Prologue

...but there has not always been a Shire!

Ah, best beloved, when you crinkle your nose that way you always make me laugh! Let your old Gran-da get his pipe a-going and I’ll tell you somewhat you haven’t heard before. Yes, it’s an old tale, and a long one, such as you young sprouts don’t often take the time to hear anymore these days. Takes a broken leg, I s’pose, to get you to sit still...

There now, where was I? O yes, that’s right, the Shire. Rather, before the Shire. Don’t you remember, the tales I used to tell around the hearth when you were little? Aye, before you grew past three foot and-a-half high and yer old Gran-da had to look up to you, that’s right. What do you remember?

That’s right, quite right. Marcho and Blanco of the Fallohides, they were, came West over the Stonebow Bridge from Bree with a paper from the King in Norbury and a great many hobbits following behind. But no, that’s not where hobbits started. You think they sprung out of the ground in the Chetwood, do ye? Acorns fell to the ground in Breeland and hobbits grew up? Haw, I know that’s what they tell the little ones... told ‘em so mysel’ a few times, I did. (Chuckle. Clearing of throat.)

Nay, long before those twain, hobbits dwelt in the vale between the Great Forest and the Great River. Brandywine? Hah! What’re they teaching young-uns these days, I’d like to know? Not the River, the Brandywine, and not the Old Forest. The Great River, I said, and Greenwood the Great, as it was called in the old days. Yes, that’s the one, on the other side of them mountains it is. Some of the hobbits, the Harfoots it were, lived in the foothills of the mountains, but the Stoors liked to be near the River and the Fallohides loved the woods and trees.

No, yer Gran-da’s never seen mountains, and never will, I warrant. Green Hills are enough for this old gaffer. Anyhow, we’re getting off the trail.

What’s that? I don’t know how hobbits started, nobody knows anymore these days. Many of the gaffers who had the old stories in their heads perished in the Bad Times, you see, when they were hunted like beasts by Orcs and Men, or they froze in the crossing of the mountains. Terrible, it was. As it is, we only know from those who lived through the crossing. Five hundred years afore Marcho, as a matter of fact, the Fallohides crossed over, and they weren’t the first. The Harfoots were first, that’s right, and they passed down their own tales. What I’m telling you comes from the Fallohide branch of the family. We’ve a fair bit of that in our blood, we do. Anyhow, the ones that crossed the mountains and lived to tell the tale -- when they became gaffers, they passed the story on, same’s I’m doing...

Chapter 1. Shadow

'Time to get up! Breakfast will get cold!'

The eldest of the young Fallohides of the Thorn clan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed at his brothers, still buried under the covers they shared. 'You heard Mum! Up, now!' He raised his head to sniff the air. 'Mmmm, corncakes and mushroom gravy! Go ahead, you sleepy-heads, I'll have your portion!'

'Not on your life!' the next in age to him said, pushing back the covers, but the third brother groaned and pulled the the warm, furry skins up over himself as the two oldest jumped to their feet.

'Blackthorn! Hawthorn! Apple! Box! Pick!' their mother's call came again.

'C'mon, Horry, we can't eat until everyone's at table, y'know!' the eldest said with a scowl. Together the brothers tipped the bed frame, sliding the others to the floor, then picked up the blankets and hastily tossed them on the bed, pulling them as smooth as boys who must make their beds before breakfast are wont to do.

The three younger lads untangled themselves and raced for the door.

'Wash first,' their mother reminded them, and it was a shoving match to see who could splash water from the carven bucket on their hands and faces first, hastily swipe with a towel and find a seat. Two older girls were setting the table whilst two younger ones sat dressed, washed, prim and proper, one holding the babe.

Finally all were settled and the mother served out the crisp acorn-flour griddle cakes, spooning over the rich mushroom gravy. When she reached the youngest son, she frowned. 'You didn't wash behind your ears,' she said.

'I couldn't, Mum, they was all pushing so, and I...'

'They were all pushing so, and you...' she said sternly. 'You may go back to the bucket and start over.' She served his plate, then slapped his hand away. 'No food until you're properly washed!'

'Where's Da?' Blackthorn said through a mouthful of food.

'There's been some trouble over by the Berry's hole,' she answered. The lads looked automatically towards the door, sure enough, their father's stout staff, bow, and quiver were gone.

'Eat up, now,' Mistress Thorn said, settling with a cup of bitterbark tea.

Applethorn showed his empty plate. 'More?' he asked.

His mother sighed. 'I am sorry, my dears, but there is no more. We're having to be careful with the acorns; they are not as plentiful this year as they might be. I thought squirrels might have got into the storeholes, but your father assures me that it is simply a matter of a scanty harvest.' There was no use sighing for the sacks of barley they ought to have in the storage holes. The last of the Big Folk deemed trustworthy by the Fallohides had disappeared from their holdings by the River several winters ago, and now even the lands of the hostile Big Folk lay abandoned and fallow. The Fallohides were turning more and more to foraging for food, and as the cloth wore out they must clothe themselves in animal hides, until Mistress Thorn thought perhaps they would become spirits of the Forest instead of People someday, the way things were going.

Blackthorn jumped up. 'Don't worry, Mum,' he said, taking up his plate and kissing the top of Mistress Thorn's head on his way to the washstand. 'Horry and I will go hunting today and find you a whole sackful of mushrooms.'

'Hawthorn,' his mother corrected automatically.

'And hopefully we'll snare a nice rabbit or two for stew,' Hawthorn contributed, rising from the table and picking up his own plate.

'I want to come too!' little Pickthorn said.

'We'll take you fishing this evening, Pick,' said his oldest brother kindly.

'But I want to go now!' Pickthorn protested.

'No, you stay here and help Mum,' Blackthorn said. 'With all the odd things going on at the moment, we need some big, strong fellows to keep the girls safe, now, don't we?'

'But I want to go,' Pickthorn wailed.

Hawthorn bent to talk to his little brother face-to-face. 'You stay around here, Pick,' he said. 'Don't go wandering off. Wouldn't want the gobble-uns to get you!'

'Gobble, gobble!' Applethorn crept up behind the littlest brother, his fingers wiggling and clutching like claws.

'Mum!' Pickthorn shrieked, even as Hawthorn swept him up from the floor into the safety of his arms.

'Don't tease him so,' he said sharply. 'It's not funny.'

Applethorn shrugged. 'Whatever you say,' he said. ' 'Twas only a jest. Anyhow, I need to go chop some wood.' He looked to the youngest. 'You can help me, Pick, I need someone to carry the wood to the hole as it's chopped.' He frowned. 'But are you big enough to do that?'

'I'm big enough,' Pickthorn said stoutly, struggling in Hawthorn's grasp. 'Put me down! There's work to be done!'

'You have the right of it, little brother,' Hawthorn said with a grin. 'You make a big woodpile for Mum, there's a lad, and we'll take you fishing this evening.'

'Hoorah!' Pickthorn shouted, and taking Apple's hand, he danced out of the hole.

***

Pickthorn carried wood until he thought his arms would fall off, but there was a nice big heap by the entrance to the hole under their treehome, and still Apple would insist on chopping more. Pickthorn took the latest armload from the chopping block to the doorway, set it down, looked at the pile, and sighed. Surely Mum had enough wood to last a week!

He could hear the steady chopping sound of his brother making more work for him, and he kicked at the woodpile. If Apple wanted to chop the day away, it was no fur off his feet! He was going to take a little walk, see what was what. Perhaps the redberries in the thicket down the little winding path were ripe; they'd still been green when last he'd looked. He pictured himself, triumphantly returning at noontide with a shirt full of juicy sweetness to share.

Whistling, he walked down the path, thinking of berries and fish and other pleasant things. At first he could still hear the steady chop-chop and the voices of his mother and sisters calling to each other as they washed the family laundry and hung it up to dry, but the voices faded as he walked along, and soon he found himself in the relative quiet of the woods. He stopped to hear her voice, made up of whispering leaves, rubbing branches, birdsong.

He was a little tired when he reached the berry patch, but redberries gleamed amongst the green of the leaves, promising a feast to come. He filled his shirt once and sat down in the lap of the woods, on a nice soft spot that she had prepared just for a little Fallohide, it seemed. She'd caused tree roots to grow out into a nice pocket and lined it with moss, all ready for him. 'Thank you, Lady,' he said politely to the woods, and the trees whispered a reply.

He ate up his shirtful, and was all the better for the food and the rest. Jumping to his feet again, he sang a little song as he filled his shirt for the second time. He did not notice that the wood was holding her breath; the birdsongs had ceased and even the leaves stopped their whispering.

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed him, low foul voices whispered to each other in glee, he was hauled into the air, redberries flying, by something that smelled horrid and looked... looked like a nightmare, a creature he'd never seen before, but somehow knew, in a horrified way, meant death to his kind.

'He hee, lookit what we got here,' one murmured to the other in horrible glee. 'A nice little mouthful, wouldn't you say?'

'It'll make a good addition to the pot,' the other growled happily. 'Wonder if there are any more around here?'

'Good hunting, the Boss said,' the first whispered, giving Pickthorn a pinch. 'Nice, fat little things...' his tongue snaked round his lips, revealing wicked fangs.

Pickthorn was too terrified to make a noise as the two hunters walked along, turning him in the air to examine him more closely, prodding him, commenting all the while.

'Come on, then, let us hasten a bit; sooner we get him in the pot the sooner we'll eat,' the first hunter said finally.

'Aow, but I'm hungry now,' the second grumbled. 'Can't we just take a little bite?'

'The Boss'll notice,' the first one warned.

'Just a finger! That's all, a finger each, he wouldn't see that,' the second whined.

'He'd notice that...' the first said, giving the matter some serious thought. 'Toes, now, he might not notice those...'

He grabbed at one of Pickthorn's legs, pulling the little foot towards his mouth.

Pickthorn found his voice, kicking and screaming. 'Mum!' he cried desperately. 'Mama! Mama!'

'Hold still, you,' the hunter growled cheerily, for the little creature's terror added spice to the anticipated mouthful.

The grey watcher erupted from where he had concealed himself when he heard the hunters approach. Though he was supposed to be an observer only, not interfering in the lives of the folk who lived here, the heartrending cries moved him to action.

With a great shout, he swung his staff, cracking one ugly skull, and then the other. Little Pickthorn had a glimpse of a grey-bearded giant bending over him, before the terrified little one fainted.

Chapter 2. Fear

'Where's Pick?'

'I thought he was with you!'

'He brought an armload of wood back to the hole, but he never returned for more. I thought you snagged him to fetch water or somewhat.'

'No, I haven't seen him. Mum!'

Mistress Thorn came out of the hole, wiping her hands on her apron, her good-natured face flushed from the heat of the cooking fire. She was glad of the breeze that gently ruffled her light-brown curls, and thanked the Lady for the caress. 'What is it, Blackthorn?' she asked. 'Nooning is nearly ready, you lads might as well wash up.'

'Is Pick in the house?' the eldest brother asked urgently, hazel eyes gone green with worry.

His mother looked surprised. 'No, of course not, he...' surprise turned to alarm. 'Apple, he was with you, last I knew.'

'He came back to the hole, Mum, and I didn't see him again.'

Alarm turned to deadly fear on the hobbit mum's face; all the rosiness faded, leaving her white as the summer clouds. 'Didn't see him again,' she echoed faintly, and staggered. Black and Apple jumped to her side, guided her to a tree root just by the door, sat her down.

'Run to Berry's,' Black told Apple urgently. 'Get Da!' He raised his voice to call to one of his sisters. 'Holly!'

She answered from behind the great tree bole, in the back yard where she was hanging out wash. 'Here!'

'Holly, come now!' he shouted. She came around the tree, annoyed at the interruption, but at the sight of his face and their mum, just sitting when she ought to be bustling about the kitchen, was enough to stop her in her tracks. 'Get Mum a drink of water, will you now, Sis?' he added.

Nodding, she hurried to comply. 'Is Mum all right?' she asked as she brought the cup of fresh, cool water from the spring.

'She will be, once we know where Pick is,' her brother answered.

'Pick?' she said. 'He's helping Apple chop.'

'No, he's not,' Black answered grimly. 'Go whistle the rest in, send them in pairs to the neighbours; we'll start a search, unless Da has something else in mind.'

'Right away,' she said, and soon he heard her whistling and trilling as if a flock of songbirds had alighted in their tree, calling to the other brothers and sisters.

'No,' Mistress Thorn said, gripping his arm. 'No, don't send them out.'

'Mum, we have to look for Pick,' he said reasonably, but she shook her head, her face haunted.

'What is it, Mum?' he asked.

She looked up at him, her face sick. 'The entire Leaf family has disappeared,' she said, 'all but young Oakleaf who was benighted while hunting and sought shelter in a tree until the dawn. He returned to find his family's hole empty, and signs of...' She broke off and bit her generous lip. 'That's why your Da went to Berry's. There was to be a meeting of all the heads of householes in the area.'

A whole family... 'The Leaf family live furthest to the South of all the families,' he said slowly. 'Nearest to where the queer things are happening. I heard tell that Oakleaf shot a black squirrel that was no good to eat, last week.'

'Aye,' his mother said. 'And there's somewhat wrong with the stream, as well, the water's fouled somehow, black and unwholesome. 'Tis a good thing we get our water from a spring, but your da wonders if that water will go off, next?'

'Is that why the pig drinks the first bucketful every morning?' Black asked in astonishment.

His mother nodded slowly. 'If the water goes off, he'd rather lose a pig than a hobbit.'

'O Mum,' Black murmured. 'What is happening?'

She wrapped her hands together in her apron and began to rock back and forth on the tree root. 'O Pick,' she moaned. 'O my little lad, where are you?' She paid no mind now to the forest breeze that ruffled her curls.

Blackthorn raised his voice again to call to Holly, and she was there in an instant. 'I called to them, they're coming,' she said.

'Don't send them out, wait until Da arrives,' Black said.

'What's going on?' Holly asked. She crouched to put arms around her mother. 'Mum, don't take on so,' she crooned. She soothed and patted while Blackthorn stood by awkwardly and the time stretched out without apparent end.

Running feet were heard, and Blackthorn picked up a stout staff, holding it at the ready. He was relieved to see his father, six uncles, and Applethorn burst into the clearing.

'Has Pick shown up yet?' his father panted.

'No,' Black said. 'We were going to start a search...' More running feet came, from several directions, and soon all the Thorn children were gathered as well. Blackthorn quickly filled them in. He saw Hawthorn's face go grey, as if he'd been punched in the gut, and nodded. He felt much the same way.

'Each of you go with an uncle,' his father said sternly. 'Follow the paths. He'd stay on a path; he's wise enough to do that.'

'Yes, Sir,' Black said.

Uncle Beechnut, his mother's youngest brother, said, 'Black, you come along with me, we'll take the trail to the berry patch.' Blackthorn nodded, grasping his staff more firmly.

He kissed his mother and said, 'Don't you worry, Mum, we'll find him. Probably picked a bellyful of berries and fell asleep in a patch of sunlight.'

His mother rocked back and forth on her tree root and made no answer.

Beechnut and Blackthorn trotted down the faint trail, eyes on the ground and surroundings. Beech put up a hand to halt their progress, bending to the path. 'There,' he said, 'that's a fresh print.'

Black looked, sure enough, there was the mark of a small foot in the dirt, clear and sharp. The edges had not yet started to crumble inwards. 'That's the right size,' he said. He raised his hands to his mouth to call, only to be arrested by his uncle.

'Let's not make too much noise,' the older hobbit said. At Black's surprised look, he added, 'We wouldn't want to startle the lad out of sleep, now, would we?' That was not the real reason, Black suspected, but he said nothing. They continued to the berry patch.

Reaching the little clearing, Black gave a cry and swooped upon his brother's shirt, lying on the ground, stained ominously red. 'Pick!' he choked.

'Don't move,' his uncle warned, and he stood as if carven from wood while his uncle went over the ground. 'Tracks,' he said grimly. 'Huge. Not hobbits. Not bears or wolves, too big to be foxes.'

He straightened. 'I don't know what we're up against, but I have a bad feeling.' He extended his hand to Black. 'Give me that.' Black numbly handed over the shirt.

Beech turned the shirt over in his hands, as if it could tell where its owner had gone. He lifted it to his face to sniff. 'Not blood,' he said, then. 'These are berry stains.' Looking down again, he said, '...but those tracks...'

He pulled an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his bow, moved to stand with his back to a tree. 'I'll wait here,' he said. 'You run back, fetch your da and the rest of the uncles. We're going to follow the trail.' He stopped Black as the youth turned away. 'And be careful,' he said.

'I will,' Blackthorn said. His uncle looked searchingly into his face, nodded, and released him to run at top speed all the way back to the hole.

Chapter 3. Make New Friends

'Feeling better?' a pleasantly gruff voice asked as Pickthorn blinked and rubbed his eyes with grimy hands.

Opening his eyes, he saw the grey-bearded giant and gasped, edging back against the nearest tree. 'Please don't eat me!' he said desperately, trying not to cry.

'I am not in the habit of eating creatures that talk to me,' the giant said. He was sitting down with his back against another tree, regarding the hobbit keenly, his staff lying across his knees. 'What are you?' he asked curiously. 'I've not run across your sort before.' He knew about the Harfoots of course, for they had entered the region of Eriador nearly a century earlier, a pleasant but rather dull group of small farmers. This little fellow was taller and fairer than a Harfoot child, with his hazel eyes and golden-brown curls, yet he was still obviously one of the Little Folk. And there was something about this tiny mite... the wide eyes were bright with curiosity.

'We always hide when Big Folk come,' Pickthorn said, not wondering how the grey one spoke his tongue. The little Fallohide knew a few words of the tongue that the Big Ones who’d farmed the vale had used, but this Big One was speaking hobbit talk, and though his accent was strange Pick could get the gist. Fear changed to curiosity as the giant made no move to grab him. 'They're... they're... big, you know.'

'Ah,' the old giant said, quirking one shaggy eyebrow. His face looked kindly, and interested, and perhaps even friendly, if overlarge for a hobbit's comfort.

'What's your name?' Pick asked, feeling bolder by the minute.

'My name...' the grey one said thoughtfully. 'I have several.'

'I only need one,' Pick said reasonably. 'Or do you prefer to be called "Hoi, you there"?'

'I must admit, that is not one of my names,' the grey one said.

'My name's Pick,' Pickthorn said confidingly.

'You ought not to be so free to give your name to strangers,' the grey one reproved.

'But you're not a stranger,' Pick said. 'You saved me from the gobble-uns. They were going to gobble me right up, and you stopped them.'

'Gobble-uns,' the grey one said, bemused.

'Aye,' Pick said stoutly. 'Nasty bad creatures, they are.'

'I do believe you are right,' the grey one said.

Pick looked at him with a puzzled expression. He talked funny. Still, the young hobbit thought with a mental shrug, that was to be expected from folk who were twice as tall as they ought. His tummy chose that moment to give a grumble.

'Are you hungry?' the grey one asked.

'I mowt be,' Pick answered cautiously. 'Depends.'

'What does it depend on?' the grey one responded.

'Depends on what's in the offering,' Pick said. 'Don't care much for kidneys or liver.'

The grey one laughed and said, 'I do not happen to carry such things in my pockets. How about some Elvish waybread?'

'What's "Elvish"?' Pick asked, and the grey one looked curiously at him.

'The Elves claim these woods as their own,' he said.

'Alfs...' Pick echoed, puzzled. 'What do they look like?'

'Well,' the grey one said, stroking his beard, 'they're about as tall as I am, and...'

'Ah,' Pick said wisely. 'Big Folk.'

The grey one looked at him in surprise, and chuckled. 'I suppose you're right,' he said. 'And your people always hide when there are "Big Folk" about.'

'You have the right of it,' Pick said stoutly. ‘We were farm folk once, but they drove us from the land. Why would they do that? There was land a-plenty, and we’d lived in peace for years... They said we cast spells to sour the milk and blight their crops, Gran-da told me.’ The bright hazel eyes turned grey and thoughtful and the little face took on the grieved expression of one unjustly accused.

’Cast spells? Are you a magical folk?’

’No more magical than you be!’ The little mite looked puzzled when the giant chuckled. 'The Lady took us under her skirts and fed and sheltered us. No thanks to the Big Folk,’ he added, raising his pointed chin defiantly.

The grey one nodded to himself. It was no wonder the Elves of Greenwood the Great had not told him of these little people. He dug in a pocket now, bringing out a leaf-wrapped bundle. Breaking off a piece, he held it out to the little one before him.

Pick looked at the giant hand, what looked to be bread lying enticingly on the palm. He started to reach but then pulled back, his expression wary.

'Come, come, now,' the grey one said. 'Had I wanted to harm you I could have, before you awakened.'

Pick nodded and bit his lip. It went against all his instincts to reach out, but the eyes under the bushy brows seemed kind and the face smiled, bringing out laugh lines like the ones that graced the face of his Gran-da, "life lines" the hobbits called them. This one must be old and very wise to have so many of his own.

Cautiously, he reached out and delicately lifted the bread from the giant's palm, scooting back to his own tree. The giant did not try to grab him however, simply broke off another piece of the bread for himself.

Pick took a bite and a smile broke out on his face. 'Honeycake!' he said enthusiastically. 'We only have that on feast days!'

'Elvish waybread,' the gray one corrected. 'The Elves use it for travelling. It does not grow hard or stale like regular bread.'

'What is "travelling"?' Pick asked curiously.

'Going from place to place,' the grey one said.

'O like visiting,' Pick said wisely. 'Like going to Uncle Beech's hole, or him coming to ours.'

'Not quite,' the grey one said. 'Travelling usually means a journey.'

'A-journey,' Pick said, puzzled. Another new word that meant nothing.

'Walking all day, stopping for the night, getting up and walking again,' the grey one said helpfully.

