Time and a Little Nurturing: All That I Had: The Adventures of Tom and Barard:

Time ticks away. Elenya stands in the smial’s entrance hall and smoothes down her dress - a lucky find in Monsoon’s sale: a shimmering green and pink pattern set off against a black background, the hem and shoulder straps edged with black beads. She checks her watch for the third time in five minutes. ‘Are you ready, lads? We’ll be late!’ It’s her best shouting-on-the-beach-in-a-force-9 voice, and it booms around the home she shares with them. Frodo emerges from the depths of the smial first, dressed in immaculate evening attire. He fingers his bow-tie and pats Elenya’s shoulder, knowing how she frets if some allowance for unforeseen delays isn’t worked into the schedule. ‘You’re looking very lovely,’ he says, and Elenya is still blushing when Sam appears with a clothes-brush in his hand. Frodo smiles at him affectionately and submits to an unnecessary brushing down. There is not a speck of dust to be seen, but he knows this is Sam’s answer to nerves. Sam himself looks very fine; he is wearing a black cummerbund around his rather portly middle, and he looks every inch the mayor. The brush lingers a little over the placket of Frodo’s trousers, and it is a measure of Elenya’s preoccupation that she doesn’t notice the look that passes between her two best-loved protagonists. ‘So,’ says Sam with forced casualness. ‘Where’ve the whippersnappers got to?’ ‘I think we should go and look for them,’ says Frodo, and it may be the soft purr in his voice which alerts Elenya. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ she says firmly. ‘I know your idea of “looking”, and I can tell you now, they’re not in your bed, and there’s no need for you to go with Sam to find out that I’m right. You’ll just come back all rumpled and sleepy-eyed and... and...’ Elenya’s eyes lose focus, she seems lost in a world of her own. ‘Do you think she needs her corsets loosened?’ Elenya blinks. ‘...and they still won’t be here. What do you mean, corsets? I’m not wearing any - ’ ‘No, my dear. I can see that, but if those young fellow-me-lads want to join us on this extravaganza, they’d better come soon.’ ‘I’m sure they will,’ says Frodo soothingly. A wail is heard faintly from the depths of the smial. ‘There. You see? They’ll be here in two shakes of a hobbit’s -’ The completion of the well-known Shire saying is lost beneath the loud banging of a door, and Tom saunters up to them, whistling. His waistcoat is buttoned askew, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck. The only part of him that can be said to be neat are his feet, the fur brushed to a glossy sheen; the rest of him looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Sam makes a noise that sounds like ‘Tsk!’ He glares at his youngest. ‘What do you think you look like,’ he grumbles. ‘This isn’t some hobbit drinking party. Where’s that dratted Took?’ Tom shrugs and fastens his tie. ‘Stop fussing, Da. Barard’ll be along in a minute. Nice dress, Elenya.’ When Barard does appear, he has just that rumpled and sleepy look that Elenya described. He looks like the cat that got the cream, a resemblance that is only heightened by the way he slips his arm around Tom’s waist and rubs up against him. He unbuttons Tom’s waistcoat and rebuttons it correctly, and Tom is the one who is almost purring. Barard’s own waistcoat is a dark green silk, and - too late - Elenya remembers the effect Barard-in-a-fine-waistcoat has on Tom. Frodo is standing quite close to the younger hobbits, looking on at their antics with uncle-like amusement, but the next moment Sam comes bustling up carrying a greatcoat. He positions himself firmly between Frodo and Barard, and holds the coat up to make it easy for Frodo to slide his arms into the sleeves. The clothes-brush briefly reappears, then Sam kisses Frodo on the nose. ‘It’s cold out,’ he says, as though Frodo had protested about wearing the coat. ‘I’m not having you getting a chill or worse.’ Ready at last, they step out into the darkening evening. Snow swirls around them as they climb into the waiting limo: Sam’s idea for arriving in style. They sink back in the deep seats, but a little rearranging is necessary when Sam decides he doesn’t want to sit in the corner. He settles between Frodo and Barard and leans back with a sigh. Tom reaches for the neck of the champagne bottle that sits in the cooler. The drinks bubble up in the flute glasses as he pours them out. ‘Don’t you go worrying,’ is Sam’s advice to Elenya as they touch glasses together. ‘Speechifying is no big deal. Keep it short and sweet. They’ll be plenty of friends to cheer. Nothing to wet your knickers about.’ Barard snorts champagne bubbles down his nose, but Sam ignores him. ‘One good thing. Your dress ain’t so low that you’re likely to fall out of it, like some of them strumpets.’ Elenya doesn’t quite know where to look, so she looks out of the window and frowns. ‘Didn’t we already pass Rivendell a while ago?’ ‘Probably. I told the driver to go round the block a few times. Might as well get our money’s worth. No point blinking and missing it, is there now? We don’t often get to ride in a limo.’ ‘Oh. No. I suppose not.’ Tom tops up Elenya’s drink, and Elenya starts to relax and enjoy the evening. She raises her glass. ‘To my hobbits,’ she says. ‘May you live long and prosper.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘And bonk lustily and often.’ ‘Hear, hear,’ says Barard. ‘Tsk!’ ‘Da! Like you don’t! May I remind you, it wasn’t us that got the Horny Merry Award!’ ‘Honorary.’ ‘Yeh, right.’ ‘There’s Rivendell again,’ says Frodo, apropos of nothing. ‘Do you think we’re lost?’ By the time they arrive at the hotel, Elenya is beginning to feel decidedly tipsy. As she steps out of the limo, the red carpet is wavering up and down - although the lads deny this and seem to have no trouble walking straight. Elenya lists like a ship at sea, and Tom props her up on the leeward side. Sam cuts Barard out from Frodo’s side and sends him back to help Tom. The two younger hobbits steer Elenya safely up the steps, and pose beside her for the cameras. Flashes pop around them. ‘It’s making my eyes water,’ hisses Tom. ‘Shut up, love; just keep smiling.’ There is a reception before the main awards ceremony, with more champagne. Tom hovers around Elenya and tries to prevent her drinking too much. Barard has deserted him, unable to resist flirting with so many beautiful hobbit lasses. Peachy is wearing a slinky black dress sparkling with sequins, and both she and Ghyste are resplendent in tiaras. Tom recognises Ghyste’s as the Sad Bastard Tiara, borrowed for the occasion. Mariole is there in a black dress strikingly covered with polka dots, and Maeglian is tall and elegant in a low cut strapless black dress, complete with a long train. Aliena comes running in breathlessly just as they are about to take their seats, looking lovely in a black velvet skirt and jacket and a white silk blouse. Barard nudges Frodo. ‘Is it me,’ he asks, ‘or do the dots on Mariole’s dress join up to form a -’ ‘Here you are, Frodo,’ says Sam, pushing between them and interrupting Barard. He hands Frodo a drink. Frodo takes the drink with an abstracted air. He tilts his head sideways and squints a bit. He’s just taken a mouthful of his champagne when he finally sees what Barard is getting at. Sam mops champagne off Frodo’s jacket with a large hankerchief, and Barard saunters off laughing to tell Mariole how much he likes her dress. The room for the awards is huge, decorated with golden mushrooms that shimmer and glitter in the light of a thousand candles. The audience take their seats around tables, and Elenya smiles at Tom in thanks for arranging a large table for them to sit with all her betas, several of whom are winners in their own right. It is an evening to remember, and Shadow, their beautiful host, has done them proud. There is a small hiatus when Sam finds that Frodo is sitting between Maeglian and Barard. He stands glaring at Barard - hands on hips - until the young Took wisely moves.

