speed us home any the sooner.  Indeed, we Men of the North have also been known to partake of Halfling traditions, on occasion,”  Arathorn volunteered.  The light conversation kept his spirits up and his mind off the condition of his child.

It did not seem terribly long at all before the three friends reached the modest but comfortable home Arathorn shared with his wife and son.  The medicine took quick, positive effect on the young heir of Isildur.  Overcome with emotion, Gilraen wept and kissed her husband.  She then threw her arms about the Elves, each in turn.  “Let us wait until morn to see if the sickness is well and truly gone,” said Elrohir.  “The two of you should sleep now.  My brother and I shall keep watch all through the night.”  And they did.

Gilraen awoke to the laughter of her son.  Elrohir had been feeding him mush sweetened with honey and Aragorn had seized the end of his spoon and flung the breakfast back over Elrohir’s shoulder and onto the shirt of Elladan who stood behind his brother making faces at the tot.  Gilraen stifled her own laughter, but noticed that even the besmirched Elf was smiling.

Since Aragorn’s full recovery was apparent to all, the sons of Elrond prepared to depart.  As they did so they brought forth the presents Cirdan had sent along to the family.  There was a wool- lined pair of soft white house shoes with red embroidered ivy leaves on them to cure Gilraen’s cold feet.  For the boy there was a thick blue blanket with the six-pointed stars of the Dunedain emblazoned upon it for him to snuggle in and a matching hat to protect his head from the chilly air.  Elladan smiled as he presented the gift intended for the master of the house.  “Fruit cake?” he exclaimed in bewilderment.

“To trade Arathorn!  With the Periannath, or Halflings as you call them,”  countered his friend.  “Also, a large quantity of nutmeg which they use in a concoction called eggnog.”

“And,” added Elrohir, “some salt for the slippery path between house and barn.”

Gilraen insisted that the Elves stay long enough to have some stew before they left for The Last Homely House to join their father, sister and grandparents in a celebration of the season.  “Give your people our love,” said the lady of the house as she gave them packages of fresh-baked bread to feed them on their journey.

The next day Arathorn left for Hobbiton where he knew a prosperous Halfling with quality goods to trade.  On his way there, he was amused to see a one of the little people struggling mightily to control a reindeer-pulled sleigh which must have contained a good twelve or more Halfling children, all laughing and cheering the driver’s efforts.

Finally he came to the front door of Fosco and Ruby Baggins.  In spite of the frost on the window and an icicle or two hanging above, it was a cheery entrance.  The young Halfling who opened it, one Drogo Baggins by name, was left near speechless at sight of the Ranger.  He managed to stammer out a welcome to the stranger who promptly and courteously stated his business.

Fosco and another relative, a bright-eyed chap named Bilbo, were in the parlour deciding whether a sled was an appropriate gift for a child named Primula.  “Well she is almost twelve,” said Bilbo. “I had a sled when I was but half that age.”

“Well, if she’s that mature don’t you think she would prefer a nice scented candle?  My Ruby loves them.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and then noticed the Tall Man in their midst.  “Why, hello good sir and what may we do for you?”

Arathorn bartered the salt for a warm fur muff for his wife and traded the nutmeg for some soft gingerbread for his son.  The fruit cake got him a most generous package of Longbottom leaf.  As he rode home smoking contentedly, he thought: ‘fruit cake for tobacco, these Halflings, they are a mysterious race’.

The End