Pick looked at him in amazement. 'Why would anybody want to do that?' he asked.

The grey one shrugged. 'I never wondered about it before,' he said. 'Your people do not travel, I take it.'

'They have too much sense to go wandering about,' Pick said self-righteously. He looked suspiciously at the grey one. Perhaps he was not right in the head. Sensible folk stayed close to home and family, and he said as much.

'Family,' the grey one mused. 'Yours is probably quite concerned about you by now.'

Pick started up from his comfortable spot. 'I'm sure Mum's frantic,' he said. 'It must be past nooning.' He tried to look up through the trees to see the angle of the sun, but they were thickly surrounded by trees and undergrowth, a very sheltered place, well hidden from any passing gobble-uns as he had been glad to note upon awakening.

'Well past,' the grey one said. 'I had better get you home to your loved ones.'

'Can you do that?' Pick said, immensely relieved. He had no idea which way was home. He had been taught to stay on the paths and the gobble-uns had not. The young hobbit had been thinking about what to do, once he was free of the fear of being eaten. He thought he might have to sit tight here until his father and uncles came looking for him, but he did not know how long that would be, for he did not know how far the gobble-uns had carried him. He just knew that he did not recognise any of the trees around them.

'I can try,' the grey one said. 'Would you like another bite of waybread before we go?'

'Please,' said Pick.

Chapter 4. The Fair Folk

It did not take long for quite a few grown, grim Fallohides to gather in the berry clearing, Thorn and his two eldest sons among them.

'Whatever it is, it's big,' Beech told them.

Thorn stood up from his appraisal of the tracks. 'Looks very like what we found round about the Leafs' hole,' he said. Horry and Black exchanged glances. Whatever had taken the Leaf family seemed to have grabbed their little brother. Would they ever see him again?

'Come along, we'll follow the trail for as long as we can,' Thorn said.

'Won't be too hard,' Beech answered. 'They seem to take pleasure in trampling down the growing things.'

'Just don't be watching the trail so close you forget about watching to the sides,' Nuthatch, another neighbour, warned. 'They might have laid a trap for any followers.' The rest nodded soberly, and they started alongside the trail, bows at the ready.

They had warily tramped along for two hours when they found the bodies. Beech bent to examine the feet, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant stench of the creatures.

'These are the track-makers,' he said, straightening again.

'Any sign of Pick?' Thorn asked. They found no hobbit tracks in the soft dirt, but did find some large, odd marks.

'What is it?' one of the hobbits asked.

'Big foot...' Beech said, scratching his head. 'One of the Big Folk, I gather.'

'No toes,' Thorn observed, looking to Beech for an opinion. Beech’s family of all the hobbits had had the most dealings with Men in the past.

'They wear coverings on their feet,' Beech said. He had listened to his gran-da’s tales of the days when the People farmed in harmony with the Big Folk. He’d gone as a very young one with his father and grandfather to trade with one of the few Men who remained on friendly terms with the hobbits, before the Men disappeared from the land. He remembered the footwear, though not what such was named. 'I haven't the faintest why. Odd folk, you know.'

'So what slew the creatures?' Thorn said. 'One of the Big Folk?'

'Head's bashed in on this one,' Blackthorn said, feeling queasy.

'This one, as well,' Nuthatch agreed.

'Thorn,' Beech said quietly, pulling something from between the fingers of one of the dead creatures.

The hobbit father gave a choked cry and fell to his knees. Beech was holding some light brown curls that looked very much like those adorning his own feet... only smaller.

'They had Pickthorn,' Beech said quietly. Nuthatch nodded, then said, 'So what happened to him?'

'I don't know,' Beech said. 'Perhaps the Big One took him from them.'

'Would it harm Pick?' Black asked uneasily.

'Dunno,' Beech said. He began to follow the new trail, giving a soft exclamation as it turned back the way they'd come. 'It's heading back home,' he said. 'What if...?'

The hobbits picked up the pace, running as fast as they could while still following the trail. They'd left some archers back home on guard, but still... what if the whole purpose of the creatures grabbing Pick and taking him so far away was to draw off a goodly portion of the settlement's defence? Blackthorn found himself praying to the Lady that she would stick out tree roots and trip up any malefactors who were after his family and the families of his relatives and friends, drop tree limbs upon them, call down lightning out of the sky...

***

The grey one picked up the little hobbit as if he were no burden at all and began to stride through the trees. Though they were not on a path, Pick thought with some sense born into certain of his kind that they might be going in the right direction. This sense was what made his Uncle Beech such a great hunter among his folk; he never got lost.

Pick was amazed at how quickly the grey one's long legs moved them. The trees passed them at an incredible rate, as fast as Pick could run... but suddenly the legs stopped their striding; the grey one paused behind a tree, made a quiet shushing noise, and waited.

Something was moving through the forest, Pick's senses told him that much, though whatever it was moved more quietly than a hobbit. Suddenly a clear light shone out and was again swallowed in the green of the forest. The grey one stepped forward with a glad cry and the travellers, visible now to Pickthorn though their cloaks had made them seem a part of the trees behind them, turned to greet the grey one, speaking in the same lilting tongue, music in every phrase.

Pick stared wide-eyed at these Big Folk. They were not like the woodsman who had passed close to his family's hole upon a winter's day, but tall and fair to the eye. Some were merry as children, others grim and purposeful like his Uncle Beech when he'd come last night to talk something over with Da. One was beautiful as the night when the stars shone down in the clearing, and when she caught sight of Pick in the grey one's arms she smiled and came forward, curious.

'Hail, Mithrandir,' she said, but of course the words meant nothing to the hobbit who knew not a word of Elf-tongue. 'What is it you carry?'

'Where are you going?' another of the Fair Folk asked, his tone less friendly.

'Peace, Elladan,' the grey one said. 'I am travelling from Lothlorien to Rivendell to speak with your father, Elrond Half-elven.'

'And we are travelling to Laurelindorenan,' the Elf maiden smiled. 'Did you find the little one there?' She bent for a closer look at Pickthorn. 'Will we find more of his kind in my grandmother's realm?'

'No, I suspect he comes from hereabouts,' Mithrandir answered. 'I spoke to warn you: I took him from some orcs. Be on your guard; there may be more of the foul creatures about.'

'Orcs!' an Elf lord said, striding to the fore.

'Yes, Glorfindel,' Mithrandir answered. 'According to this little one odd things are happening here, orcs not the least of it.'

The Elf lord bent close to examine Pickthorn and the hobbit stared back unafraid. This one felt... clean, somehow. He had no fear of being eaten by these folk.

'What have you seen?' the Elf lord asked slowly, speaking in the Common Tongue.

Pickthorn answered readily, remembering his lessons. 'Gobble-uns,' he said. 'They were going to eat me.'

'Goblins,' Arwen said softly. 'What are they doing here?'

'And black squirrels,' Pickthorn said. He made a face. 'They were foul, and no good for food. And the stream is black.'

'We had not reached the stream yet,' Glorfindel said.

'Do not drink of it,' Mithrandir warned. 'There is some enchantment at work.'

'Thranduil said nothing of such troubles this far to the North at the feast last night,' Elladan said. Glorfindel gave him a look and the young son of Elrond subsided. Evidently the king of Greenwood had said something, only not for every ear.

'Eat with us,' Glorfindel said suddenly. 'We will stop to break bread.'

The grey one nodded. 'I suspect my small friend might be hungry again,' he said. The Elves laughed as Pick's stomach rumbled in agreement.

Chapter 5. Night Visitors

Beech slowed, then stopped as they entered a small glade.

'What is it?' Thorn asked, coming up behind, nocking an arrow to his bow. The others followed suit.

'The trail,' he answered. 'It... it ends.'

'What do you mean, "ends"?' Thorn snapped.

'Look for yourself, brother, a footprint here... here...' he pointed out the curious markings of the toeless foot. '...and none beyond.'

'A trail simply does not stop. Are you saying our quarry sprouted wings and flew away?' Thorn said in desperation, his hope fading. His wife's brother was the best tracker of them all.

'That would be the likeliest explanation,' Beech said calmly. 'We still do not know what we are following. If...'

He was interrupted by a shout from Blackthorn. 'Pick!'

'What?' Thorn said. His two oldest sons had run across the clearing, dropping to their knees at the edge. He followed, to see his youngest son asleep under some bushes, a smile on his small face.

'Pickthorn?' he said softly, dropping to his own knees, extending a trembling hand. In his heart, he thanked the Lady for sheltering his son beneath her skirts, keeping him safe from foxes and other predators until he could be found by his family. 'Pick?'

The lad stretched, awakened, saw the gathering crowd of armed hobbits. 'Da?' he said sleepily. 'Where's the grey one? ...and the Lady?'

'Lady?' Thorn murmured, putting away his bow and gathering his son into his arms.

'The Lady of the Wood; she was here but a minute ago...' Pick said, and yawned widely. 'She sang me a song and gave me wondrous bread to eat, like honeycake, only better.'

'Did She save you from the gobble-uns?' Beech asked.

'No,' Pick said, 'the grey one did that.'

'Grey one,' Beech said under his breath. 'A wolf, d'you suppose? But a wolf wouldn't have done the kind of damage we saw, and would have eaten the lad, besides.'

'Come, lad,' Thorn said, standing to his feet. 'Let us take you home.'

***

The hobbits found to their relief that nothing had attacked their homes whilst they were searching for Pickthorn; still, he'd been taken by gobble-uns less than a half mile from his home. Bad things were happening and as yet they had no satisfactory explanation.

Two more families disappeared in the next two weeks; Beechnut left his hole, packed up the few things dearest to him, leaving the rest. At the rate hobbits were disappearing, what did he need with a hole, and why should he continue to work to furnish it in hopes of bringing home a wife some day and raising a family? He moved in with his sister’s family, and Thorn was happy for the extra bow.

At the end of the second week a third hobbit family disappeared. Beech and Thorn scouted the area as they had after each of the other disappearances and came to a decision. ‘Tonight we’ll be sleeping in the treetop,’ Thorn told his wife.

‘The treetop!’ she gasped. She was not one to enjoy climbing, and as you know, even in this modern time hobbits do not care to go upstairs to bed. Her husband and brother were adamant, however, and shortly before sunset, Beech climbed the tree, made fast a rope ladder that he had fashioned earlier, and he and Thorn coaxed Thorn’s wife and children into the highest branches that would bear them, tying them securely with rope so that none would fall out of bed in the night. When all were safely in the branches, Beech pulled up the rope ladder in the gathering twilight and fastened it securely.

As it turned out, the rest of the families in the community had come to the same conclusion, but that was little comfort, when hobbit mums tried to find a comfortable position and thought of the mattresses stuffed with soft, fresh grasses, culled from a nearby meadow of a summer’s day. Still, one who was weary enough could sleep anywhere. Not everyone slept, as it happened. Thorn and Beech took turns keeping watch through the long dark. They had feared that a hunting owl might try to snatch one of the little ones from a branch, but the precaution of placing each little one with a big brother kept owls from molesting anyone.

After several days of this, the precautions paid for themselves. Beech stiffened as a growling murmur was heard in the forest. The wind that teased the leaves died, seeming to hold its breath. Beech nudged Thorn; since sleeping in a tree is uncomfortable at best, Thorn was instantly awake.

‘Something comes,’ Beech breathed in his ear. Thorn listened to the ugly sound and nodded. Both took out arrows and made ready to shoot if absolutely necessary. The noise grew louder. In the moonlight, Thorn saw the eyes of several of his sons blink open, and he put an urgent finger to his lips, locking gazes with each until he’d secured a nod from every one.

The noise grew louder, and suddenly the watchers saw movement on the ground, black shapes, somehow menacing though they appeared no more than shadows. A horrid smell drifted up to the sensitive noses of the watchers; Beech wrinkled his nose in disgust, then saw little Pick’s eyes widen in fear... and recognition. Beech pointed downward, then to Pick, then held his hand palm upward, in a querying gesture, and the little one nodded. Gobble-uns.

The creatures were crawling about the yard now, sniffing the ground, growling and talking. One discovered the disguised entrance to the hole and gave a shout; the others crowded around eagerly, with nasty, evil laughter. The laughter died after several creatures had entered the hole and come out again, empty-handed, and the growling returned, meaner, frustrated. More creatures dove into the hole, and soon the sounds of smashing and breaking came to the watchers in the treetop. Mistress Thorn was awake now, stiff with fear, listening to the destruction of her home. Thorn reached out, took her hand, squeezed it. At least they have not found us at home, the squeeze said. At least the children are safe. She nodded.

It seemed an eternity that the creatures prowled and poked, hunting for the family that owned the hole, hunting for the delicious-smelling quarry whose scent lingered on the beds the gobble-uns hauled out of the hole and tore to pieces. They pulled everything out of the hole in search of their prey, despoiling all that they did not take with them. Finally, frustrated, hungrier than ever, they departed in search of better pickings.

In the grey light of dawn, Beech and Thorn climbed cautiously down from their high perch and scouted along the trail the creatures left, coming to another looted hobbit-hole, and yet another. The hobbit fathers and uncles whose families lived in these holes climbed down to meet them, and, bows in hand, they continued to follow the trail until it had led them well away from the settlement.

‘They’ve gone back to their lair, wherever it is,’ Beech said grimly.

‘Well now we know what happened to the missing families,’ Thorn said. They turned back to the settlement, to where their own families waited in the treetops.

Chapter 6. Difficult Decision

‘We must leave,’ Thorn said quietly.

‘Leave?’ Burr said incredulously. ‘Leave? And go where? This is all we’ve ever known!’

‘How could we abandon our homes?’ Fern demanded. ‘How dare we leave the Lady’s protection?’

‘We’ve had precious little protection lately,’ Beech said. The other hobbits bristled at his sacrilege.

‘We have no home,’ Thorn added. ‘Nor do the Root and Bark families, and with these creatures coming every few days, soon you’ll have no homes, either.’

‘We could band together, fight them,’ Burr said.

‘Did you see them?’ Root asked. ‘There were an hundred, or more, all twice the size of one of us. We haven’t the numbers to defeat them.’

‘They only seem to come at night,’ Fern said. ‘We can keep hiding in the trees...’

‘The two who took Pick were abroad in daylight. Besides, what if they learn to climb trees?’ Beech said. ‘They’ve arms and legs; Fern, you saw the gobble-uns that had taken Pickthorn. If once they look up, notice us-uns in the trees, we’re lost, done for, meat in the pot. Would you risk your little-uns so?’

‘But where do we go?’ Burr repeated. ‘How do we know that... “out there”,’ he gestured vaguely, ‘isn’t worse?’

‘We do not know,’ Thorn said, frustrated, ‘but we cannot stay here, in the gobble-uns’ larder, waiting to be cooked and eaten.’ Such blunt talk shocked the others speechless, but slowly they began to nod.

‘Pack up what you can carry,’ Thorn said. ‘Those who still have possessions, we who have been dispossessed must trust to your generosity.’

‘You shall not starve, so long as I have a hole, and food in it,’ Fern said, and the others echoed him.

Thorn, Root, and Bark nodded thanks. Thorn continued. ‘We will leave on the morrow. Pack up what you can, share out what you have, seek your beds in the treetops again this night, and on the morrow, we shall begin.’

‘Pack your ropes,’ Beech added. ‘We shall sleep in the treetops wherever we find ourselves, until we have gone beyond the reach of the gobble-uns.’

‘Which way?’ Burr asked. A silence fell.

Thorn spoke, but not to any of the hobbits gathered there. ‘Lady?’ he said quietly, reverently, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the canopy above. The rest bowed their heads. ‘Lady, we have lived beneath your skirts these many years. You have given us food, shelter, and protection; you have cared for us as your children. Tell us now where to go. We beg of you, Lady, this last boon.’

A gentle breeze caressed his upturned face; high above, a black squirrel scolded.

‘North,’ Beech said suddenly. ‘The bad things, the black squirrels, the spreading blackness in the stream, all these things come from the South.’

Thorn nodded. ‘Thank you, Lady,’ he said to the treetops, then turned to the others. ‘On the morrow, we go North.’

***

‘Leave?’ Mistress Thorn said to her husband. ‘But...’ She looked around the yard, at the wanton destruction that remained from last night’s waking nightmare. There was nothing to hold on to, except the fact that hobbits had lived here as long as any could remember. For all they knew, the Lady had planted them in the upper vales of the Great River, watered them, grown them up here; they’d never known anything else. They'd been driven from the land to the forest, and now were being driven from the forest perhaps... but what else was there for them?

‘Leave?’ little Pickthorn said, puzzled. His face brightened as he added, ‘You mean, travel?’

‘Travel?’ Beech asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘You know, a journey!’ Pick said triumphantly.

‘A-journey?’ Thorn echoed. ‘Pick, you’re not making sense.’

‘Going from one place to another,’ Pick said slowly, remembering the grey one’s words. 'Walking all day, stopping for the night, getting up and walking again,' he added.

‘Where have you heard such talk?’ Thorn asked.

‘The grey one spoke of such things,’ Pick said.

‘The grey one,’ Beech echoed. They had never satisfactorily worked out who or what the creature was. All they knew was that he was tall, grey, shaggy, wore coverings on his feet, and had saved Pick from being eaten by the gobble-uns. He must not be all bad, at that. ‘It sounds as if this grey one knows something about the matter.’

‘He does!’ Pick said stoutly. ‘He even has special food for travelling.’

‘Waybread,’ Thorn said, nodding. ‘I remember you telling us about that.’

‘We have no waybread,’ Beech said, ‘but we can bake acorn cakes this day, to wrap and take with us, and we can snare coneys along the way, and pick berries.’

‘We can dig roots, and find mushrooms as well,’ his sister said practically. ‘This time of year ought to be good for... what did you call it, Pick?’

‘Travelling,’ Pick said, feeling important. ‘Or a journey.’

‘A-journey,’ Mistress Thorn said. She sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better get used to the word; I have the feeling it’ll be tossed about quite a bit for as far as I can see.’

‘We’ll make it into a song,’ her brother said soothingly. ‘Then it won’t seem so unnatural.’

***

For the rest of that day, the hobbits prepared. Some baked as many acorn cakes as they had flour for, while others scavenged, in well-guarded groups, for all the food they could find, mushrooms, roots, berries. Hobbit mums wrapped food, clothing and other practical possessions in blankets and formed carry-a-backs by knotting rope around the bundles and making loops for arm-holds. Those who’d lost all to the gobble-uns were able to make up carry-a-backs of the extra possessions shared out by those whose homes had not yet been invaded.

Late that afternoon, as ready as they’d ever be, the hobbits sought the treetops above their homes for the last time. It was a good thing they’d taken themselves and their carry-a-backs up into the treetops, for the gobble-uns came again that night, rampaging through the community, destroying all in their path, howling in their hunger and frustration. The hobbits sat tense, silent, motionless, the hobbit dads and uncles with nocked bows ready to shoot, but thankfully none of the creatures thought to look up. The grey light of dawn found the Little Folk weary, having passed a sleepless night, but alive. At least they were not on their way to make a feast for gobble-uns. They were alive, and free. They meant to stay that way.

Chapter 7. A-journey

Thorn had given much thought to the order of march, placing armed hobbits before and after the community as well as to the sides. They walked more than five miles that first day, further from their homes than any save the boldest scout had ever gone, following Thorn and Beech, for Thorn seemed to know what to do, and Beech seemed to know where to go.

As the Sun was westering, Beech noted a grove of likely trees. ‘Here,’ he said, nudging his sister’s husband. ‘Not a low branch amongst them, and good, sturdy branches up high. We’ll sleep here this night.’

‘Very well,’ Thorn said, and made ready to stop, but Beech kept walking. ‘What is it, brother?’ Thorn said.

‘We’ll keep walking a ways, double back,’ Beech said. ‘If anything follows our trail in the night, they’ll sniff their way right past the trees and on into the woods, and then they’ll run out of scent and be baffled, but at least they won’t be baffled right below where we’re hiding.’

‘Good thinking,’ Thorn said. Beech nodded. His hide, as well as the hides of the ones he loved, indeed, of the entire community, depended on how well they thought out their course. This was not like a hunt, where the wrong decision meant an empty pot, rather, in this case, a wrong decision would fill the pot with hobbits. That would never do.

They walked on a half mile or so before Beech led them back in a circle to the path they’d left, and then back along the path. ‘Perhaps they’re stupid enough to run in circles half the night,’ he said hopefully.

Thorn snorted. As they’d walked, the word had been passed back along the line that soon they’d stop, but when they did stop, none must touch the boles of the trees. They’d climb rope ladders to get up into the branches.

Choosing the most promising trees, archers shot arrows into the air, light lines attached. The arrows went over high branches and came down again, and after that ‘twas simple work to attach ropes to the light lines and haul them over. Then nimble hobbit lads climbed the ropes, made fast the rope ladders, and the rest climbed, even the eldest of the community who were spry, if wrinkled. Hobbits tended to live long, remaining hale and hearty until, one night, an old hobbit would go to sleep and never waken again in this world. It stood them in good stead now.

Before long, the entire community was roped safely onto the high branches. The hunters wiped away tracks and climbed up and took up the ladders. No sign remained on the ground that hunted hobbits had taken refuge here.

They slept well that evening, rising in the morning to descend from their high places and take up the march again. They made good time, nearly ten miles before circling back to climb again. Their caution paid off this night, for the gobble-uns had come to raid the community once more and found their trail, following it with hateful, hungry determination to its end, passing beneath the silent hobbits with frightful growls and snarls coming, and even more horrid gnashings and mutterings when they came around again, before realising the trail led them nowhere. If any hobbits had doubted the necessity of this “a-journey” before, they were believers now.