Elenya leans forward and giggles. She has only just worked out what is going on here. ‘Sham!’ she slurs. ‘You’re jealoush!’ She waves her programme at him. ‘Barard’s an OC! You’re worried he’s jusht here to screw Frodo.’

Tom chokes on his wine. ‘Da!’ he protests. ’Barard does have a life of his own, you know!’

Barard leans over the back of Tom’s chair and runs a hand down Tom’s chest. ‘Mmmm,’ he says, his breath warm against Tom’s ear. ‘And a very good life it is, too.’ Tom closes his eyes and leans back into him.

Six pairs of eyes follow Barard’s hand as it dips towards Tom’s waistband. There is a synchronised squeak of excitement in six-part harmony, and then a sigh of disappointment as Barard straightens. ‘I think you should be more worried about Asher, sitting over there with that beautiful lass, Igraine,’ he says to Sam. It’s a well-known fact that Barard has never had eyes for any but Tom.

Sam has the decency to look embarrassed. ‘Yes, well,’ he hrumphs as he sits next to Frodo. The next moment, he’s blushing bright red.

Maeglian lifts up the tablecloth that falls like a waterfall of white damask around the table edge, and grins widely. Frodo’s hand is busy reassuring Sam that he sees no need to look elsewhere for satisfaction: he can find it right here beneath the placket of Sam’s trousers. Tom rolls his eyes. The world has changed, and now it is the parents who embarrass their children in public by their inappropriate behaviour. Still, there is always a chance of inveigling Barard beneath this very large table and nailing him to the floor sometime during the evening. There is something about Barard in a fine waistcoat that Tom just can’t resist...

Frodo just smiles lazily at being caught out and moves his hand to stroke Sam’s thigh instead. There is a collective sigh of disappointment from the lasses. ‘I think we have a more pressing problem,’ says Frodo. ‘I’m not sure Elenya is in a fit state to make a speech.’

Elenya waves her glass at him. Somehow she has managed to refill it while Tom’s attention was elsewhere. ‘Nonshensh,’ she says emphatically. ‘I’m perfectly shober.’

