I sat down at an unoccupied stool and ordered an ale and some stew. It came hot and thick with turnips and spices and a slab of bread thick enough to build with. I sighed deeply. It had been a long day.

“Mind if I join you?” an old man’s voice said near my elbow.

“Sure,” I mumbled around a too-large bite of bread. I know it’s rude to talk with your mouth full, but this bread!

I looked over and a wizened little man stood next to me. As our eyes met, I saw a flash of blue, then he blinked and sat. He was short!

“You’re not from round here, are you, Boy?” he asked me after he ordered the same thing I had.

“Not really,” I hedged, not wanting to tell him the whole truth.

“Me neither,” he grunted. “Come here for the bread.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “I could see that.”

He smiled, a brief flash of white in his beard. “Too bad old Sam’s not here,” he commented.

I swallowed my bite of stew. “Old Sam?”

The old man regarded me with his blue-eyed gaze. “Aye. Give ‘im an ale and he’d tell you stories, he would. Seems he went…” he dropped his voice, “travelin’.”

I smiled at the hint and obliged, getting myself an ale too.

“There was this dragon, see,” the old man started. He saw my expression. “Now, don’t be like that. You’re form the White City, you’ve seen things, I’ll wager.”

I blinked. “How –”

“Your coat of arms. Recognized the insignia. Wore it meself, once.” He took another bite of bread. “Now about that dragon…”

The tale he told me was fanciful enough for my daughter Palondril. “That’s quite a story,” I allowed.

“Sam’s got it all written down, you see.”

My heart started to pound. “You’re not serious!”

He twinkled at me and I started to get the impression our encounter wasn’t as casual as he’d let on. “Aye.”

“Could I… could I talk to this Sam?”

His eyes grew sad. “No, more’s the pity. He passed on in his sleep last Spring, he did.”

We drank a toast to Sam.

“I can take you to meet his son, if you’d like,” he offered. “He’s got the book. Might let you see it.” He took another sip of his ale, which though the same size as mine, made his hands seem small in comparison.

“Who are you?” I asked, afire with curiosity. “How did you know I’d be interested in this?”

He shrugged. “You’ve got your father’s eyes.”

I blinked. “What?”

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Peregrin Took. Call me Pippin.”

It all clicked into place and I laughed. “Figures.” I took his hand. “I am Arandorn, son of Aragorn. I bid you greetings from my parents and from Faramir.”

By the time we left the pub early in the wee ours of the morning, he managed to drink nearly every patron under the table. It was an incredible introduction.