Another day of walking, another night of hiding, and the creatures passed beneath them again, a smaller group this time, perhaps only a score. Some time after the hungry hunters had passed, a solitary figure was seen beneath the hobbits’ hiding place. Still awake from the earlier fearful wait for the gobble-uns to pass, little Pickthorn tugged at his father’s sleeve. ‘Grey one,’ he whispered.

‘The gobble-uns will circle back this way and catch him up!’ Beech hissed. He didn’t know any more about this grey one after seeing him pass beneath them, but the being had killed gobble-uns, so presumably he was not friendly with the monsters.

‘All right, pass the word: hunters be ready to follow,’ Thorn said, and soon the word was passed from family to family, branch to branch, tree to tree. Sure enough, the body of gobble-uns passed beneath them again, sounding somehow eager; they’d picked up the new scent and were on the trail. After they passed, ropes fell from the high branches and small hunters descended, weapons slung at their backs, to follow the body of marching monsters.

Shouting broke out ahead and light slashing through the trees dazzled their eyes. They moved forward to take cover behind great boles, and as they peeped out, they saw the grey one, seemingly grown to towering height, arms outspread, eyes blazing under bushy brows, staff alight with uncanny fire. Some of the gobble-uns had fallen back in fear, but a few bolder creatures pressed forward and others circled round to approach from the rear, away from the eyes, threatening to overwhelm the figure, commanding as it was.

Thorn gestured and hobbit hunters spread out. When Thorn loosed his first arrow the others were ready, and suddenly the air was filled with flying shafts. The gobble-uns were cut down quickly and efficiently, pierced with many arrows. The grey one stood a moment in surprise, arms still spread, but then the fiery staff dimmed to an ordinary stick once more even as the being seemed to shrink into himself, once again a bent old man.

‘Is he one of those alfs that Pick saw?’ Beech whispered, “alf” being the closest approximation in their speech to “Elf”.

‘If he is, he’s a grand-un,’ Thorn whispered back. ‘I’ve never seen the like of that fire he’s got.’

The grey one seemed able to hear the whispers; he peered intently into the thicket where Thorn and Beech crouched.

‘Come out,’ he said, gesturing invitingly. ‘Let me at least thank you for your aid.’

‘No thanks are needed, Grand-alf,’ Thorn said, emerging cautiously from his hiding place. He stopped well out of arms-reach.

The grey one raised a bushy eyebrow at this novel address, but nodded gravely. ‘I will thank you all the same,’ he said. ‘You are Pick’s father, are you not?’

Thorn froze in surprise. ‘How did you know?’ he asked slowly.

‘I watched you gather him from where I’d left him for you to find,’ the grey one said.

‘Then it is we-uns who owe the thanks to you, Grand-alf,’ Thorn said with a bow, which the grey one returned gravely.

‘How did you come to be here?’ the grey one said. He seated himself on the ground as if there were nothing more natural in the world than to chat with a group of Little Folk emerging from cover, their arrows trained upon him, while two dozen dead goblins lay where they’d been cut down.

‘We were driven from our home by the likes of these,’ Thorn replied, the sweep of his arm taking in the dead goblins. ‘We seek a safer place to live. We are...’ he savoured the unfamiliar word as if it were a new flavour that he was not quite sure was to his liking yet, ‘travelling to find a new place to make our home.’

‘North,’ the grey one said, a simple fact, seeing as their community lay well to the South.

‘North,’ Thorn agreed, while several hunters made protesting noises. Was it safe to tell this stranger their business?

‘Why North?’ asked the grey one, honestly curious.

Thorn shrugged. ‘It’s as good as any,’ he said. ‘The bad things come from the South.’

‘Do you know what lies to the North?’ the grey one asked. He’d had the impression from Pick that none of these had ever ventured more than a day’s journey from home.

‘No, nor any other direction, either,’ Thorn said, seating himself on the ground and gesturing to the others to do the same. Beech shook his head, waved several of the hunters to follow him, and melted into the woods. ‘They will keep watch,’ Thorn added. ‘What can you tell us about the land?’ he asked. Surely if this one knew words like “travelling” and “a-journey” he ought to be able to tell them something about other places.

Grand-alf picked up a stick and smoothed the dirt in front of him. He began to talk and sketch, not seeming to notice the Little Folk creeping forward in fascination as a rough map took shape on the ground. It was not long before he could have reached out and touched any one of them, though he had the good sense not to. Though his eyes remained on the map, he was studying them as carefully as he might, taking in every detail. They were a proud people, he thought, for all their small stature, self-reliant, intelligent, curious. Their movements were graceful, their senses sharp; they seemed to be taking in sight, sound, smell of their surroundings even as they remained focused on this unusual geography lesson.

‘Of course there are better maps at Imladris,’ the grey one concluded, putting the stick down and sitting back. The Little Folk seemed to have accepted him; they neither stiffened nor shrunk away from him, now that he was giving them his full attention. Of course, the hidden hunters might well have bows trained on him at this moment, if they were not just watching for the advent of more goblins. He wouldn’t put it past them.

‘Of course,’ Thorn said, drinking in the map, imprinting it upon his memory. He wondered what Imladris was.

Chapter 8. Winter's Rest

 Thorn wakened suddenly from a dream, straining against the bonds that held him to the tree branch. Some instinct kept him from crying out, though his heart thudded in his chest so that he thought it must be audible to the travellers passing beneath them.

Tall they were, and fair to look upon, and as they moved, light moved with them in shimmers and gleams. The hobbits watched in wonder as the Elves passed their hiding places. Scraps of music came to their ears, and their eyes were dazzled, but they made no sound or move that might betray them to these Big Folk, for Big they were, and thus not to be trusted, no matter how fair to the senses.

The Fallohides had continued to move steadily northwards with no clear aim. They had found no resting place as of yet, though the gobble-uns had appeared less and less frequently. In point of fact, they’d seen no sign of the creatures for days. Thorn thought constantly of the map the grey one had sketched, the Forest, the Great River, the Mountains beyond. Grand-alf had said there were no gobble-uns beyond the Mountains and the land was fair: field and forest belonging to a king of Men who would not begrudge a corner of it. Grand-alf had even said that there were already People there, a little different from the Fallohides, but People nonetheless, of proper size and furry feet. Harfoots, the grey one had called them.

Harfoots, Thorn rolled the word around his tongue. It stirred dim memory, but not an itch he could scratch. Kindred folk who might welcome them. Grand-alf said they were merry, clever-handed and quiet footed, and they made their homes in holes in the hills. Surely there was room in the woods for the Fallohides, who preferred trees to hills.

Any day now they would strike the Forest Road, and if they turned towards the setting of the Sun they would come to a shallow place where the Great River could be crossed. A “ford”, the grey one had called it. What to do? Should he lead the People ever northward, settle here where they were now that the gobble-uns no longer appeared on their back-trail, or should he lead the People across the Great River and the Mountains to the fair new land? What was to keep the spreading Shadow from finding them in the northern reaches of the Forest, after all? Nothing that he could see. Mountains, now... tall teeth of solid rock and ice, surely these presented a more formidable barrier.

’A barrier to us-uns, as well,’ Beech argued as they walked the next day. The Fair Folk had left no sign of their passing. Thorn would have thought them part of his dream if Beech hadn’t confirmed he’d seen them as well.

’We’ve seen snow before,’ Thorn said stubbornly.

’Snow outside when we’re snug inside our tree-holes is one thing,’ Beech said. ‘Sitting in the lap of the Snow is quite another.’

Fern fell in beside them. ‘Besides,’ he added. ‘How can we leave the Lady’s protection? To come out from under her skirts is asking for disaster.’

’There is forest on the other side of the Mountains,’ Thorn said.

’What if it’s different forest?’ Fern said.

’Let us hope it is different,’ Thorn answered. ‘At least, let us hope the gobble-uns do not range there.’

That evening, Thorn decreed that the families would stop a few days where they found shelter. There was a goodly supply of heavily-laden nut trees nearby, plentiful roots for the digging, and fish in the stream. With the late berries they’d gathered as they walked, the Fallohides had a goodly feast. The next day hunting parties went out, not only to find game but to check out the territory surrounding them. When the hunters returned, after caching the meat for the morrow the hobbits held a council in the treetops. It seemed odd, not to be gathered round a cheery fire, but they’d become used to camping in the trees over the long journey.

’Winter’s coming on,’ Root said. ‘You cannot mean we are to cross the mountains in snow!’

’There’s always snow atop those mountains, at least from my great-great-grand’s tales,’ Thorn said.

’Yes, but it’d be a sight deeper in winter,’ Fern put in. ‘I don’t fancy travelling in such.’

’We’ve seen no sign of gobble-uns in days,’ Burr said. ‘I say we’ve left our troubles well behind us.’

’The squirrels are as they ought to be,’ Beech added, ‘and the water from the stream is fair and pure. The bad things haven’t spread this far north. Why not settle here, gather as much food as we can—the late berries are nearly done, but the trees are heavy with acorns and nuts. Why leave all to the squirrels?’

’Did you see any sign of Big Folk?’ Thorn asked Bark. He and his sons had ranged westward, toward the Great River, even as Root and his sons had ranged eastward to the forest stream. Thorn and his sons had gone a day’s journey northwards, reaching the Forest Road.

’None,’ Bark answered. ‘There are fields, but they lie fallow, and remains of houses, but the roofs have fallen in.’ Root had found an abandoned woodsman’s cot near the stream. There had been no traffic on the Road, though it was in good repair.

’No Men to hunt and harry us,’ Burr said.

’No Men to befriend and trade with,’ Thorn said. ‘No Men in the land at all; that seems odd.’

’We’ve done without trade for some years now,’ Burr argued. ‘We’ll manage.’

’We always do,’ Bark agreed.

In the end the Fallohides decided to stay, to build a new community and a new life. There were hollows in some of the trees, providing ready-made homes. Other families began digging under the roots of trees, excavating what would become a warm, dry, comfortable home. A tree made a fine roof, solid and sturdy.

Deep in Greenwood the Great the little community grew and flourished. The hobbits gathered food until their newly-dug storeholes were bursting. The woodcarvers among them were kept busy fashioning furnishings for the holes, while the tanners tanned hides for clothing, for game was plentiful. The only menace the small folk encountered that autumn was a pack of hungry wolves, but the hobbit holes had sturdy doors, and Thorn had decreed armed watchers on high tree limbs even in the midst of peace and plenty. Should the gobble-uns return, they’d have warning enough to put up a fight, at least. The wolves shot by the watchers provided large warm and furry rugs for more than one sitting room.

’How long will we need watchers?’ Fern asked Beech as they returned from hunting, burdened with fat coneys and squirrels—good warm fur, and good eating.

’I think we’ll need watchers as long as we stay on this side of the mountains,’ Beech answered. ‘At least, that’s what Thorn says.’

’Does he honestly believe the gobble-uns will find us here?’ Fern said, stopping. They’d lived in peace for the rest of the Autumn. Now that winter was fairly upon them, he didn’t relish the thought of fleeing the creatures, or having his family catch their deaths hiding in the treetops in icy wind and rain or snow.

’Nothing stopped them before,’ Beech said. ‘Didn’t you hear the word? We’re to watch out for black squirrels. Thorn thinks they might be an early sign of the creeping Shadow.'

’How does he figure that?’ Fern said, easing his furry burden on his shoulders.

’I do not know; perhaps he asked the Lady,’ Beech replied seriously. His sister’s husband often took himself off into the wood. Beech only hoped he’d not run into trouble, going off alone. Still, Thorn had led them safe thus far, and he had the best ear for listening to the Lady’s whispers.

Winter set in, and the Fallohides were snug and warm in their holes. Thorn continued his insistence on watchers, taking his own turn along with his older sons. There was always a watcher in the daylight, perched high above the community, and as twilight fell he’d descend, replaced by a score of fur-clad hobbits with stout bows and quivers full of arrows. They’d take up their places in various trees and watch through the numbing hours.

Any grumbling there might have been fell by the wayside when another pack of hunting wolves ventured upon the community. These were hungrier than the first group and more determined, whining and scratching at the doors to the hobbit holes, trying to dig their way in. The watchers slaughtered more than half the pack from their high perches before the creatures desisted.

’More warm furs,’ Burr said to Bark’s eldest son as they prepared to descend their tree the next morning.

’O aye,’ came the reply. ‘Grand-da says that even if the gobble-uns never find us again, Thorn’s watch is a good idea, what with these wolves and such.’

’And such? D’you mean the Big Folk?’ Burr asked.

Oakbark nodded. ‘Grand-da says they’re snug for the winter, same’s us-uns. We might see more of them when Mistress Spring wakens from her rest.’ He paused, then asked. ‘Do you suppose that the gobble-uns are resting for the Winter as well?’

’That’s a good question,’ Burr said. ‘I’d rather think they’re staying close to home and we’ve gone beyond their reach.’

’You’re not alone in that,’ Oakbark nodded. He inhaled deeply. ‘I smell breakfast!’ he said. He put his bow away and checked his quiver, then began the long climb down.

Chapter 9. A New Start

Spring came later that year, perhaps because they were farther North than they had lived before settling here. The fields and woods took on new life and promise. Hunting was good in that part of the wood, as if no one had hunted there for some time. The game was plentiful and not terribly wary. It was a good thing hobbits hunt for the pot and not for sport, or the wild animals might have been seriously depleted, but hobbits are thrifty folk and take only what they need.

As was their practice, they stored up food against the promise of lean times. They smoked and dried meat and fish, dug roots, gathered berries and mushrooms and dried as much as they ate fresh. Parties of gleaners left the eaves of the wood to glean the grain that grew wild in the abandoned fields, and there was bread again, real bread of wheat or barley, and honey cake for times of celebration. There was even wine from the grapes growing wild in deserted vineyards, and apples and pears for the taking in long-neglected orchards.

There was talk of moving onto the land once more, becoming farm folk as their great-great grands had been. The land was rich and ripe for the taking, and empty of Men. After much talk of this sort, Thorn went off by himself, deep into the wood one day, returning with a sober face. The Lady would not offer protection beyond the sheltering skirts of the trees. In the end the hobbits decided to stay.

By the end of that first Summer, the People had grown fat again, not fat as those who are lazy and useless, but fat with good health, hard work, and plenty to eat. The storeholes were well-filled against the coming Winter. The move had been a good one, and they were at peace with the world.

For five years they lived in peace and plenty, and the treetop watch was abandoned and nearly forgotten.

With the coming of the sixth Spring the first Men began arriving. These were not Men like the simple, jolly folk they remembered from the old days, but more grim, moving Northward it seemed away from a threat to the South. The first hobbit to approach one of these, hoping to establish friendly relations and trade, was shot down, examined by a group of curious Men, and left for dead. With the last of his breath he told his son Beech, who’d found him thus, that they had spoken in a strange tongue and had not understood anything he’d said to them.

 ‘They treated him like a beast,’ Beech said later, after the sorrowing hobbits had sung the memorial song. ‘Just as you or I might shoot a fox or stoat, a menace to our little ones. Shot him down and turned him over with a nudge of the toe to look on his face,’ he said angrily. ‘Spat on him, and left him as refuse.’

Thorn’s arm around his wife tightened as she wept fresh tears for her father, while her sisters sobbed and the Thorn children, along with their cousins the Barks, Twigs, Nuts and Ferns mourned the loss of their gran-da.

Ches, now eldest of the Nut family, placed a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder. ‘Enough,’ he said quietly. ‘You only add to our sisters’ grief.’

 ‘He had a score of good years coming to him,’ Beech muttered, ‘two-score, perhaps. Cut short by ignorant giants. What harm did he ever offer them?’

 ‘Peace,’ Thorn said, and at this word from the head of the Fallohides, Beech finally subsided, but he did not stop thinking about these Big Folk and what their advent portended for the People.

 The message was all too clear. These Men were not like the others they’d known. Certainly only a few of those had been trustworthy. Most had seen the Little Folk as weak just because they were small and treated them badly, but a few good Men had rued the driving out of the Little Folk and had traded fairly for what the hobbits produced from the forest: hides and woodcarvings, berries and fish and meat. These new Big Folk were obviously not among the good. Men who shot down a hobbit approaching them with open, empty hands were not to be trusted.

 At first the Fallohides were able to avoid the Men who came to settle the empty farms. The best land closest to the Great River was claimed first, and the hobbits seldom saw any of the new inhabitants of the land. Seldom did they venture as far as the Great River, and the newly-arrived Men were much too busy ploughing and planting to be traipsing the woods. When a Man did walk in the woods it was easy to hear his clumsy steps and take cover long before there was any danger of discovery. The hobbits had to be more careful about things such as smoke, however. Still, the land was good and the wood was generous, and because they were careful another year passed without further incident.

 The following Spring still more Men came into the land, taking up the farms between the River and the Forest, even the land just outside the eaves of Greenwood the Great. Worse, some Men took land in the wood for themselves and began to work as woodcutters and hunters, cutting the trees and hunting the game. As the Men became more numerous, game was harder to find and it was more difficult to avoid encountering Men. Another hobbit was shot by a hunting party of Big Folk that Autumn. The People retreated to their holes for the Winter and it was a retreat indeed, not just from weather but from encroaching Big Folk. Though the storeholes were not as well filled as previously, the hobbits still had enough to eat, thanks to the bounty of the Lady’s provision.

More than once over that long cold season as families met and talked over the growing troubles, discussion of crossing the Mountains arose. Each time after it was brought out, talked over, turned about and examined closely, the idea would be put back again. Dangerous as life was, they were still more secure here in their hidey-holes than crossing the open plain to the Mountains and braving the wind- and snow-swept heights. They did not even know what was on the other side of the Mountains—there was only the grey one’s word for it that a fair land lay beyond. What if they made the treacherous crossing, only to find a barren land beyond? It was better to face what they knew than take on a whole new set of unimaginable troubles. They could bear their troubles as long as the Lady continued to provide. At the worst, should Men prove more numerous and troublesome, the hobbits might pick up and move further to the North, and deeper into the wood. Surely they’d find safety and plenty there.

In the Spring that followed, more Men moved into the vale and wood, a strange black murk appeared in the Forest stream, and Beech went out to hunt and brought back a black squirrel amongst the others he’d shot on a fine Spring day.

There were several notable happenings besides that black squirrel. Blackthorn became an adult in the community, along with his good friends Oakleaf and Roughbark and several others. When these had proven their knowledge and skill there was a welcoming feast deep in the woods where as yet no Man walked. Groups of hobbits sat upon hides spread on the forest floor, or stood together, eating, talking, and laughing. The freshly-welcomed adults, resplendent in the new cloaks symbolising their change of status in the community, moved amongst the groups, receiving congratulations.

Beech clapped his nephew on the back. ‘Nice shooting, Black,’ he said. ‘I do believe I’ll ask you to be my hunting partner now that you’re all grown up.’

 ‘You’ll have to vie with me for the honour,’ Ches laughed, coming up to them, gnawing on the leg of a roasted fowl. ‘What do you say, Black?’

 ‘I’ll say only that I’m hungry!’ Blackthorn grinned in reply.

 ‘Plenty more where this came from,’ Ches answered.

 ‘A wise answer,’ Beech said at the same time, pretending solemnity.

 ‘I’d expect wise answers from now on,’ Ches said in aside. ‘He is a hobbit grown, you know.’

 ‘I had heard something to that effect,’ Beech answered. ‘Poor fellow, all grown up and about to starve to death in his first day.’

 ‘Not a chance!’ Holly said, coming up with a laden tray. ‘Hail, Brother! We who are but children salute thee.’

 ‘Bless you, child,’ Blackthorn said, taking a piece of roasted fowl. A laughing Oakleaf came up then, and Holly blushed and dropped her eyes, but held out her tray to him.

 ‘Thank you, lass, I was perishing,’ Oakleaf said, picking up a piece for himself and biting into the juicy, succulent roast. ‘You do not know how much work it is to prove yourself amongst these Fallohides,’ he added when he’d swallowed the mouthful.

 ‘I’d heard,’ Holly said, raising her eyes to meet his gaze.

 ‘Perhaps you’d leave the tray with my friend and his uncles, and walk with me,’ Oakleaf added. ‘I’ve found a lovely pocket of sweet violets to share.’

Blackthorn looked up in surprise, and Oakleaf added softly. ‘I’ve asked your father and mother, and they’ve given their blessing.’

 ‘I’ll gladly go with you,’ Holly said, her eyes bright with joy.

 ‘Here, let me take that,’ Ches said, lifting the tray from her grasp. ‘No use letting this go to waste.’

Oakleaf held out his hand, and Holly, with a swift glance at the others, placed hers in it, then the two walked slowly away, singing as they went. Others hearing the song smiled and exchanged wise and understanding looks. Another family had been formed to add to the community, a promise of new life and new hope.

 ‘She’s a child,’ Blackthorn said in protest. ‘How could Da—‘

 ‘She’s but a year younger than you are, Black,’ Ches said quietly. ‘My Rose was a year younger than Holly, even, when I took her to wife.’

 ‘And when will you sing the song?’ Beech asked. ‘Will you take up the cloak of adulthood and a wife in the same day as your friend did?’

 ‘I might ask the same of you,’ Blackthorn said candidly. ‘When will you sing the song, Uncle?’

 ‘I’ve not seen two-score Springs, yet,’ Beech said easily. ‘There’s plenty of time to settle down. I have to find a lass who can cook as well as your mum before I leave your family’s hole!’ Blackthorn let this pass for an answer. It was common knowledge that his uncle had had his eye on lovely Linden of the Leaf family, had been waiting only for her to be old enough to receive her parents’ blessing.

 ‘Oakleaf is a stout-hearted hobbit,’ Ches said, changing the subject. ‘He’ll cherish Holly and take good care of her for all of her days, and she’ll do the same for him.’