‘Then say, I’m not a pheasant plucker, I’m a pheasant plucker’s son, and I’m only plucking pheasants 'til the pheasant plucking's done,’ Barard challenges her.

Elenya puts down her glass, and repeats the tongue twister with great dignity. ‘I’m not a peasant fucker, I’m a peasant fucker's shun -’ but the rest is mercifully lost amidst laughter.

‘Ooops,’ says Barard.

‘Don’t you worry,’ says Sam. ‘She’s an old hand at this. Stick her up on the stage, and she’ll come up trumps.’

The lights around them dim, and a spotlight lights up the stage. There is wild cheering and whistling as Bilbo walks on stage to make the awards. Soon they are all hoarse with cheering, and their hands are sore with clapping, as lass after lass goes up to collect her award and make her speech. They all clap extra hard for Ghyste, Mariole and Peachy. When it is Elenya’s turn she insists that her betas and hobbit muses join her on the stage. Maeglian trips over her train and stumbles, but Frodo is there with a steadying hand. ‘I do all my own stunts,’ she quips as she arrives onto the stage with rather less decorum than she’d intended. Everyone gets to hold an award, leaving Elenya free to take the microphone. Tom and Barard hover anxiously on either side of her, but they find Sam was right.

‘Is this on? How do I turn it on?’ Elenya clears her throat and smiles at her audience. ‘You know, it’s a great honour just to be nominated for a Golden Mushroom Award, and I was so excited to be nominated for ten, that if I’d won nothing tonight, it would still have been a great thrill.

‘I’d like to take the opportunity to thank all of you who have enjoyed my stories enough to take the time to vote for me. This year I am delighted that three of my stories have won awards, and I was overcome to find that between them I have awards in nine categories. The competition was very strong. Many of the stories such as “Counterpoint” and “Making of Samwise” are great favourites of mine, and it was lovely to revisit them; others were new to me. A particular gem of a find in the shortlist this year was Grey Wonderer’s “Concerning Hobbit’s Feet”, and if any of you haven’t read it, I urge you to do so. I was very encouraged to see that many of the fics nominated have been written since the last awards - a happy and healthy sign for hobbit fan fiction - and I was particularly pleased that Igraine and Elycia have such well-deserved wins. I’m very happy to have been beaten into second place by them.

‘If I list all the fics I enjoyed in this year’s GMAs, we’ll be here all night, so I would like instead to thank my wonderful betas standing here with me. They keep me questioning what I write with love and tact, and I owe them a huge debt of gratitude for all the time and effort they put into the process of beta reading.

‘The stories couldn’t happen without the lovely characters sharing their lives with me, and I’d like to thank Frodo and Sam, Tom and Barard for giving me more fun than a girl has a right to expect on her own, and for being the means by which I have made so many wonderful friends.

’I’d also like to thank Shadow for once again giving us the Golden Mushroom Awards. There is an enormous amount of work involved, and it’s not easy to find the time for such things with a small baby in your life. Thank you, Shadow. You’re amazing.’

Frodo produces a large bunch of flowers from who knows where, and Elenya presents them to Shadow. Frodo and Sam take the opportunity to give Shadow a kiss, and Elenya is ready to wrap up.

‘Lastly, I’d like to thank my mum. I know - such a cliché. But she tried reading “All That I Had”, and has expressed a wish to read “The Adventures of Tom and Barard”, and how many people have a mum who reads their slash? Erm, apart from my daughter?

‘Thank you. All of you. Whether you like my fics or not, you’re a wonderful fandom.’

As they all troop off the stage, Barard nudges Tom. ‘Maybe they’ll have an award next year for the most gratuitous use of superlatives.’

‘If they don’t make some new awards, we won’t have much chance to win anything.’

‘How about the Cracks of Doom Award for the best cliff-hanger?’

Tom shudders. ‘Don’t encourage her,’ he mutters.

It’s much later, and the evening is winding to its end, when they realise they’ve lost Tom and Barard. Search parties are organised, and Frodo and Sam do what they can to console Elenya. It’s not until Ghyste thinks to lift the damask tablecloth that they find the miscreants in flagrante delicto. It is only thanks to the quick thinking of the lasses that Tom’s bare arse is not on the front cover of the News of the World the next day. As the paparazzi jostle for the best camera angles, the lasses whisk in front of the table, their dresses swirling so the scene fades to black.

‘You could have stood with your backs to us,’ Tom grumbles later, but Elenya just smirks, and Tom carries on his grumbling. ‘Anyway, I thought it was Da and Frodo who were runners up in the Fade to Black Award.’

Elenya smirks some more. ‘You wait,’ she says. ‘You’re still eligible... There’s always next year.’


The next morning they rise late, and view the papers. ‘Damn,’ says Tom. ‘Would you look at this!’

There is a picture of him standing outside the hotel with tears in his eyes. The caption underneath reads, ‘Award-winning hobbit still finds something to cry about...’