 ‘Refuse no joy that is set before you, lad,’ Beech added softly. ‘If you hesitate, it might slip your grasp and never be.’ He smiled but his eyes were sad. He took another piece of roasted fowl from the tray Ches held and said, ‘I think I’ll take myself off.’

As Blackthorn looked after him, his eyes encountered Root, laughing with wife Ruby and eldest daughter Lily. Black and Lily had found much to talk about through the long cold of Winter, coming to an understanding... ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said to Ches.

Following his glance, his uncle answered, ‘Of course. Blessed be you both, and may your family take root and grow long.’

Chapter 10. A-journey Again

 ‘We move North,’ Thorn said, his tone final. ‘Any who does not care to follow may stay; I will not force any to come with me. But I and my family go North on the morrow.’

 ‘Break up the People?’ Fern gasped.

 ‘How can you suggest such a thing?’ Twig added.

Thorn looked from one to the other, and then his gaze swept the assembled hobbits, the heads in a loose circle around the fire, their families gathered behind them.  ‘I’m tired of arguing,’ he said simply. ‘If it were a matter any less desperate, I would not suggest such a thing. I will not stay here, to see my family taken as game for the pot!’

 ‘You don’t know that anything of the kind will happen,’ Fern said again. He was growing weary of the argument as well.

Beech spoke up. He’d sat quietly as the argument continued, drawing on his pipe, but the sweetgrass was burnt to ash now, leaving only a bitter taste on his tongue. ‘A week before the Leaf family was taken, Oakleaf shot a black squirrel,’ he said quietly. ‘I shot the first black squirrel seen hereabouts five days ago.’

 ‘We don’t know—‘ Fern said stubbornly, but Beech continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

 ‘Black murk is appearing in the stream that runs deep in the forest,’ he said. ‘I made a special point of going to see. The evil is reaching Northwards.’

 ‘We dare not stay here,’ one of the hobbits in the crowd behind the heads of families muttered, and others took up the words.

 ‘We have made a good start here; the Lady has been good to us,’ Fern argued, seeing that the wind was changing and beginning to blow from another quarter.

 ‘We can make a good start again,’ Thorn said. ‘The Lady will not bless us if we do not heed her warnings.’ He nodded to the brace of squirrels that Beech had thrown down at his feet this very morning, before he’d called the People to this emergency meeting. Unnaturally black they were, their fur rough, somehow oily, and unpleasant to the touch, their flesh foul and unappetising. ‘We leave on the morrow. Any who cares to come with us is welcome.’

As he turned away a murmur arose, stilling as he turned back. ‘O yes,’ he said, ‘and we plan to take to the treetops this night, just in case.’

As he walked away, Fern stared after him then looked to Root. ‘You’re not packing up,’ he said.

Root wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Young Oakleaf and Holly started packing this morning, as soon as Beech returned from the hunt,’ he said. ‘As did my daughter and Blackthorn. You ought to listen to Oakleaf; he can be quite persuasive. His family were the first to be taken, remember.’

 ‘It doesn’t have to happen here,’ Fern said.

 ‘Saying so won’t make it true,’ Root said.

 ‘Thorn is really going to split the People to pieces?’ Fern said incredulously. ‘I cannot believe it!’

 ‘No, not Thorn,’ Root said, finally meeting his eyes. ‘You are, if you stay. You and whoever else stays will be the ones to split the People. Of course, I don’t expect you’ll remain long to rue your decision.’

 ‘What do you mean by that?’ Fern demanded.

 ‘Think on it,’ Root said grimly. ‘I’ve packing to do.’ He turned and walked away, leaving Fern standing with his mouth open. Someone plucked at his sleeve and he turned to see Twig.

 ‘We’re leaving as well,’ Twig said with a grimace.

 ‘But we were agreed—‘ Fern said.

 ‘My wife just “un-agreed” me,’ Twig replied. When Fern returned to his hole, he found his wife making up packs whilst his older sons fastened rope ladders to a high branch above their tree-hole. He’d been “un-agreed” as well.

Nothing prowled about below the little community that night, and Fern cursed the discomfort and the waste. They’d made a good start here, and had little trouble keeping out of the way of the occasional Man who wandered in the forest. That folk should be affrighted by a few little black squirrels... to be sure, they weren’t fit to eat, but there was plenty of other game for the taking.

The next morning they started out, a long line of hobbits with hunters before and after them, out to the sides as well, to warn of the approach of Men or other hazards. They stopped short of the Road that evening, finding good sturdy trees for the perching. No foul hunters, of goblin- or Man-kind, passed beneath them, but watchers thought they saw a shimmer of light and heard a scrap of song in the depths of the night. When Thorn received the report, he nodded. Undoubtedly Fair Folk had been a-journey in the darkling wood.

The next morning they were up before dawn, crossing the Great Road in the predawn half-light, a silent, ghostly procession in the mist, scores of hobbits in family groups. Each group would pause at the edge of the wood, look up and down the Road, slip across and disappear into the misty wood on the other side. Several times this process was interrupted by Men on foot or in carts, early on their way to places unknown and unguessed by the hobbits.

 ‘Perhaps we ought to have crossed in the night,’ Beech whispered to Thorn as they crouched under cover, waiting to send the next family across.

 ‘The Lady warned me not to travel in the darkness,’ Thorn answered. ‘Much darker things lurk beneath her skirts these days.’ Beech nodded. Thorn was much more cautious this time than he’d been the last time the Fallohides had gone a-journey. He sent hunters ahead of the main body, proceeding only when these returned to report that the way was clear.

At last the entire clan had crossed in safety and secrecy and they continued Northwards. Privately Thorn wondered how far the Lady spread her skirts. When he brought up the question to Beech later, as they walked at the head of the exodus, his brother-in-love merely shrugged. ‘I used to think she went on forever,’ he said. ‘Of course, she has an end near the Great River, so there may well be an end to the Forest further to the North.’ He wondered just how far to the North Thorn proposed to take the People this time. What was to keep the evil from spreading until the entire Forest lay under its shadow?

 ‘What I want to know is...’ Thorn began, but broke off. He stiffened, lifting his bow in the air. The hobbits following him stopped, listening, and the ones following them stopped, and on down the line until the long hobbit-snake stood still and barely breathing. Thorn drew himself up to his full height, quiet, tense, paying heed to what the Lady was telling him. The leaves were still, bird-song silent. ‘Seek the treetops!’ he hissed, jerking his bow upwards. It did not take long for the well-practiced hobbit community to find shelter on high branches, leaving a group of armed hunters on the ground. As the last of the rope ladders was hauled aloft, Thorn led the other hunters in a run away from the hiding place.

He stopped suddenly and went to ground, the others dropping as quickly as he did. Ahead of them he heard the tell-tale growling, then a terrible shriek that made his hair stand on end. He raised his bow above his head, circled it in the air in silent signal, and the hobbits crept forward, spreading out as they went. Another hair-raising shriek came and the growling grew angrier as they approached.

There was a cry, not from any gobble-un throat this time, and Thorn nodded to himself. The creatures had found prey, for certain, and drawn blood, but as a third unearthly howl arose, it became clear that this prey had claws and would not easily be taken by the monsters. Perhaps the Fallohides could be of service, though they’d remain hidden so as not to draw the attention of whatever fought the gobble-uns.

Peering from the underbrush, the hobbits saw a bright ring of shields drawn together to make a protective circle. They could not see the folk that sheltered within the circle, but they could clearly see the horrid attackers, foul creatures with slavering jaws and evil weapons: spears that they tried to thrust through the shield wall as they charged, spiked clubs, and short bows firing wickedly tipped arrows into the circle.

Thorn gave the alarm cry of a jay and hobbit arrows found their mark. Before the surprised gobble-uns could regroup to meet the unexpected menace behind them they were cut down, wounded and dying. Several of the shield-bearers broke loose, the circle re-forming behind them. These tall creatures gracefully but efficiently dispatched any of the gobble-uns left alive with swords that gleamed dully in the shadowy light, then at an order snapped from within the circle they stood as if turned to stone.

The hobbits waited in the underbrush, knowing that movement would give away their positions. They’d helped, but whom had they helped? The shield-bearers were Big Folk, that was of a certainty, not like any woodsman they’d ever seen, or farmer they’d traded with at the edge of the Forest in the shadows of twilight. Fair Folk one might call them indeed. Dark was their hair, but straight, not curling like a hobbit’s, pale was their skin and their eyes were piercing and grey.

A tall one, with a commanding presence stepped forth, supported by another, calling softly in a language the hobbits did not know, and so of course they did not answer. He called again, this time in the Common Tongue. ‘Hoi there! Who are you? Come out!’

Ha. What kind of fools did he take them for?

’We mean you no harm!’ he said. ‘We only wish to thank you for helping us.’ With difficulty he removed the helm he wore and unlike the other Tall Ones his hair gleamed as gold. What manner of creatures were these? Fair ones indeed!

A musical voice spoke behind him. ‘What is it, Glorfindel?’

’Stay back, Arwen!’ the injured one snapped as the daughter of Elrond moved from behind the circle of shields. ‘We do not yet know what we are dealing with.’

 Thorn started. It was the Lady of the Forest as Pick had described her. One of the sharp-eyed shield bearers had seen the movement of the underbrush, and pointed. ‘There!’ Retreat was not possible and freezing again did no good; there was more than one arrow trained upon his hiding place. There was nothing for it but to emerge. Even if he were slain, the rest of his hunters yet lay safely hidden and could return to the People when these Big Folk moved on.

Holding his bow out to the side, the leader of the Fallohides stepped from his hiding place.

’It is one of the Little Folk!’ Arwen said. ‘He looks enough like Pick to be his father!’

Thorn seized on the familiar word. ‘Pick,’ he said, trying to find more words to add. Long had it been since he’d had need to use the tongue of Men. ‘What know you of Pick?’

Glorfindel nodded to the one supporting him, and they limped forward together. Before reaching the hobbit, Glorfindel stopped and knelt to speak to the small one face-to-face. ‘Pick,’ he said carefully in the Common Tongue. ‘Pick is a young Halfling of my acquaintance.’

Halfling, Thorn thought. Come to think of it, one of the People would seem half-a-something to one of the Big Folk. He nodded to this grey-eyed fair one. ‘Pick is my son,’ he said. ‘You are the ones who fed him honeycake? Way-bread?’ he added, remembering the odd word Pick had used. ‘You are—alfs?’ he said.

’We are High Elves,’ Glorfindel said, his lips twitching, ‘from Imladris, on our way home again.’

Imladris. That was a place the grey one had named. ‘Is Grand-alf with you?’ Thorn asked cautiously.

’Grand-alf?’ Glorfindel said, puzzled.

’The grey one,’ Thorn said patiently. In his experience, Big Folk were often slow of motion and of thought, compared to one of the People.

These Big Folk were quick, he found. ‘Mithrandir,’ Glorfindel said, nodding. ‘He rescued your son from the orcs.’

’Orcs?’ Thorn said, filing the word away for future reference. ‘Gobble-uns,’ he confirmed.

’Goblins,’ Arwen said, coming up beside Glorfindel. ‘Yes, that is what Pick called them.’

Thorn bowed low to her, and other hobbits broke from their hiding places to range themselves in a line, kneeling to the daughter of Elrond. ‘My Lady of the Wood,’ Thorn said reverently. The words came more easily now. ‘We were glad to be of service. But how dost thou come to be wandering the wood now, in this guise, with these foul creatures about?’

’In this guise?’ Arwen echoed, bemused, but Glorfindel, for all his years and wisdom, sucked in his breath in amaze. The Little Folk were remembering someone quite different, he realised. Luthien, perhaps, or even one of the Valar taking form to walk the woods and glades of Middle-earth. Arwen smiled then, following Glorfindel’s thought. ‘I am not the Lady of the Wood, but I thank you for your help nonetheless.’

’Not...’ Thorn said, meeting Beech’s glance.

’No,’ Arwen said gently. ‘She would be pleased, however, to know of your aid to the Firstborn, against those foul creatures.’

 ‘My lady,’ Thorn said with another bow. The wind whispered in the trees above and he cocked his head to listen, just as Glorfindel staggered, leaning more heavily upon the Elf who supported him. The hobbit leader moved forward quickly, Beech at his side, bending over the elf lord as he was eased to the ground. One of the Elves beside him pulled open his mail shirt to reveal an ominous red stain spreading across the tunic.

 ‘Spiderwebs,’ Thorn muttered in his own tongue. ‘Spiderwebs to stop the bleeding. There.’ He pointed, and Beech leapt in the direction indicated, returning with a handful of sticky gossamer stuff. Switching to the Common Tongue, Thorn said slowly, ‘If thou pleasest, my lord, weavings—’

 ‘Webs,’ Beech broke in.

Thorn nodded, ‘— webs of things — spiders,’ he corrected himself as he remembered the word, ‘to stop the blooding. Thou art wounded, I think.’ He looked to the Elves kneeling to either side of the Elf lord, two of whom were like enough to be twins. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘The Lady told me...’

 ‘Lady,’ Glorfindel gasped as searching fingers probed the wound. They’d removed the arrow in the heat of battle, staunched the flow of blood, but it had started bleeding again. Beech moved forward, holding out his hand, and Arwen nodded, moving aside enough to let the hobbit slip in next to Glorfindel. Beech applied the cobwebs, took the cloth Arwen offered and pressed it to the wound.

 ‘Drink much,’ Thorn said now. ‘Water is best.’

 ‘Yes, of course,’ the Elf-healer on Glorfindel’s other side muttered, pulling his own water bottle from his belt and offering it to Glorfindel.

 ‘We see thee pass in the night,’ Thorn said conversationally. ‘Not the gobble-uns. They come from another way, I think.’

 ‘The People,’ Beech said in their own tongue. ‘We ought to send a message that the gobble-uns are about. I wonder greatly to have seen the creatures attacking in daylight.’

 ‘The ones who took Pick were abroad in daylight,’ Thorn reminded him. ‘They seem to be creatures of the night, certainly, but the forest is dim enough that they may wander whilst the Sun is awake as well.’

Catching the word “Pick”, Arwen asked, ‘How is young Pick? He is well, I trust.’

 ‘Pick is well,’ Thorn answered. ‘He grows, my lady.’ Turning back to Beech, he said, ‘Send messengers, then. Tell them to keep to the trees and be on guard. If more creatures were nearby, they ought to have joined the battle when they heard the cries of their fellows. The Lady has not warned me of further danger, but we might as well err on the side of safety.’

Beech nodded and faded into the underbrush. One of the Elves exclaimed. ‘He’s gone!’

 ‘Where did he go?’ Glorfindel asked.

 ‘To tell the People to stay,’ Thorn replied. ‘We sleep in trees, much more safe than ground. Night approaches. Thy folk welcome, us-uns to join.’

 ‘A good idea,’ Arwen said, looking from Glorfindel to her brothers. ‘You need a night’s rest before we travel again.’

Glorfindel started to protest, but Elladan and Elrohir agreed with their sister. ‘I’d say go to Thranduil’s palace to recover before attempting the mountain crossing,’ Elladan said, ‘but even that is too arduous a journey, I think.’

 ‘A night’s rest is in order,’ Elrohir agreed. ‘On the morrow we will see if you are strong enough to walk, or if we will need to rig a litter to bear you.’

 ‘I am well!’ Glorfindel said, ‘and who is in charge here? I am sworn to protect you...’

 ‘You are in charge, of course,’ Arwen said. ‘Now order us into the treetops, that we might cheerfully and promptly obey, and you may take a good report of us back to our Father.’

Chapter 11. Hobbit Help

The Elves shared of their provisions with the Fallohides and a merry feast was had by all in the treetops. Thorn and Beech rigged a hammock of sorts with the aid of the sons of Elrond, and they eased Glorfindel into it, tying him securely that he might not tip himself out in the night.

 ‘I haven’t been swaddled since I was a babe,’ he grumbled, and Beech laughed.

 ‘We’ll feed thee, o mighty alf,’ he said. ‘Never fear. The People have never yet let a guest starve.’

 ‘My thanks,’ Glorfindel said wryly.

 ‘Thou art most welcome,’ the hobbit replied. Quaint was the speech of these small folk, the Elves thought, but they were amazed at how rapidly the hobbits’ speech improved as they continued to speak and hear the Common Tongue and soon found themselves adopting the intimate form of address used by the hobbits. Before long an observer would have thought that all were members of a widely diverse but warm and loving family.

 ‘I know that spiderwebs will stop bleeding of wounds,’ Elladan said to Thorn, ‘but how did you know to find them so quickly?’

 ‘The Lady told me,’ Thorn said simply. He could not explain further, and finally the son of Elrond turned the subject to other matters.

 ‘You are different from the Halflings near my father’s house on the other side of the Mountains,’ he said. ‘Do you know them? Are they your relations?’

 ‘If they are Halflings like us-uns, then they mowt likely be,’ Thorn said. He stuffed his pipe with sweetfern he’d culled earlier as they walked, lit up and settled back for a good smoke. They were safe for the nonce, though as he smoked he continued to pay close heed to the surrounding wood.

 ‘You breathe smoke?’ Elladan said, astounded. ‘Be you related to dragons?’

Thorn laughed. ‘I know not what dragons be,’ he admitted, ‘save a rumour of great birds belching smoke and fire. But for us-uns, the smoke must go in before it comes out. It helps the food to settle, you know.’

 ‘No,’ Elladan said in wonder. ‘I didn’t know.’

 ‘Don’t the Halflings in your land smoke pipes?’ Thorn asked.

 ‘Not that I’ve ever seen,’ Elladan replied.

 ‘Then perhaps they aren’t our relations,’ Thorn said.

 ‘They have curly heads and furry feet,’ Elladan replied, ‘though they live in holes rather than trees...’

 ‘We live in holes when folk leave us in peace,’ Thorn said absently, and continued smoking and thinking. Beech noticed when he stopped drawing on the pipe and allowed the burning leaf to go out. As Thorn pocketed the pipe once more, he caught Beech's eye. The latter nodded and gave the territorial call of a robin. Flocking Elves saw the armed hobbits resting in their trees sit upright and pull out their bows.

Glorfindel moaned and thrashed nearby, and Beech hopped nimbly to where the Elf lord hung, perching above him and reaching down to touch his forehead. ‘Fever,’ he said shortly.

 ‘I was afraid of that,’ Elrohir said. ‘Those foul creatures smear filth upon the pyles of their arrows, if not outright poison.’ He forced a draught from a silver flask down the Elf lord’s throat, but it had no apparent effect. Probing the wound with his fingers offered no relief, but caused Glorfindel to cry out and struggle within his bindings.

 ‘Had it been poison he’d have died quickly,’ Elladan said, but he was frowning with concern.

 ‘What does your Lady say about fever?’ Elrohir asked Beech curiously. He didn’t like the looks of the wound, the ominous red of infection spreading out from the edges.

Beech nodded towards Thorn. ‘Ask him,’ he said. ‘He’s the Thorn; the Lady speaks to him.’

 ‘Thorn?’ Elladan asked. The Elves’ medical treatment had not prevented the infection, did not seem to be having any effect to alleviate it, and Glorfindel was growing more restless.

The hobbit cocked his head as if listening. ‘There is an herb,’ he said slowly, and pointed. ‘It grows at some distance, in that direction,’ he added. ‘I can show you,’ he said. ‘We’d have to build a fire away from here so as not to draw the attention of any we don’t care to find the People, steep the leaves in heated water, and bring the brew back here.’

 ‘Then let us go!’ Elladan said, taking up his bow and quiver.

 ‘A moment,’ Thorn said. ‘Can you go quietly enough to avoid drawing attention of the gobble-uns or Men?’

The son of Elrond stared in astonishment, but the hobbit was quite serious. ‘I can walk softly enough,’ Elladan answered at last, ‘and my cloak is of such stuff as disguises me from the casual eye.’

 ‘And what of the keen eye, the hungry eye, the seeking eye?’ Thorn pressed. ‘The Lady warns that such are not far. Even should we travel some distance, we will barely have time to heat water and kick dirt over the fire before they are upon us and the hunt is up. It will be difficult to slip past them and return.’

Elladan eyed the hobbit with growing respect. ‘We will do our best,’ he said. ‘The Elf lord needs more than our medicines can provide.’

 ‘You cannot go alone!’ Elrohir protested, but Elladan shook his head.

 ‘You must stay and watch over our sister, and Glorfindel,’ he answered. ‘You are senior in authority to anyone else, and must bring word of me back to our father should I fall.’

 ‘Thorn,’ Beech said in a protest of his own.

Thorn put a hand on his arm. ‘The alf will die,’ he said softly in their own tongue. ‘He is dying even now. I must go, brother. The Lady has shown me what is needed and where to find it.’

 ‘But— ’ Beech said.

 ‘If the young alf and I do not return, Black will be Thorn after me,’ the head of the Fallohides said firmly. ‘He has already heard the Lady.’

 ‘I do not like it, brother, not at all,’ Beech said in frustration. ‘That She has spoken to him already...’

 ‘Means that my life is at an end, perhaps,’ Thorn said patiently. ‘And if there are no more sips in the cup for me, who am I to complain? All I can do is make the best use of the time I have, Beech, and while we speak the alf-lord’s time is running short.’ Switching back to the Common Tongue he said, ‘Are you ready, alf?’

 ‘Call me Elladan,’ that one said.

 ‘Ell Adan,’ Thorn said, shouldering his own quiver and taking up his staff. ‘A curious name. Does it mean anything in particular?’

 ‘I’ll tell you when we return,’ the son of Elrond said, tossing a rope coil from the branch and sliding down. Thorn followed, and those remaining in the tree pulled the rope back up as soon as the hobbit touched the ground.

The sky slowly darkened as those hiding in the trees waited. Elrohir had to gag Glorfindel to quieten him, and the precaution proved necessary as dark growling forms passed below more than once. Elves and hobbits waited together, scarcely breathing, hands tightening on bows and relaxing again as the creatures passed.

Elladan followed Thorn through the wood, slipping silently along. Though the son of Elrond was accomplished at moving swiftly and silently through the woods, he found the hobbit chief had a genius for making his way without noise, scarcely disturbing the foliage as they passed.. At times Thorn would hold up a hand, crouching in cover, creeping forward by inches; at other times he sped so quickly the son of Elrond had trouble moving silently at the pace the hobbit set. After a wearisome time of hiding and moving and hiding again, Thorn suddenly straightened and sniffed the air. ‘We are past the danger,’ he whispered. ‘We can go swiftly now.’ True to his word, he broke into a run, sure-footed in the dark. Elladan wondered if he had eyes in his toes.

Finally the hobbit stopped again and listened. ‘Running water,’ he said. ‘The leaves will be found growing where a spring bubbles up and runs into the stream. The water of the spring is safe to drink; the water of the stream is not.’

 ‘I’ve drunk from the forest stream before,’ Elladan replied.

 ‘You won’t any more,’ Thorn said, ‘not if you’re wise.’ They found the spring by the sound and Thorn swiftly plucked leaves, discarding some by their feel, putting those he found satisfactory into a bag that hung from his waist. Out of another bag slung at his back he took several water-skins and urged Elladan to fill his own water bottle as he filled them.

 ‘The fire now?’ Elladan said.

 ‘No,’ Thorn replied. ‘There is a tree we must find, some ways down the bank.’ He began to walk and the son of Elrond followed. ‘Here,’ the hobbit said at last. ‘Climb.’

The two climbed the tree he indicated, then edged out on a limb that projected over the stream. ‘Don’t fall in,’ Thorn warned. ‘The enchantment will send you off to sleep and you’ll drown, unable to swim to safety.’ Elladan nodded soberly, tightening his grip on the branch.

Mid-stream the hobbit hissed at the son of Elrond to stay, eased himself off the branch until he was hanging from his hands, inched his way along the branch, and as it began to bend he reached out to take a branch extending from a tree on the opposite shore. Once he had a firm grasp, he let go of the first branch and made his way by careful hand-holds along the new branch until he could swing his feet up to help support him. Once he reached the bole of the tree, he climbed down and waited for Elladan to follow.

Reaching the ground, he murmured his thanks to the Lady for the bridge she’d provided. He and Elladan walked some ways down the bank of the stream, well away from the "bridge". Finally Thorn scraped some dry tinder from beneath a fallen log, found dry sticks and started a fire. He took a small pot from his bag and filled it from one of the water-skins, then forced the harvested leaves through the narrow opening into the skin until it was full. When the water boiled he poured the contents of the pot into the skin with a dexterity that astounded Elladan, but he forgot his wonder as shouts and growls were heard from the other side of the forest stream.

Thorn rose abruptly, kicking dirt over the fire, grabbing up water-skin and pot, careful not to burn himself, and melted into the underbrush. Elladan needed no urging to follow as arrows began to rain down in the clearing around the smouldering fire. From their hiding place they saw foul orcs emerge from cover, shouting and gesticulating.

Several plunged into the stream, only to fall limp into the black water with oily splashes. The fellows that went to pull them out suffered a similar fate, until the remaining creatures stood baffled, watching the hapless orcs quietly drowning as the stream slowly carried them away. A few more arrows were launched at the smouldering fire, and then the orcs turned and disappeared into the underbrush with menacing growls.

Thorn waited a long time before creeping from his hiding place to shovel more dirt over the last of the coals, pouring the contents of another water-skin over for good measure. Then he and Elladan retraced their steps to the Lady’s bridge, crossed the stream, and cautiously made their way back to the refuge of People and Elves, arriving shortly before the dawn.

Chapter 12. Fare-thee-well

Elves watched Thorn pour the potion directly into the angry-looking wound, lay a clean cloth over the top and soak it in more of the solution.

 ‘What now?’ Elladan said. Elf-medicine would have called for Glorfindel to drink much water, eat strengthening food, rest, and heal, in addition to treating the wound, but their ointments had shown little effect. He could only hope Thorn's leaves would work quickly and well.

 ‘Get him to drink as much as possible,’ Thorn replied. ‘The water we took from the spring is clean and fresh and has some healing properties from the leaves that grow around it. We filled several bottles; let us put them to good use.’ He squinted into the canopy of surrounding trees that were slowly becoming visible as the Sun arose from her rest. ‘The creatures have gone to ground in the direction of the stream,’ he said. ‘It is safe to descend. They are probably trying to find a way to cross over, to find the makers of the fire.’

Elladan grinned. ‘Kill two birds with one stone,’ he said. ‘Make a healing potion and lead the orcs away from our hiding place.’

 ‘Do your folk hunt with stones like we do?’ Beech asked in surprise. ‘I had the impression that you used spears and arrows and long knives.’

 ‘Swords,’ Elrohir said. Beech nodded, taking in the new word. Already he spoke as if he’d learned the Common Tongue at his mother’s knee.

By the time all had descended from the treetops, the angry red under the soaked cloth was already receding, though Glorfindel remained unresponsive, his fever worryingly high. ‘It is having some good effect,’ Elladan said.

 ‘He is not strong enough to survive the mountain crossing,’ Elrohir replied. ‘Let us bear him to the halls of Thranduil, to heal and grow strong again.’ He looked to Thorn and Beech. ‘Will you come with us?’

 ‘Where are the halls you mention?’ Thorn asked.

 ‘To the North,’ Elrohir answered.

 ‘What lies to the North? Clean forest?’ Beech asked hopefully, but his face fell when the son of Elrond shook his head.

 ‘A blight is upon all the forest,’ he answered soberly. ‘The stream that runs northwards from the mountains in the middle of the wood runs black...’

 ‘Just as the stream Thorn and I crossed, the one that runs southwards,’ Elladan said.

 ‘There is at least one nest of great spiders and rumour of other evils, even spirits,’ Elrohir continued. ‘Greenwood the Fair is becoming dark and loathsome, more a wood of murk than green I fear.’

Thorn nodded. The Lady had whispered as much in his heart. She had protected the People for long years under her skirts, much as the mother grouse spread her wings over her chicks. The time of childhood had passed; it was time for the People to go out and make their own way.

 ‘What are we to do?’ Beech said, seeing the faraway look.

 ‘The Lady sends us out,’ Thorn said. ‘The days wax warmer and longer, the snow in the Mountains will be growing less rather than more, and now is the time for the Crossing.’

 ‘The Lady will lead us over the Mountains?’ Beech asked, while other hobbits pressed closer to hear the reply.

Thorn shook his head, the faraway look fading. ‘She sends us with her blessing,’ he said.

 ‘Sends us... away?’ Beech said, horrified.

Thorn put a comforting hand on his arm. ‘She sends her grace with us,’ he said simply. ‘It is time for us to assume the cloak of adulthood.’

The elves watched, mystified, as the little folk among them bowed their heads in grief, tears flowing freely.

 ‘What is it?’ Arwen asked gently.

 ‘My lady,’ Thorn said with a bow. ‘You must take this-un,’ he gestured to Glorfindel, ‘to a safe place to find healing. Time is all he needs now, time and rest.’

 ‘Yes,’ Arwen said. ‘And what of your people? You will come with us?’ Her hand tightened on young Pick’s; how glad she had been to meet the engaging young hobbit again, to laugh at his stories and teach him some of their songs.

 ‘We cross the Mountains now, in obedience to the wishes of the Lady,’ Thorn said. ‘She has warned me against tarrying. We must go now, while Summer is upon us. We dare not wait until the alf is well. You Big Folk may be able to walk in the snows of late Summer but I doubt we of the People would fare as well.’ Just then Elrohir was called away, but before he left the little group he locked eyes with his twin and a look passed between the twain.

 ‘Do you want a guide?’ Elladan said now. ‘We could send some of our folk with you.’

 ‘Our way through the mountains will not be so perilous as your way through the darkening wood,’ Thorn said. ‘You will need all your warriors, I think, for the Lady warns that the danger is great upon the paths to the North.’

 ‘What do you mean?’ Elladan demanded.

 Thorn cocked his head as if listening, a puzzled look on his face. ‘I do not know,’ he admitted with a shrug, 'but the Lady says to guard on all sides, and when you hear the thunder grumble you are to throw yourselves to the ground, even if it is in the midst of battle.’

 ‘Throw ourselves down...’ another of the Elves gathered to listen said.

 ‘As for a guide... the grey one has shown us the way to go.’ Quickly he sketched a map in the dirt.

Elladan nodded. ‘That would bring you out of the Mountains to the North of Imladris—my father’s house,’ he added at Thorn’s blank look. ‘I would send a warrior or two with you in any event.’

The leader of the Fallohides drew himself up to his full height, gazing keenly into the eyes of the kneeling son of Elrond. ‘I cannot account for their safety,’ he said soberly. ‘The Lady’s protection will not be upon them if they go another way.’

 ‘And what of your safety?’ Elladan persisted.

 ‘The Lady has promised that the People will survive,’ Thorn replied. ‘If we go now, while the snows are at their lowest, that is.’ When the son of Elrond would have spoken again, the hobbit shook his head. ‘Do not burden us with the sorrow of needless loss,’ he said. ‘Send no warriors with us.’

Elladan conceded defeat. The Little Folk, he suspected, would argue the point until the Sun rose to her zenith and descended into her bed again, and that would benefit none of them. ‘If you will not have a guide, we will not force one upon you. I ask only this: seek my father when you reach the other side, and he will give you aid and sound counsel.’

 ‘He is Big like you, and knows us not,’ Thorn said doubtfully.

 ‘My father is wise among the Firstborn,’ Elladan said proudly. ‘He will not judge you by your stature alone, and if you bring him this,’ he took an emerald from a hidden place, pressing it into the Halfling’s hand, ‘he will welcome you on my behalf.’

 ‘Our thanks,’ Thorn said, bowing. The green jewel sparkled on his hand a moment before he secreted it in his clothing.

 ‘We are the ones who owe thanks,’ Elladan replied with a bow of his own. ‘Grace go with you,’ he added. He had a feeling the Little Folk would need all the grace available to them, never having crossed the mountains, with only a wizard’s words to guide them. He’d have felt much better had they waited for Glorfindel’s healing and crossed with the Elves, or if Mithrandir had appeared out of nowhere as he so often did and offered to guide the hobbits. Nevertheless, if their Lady was telling them to go, who was he to gainsay them?

The hobbits watched the fair folk fade into the shadows, singing softly a song to bless them on their way, much as a family would have blessed departing visitors in the old days, when a journey was no farther than from one hobbit hole to another. Their eyes caught a last shimmer of light and their ears heard a scrap of an answering song and then they were alone once more. Thorn eased his burden on his back, checked his arrows, took up his staff, and nodded to the hunters.

Well-practiced now, the hunters took up their positions before, after, and to the sides of the main body of hobbits. As the Fallohides marched along, scouts ran swiftly ahead to look for dangers along Thorn’s chosen path. They retraced their steps to the Road and travelled alongside, well out of sight, making their way to the West and the wood’s end. It took them more than a day to reach the open fields leading to the ford, what with the need for caution. They saw no more gobble-uns. Either the creatures had managed to cross the stream in pursuit of the “fire-makers”, or they had followed the elves perhaps. Would it be too much to hope they’d gone back to their lairs?

Thorn kept track of traffic on the Road. He wondered if they should travel the open stretch to the River by night despite the Lady’s warning. He did not know how else to avoid Men. He talked this over with Beech.

 ‘The Big Folk have rest days, much as the People did at one time,’ Beech said. ‘It is something we had in common with them in the old days, before they drove us from the land.’

 ‘Really?’ Thorn said. He’d no idea they had anything in common with Big Folk. Beech’s family had been the ones to maintain contact with Men, in addition to handing down the old tales and traditions in stories carefully taught by older generation to younger. When Beech’s father was cut down by Men, a lifetime of acquired wisdom died with him, as well as all the tales he’d not yet taught his sons. He’d been the youngest and last of the lore-masters; the others had been taken with their families by the gobble-uns. Hobbits were cut off from their origins, with only a few scraps of remembered story and a Past that went back only as far as living memory. It was up to them to weave a Past for future generations to look back upon.

Thorn and Beech walked on, each deep in their own thoughts. Finally Thorn said, ‘They take rest days? Would the Road be free of Men on one of these days?’

 ‘O aye,’ Beech said. ‘Our rest days were the same as theirs, every sixth day a day to feast and rest when morning’s work was done. They might travel to a neighbour’s house on that day, but I doubt they’d be carting loads to market along the Road.’

 ‘Good,’ Thorn decided. ‘We’ll camp not far from the edge of the wood and keep a watch on the road. I’ve counted four days of traffic thus far...’

 ‘We might have missed a rest day while we were with the alf-people,’ Beech commented.

 ‘Mayhap,’ Thorn said cautiously. ‘I don’t like to keep the People in one place for any length of time.’

 ‘The Men start their business early,’ Beech said. ‘They’re already walking the Road or driving their carts at first light.’

 ‘Then we look for a day when no Men or carts appear early,’ Thorn said, ‘and hope for the best.’

 ‘Has the Lady said...?’ Beech asked.

Thorn shook his head. ‘She’s said nothing since we left the alfs. Perhaps She has already said fare-well.’ He raised his head to look about the wood, scanning the trees that surrounded them. ‘There’s no danger,’ he said softly. ‘The birds are singing, the leaves whispering as they always do. I haven’t even heard a black squirrel scold.’

 ‘She is singing us a fare-well song,’ Beech said. He wiped a tear from his eye.

 ‘We’ll sing Her one in return, when it is time to leave the wood,’ Thorn said quietly. ‘We go with Her blessing, and with the grace of the alfs.’ I only hope that will be enough, he thought to himself. They continued in silence.

Chapter 13. River Crossing

After ten days of travel the wandering hobbits came to the edge of the wood, looking out over a grassy plain that sloped downwards towards a distant sparkle—the River!

 ‘It’s more than one day’s journey,’ Beech said, eyeing the prospect. The People were some ways back from the edge, secreted in the trees, eating the roots they’d dug during rest stops and wild strawberries they’d gathered along the way. Thorn had ordered the saving of the travel rations: dried meat, acorn cakes, and the way-bread pressed upon them by the alfs. He’d been warned of the barren rocky stretches in the mountains where no food was to be found, and so the hobbits foraged as they went. In silence, Beech and Thorn watched the traffic on the road, moving steadily in both directions.

 ‘Where are they going?’ Thorn asked.

 ‘There are settlements on the other side of the Mountains,’ Beech said. ‘Grand-alf mentioned them, whole countries of Men, ruled by a King he said.’

 ‘A King,’ Thorn echoed. The word stirred faint memory of old stories told around the fire, but no more than that. Someone who set the standards, he thought. One to whom the Big Folk looked for guidance, perhaps. He could only hope the King was wise and fair, like the farmers from the dim past, who’d been good neighbours, friends even, before a shadow of fear and suspicion fell upon them and caused them to drive the People from the land. ‘And what of the other end of the Road? Why do Men go into the Forest?’

 ‘Not in but through,’ Beech said. ‘The alfs told me that on the other side of the wood there is another river, where the travellers load their crops and other goods for trade onto boats to float downstream.’

 ‘Boats?’ Thorn said, puzzled. This was a word he did not know.

 ‘Waggons that float,’ Beech explained. ‘Instead of beasts drawing them, they allow the river itself to carry them away.’

 ‘Sounds awfully chancy to me,’ Thorn said dubiously.

Beech nodded. ‘At the end of the river is a great sea,’ he continued. ‘A large body of water, so great you cannot see the land on the other side,’ he added, knowing that “sea” was another unfamiliar word. ‘The alfs told me that it is a land where fine wine is produced.’

 ‘Wine,’ Thorn said, smacking his lips in remembrance of the nectar of Dorwinion he’d tasted from Elladan’s flask. ‘That stuff the alfs shared with us,’ he said. ‘That might well be worth braving a journey over water, indeed.’ He looked at the waggons again. ‘Traders,’ he said reflectively. ‘Why haven’t the gobble-uns bothered them?’

 ‘Too many? Too strong?’ Beech shrugged. ‘The Road cuts through the trees and the Sun shines down in the daytime. Gobble-uns don’t like the Sun, I’m told.’

Thorn looked out over the plain once more. ‘The grass is tall,’ he said approvingly. ‘Taller than we are. We could travel in broad daylight, I think, if we stayed in the shelter of the grass. It is only when we come to the Ford that we must cross in the darkness, to avoid the Men.’

 ‘Is there no other place to cross?’ Beech asked.

Thorn shook his head. ‘Grand-alf said there was none for miles, and wherever there is a crossing we’d find traffic,’ he said. ‘Worse, he told me the Ford is deep; easy enough for Men with waggons, but dangerous for the People.’

 ‘We’ll get over,’ Beech said. ‘We’ve come this far.’ He peered at the dark shadows on the horizon, mountains, he knew they were, though they might have been great clouds rising up in the West as far as he could see.

 ‘Three, maybe four days’ journey to the Ford,’ he decided. ‘Come, let us take our rest.’

One good thing about walking parallel to the Road was that the gobble-uns did not come again, not even at night, when the traders pulled their waggons into great circles and set a watch of armed Men. Beech crept close to one of these groups under cover of darkness, curious. He was able to crawl beneath one of the great waggons without being seen, peering into the circle to see what manner of Men these were. There were fires, and savoury smells, talk and laughter and singing. There were guards silent and grim who peered into the night, bows in hand, ready to shoot. Curiosity satisfied, Beech crept away again without trying to bespeak any of the Men he saw. He remembered too well what had happened to his father.

A fire would have been pleasant, but the summer nights were warm and the People ate their roots and berries and the last of the mushrooms from the wood in silence, listening to the songs wafting on the breeze from the nearby camp of Men which was just outside the skirts of the wood. When morning came, Thorn led the People some ways away from the Road, until the creak of waggons came to them but faintly, and there the Fallohides stopped to look back at the wood that had sheltered them these many years. Fair was Greenwood the Great in those days, still fair and not yet completely fallen under shadow of fear. Birds sang, the trees were graceful and crowned with green, leaves rustled in the soft breeze, and a mingled scent of rich earth and green growing things was in the air.

Tears running down their faces, hands joined, the hobbits sang their last fare-well to the Lady and received her blessing in return. As the Sun climbed in the East, finally rising above the canopy of trees to shine upon their upturned faces, they ended their song, took up their burdens, and turned towards the River.

It was not an arduous trek, moving down the gentle slope through tall grass under the smiling Sun. Bees buzzed lazily in the air, butterflies fluttered above, scattered trees provided shady resting places. The scouts shot enough red deer to supply all with as much as they could eat, and though cooked meat would have been preferable, the People feasted and felt all the stronger for the meal.

Distance from wood to water was deceptive, and they did not reach the River until the seventh day, though as the hobbits travelled the distant mountains grew more solid and less misty.

On the evening of the seventh day, by the light of the stars, several scouts crept to the edge of the Ford. Beech, tallest of the People, knotted a rope about his waist and waded into the River, feeling his way carefully with his toes, thrusting his staff ahead of him to probe the bottom. If he could not make his way across, the People would be in more trouble than he liked to think about. They must cross this barrier before attempting the mountains.

He could feel the tug of the current as he waded steadily deeper, sucking first at his ankles, then his knees, cold fingers of water pulling at him, reaching ever higher until he sucked his breath sharply at its touch on his belly. Resolutely he continued, trusting that if he were swept off his feet the others would pull him to safety before he drowned. Ever higher the water climbed, its pull growing more insistent. He found himself turning to face the current, edging sideways towards the opposite bank, leaning into the force that tried to push him from his feet. The River felt like a living thing, a wild cat playing with a rabbit, dragging at him with inexorable claws. Still, Beech kept on. The water reached his chest, tickled him under his arms, slapped his shoulders, touched his chin as he nearly lost his balance. He gripped the rocks tightly with his toes, and then with another step he could feel he was rising, or the water was going down, or both at once.

Yes, the water was going down, step by slow, careful step. He did not relax his caution. Rivers were treacherous creatures, with sudden holes, or rocks that might turn under foot. Enough hobbits had drowned, fishing the forest streams, to teach the People to take great care in their dealings with moving water.

Reaching the far shore, Beech threw himself to the ground, gathering the sandy dirt in his embrace, kissing the reassuringly solid bank in his gladness to be out of the monster’s grasp. Only after thanking the ground for receiving him, he stood and tugged on the rope, a signal to those waiting on the opposite shore. He picked up a rock and hammered his staff into the ground, slipped the rope from his waist and tied it to this impromptu stake. Taking firm hold on rope and staff, he anchored the rough bridge, a handhold, really, for hobbits to pull themselves along and across, trusting to the rope when their feet could no longer find hold.

It took nearly the entire night for all of the People to cross, little ones tied firmly to adults, the strongest making several crossings to bring children or baggage across, but by dawn the People were all safely on the Western shore of the great River, as far from the Road as they could stagger, finding sheltered hollows to rest in as the sky brightened in the East. The hobbits rested through that day, drying their clothes and possessions in  the summer sunshine, listening to the creak of the waggons, the shouting of Men, the splashing of the great draught beasts entering a river lately overcome with great courage and daring by People who, for much of the journey, had been in over their heads. They rested through the following night, hearing the distant songs of the Men carried to them on the breeze along with the tantalising smell of roasting meat. Silently they ate their cold food and hoped for better days to come. With the dawn of the next day the hobbits were ready to go on their way.

Chapter 14. Ascent

The Fallohides continued to move to the North, away from the Road. The Road followed a stream up into the mountains and over a fairly easy passage, but heavily travelled, into Western lands. The grey one, understanding the hobbits’ caution, had directed them to another pass farther to the North, a longer, more difficult journey, climbing higher as well, and therefore less likely that they would encounter Men along the way. The wizard knew they’d have to come to know Men eventually...

Sheltered by tall grass, the hobbits walked to the North until they reached another stream that emptied into the great River, and then they turned their faces to the West and followed its course towards the looming mountains. Day by day the travellers walked westward, and each day the mountains seemed so close that another day’s journey would bring them within reach... and yet the end of each day brought a sense of futility, for the mountains seemed no closer. There was game to be found in the long grass: birds and rabbits and other small burrowing creatures that had no fear of hobbits. The hunters were able to knock them down with well-aimed rocks as the small animals sat beside their holes, basking in the sun. As a result the hobbits ate well without dipping into the rations they carried in anticipation of lean times ahead.

The gentle slope going up from the river became a series of undulations, each rise a little higher than the last. The weather was growing warmer as Summer advanced, and the Fallohides shed their fur garments, bundling them into their carry-backs, enjoying the novelty of Sun on skin. Steadily they travelled through land that was strangely empty, but that might have been because of the Road to the South, carrying a continual stream of waggons and Men over the easier pass. The land was rockier and had more sand than clay on this side of the great River, less suited to farming than the Eastern side with its rich loam, and that might have been a part of it as well.

There came a day when a song arose as the hobbits walked, soft, for they were cautious, but a song nonetheless. It was a different song than any they’d sung before, and it carried them over the miles that seemed to bring the mountains no nearer. Yet the hills were growing as they walked, each crest a little higher, until the River behind them was a sparkling thread in the Summer sunlight. The mountains were less misty now, more solid to the eye, the growth on their flanks no longer shadow but resolving into tall, thick forests.

 ‘Can we find a living there, do you think?’ Thorn asked Beech as they rested at the end of a long day. The trees loomed ever closer, and within a few more days they’d enter the eaves of the forest.

 ‘I don’t know,’ Beech said, picking up a handful of sandy soil and letting it trickle through his fingers. ‘The land’s no good for farming; it holds no water. If not for the stream we follow I think we’d find few trees and no game to speak of, just the coarse grass that doesn’t mind the dry.’

 ‘Yet a forest grows on the flanks of the mountains,’ Thorn said stubbornly.

 ‘I know not these trees,’ Beech countered. ‘They grow tall, pointing to the sky, not spreading sheltering arms as those we once knew. Their canopy is dark, so very dark. I wonder what manner of leaves they bear.’ He picked up another handful of sand. ‘And what sort of homes could we dig in this?’

 ‘Mmm,’ Thorn said noncommittally.

 ‘What does the Lady say?’ Beech asked.

 ‘She has not spoken since we crossed the River,’ Thorn said quietly. ‘I do not know if She is with us.’

 ‘It is a different forest,’ Beech said. ‘Not Hers.’

 ‘That may be,’ Thorn said. ‘In any event, we shall see what manner of fruit or nut these strange trees bear. Perhaps things will be better for us here.’

 ‘Perhaps,’ Beech said, but privately he reserved judgment. The forest did not call to him; dark and foreboding, it did not hold the same attraction as the living green of the wood they’d left.

The stream led them into the strange forest. Strange it was indeed, for the trees towered about them, silent sentinels without warmth or welcome. Nothing grew beneath them. The hobbits walked quietly, oddly reluctant to speak in the hushed surroundings, the carpet of dried needles somehow unpleasant beneath their feet. Needles they were indeed, not proper leaves at all. Nor did the forest smell as a forest should; instead it had a sharp, pungent odour, and the bark of the trees was sticky to the touch with sap that would not rub off from the fingers, in which the pungency was multiplied.

The fruit of the trees was hard, brown, woody and prickly. Soon the littler hobbits stopped picking up the cones, for the sharp protrusions stung the fingers. It was altogether an unpleasant place. Thorn hoped that the forest on the other side of the mountains was not like this one, but more like the home they’d left behind. Grand-alf had promised new hope in the new land. Thorn could only hope his word was true.

The trees stretched in every direction and the stream became their only guide, for they could not tell the direction of the Sun. Daytime was gloomy, and night was utter darkness. Perhaps outside the forest it was still high Summer, but within the air never warmed and the hobbits resumed their furry garb. They followed the stream, the water icy now, cold and refreshing to drink, and felt somehow that they climbed slowly but steadily towards the mountains’ rocky flanks.

One evening in the thickening twilight, Beech suddenly grasped at Thorn’s arm. ‘Listen!’ he hissed. Straining his ears, the leader of the Fallohides heard a ghostly echo, joined by another and yet another, thin wailing cries.

 ‘Wolves!’ he snapped. ‘Seek the treetops!’ Though it had been many days since the archers had shot their tethered arrows over high limbs, they had not forgotten the drill. It was not long before the entire community rested on branches high in the air. One good thing about these odd trees was the lack of branches within reach of the ground. Though wolves could not climb, other hunters might be able to do so, yet these trees would discourage them, Thorn hoped. He was glad the warning had come in daylight. He shuddered to think what would have happened had the wolves come upon them in darkness.

The wolves approached no closer that night, but thereafter the hobbits walked with redoubled caution. They’d come to think this land empty. It was not, of course, if wolves ranged here. Hungry wolves they might be, seeing the scarcity of game. The hunters walked before and after the main body of hobbits, to the sides as well, bows at the ready, and each evening as the light began to fail the community would seek the relative safety of the trees.

Their caution paid for itself one morning when they’d resumed their march. A chorus of howls broke out close by—not enough time to gain the heights. The hobbits pulled together in a tight group, archers forming a bristling ring about them. Fearless, the beasts attacked, only to feel the unaccustomed bite of arrows. Infuriated, some rolled on the ground and bit at the shafts; others attacked with renewed rage, but the hobbits met the onslaught with a steady sleet of arrows until the last few creatures turned to flee, leaving many of their fellows dead or dying upon the forest floor.

The hobbits had enough baggage to carry, so they did not skin the slain wolves. They only took the time to recover their arrows, or at the very least the precious metal points that had been passed from father to son for as long as they could remember since trade with Men had ceased, though the alfs had added to the Fallohides’ arsenal before departing for Thranduil’s caverns. They were not troubled by wolves again.

A few days later, Beech pointed out a faint trail leading alongside the stream, a heartening sight. The ground became more rocky and the trees did not grow so close together, and then the travellers began to climb in earnest as the land grew steeper. ‘We are in the foothills,’ Beech said. ‘We’ve followed this gully right into the mountains, as Grand-alf said, and soon the trail will leave the forest and climb the very flanks of the peaks.’

The trees thinned and then ended in a rocky slope before them, where stream became a waterfall dancing over the rocks. Looking along the slope, Beech could see evidence of rockslides. ‘We must pick our way carefully,’ he said, ‘lest the very ground beneath our feet throw us down to our ruin.’

The most surefooted of the hunters climbed ahead, bearing ropes. Reaching the top, they anchored the ropes around great boulders. It took the rest of that day for the community to reach the top of the slope, where they found bushes, long grasses, patches of flowers and rabbit-cropped turf.

 ‘We’ll rest here for a day or two,’ Thorn decreed. ‘I see signs of game, and I smell seasonings growing nearby.’ Indeed, his wife was chuckling as she plucked thyme and sage and marjoram growing all around.

 ‘Lay snares for rabbits,’ Beech said. ‘I think we’ll have good eating on the morrow.’ He was met by answering grins, and the hobbits settled to their rest, though of course they did not relax their guard. Hunters watched in shifts through the night, but the only danger was to the fat rabbits that were snared by the dozens in the immediate area and its surroundings. The next day the hobbits rested and feasted on rabbit stew, for Thorn had allowed fires to be built for cooking, and to cap off the day with sweetness the children found wild strawberries growing in pockets and gathered enough through the long Summer day for each hobbit to enjoy a handful as the evening shadows covered the land.

Heartened and refreshed, they resumed their journey. Ever higher they went, following a rough path, picking sorrel to nibble on as they walked, drinking from mountain streams that crossed the path, gathering strawberries and singing once again the new song that had come to them after crossing the River. Though the Sun shone with all her Summer fervour, the air grew chill and they were glad for the fur cloaks they wore. In the evenings, each family huddled together beneath a pile of cloaks, sharing their warmth. Ever higher they went, until the last of the scrub bushes fell behind them and only grass and alpine flowers bloomed amidst the rocks, and patches of snow appeared upon the slopes surrounding them.

 ‘We are nearing the pass,’ Thorn said, and a cheer arose. Still higher they climbed, and the brooding pine forest seemed no more than a mossy carpet far below them. The land fell away to one side as the trail hugged the flank of a great peak, and still the hobbits climbed until it seemed they would rise above the very clouds.

The hobbits were living on their travel rations now, and growing thinner with the limited food and heavy work of walking ever upwards. Bravely they joked about the lightening of their loads. Surely when they descended again, they would find game for the hunting and nuts and berries for the gathering. By the time they reached the other side, Autumn would be drawing her cloak over the land, and there ought to be plenty to eat.

The day came when the trail disappeared into an ice field. Thorn called a halt while he consulted with the heads of householes.

 ‘There’s naught for it but to go on,’ Fern said.

 ‘Aye, but where to?’ Bark countered.

 ‘Straight on,’ Beech said. ‘That’s plain enough. The trick is to go safely. One slip of the foot and you're sliding down until you fall from the side of the mountain.’

 ‘It’s a long way down into those trees,’ Thorn said soberly.

 ‘So what do we do?’ Burr said.

 ‘Rope everyone together,’ Nuthatch said.

 ‘If one falls, all fall,’ Root said grimly.

 ‘Send one ahead on a rope,’ Beech said, ‘like crossing the River. He chops an axe into the ice for something to hold, the rest come across, and then a scout goes forward once more. Bit by bit,’ he said. ‘No need to hurry.’

 ‘From the looks of the sky there might be need,’ Thorn said. ‘The air feels...’ his voice trailed off, and he had the faraway look that the Fallohides knew and trusted. Coming back to himself, Thorn said, ‘We’ll follow Beech’s plan, and quickly. An ill wind is brewing, and we mustn’t be caught in the open. On the far side of the ice field is a sheltered spot, an overhang of rock large and long enough for all the People.’

Working as quickly as they could, the People crossed the ice field. There were slips, but the ropes and axes prevented disaster. At the start of the day the sky had been blue, deep and calm, and the Sun had sparkled from the snow with dazzling brightness, but a plume of snow blew like smoke from the peak above them, high wind warning of storm to come. The clouds built with frightening swiftness, and as the last of the People were pulled to safety the wind rose to a shriek, even as the world disappeared into a whirl of solid white.

Thorn was the last to cross. His youngest son, Pickthorn, waited by the anchoring axe as his father made his way along the rope. When the storm struck, Thorn was swallowed in the snowy blast. Pick shouted, but the roar of the attacking wind drowned his own voice to his ears. Clinging desperately to the rope, he felt the tug that meant his father was still pulling himself along the lifeline. Grimly the teen held fast.

A hand grabbed at his shoulder, and he turned to see Beech, hair and eyebrows crusted with ice and snow. His uncle’s mouth was moving, but the teen shook his head to indicate he heard naught. Beech put his mouth against Pick’s ear. ‘Thorn!’ he bellowed.

 ‘Coming!’ Pick roared into his uncle’s ear. Beech nodded and grabbed at the rope. Together he and Pick hauled, meeting resistance. It seemed an eternity before Thorn loomed into sight. With one hand on the rope that covered the last stretch leading to the relative safety of the overhang, Beech threw an arm about Thorn, hugging him, then guided his hand to the final lifeline.

Pick began to pull in the rope that had led Thorn to them. ‘Leave it!’ Beech shouted in his ear. ‘Get it later!’ Pick nodded, letting go the trailing rope and reaching for the next. At that moment a great gust of wind roared down the mountain. Instinctively Thorn and Beech clung to the lifeline, but Pick had no firm hold and was swept away.

Chapter 15. Pursuit

 ‘He’s gone!’ Beech shouted in Thorn’s ear yet again. Thorn clung to the lifeline with one hand, his other reaching out into the whiteout, grasping at nothing, his face a mask of grief. Keeping a tight hold on the lifeline, Beech grabbed Thorn’s free hand. ‘We must seek shelter!’

Another blast of wind shook them, throwing icy pellets directly into their faces hard as a slap. Thorn shook his head and Beech tugged at his brother-in-love. ‘Come!’ he shouted. Thorn looked to him. Beech placed Thorn’s hand on the lifeline, closing the fingers of both their hands firmly around it. Putting their heads down to avoid the buffeting of the wind, they pulled themselves along the lifeline step by careful step through blinding whiteness.

As they ducked beneath the overhang, the wind was cut off so abruptly that the exhausted hobbits staggered. Hands pulled them to safety, peeled their ice-encrusted cloaks away, wrapped them in furs and eased them down. Warm bodies pressed close. Thorn found himself shivering, his teeth chattering.

 ‘Pick! Where’s Pick?’ Blackthorn said. Straightening up, he added, ‘I’m going back out.’

 ‘N-n-n-no,’ Beech chattered. He clamped his jaw and tried to gain control of the involuntary shudders. When he could speak, he gasped out the account of the disaster. There were exclamations of shock and grief from the surrounding hobbits, and Mistress Thorn hugged her husband more tightly, mingling their tears.

The hobbits waited out the storm. For three days it blew and the air beyond the overhang was a curtain of swirling white in the daytime. Complete and unvarying darkness ruled the night, and the hobbits dared not stir for fear of stepping off into thin air, keeping their backs tight against the wall of the cliff. They blessed the Lady for the shelter of the overhang. Had She not spoken to Thorn once more...

One morning they awakened to silence, no more shriek or moan of wind, and looked out upon a world of dazzling white. Two hunters followed the lifeline to the axe that anchored it and fetched the second rope, then coiled the near rope as they made their way back to the overhang. Silently the travellers tied the carry-sacks again and shouldered their burdens.

They proceeded as before, anchoring an axe in the ice-crusted snow and tying a lifeline to it, sending out a scout to anchor the other end of the rope and then having the People work their way along the rope one by one. The slope fell away steeply and within a surprisingly short span of time they were out of the snow and walking along a rocky path once more. In one place a rockslide had swept away the trail. It took the better part of a day to get all safely across, and Beech eyed the slopes above the path nervously as they continued.

The path began to rise again, not as steeply, and when they reached the top of the ascent there were only patches of snow, no treacherous snow field to cross. Thorn stopped at the top of the lesser pass, staring back over the way they had come. Even after the last of the travellers had passed him, beginning the descent, he stood as if turned to stone.

 ‘Father?’ Blackthorn said, pausing by his side, but Thorn made no answer. Black called again, touching Thorn on the shoulder, but Thorn never moved, his gaze fixed on the higher pass. Alarmed, Black jogged ahead to find his Uncle Beech, marching near the fore after scouting ahead and bringing back a promising report. The way ahead was clear and not too difficult, the path, wide enough for three to walk abreast, gently descending and rising again to a last low pass, apparently free of rockslides. It seemed that the worst was over, and they would pass between the peaks and into the new land without any more serious difficulties.

 ‘He doesn’t move or answer,’ Black told Beech as they walked swiftly up the slope to the lesser pass, nodding reassuringly to the hobbits they passed. When they reached the leader of the Fallohides, Thorn had not moved.

 ‘What is it, brother? Is it the Lady?’ Beech said. When Thorn did not respond, Beech said to Blackthorn, ‘Take him from the other side; we’ll carry him down.’

As they picked him up, Thorn stirred. ‘Wait,’ he said in a faraway tone. ‘Wait, I’m trying to hear...’ They put him down again and waited as he stood and resumed his abstracted expression.

 ‘Now I understand,’ Thorn said at last, seeming to waken. He looked from Beech to Blackthorn. ‘We are pursued,’ he said.

 ‘Pursued?’ Beech said. ‘Wolves?’

 ‘Gobble-uns,’ Thorn replied matter-of-factly. ‘I do not know how or why, but they have followed our path and will soon reach the snow field.’

 ‘What do we do? There’s no hiding here...’ Beech said.

 ‘And nothing to stop them, once they cross the treacherous place and the rockslide, yes, I know. They will catch us quickly,’ Thorn said. ‘I have little doubt as to their plans.’

 ‘Rockslide,’ Beech said, thinking furiously. ‘Yes, that’s it! We’ll set off a rockslide, not to block the path, for we found our way over and that means it will present no barrier to our pursuers.’

 ‘What then?’ Thorn snapped.

 ‘We wait above, set off a slide atop them, sweep them from the mountainside,’ Beech said.

 ‘Dangerous,’ Thorn said. ‘Do you think it can be done?’

 ‘I was afraid we’d set off a slide without meaning to do so,’ Beech answered. ‘I’m sure it’ll be easy enough. Give me ten hobbits. We’ll stop them halfway between the other slide and this crest.’

 ‘And if you don’t stop them?’ Thorn said.

 ‘Have your arrows ready,’ Beech said. ‘Hurry the people along, see if you can find a sheltered spot.’

Thorn and Black ran along the path; Thorn sent the rearguard back to Beech at a run. Then father and son jogged quickly through the body of travellers, warning of danger and urging all possible speed. Reaching the front, Thorn split the hunters there, sending half to the rear to replace those who’d gone with Beech.

When they reached the last low summit, the People passed over and then rested on the far side while the hunters checked their arrows and lads and lasses gathered likely stones for throwing. Thorn placed guards to watch the back trail, then he and his sons jogged back to the next crest, secreting themselves behind a large boulder to watch and wait.

They saw the creatures before they heard anything: black forms crossing the icy pass, their horny feet making them sure-footed, claws digging into the snow. The hobbits were silent, having discovered how sound carried in those parts, but the gobble-uns were eerily silent as well, intent on the chase.

The creatures began the descent and broke into a run. Black’s eyes widened. There was no way the People could outdistance their pursuers if it came down to a race. The gobble-uns had to be stopped.

The watching hobbits saw the gobble-uns pause at the rockslide, and then the creatures began to pick their way across. Not being burdened with children to carry and old folk to help over the dangerous stretch, they made better time than the Fallohides had. All too soon the first had crossed and were starting along the trail.

Black saw Thorn’s hands clench and knew what his father was thinking. Keep them together! The rockslide must wipe out the gobble-uns, for if only a part were swept away the lack of trail would present little barrier.

Happily to the hobbits’ minds, the stragglers put on a burst of speed after crossing the slide and soon the gobble-uns were running in a bunch. There were four-score or more, Black counted, and while the Fallohides outnumbered them by several hundreds, most were women and children. Even the full-grown, armed hobbits were hardly a match for creatures twice their size or more. If it came to a fight, every shot must count.

A rock bounced from above the trail, followed by another, then two or three. The gobble-uns did not notice these harbingers of danger, but as the hillside above them started to move, one shouted a hoarse warning and suddenly the creatures were scattering, some putting on speed to try to outrun the slide, some stopping, turning back. In a great rumbling and explosion of dust half the hillside came down upon the trail, sweeping gobble-uns over the side of the cliff, their screams drowned by the roar of sliding rock.

The few that had outrun the rockslide paused in confusion at the edge, looking back to their fellows on the other side. These immediately tried to find safe passage across, but the freshly fallen rock and gravel was unstable yet and would need some time to settle before they might attempt the crossing.

 ‘Will it hold them?’ Black whispered in his father’s ear.

 ‘I don’t know,’ Thorn said. ‘Where are the hunters? Did they fall with the slide they set off?’

 ‘I saw no hobbits falling,’ Black answered. He craned to look at the slope above the trail but saw no sign.

About an hour later, one of the hunters came from behind them. ‘We travelled just over the crest of the ridge until we were out of the creatures’ sight,’ he said, ‘but Beech — he fell.’

 ‘Fell?’ Thorn whispered sharply.

The hunter nodded. ‘Nearly started another slide, he did, stepped upon a loose rock and it threw him down.’

 ‘Was he hurt?’

 ‘Broken arm and bloody head,’ the hunter said. ‘We’ll have to carry him along; he’s not steady enough to carry himself.’

Thorn nodded, then stiffened. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, staring back along the trail. ‘That ground is unstable as anything, being a fresh fall and all.’

The gobble-uns had sent scouts ahead to find a way across the slide. Of the three that went out, one went sliding and shrieking into the abyss, but the others continued to pick their way slowly and carefully, and one-by-one the remaining gobble-uns followed their cautious lead.

 ‘Come on,’ Thorn hissed. ‘At the rate they’re going they’ll be across the slide in a few hours.’ The hobbits raced down the gently descending trail and up the other side to where the People waited, covering the miles more quickly than any had run before, for deadly peril would soon be on their trail once more.

Chapter 16. The Hunted

Reaching the sheltered spot where the People waited, Thorn gave the piercing cry of a hunting hawk, and at this signal the heads of householes gathered to him. ‘Hunters, take your weapons,’ he said. ‘Gobble-uns are still coming, though not as many as there were before. It’ll be a fight — we’ll be hard put to it, but there’ll be no hobbits in the pot at the end of this day, I swear by the Lady herself.’

A few of the hobbits gasped at his last words, but the heads of householes were nodding. ‘How many?’ Bark spoke up.

 ‘Half a hundred,’ Thorn said. ‘The rockslide cut their numbers in half, but there’s still a great many to deal with.’

 ‘Why are they abroad in daylight?’ Root said. ‘I’d thought they kept to the shadows of the woods, or were only abroad in the dark.’

 ‘They might be a bit wobbly-like, but determined for all that,’ Thorn answered. ‘Some Power lends them aid, perhaps, just as the Lady has aided us.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘As some Other is helping us now. The warning did not come from the Lady; I did not know the voice and was not sure I could trust it at first. But warning came, and we are ready.’ He looked around at the hunters. ‘A few of you will stay with the families, to defend the People if worst comes to pass,’ he said. ‘The rest...’

Blackthorn stepped forward to stand by his father, Applethorn close behind, followed by Boxthorn. The Thorn’s remaning son Hawthorn was helping carry Beech with a few others who’d set off the slide; they’d reach the People in another hour or so. Other sons stepped forward as well, grasping their bows, staffs, axes.

 ‘How long before they come?’ Burr asked.

 ‘They won’t come, not if we-uns have any say in the matter,’ Thorn said.

 ‘How long do we wait for you?’ Mistress Thorn asked quietly.

 ‘You don’t wait,’ Thorn replied. ‘You go down the trail just as fast as you can, and don’t look back. Once you reach the trees, look for good cover and take to the treetops.’ He hesitated. ‘Wait there a day, for any creatures we miss will surely catch you up in that time. If none come, then seek Imladris.’ He dug the elven jewel from his clothing and pressed it into Blackthorn’s hand. ‘Show this to the lord of alfs, Ell Adan’s father, tell him our story.’

 ‘But I’m coming with you,’ Black protested.

 ‘No,’ Thorn said. ‘You must bring my grandson safely to the new land.’

 ‘Grandson?’ Mistress Thorn gasped. She’d suspected that Lily was with child, but Black and Lily had said nothing as yet.

Thorn smiled grimly. ‘He’ll be born after Shortest Day,’ he said, ‘when the nights have grown as long as they can, and the Sun returns to fight for the sky.’ He looked around and raised his voice. ‘The Lady has promised,’ he said, ‘new hope in the new land. All fathers with babes unborn or small and suckling are to go with the People.’ He smiled at Oakleaf, standing by his daughter’s side. ‘You too, Leaf,’ he said. ‘I have seen your sons walking alongside my first grandson in the new land.’ Oakleaf looked to Holly, whose mouth was open in astonishment. She’d just begun to suspect... but it was early days yet.

 ‘Grandsons,’ Mistress Thorn whispered, looking from Lily to Holly.

Taking his quiver from his back, Thorn handed it to Blackthorn. ‘Give me your quiver,’ he said.

 ‘But... there are no tips on my arrows,’ Black protested. ‘Just sharpened wood!’

 ‘I doubt we’ll recover our arrows,’ Thorn said. ‘It would be a pity to lose those tips as the gobble-uns fall from the mountain.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Go with grace,’ he said to his oldest son. ‘The People will follow you and Beech; they know you’ve heard the Lady’s voice.’

 ‘Thorn,’ his wife whispered, and he took her in sudden fierce embrace.

‘I have loved you since the first day I saw you wear violets in your hair,’ he murmured. ‘I love you more than my own life, and I will love you when I go beyond. Go now, and live.’ She hugged him tightly until he broke away. He gathered his daughters in his arms, blessing each with a kiss, then pulled himself away, calling to the other hunters who were deep in their own fare-wells.

 ‘Let us go!’ he said. ‘We must run if we are to meet the gobble-uns at the next pass!’ The departing hunters embraced their families, checked their arrows, and turned to follow Thorn. Apple and Box hugged their mother and sisters, nodded to Black, and in the next moment were running back along the trail with the rest of the rearguard.

They met those carrying Beech and Thorn stopped to explain the plan, urging them to hurry to join the body of the People.

 ‘Help... fight,’ Beech murmured, and Thorn shook his head.

 ‘You’ll fight another day, brother,’ he said, kneeling to look into the unfocused eyes. ‘What do you plan to do, fall down in their path and trip them?’

 ‘Can’t... cannot lose you,’ Beech said, blinking to try to clear his vision.

 ‘I knew I’d never come to the new land,’ Thorn said, laying a hand on his brother-in-love’s shoulder. ‘But I saw you there, you and Black and the rest of the People. You will prosper,’ he said. Looking up at the others, he said, ‘Go with grace, all of you, and bring our People safely to the new land.’

Not trying to hide their tears, they nodded and took up Beech again, going as swiftly as they might as the rearguard resumed the race to the pass.

***

When the wind swept Pickthorn away, his scream was lost in the roaring of the blast. He found himself floating in whiteness, though a part of him knew with terrible certainty that he was falling, falling, doomed to break upon the rocks and trees below.

He did not see the treetops coming up to meet him, but felt a terrible impact that seemed to jerk all of his bones out of joint, and then he was rising, icy pellets striking his face, and the shriek of the wind took on a new note. Dazed, he felt himself carried along in a tight grasp. Slowly he came to realise that a great bird had caught him as he fell, that he was being borne along held securely by claws tipped with cruel talons, a hapless mouse captured by hawk or owl.

The shriek came again, and then he was dropped roughly in a place sheltered from wind and storm. The great bird hopped to the edge of the enormous nest and dropped again into flight. A thick layer of soft furs lay under him, cushioning him from the rough sticks making up the nest. Looking cautiously around, Pick saw he was one of a pile of creatures, mostly rabbits and a few small sheep. At a sound behind him, he jerked around, to see another huge bird and several nestlings, mouths gaping.

 ‘All right, all right,’ the bird grumbled, and to Pick’s wonder it used the Common Speech. Why should that surprise him? Hobbits often used the whistles of forest birds to communicate. ‘We’ve got plenty of food, nice and fresh and warm, and your father’s gone to get another fat mountain goat or sheep, perhaps.’ She grasped a twitching rabbit in one taloned claw and plunged her hooked beak into its belly, neatly tearing out its entrails. ‘Who’s first, then?’ she asked indulgently around the mouthful.

 ‘Me! Me! Me!’ the little ones chorused. The mother jabbed the bloody mess into one of the gaping mouths, then proceeded to tear the rabbit into pieces and jam the gobbets into the greedy maws. As Pick watched, limp with shock and pain, the great bird tore rabbit after rabbit to bits and fed her babies. Finally the cries of “Me! Me!” and “More! More!” died down and the babies fell asleep. The mother settled herself gently upon them and sighed.

Pick hugged his aching ribcage and lay as quietly as he could, hoping not to attract attention for as long as he might manage. Astonishingly, he found himself drifting off to sleep in the relative peace of the nest, as the storm howled beyond the sheltering cliff.

The father came back with another small sheep. ‘There,’ he said, smugness in his tone. ‘We’re ahead for the moment.’ He sighed and idly tore a piece off the sheep he’d just brought back. ‘Here you go, my dear,’ he said through the mouthful he was extending. ‘You look exhausted.’

 ‘The little darlings,’ his mate said indulgently, taking the bite and rubbing her beak against his. ‘Ah,’ she added, ‘speaking of them...’ She stood up and moved over, uncovering the babies, who set up their frenzied chorus once more.

Pick awakened with a jerk, going from terrifying dream to waking nightmare. Frozen with fear, he watched as the hapless prey, some only half-dead like himself, were torn to pieces and fed to the voracious nestlings.

Once sated, the little creatures slept again and the parents preened each other with loving murmurs. The father dropped from the nest for another hunting excursion and the mother dozed at last.

Pick tried to raise himself, only to fall back, defeated by pain and disability. One arm was pulled from its socket, he thought, and his entire body was wracked with a throbbing out-of-joint feeling. He looked about the nest, seeking some way of escape. It was a huge construction of large sticks, softly lined with furs — from previous meals, he suspected. With an effort, he raised himself to a sitting position atop the pile of bodies, peering over the edge of the nest. A sheer drop was all he could see, into clouds that covered the lower peaks and valleys as the storm blew past the higher peaks.

At the piercing shriek of the returning father, Pick fell back, putting the pile of rabbits, some still twitching, between himself and the nestlings. If he could just escape the parents’ notice until he could move a bit more, he’d chance the climb over the side of the nest and down the cliff face. It would be better than the alternative.

Chapter 17. The Song

When Thorn and the hunters reached the pass, the scout they’d left to watch said, ‘They’re nearly all across. It won’t be long.’

 ‘Right,’ Thorn said. Looking around, he added, ‘There’s no cover to speak of here. We’ll just have to pick them off as they come, and any that break through will have to be cut down. They’re big, and tough — it’ll take more than one arrow to bring one down, I think, especially since we don’t have tips.'

He positioned a part of his hobbits on the trail just behind the pass and sent the others up and over the ridge, looking down on the trail. It would be a longer shot for these, but they’d have more cover behind the rocky ridge, and they could drop stones down on the gobble-ums when they ran out of arrows.

They didn’t have long to wait before the lookout whistled the alarm, and then hobbit arrows were raining down upon the gobble-uns. Without the metal points they didn’t do as much damage as the deadlier hunting arrows might have, but the hunters made each shot count and the first few gobble-uns in the bunch fell screaming from the path, each pierced by brightly feathered shafts.

Still, the creatures were large and tough and more than hunger and rage burned in their eyes. Despite the rain of arrows and rocks from above the creatures kept advancing, and worse, quite a few began to climb the very cliff to confront the defenders above.

Thorn shot until he’d used his last arrow, then began to throw rocks. He heard screams above — Apple’s voice among them! — and several hobbit bodies plunged from the heights. The gobble-uns were overrunning the high defences, even as they began to press the hobbits on the trail behind the pass. ‘Keep fighting!’ he shouted desperately. ‘For the People!’ His next throw caught a gobble-un on the cheek and the creature fell back, nearly losing its footing, before advancing again.

Hobbits were falling around him, even as they slashed at the advancing gobble-uns with their axes and cast stones into the grinning faces. A black shaft knocked the wind from the leader of the Fallohides and he fell to the path, dragging himself up again, reaching for his staff and swinging wildly. Another arrow found him and he collapsed against the cliff, trying to draw breath that wouldn’t come. ‘Fight!’ he gasped, even as he saw Boxthorn fall. ‘Fight...’ he whispered, and then the noise of the battle faded and he descended into darkness.

***

Pick marked the passage of time by day and night. In the daytime the sun shone dazzlingly bright, in the night the stars shone coldly down. Pick’s furs kept him warm, and when hunger gnawed too deeply, he waited for the father bird to hunt and the mother to doze, and then he cut slivers of meat from the stiffening haunch of one of the small deer that shared his plight and choked the meat down.

His hurts were worse on the second day, but when the father was gone and the mother napped he cautiously exercised his joints and muscles, all but the disjointed arm which had frozen into place. The slightest movement shot agony through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth. He’d have to get down the mountain somehow, even if he had only one usable hand.

By the fourth day he was a little less stiff, and because the father kept hunting and bringing back fresh game the great birds overlooked the small hobbit curled beneath a shield of furry bodies at the far side of the nest.

The roar of the wind had lessened, and when the father left to hunt Pick crawled out from beneath his furry shield and peered over the side of the nest. The clouds were gone and he looked down a sheer drop onto other peaks that jutted up like teeth below him. He supposed the shadows between were valleys, filled perhaps with forest and stream. There must be a fair amount of game, for the father bird was never away for very long before returning with more food.

Hearing the shriek of the returning hunter, he dropped back down behind the pile of bodies, and not a moment too soon. The babies grew hungrier with each day, it seemed, and the father was hunting more often. Now he dropped another small deer into the nest. ‘They’re growing,’ he panted. ‘I thought they’d like something more substantial.’

 ‘Lovely,’ his mate agreed. ‘Look, my dears, nice, warm and steaming, and plenty for all!’ She plunged her beak into the deer’s belly and the babies set up an excited clamour for the treat. Too soon the deer was gone and the father turned to the dwindling heap of rabbits with a sigh.

 ‘I’ll help you feed them full,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll seek another young deer. I found a nice herd of fat hinds below; plenty more where that one came from. If they’ll just take a nice long nap I’ll be able to fill up the larder again.’

 ‘Poor dear, you’re working yourself to skin and bones,’ his mate said softly before taking the next mouthful of rabbit he’d torn free and was extending to her. ‘You take the next bite, these babes won’t starve.’

 ‘Much obliged,’ he said after swallowing a hunk of bloody meat. ‘They’re slowing down, don’t you think?’

 ‘I should think so! An entire deer!’ the mother said fondly, taking another piece and putting it into the widest-open mouth before her. ‘I think they’re just filling up the corners with these rabbits. They ought to be napping soon.’

 ‘Good,’ the father said, grabbing another rabbit and plunging his beak into it.

 ‘Now then, darlings,’ the mother soothed, while the father tore the entrails from the latest rabbit. He’d nearly come to the bottom of the pile that sheltered the hobbit.
 
 ‘Here you are, my dear,’ the father said helpfully, and the mother took the pieces and methodically filled the hungry mouths. ‘Aren’t they finished yet?’

 ‘Just a few more rabbits, I think,’ the mother said. The children were slowing down, not quite so frantic in their cries, but still demanding more.

A few rabbits more and that pile was done; the father hopped over, closing one great claw about Pick as he prepared to plunge his beak into the hobbit. ‘Ah, this one’s nice and fresh!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Still twitching!’

***

Thorn awakened suddenly to pain and a suffocating feeling. He half expected to find himself being borne along, on his way to fill the gobble-uns’ bellies, but no, he was still lying against the cliff, surrounded by unmoving bodies, gobble-uns... and hobbits. He wondered; had the gobble-uns defeated them and continued after the main body of the People? No, he thought, for they’d face another fight, and there was plenty of meat for the pot lying about the pass. Surely they’d have taken what was at hand, freshly butchered, and made use of it.

He was hot and cold at the same time and realised he was burning with fever. Thirsty, he tried to reach for his water bottle, but his limbs were heavy and slow to respond. A breeze blew, and a sudden flurry of snow blessed his burning cheeks. Another storm was blowing from the mountain tops, for though it was still warm and pleasant in the valleys below, winter came early in the high passes. The People had finished the mountain passage in good time.

He tried to count the gobble-uns he could see, but a mist was before his eyes. Besides, he didn’t know how many might have fallen from the path into the abyss below. Had they killed all the gobble-uns, or hadn’t they? He suspected he’d never know the truth. Even as he turned over the thought of pushing himself up and away from the cliff wall, beginning the long trek to rejoin the People, another part of him knew that he’d reached his end.

 ‘End,’ he whispered, and then was most surprised to hear an answer.

Not the end, a Voice whispered.

 ‘Are you the one who brought the warning?’ Thorn asked weakly. He did not know this voice.

I have come to take you home, the Voice answered. It is time to rest.

 ‘Who are You?’ Thorn said, for though it was becoming harder to breathe, the curiosity of his kind would not be denied. His mother’s exasperated You’ll probably be asking a question with your last breath! rang in his memory.

When he was answered, he could hear a smile in the Voice. I am Namo, the answer came, the Voice growing stronger in his mind, closer perhaps, but most call me by another name, Mandos.

 ‘I don’t know You,’ Thorn said after a moment. ‘Not by either name.’

 You will know me, the Voice said, somehow soothing and strengthening at the same time.

 ‘The People,’ Thorn protested. He no longer felt as if he were suffocating, instead he was drawing deep breaths of fresh, bracing air as the pain fell away.

 They are safe, the Voice said. Those who hunted them are dead, and they have passed beyond the malice of the Dark Power in the darkening wood.

 ‘Why did you help us?’ Thorn asked. ‘Are you a friend of the Lady?’

Astonishingly, he heard laughter, deep, rich and musical, washing over him in waves that soothed away the last of the lingering pain and fear.

 We have been watching over your People ever since their first Notes were sounded, the Voice answered. Their greatest part is yet to come in the Song.

Thorn nodded, feeling sleepy. The snow was falling more thickly about him, blanketing the still forms in softness.

Come with me, the Voice said. You have saved your People with your wisdom and humility and your listening heart. There was a pause, and the Voice added, I have been granted permission to show you something of their Song, even as your Lady showed you your children in the new land.

 ‘How?’ Thorn asked sleepily.

Take my hand, he heard, and he saw a large hand extended to him, while a ethereal face of indescribable radiance smiled above him. He reached out, felt a firm grasp close about his hand, and was lifted, not to his feet, but somehow beyond. He could see clearly, through the blowing snow, the bodies scattered over the trail, including his own shell still leaning against the cliff as the snow drew its blanket over him.

 ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

To see some of your descendants, yours, and Pick’s, came the answer.

 ‘Pick’s dead,’ Thorn said, and somehow the words did not tear at his heart as they had before. There was no more pain, no more grief, no sorrow in the Presence that held him. He heard that marvellous laughter again.

I have not yet fetched him to my halls, Namo answered through his laughter. He has a few Notes left to sing before his time is through.

They passed through clouds and over a great field where a battle was raging, Men and gobble-uns and creatures that Thorn could not even name, one more terrible than the rest, a pale king robed in Shadow, facing a defiant, golden-haired woman. As Thorn watched, a hobbit that reminded him of Blackthorn crawled behind the king, stabbing upwards, and then the woman drove her sword between crown and mantle. The sword burst into sparkling shards that tumbled, consumed before they hit the ground, and the king was gone, swallowed up by Nothing.

Thorn felt himself lifted away into cloud and then they swooped again above another part of the battle... or perhaps it was another battle, for instead of a burning city of white stone, an enormous black gate reared before the battleground. Thorn stiffened, drawn out of his detachment as he saw... Pickthorn? ‘Pick!’ he shouted, only to hear Namo chuckle.

Not Pickthorn, Namo said, but another, one of his great-, great-, great-, great-, many greats of grandsons. The hobbit in black and silver livery stood firm against the onslaught of terrifying large creatures that hammered down the taller Men around him; he stabbed upwards at one creature, bringing it down in a rush of black blood.

 ‘What now?’ Thorn asked as he was lifted away from the scene. He craned to see the hobbit’s fate, but the small form was lost beneath the great creature he’d felled, the melee closed in around them, and then the swirling mists hid the battle from his sight.

They emerged from the mists over another great field with ranks of Men drawn up in long lines. Another battle? But no. The roars that emerged from many throats resolved into cries of praise; the waving swords were raised in acclamation. Two small figures sat upon the highest seat of three, the centre of the storm of praise. One of them he did not know, though he was reminded of Beechnut in the tilt of the chin. The other looked as Thorn imagined Pick would look when older, or like the reflection of himself he’d seen in a pool in his younger days. ‘Another of Pick’s grands?’ he asked in bemusement. He was answered by a chuckle, and the mists surrounded them once more.

One more Note, Namo said, and then I think it will be time to sing you Home.

They stood upon a meadow brilliantly green and thick with flowers. Hobbits were there, sitting or sprawling or reclining upon blankets upon the grass, singing a song that sounded something like the new song the People had begun after crossing the River. Three more hobbits were approaching the group, an older hobbit with silvering hair who might have been Thorn’s brother, such was the resemblance between them, a younger hobbit who looked like Blackthorn, and between them they were escorting a golden-haired lass great with child.

 ‘Fine news!’ the older hobbit sang out as they reached the blankets. ‘The Master of Buckland has welcomed his first grandson!’

 ‘Hurrah!’ the hobbits shouted, and a tiny golden-haired girl clapped her dimpled hands and crowed with delight.

 ‘And tell me,’ the older hobbit said as he helped ease the expectant mother down, ‘when am I to greet my latest grandchild?’

 ‘Sooner than later, to my way of thinking,’ she laughed as the young hobbit on her other side kissed her hand before releasing it.

The older hobbit sprawled upon the blanket and was soon covered with small children with curls of gold and bronze and richest ebony. As he gathered them all into his arms, he said, ‘Who needs to dig for gold? I have all I need right here!’

 ‘You have gold, and Diamonds,’ his wife said, adding her embrace, ‘...and a Ruby, and an Emerald, and a Sapphire...’

 ‘I am rich indeed,’ came the answer. ‘Let’s have another song!’

The Song goes on, Namo murmured, and then the earth fell away, the stars surrounded them in songs of splendour, and Thorn saw in the distance the white shores of a far green country.

Chapter 18. On Eagle's Wings

There seemed to be precious few notes left in Pickthorn’s song. He lay in the great bird’s grasp, frozen with fear.

 ‘Still twitching?’ the mother said in astonishment. ‘Not carrion? You brought that one some time ago!’

 The father nudged Pick with his wicked beak, and the hobbit gasped. ‘Hear that?’ the great bird said. ‘Fresh, I tell you.’ He tightened his grip and took aim. He might enjoy a bite of this one, himself, what with the babes nearly finished eating, and it was big for a rabbit. Surely there’d be enough to go around. But what was this?

 ‘No... Please!’ Pick was whispering, staring fixedly at the hovering beak. There was no hope in him, but still he gasped out his plea. He cried out as the claws loosened their grasp and took hold again. Somehow he could not look away from the great dark fathomless eye that stared down at him.

 ‘What is it?’ the mother said. ‘Why did you stop? Is it diseased?’ She half rose from her crouch. ‘Throw it out!’

 ‘It... talked,’ the father answered, turning his head to gaze at Pick with the other eye.

 ‘Food doesn’t talk,’ the mother said, shock in her voice.

 ‘This food did,’ the father answered. Even the babes fell silent at his tone. He tilted his head again to bring the first eye to bear on Pick. From the top of the sky he could see a rabbit in the grass, but it was not so easy to focus on what he held within his grasp. He squeezed a little with his claw, and the creature gasped again. ‘Here, you,’ he said. ‘You did speak just now, or am I losing my wits?’

 ‘Please don’t eat me,’ Pick said, and was reminded of another encounter when the great bird answered.

 ‘I am not in the habit of eating food that talks.’

The mother bird’s eyes were wide and if Pick could have read her expression, he would have seen consternation and alarm there. ‘You haven’t gone and taken a child of Man, have you? Men will make war upon us! You know how determined they can be!’

 ‘It was falling from the sky; I simply swooped to catch it before it was wasted upon the rocks,’ the father answered. ‘Probably fell from a path while travelling. Its companions, if any, would already be counting it dead.’ His grip tightened again as the enticing smell of blood rose in his nostrils from where his claws had pierced the creature.

 The mother bird was frantic with fear and the babies set up a shrilling. ‘We may not eat it!’ she said. ‘It is a speaking creature!’

 ‘But it smells wholesome,’ the father argued. ‘Not like the ill-smelling twisted ones that we are allowed to drop upon the rocks to break them. They may be killed; they’re just not good to eat.’

 ‘No,’ Pick said weakly. ‘I am not a gobble-un.’

 ‘No, you’re a rabbit,’ the father said in frustration. ‘But I’ve never run across a talking rabbit before.’ He looked to his mate in sudden alarm. ‘What if all the rabbits begin to talk?’

 ‘Then we’ll eat deer,’ she said firmly, hopping closer. ‘You’re hurting the little thing! Let it go.’

 ‘I am not a rabbit,’ Pick said, drawing a painful breath as the claws loosed him.

 ‘That’s a relief,’ the father said. ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to haul sheep and deer exclusively.’ He hopped to the rim of the nest, the better to see Pick. ‘What are you?’

 ‘I’m a hobbit,’ Pick said, putting a hand to his side to staunch the welling blood.

 ‘A hoppit? Sounds like a rabbit,’ the mother said dubiously.

 ‘Hobbit, it said,’ the father answered. ‘What am I to do with you? We cannot eat you, that’s for certain, for we may not eat talking creatures.’

 ‘You sound like the grey one,’ Pick whispered, closing his eyes as weakness washed through him.

 ‘Grey wan!’ the mother said brightly. 'Do you suppose it means the Grey Wanderer?'

 ‘He’d know what to do,’ the father answered with a nod. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

Pick gasped as the cruel talons seized him once more, but no claws pierced him this time. The great bird held him as if he were fragile treasure. In the next moment, the enormous wings had lifted them to the edge of the nest, and with a shriek the bird dropped into the void.

***

Two gnarled figures sat by a small fire in a forest at the base of the Misty Mountains. They sat in companionable silence, for they had known each other of old and had just finished a filling meal and a long discussion, and soon it would be time to sleep.

The brown one looked up at a faint cry in the sky. ‘Eagle,’ he said, raising one eyebrow. ‘But that is not a hunting cry.’

 ‘Why does that surprise you?’ the grey one answered.

 ‘Hunting is about all they do this time of year,’ the brown one said.  ‘Voracious appetites to feed, with a growing family in the nest.’

The eagle’s scream came again, closer. ‘Is it a warning?’ the grey one said. ‘Do orcs approach?’

The brown one cocked his head to listen to the birdsong in the surrounding trees. ‘The other birds are going about their business,’ he answered.

The scream came from just above them, and then the great bird landed before them, unclenching its claws to release a limp bundle.

 ‘Grey Wanderer,’ it said, nodding its head. ‘This one fell from the mountain; I thought it a gift from the heavens, to feed my young. But we do not eat talking food.’

 ‘Talking food!’ the brown one said, rising. Eyeing the bundle, he added, ‘Too small to be an orc.’

The grey one rose as well. ‘One of the Little Folk!’ he said. The eagle hopped back as he hurried to bend over the still figure. Turning it over, he said, ‘Pick!’

 ‘You know it?’ the eagle asked, cocking his head.

 ‘I know him,’ the grey one said grimly. Looking to the other wizard, he said, ‘Help me. He’s bleeding badly.’

 ‘At least he’s still bleeding,’ the brown one answered, taking a clean cloth from his bag and pressing it to Pick’s side.

The hobbit’s eyes opened, widening when he saw the large faces bending over him. Recognition came into his countenance, and he gasped, ‘Grand-alf!’

 ‘Grand-alf?’ the brown one said quizzically.

The grey one shrugged. ‘It is the name his People have for me.’ He brushed the curls back from Pick’s forehead. ‘You’re safe, Pick. The eagle said you fell from the mountains. Your people are making the crossing?’

 ‘Ell Adan told us to go to Imladris,’ Pick said, his eyes glazing with shock and pain.

 ‘Come, let us warm him by the fire. Some of these wounds will have to be stitched, and I’ll make up a strengthening broth,’ the brown one said. ‘We thank you, Windfather, for bringing us this little one.’

 ‘It was nothing,’ the eagle said, shuffling his feet uneasily. ‘Well,’ he added, straightening, ‘I have mouths to feed.’ Without further courtesies he launched himself into the air, flapping heavily to gain height. Once more they heard his scream.

 ‘Now that’s the cry of a hunting eagle,’ the brown one said absently as he dug healing salve and bandages from his bag.

Chapter 19. A Parting and A Meeting

 ‘Are you Grand-alf’s brother?’ the small voice piped, and the brown one looked down to meet wide eyes looking up from the hobbit he cradled. They had nursed this little one for some days, and when it seemed Pick was out of danger the grey one had gone off to do some “looking about”, leaving the hobbit in the brown wizard’s care. These were the first clear words Pick had spoken, unmuddled by fever and pain.

The wizard considered his answer, and when he did reply his words were slow and measured as always. The white one scorned him for his deliberation, he knew, but what did it matter?

 ‘You might call us cousins,’ he said at last. ‘We have known each other long.’

 ‘You look alike,’ the hobbit said, ‘only different.’ In spite of himself the brown one found himself chuckling. There was something about these little ones, just as the grey one had said...

 ‘What is your name?’ the hobbit persisted.

 ‘Name?’ the brown one said, raising an eyebrow. The hobbit sighed. Were his folk the only sensible ones? No, the alfs had given their names after initial caution. ‘I’m told your name is Pick,’ the wizard added, evading the topic of his own name.

 ‘Pickthorn,’ the hobbit corrected. ‘My father is Thorn--the Thorn,’ he emphasised. ‘Do you have a staff?’

Such quick changes of topic were bewildering. The brown wizard was used to following a trail of thought to its end before starting another. ‘A staff?’ he said, bemused.

 ‘Does it flare and flame like Grand-alf’s?’ the hobbit said, eyes bright with interest.

 ‘No,’ the wizard said. ‘Mine has other uses. Fire is his servant.’ Actually it was the other way around; the grey wizard was a servant of the secret Fire, but he doubted this little one would understand.

A bluebird called in the canopy above them, and the brown one whistled an answer. The little voice spoke again. ‘They’re different from ours.’

 ‘Eh? What’s that?’

  The little one whistled a bluebird’s call, subtly different. ‘O yes,’ the wizard said in recognition. ‘That is the call of Greenwood.’ He eyed the little one. ‘That is on the other side of the Anduin.’

Pick nodded, recognising the alf’s name for the great River. ‘The Lady,’ he said, ‘it is Her wood,’ and the wizard nodded. Grandalf had told him about the Lady. These Little Folk had at least one powerful friend. ‘Where are we?’

 ‘In the lap of the Misty Mountains,’ Grandalf said, coming up to them. To be literal, the hobbit was in the lap of the brown wizard, looking quite comfortable for one so nearly torn to pieces in an eyrie a fortnight ago. ‘Your people were making the crossing when you were lost, and we must follow. Evil is on their trail.’

 ‘He is not strong enough yet for a journey,’ the brown one protested.

 ‘I will carry him.’

The brown wizard muttered to himself and whistled sharply. To Pick’s wonder a bird came down from the canopy to perch upon an out-thrust finger, and then there was a conversation of whistles and chirps before the bird flew off again.

 ‘At least have some stew before you go,’ the brown wizard grumbled. ‘I went to the effort of making it while you were off looking for trouble.’

 ‘Finding it, you mean,’ Grandalf said, bending to take Pick from the brown one’s lap. He smelt faintly of smoke and thunder on a sultry day. ‘How are you, young Pick?’

 ‘I can walk,’ the hobbit said bravely.

 ‘Have a bite to eat first,’ the brown one said stubbornly. ‘You’ll go farther if you do.’ Though the grey wizard was taut with tension, he settled down, still holding the hobbit, and allowed the brown one to serve them. He ate rapidly, however, and some of his urgency was transmitted to Pick.

The hobbit found himself wolfing his food instead of enjoying it. ‘Done,’ he said at last, when he’d eaten as much as both wizards put together.

 ‘We’ll be on our way,’ Grandalf said, rising with his burden.

 ‘Wait,’ the brown one commanded, holding up a hand.

 ‘We cannot wait,’ Grandalf said huffily.

 ‘You’ll go on better if you do,’ the brown one replied. ‘Ah, here we are.’ Hoof beats could be heard approaching, a light tappety-tap of a gallop.

 ‘Where did you find a horse in these parts?’ Grandalf said in astonishment.

 ‘Not a horse,’ the brown one said softly. ‘A friend. Now be still.’ He held out a hand, and all three waited, scarcely breathing.

The hoof beats stopped outside their clearing, and the brown wizard called, a low, hollow tone. There was a moment of silent waiting, and then a great stag stepped into the clearing, walking proudly forward until it nuzzled the outstretched hand. The brown one spoke in low murmurings and the great crowned head nodded. ‘He will bear you, brother,’ the brown one said. ‘He has feet that are both swift and sure, and he will bring you over snow and ice safely. The birds say that winter already has laid her cloak over the mountain passes.’

Grandalf stepped forward, extending a hand to the soft, wet muzzle and was thoroughly snuffled. ‘I thank you,’ he said softly to the great beast, and the deep brown eye regarded him thoughtfully. He lifted Pick onto the broad back and lightly mounted himself, the hobbit safely before him, hedged in by his arms. ‘Send word to the elves of Greenwood,’ he said, ‘and those of Elrond who lodge there. The orcs are moving into the mountains, and will seek out fastnesses there to waylay unwary travellers. I will take word to Imladris.’

 ‘We are going to Imladris?’ Pick said, his heart lightening. He thought he’d never see his people again.

 ‘Indeed we are,’ Grandalf assured him. ‘We go by the path your father chose. Indeed, I intend to meet up with him again in the new land!’
 
***

Elladan heard the splash before he saw the maker of the sound. It was more than the jump of a fish in the stream. He tensed, nocking an arrow to his bow, and crept forward. He paused to see the small figure on the rock, holding a staff in hand, knife tied to the end to make an improvised fishing spear.

 ‘Black?’ he said, and the figure tensed, then turned towards him. It was the hobbit he remembered, though much thinner, grim of face, bearing scars he hadn’t seen before.

 ‘Ell Adan?’ the hobbit said. ‘Do you know how many valleys there are in this country, that all match the description you gave me? We’d given up on seeking Imladris, found temporary shelter in the forest beyond, and are trying to keep from starving while dodging the great Men who hunt in the woods.’ He looked around him. ‘Grandalf promised a fair land, but we have known only sorrow and hardship.’

 ‘The fair land and the others of your sort lie further to the West,’ Elladan said.

 ‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ Black said. ‘Another wrong choice... without my father and Beech to lead us we’ve been lost. The Lady has not spoken since we made the crossing, and I have not known what to do save find some sort of shelter and send out what hunters we have left to feed the mothers and babes.’

 ‘What hunters you have left?’ the son of Elrond echoed.

The hobbit nodded grimly. ‘Gobble-uns followed us,’ he said. ‘They nearly had us, but my father took most of the hunters to meet them. None ever returned.’

 ‘Blackthorn,’ Elladan said softly.

The hobbit raised his head. ‘I am Thorn,’ he said proudly, but then his shoulders slumped. ‘The Thorn, for all the good it does. You did not see any sign of bodies as you came over the pass? They were all killed and taken for the pot then,’ he ended bleakly.

 ‘I came over a different pass,’ Elladan said. ‘I travelled quickly, on horseback, to bring news of Glorfindel to my father, and I had no need to avoid the paths taken by Men.’

The Thorn nodded, fish spear drooping in his hand. Elladan dug suddenly in his pouch, bringing out a packet of waybread. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this; it will lend you strength. And then I ask that you take me to your people. We will guide them to my father’s house.’

Chapter 20. A Stitch in Time

 ‘What chance would they have against orcs?’ the brown one said. The tall old ones were speaking in a language Pick did not know, while the brown one hastily stuffed bread and other foodstuffs into a bag. The stag waited patiently. Pick could feel its breath beneath his feet.

 ‘This one is young,’ Grandalf answered. ‘Young, and injured. He appears helpless, but his people are sharp of wit and weapon.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, the urgency within me grows. The Little Folk are badly in need of aid.’

The brown one handed the bag to Grandalf, then moved to the stag’s head, pulling at the furry ear. The head lowered obediently and he whispered. The beast shook its head as if tickled by a fly, then nodded and snorted.

 ‘He knows the way,’ the brown one said, stepping back. ‘Go with grace.’

The stag moved swiftly through the gathering gloom, a moving shadow amongst the shadows of the trees. Far away wolves called, and Pick stiffened. ‘No need to worry,’ the grey one told him. ‘They will not attack a great prince of the forest; his weapons are formidable indeed.’

The stag shook his crown of antlers and Pick laughed softly. ‘I think he understood you,’ he said in delight.

 ‘Of course,’ the grey one replied. ‘He understands all we say, so watch your words.’

 ‘Great Prince,’ Pick said, one hand stroking the soft fur beneath him while the other hugged sore ribs made more painful by the motion. He supposed it was better than walking on his own legs. ‘I thank you for your aid.’ The beast gave a soft snort and continued its steady progress. The brown one who would not give his name had murmured wordlessly to the beast before they had started. Pick wondered what sort of directions had been given. In any event, the stag seemed to know which way to go.

Pick dozed, and when he wakened again they were in bright sunshine. He thought he recognised the landscape; here they had snared rabbits by the dozens and the children had gathered enough berries to feed all the People. Here his mother had joyously plucked sage and thyme for rabbit stew, while his sisters dug roots. ‘Grandalf?’ he said.

 ‘What is it, Pick?’ the wizard answered.

 ‘What sort of evil?’ the hobbit asked.

 ‘Eh?’ the grey one said.

 ‘What sort of evil is on their trail?’ Pick said.

 ‘Orcs,’ the grey one answered. ‘Gobble-uns followed their trail into the mountains.’ He hesitated. There was another evil that had not yet been made clear to him. He decided not to mention it to the little one, not yet at least, not until he could give it a name. The People ought to be well out of the mountains and into the new lands by now. Had the orcs followed them that far? Or was it the new evil that threatened now? And would Gandalf be in time to bring aid?

 ‘They have no trees for refuge,’ Pick said, his heart beating faster.

 ‘They have weapons and stout hearts,’ Grandalf said, ‘and plenty of reason to fight.’

Pick nodded, but he was not reassured.

***

Elladan followed the Thorn through the woods. It was not like his earlier journey with this hobbit’s father, where he’d been challenged to walk as swiftly and silently as the small one. This hobbit was weak from lack of food and half-healed wounds (“wild-cat” he said tonelessly in answer to Elladan’s query); he stumbled as he went and had to stop to catch his breath.

Reaching a secluded area, thick with brambles and away from the paths usually taken by the Men whose fortresses dotted the nearby hills, the Thorn paused and whistled. There was an answering whistle. ‘There,’ the hobbit said. ‘They won’t shoot you out of hand.’

 ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Elladan said.

 ‘We live like rabbits these days, amongst the briers,’ the hobbit said. ‘Can you crawl on your belly?’

 ‘If need be,’ the son of Elrond replied.

The Thorn nodded and went down on his belly, crawling under the brambles. Elladan followed. He found it a tight fit, sustaining several painful scratches before they emerged in an area where the ground had been dug away. Brambles grew thickly over them, screening them from above. ‘No hawks or owls hunt our little ones,’ the hobbit said grimly. ‘This is only one of our places. We could hardly fit nearly two hundreds of Fallohides here, not even with most being small children.’

 ‘Two hundreds!’ Elladan whispered, aghast. There had been three or four times that number, he thought, when he’d met the hobbits in Greenwood.

A familiar-looking hobbit crawled out from a hole dug under a great tree bole. He was thinner than the Thorn and one leg was splinted. ‘Thorn,’ he said. ‘Did you bring any--?’

 ‘No fish, I’m sorry to say, Leaf,’ the Thorn said. ‘Something better, I hope.’

 ‘Ell Adan!’ Oakleaf said. ‘I never thought to see you again. Do you know how many valleys...?’

 ‘Yes,’ Elladan said dryly. ‘So I’ve been told.’

A hobbit lass crawled out of Leaf’s hole. Her face was dirty, her hair tangled, and the thinness of her arms and legs was accentuated by her protruding middle. ‘Thorn,’ she said, ‘I heard the whistle. What news?’ Seeing an alf, one of the Fair Folk, in the middle of their bramble-cover, she turned her face away, brushing at the dirt, pushing her tangled curls behind her ears.

 ‘All is well, Holly,’ the Thorn said. To Elladan he said, ‘Water is difficult enough to fetch for drinking, much less washing.’ The son of Elrond only nodded, stunned silent as dirty-faced, bony hobbit children began to emerge from nearby holes. There was none of the cheerful chatter he remembered, only sober faces with eyes that were too big, and sad beyond his bearing.

 ‘All the comforts of home and hole,’ the Thorn said wryly. ‘We’ve become animals, Ell Adan, hunted for sport by cruel and careless Men who kill us and leave our bodies for foxes and carrion-eaters. We eat our food raw, for we dare not make smoke in cooking. I have led my People out of the mountains, it seems, to fade and die with the leaves of falling-time.’

 ‘No, Blackthorn—Thorn,’ Elladan said. ‘Forgive me.’

 ‘Forgive?’ the Thorn said quizzically.

 ‘In the Halls of the Wood Elves I dreamed of crossing the mountains and bringing word to my father. The dream came every night, until I knew I must go, and so I begged a swift horse from Thranduil and took the easy pass, the one the traders follow. I brought word to my father, of Glorfindel and the orcs, and thought my task was done, but my restlessness continued until I was forced to wander, hunting...’

 ‘Hunting?’ Oakleaf said.

 ‘I should have known I was hunting your people. When you did not come to Imladris, I assumed you had continued Westward, to the new land Mithrandir spoke of, where there are others like yourselves.’

 ‘The Lady speaks soft and subtly,’ the Thorn said quietly. ‘You must listen with all your heart if you are to hear and heed.’

 ‘Winter is coming swiftly to this land,’ Elladan said. ‘Game grows ever harder to find. Without fire the rain and cold will be unbearable for your little ones, and what of the snow and ice to follow?’

 ‘What would you have me do?’ the Thorn said wearily.

 ‘Lead your people to Imladris,’ Elladan said. ‘Spend the winter with my people, grow in strength and health and hope, and in the Spring set out for your new land.’

 ‘Have we the strength?’ Oakleaf said.

 ‘Have we a choice?’ the Thorn retorted. ‘Gather the heads of families, Leaf.’

 ‘As you wish,’ Oakleaf said. He made the noise of a scolding squirrel, then wormed his way out of the bramble thicket. Several hobbits, two only half-grown, descended from the surrounding trees.

The Thorn introduced each. ‘Burr, Root, Twig, Bark, Fern,’ he said.

 ‘These are heads of families?’ Elladan said.

 ‘Of course,’ the Thorn said. ‘These became heads when their fathers and uncles failed to return. At least they stopped the gobble-uns. We hid in the trees when we came out of the mountains, but no gobble-uns followed.’

 ‘That was a mercy,’ Twig said. ‘I don’t know what we’d have used to fight them if they had found us.’

While they waited for the rest, the Thorn reached beneath his furs, bringing out a green jewel. 'You gave this to my father, I believe, to give to your father. I suppose you can give it to him yourself now.' Elladan took the jewel without comment, though his throat was tight with grief.

About a score of "heads" gathered under the bramble-shelter. It was a tight fit, but they folded themselves compactly and settled to the ground to await developments. Most were young, about the same age as Thorn and Leaf, a few perhaps a little older. The eldest, Beech, was led into the circle by a young hobbit.

 ‘Beech?’ Elladan said. ‘I remember you!’

 ‘I know your voice,’ the hobbit said, peering uncertainly at him. ‘Come closer.’

With difficulty considering the crowd of bodies in the small space, Elladan squirmed closer to Beech. When the son of Elrond was within arm’s reach of the hobbit, Beech blinked and said. ‘Ah, yes, you are as I remember you, Ell Adan. Have you come to bid the People farewell? Evil times are upon us.’

 ‘I have come to guide you to Imladris,’ Elladan replied.

 ‘It’s about time,’ Beech said.

Chapter 21. Snatched from the Jaws

Pick’s arm was aching abominably once more, though he made no complaint. The brown one had restored it to its proper place, but had warned him that muscles and other things had been damaged and would take time to heal. His ribs, too, hurt him and his breath came short, but he forgot all discomforts as Grandalf slid from the stag’s back to brush the snow away from… a dead gobble-un.

Pick saw one of Blackthorn’s arrows protruding from the creature. It had to be Blackthorn’s, for Pick had watched his brother fletching that very shaft, with its pattern of blue and yellow feathers. Hobbits always recovered their arrows, always, without exception; no, that wasn’t quite right. Sometimes they couldn’t recover their arrows, because the prey fell in a stream or some other inaccessible place. This gobble-un was right on the path, perfectly accessible.

The stag’s head came around to nuzzle Pick's toes and the grey one looked up at the movement. Pick realised he was shaking his head and trembling violently only when Grandalf rose from his crouch to take the hobbit in his arms. ‘Black,’ the young hobbit whispered. ‘That’s one of Black’s arrows.’

 ‘We can go on,’ Grandalf said gently.

 ‘No,’ Pick said, taking hold of himself. ‘No, I have to know. I have to see.’

Grandalf nodded. He set Pick on his feet a moment, removed his tattered-looking but warm cloak and laid it on the ground, then placed the hobbit on the cloak, wrapping him securely. ‘Sit here,’ he said, ‘while I look.’ Though he appeared old, he didn’t seem to be bothered by the icy wind whistling through the pass, nor the snow that blew around them. The stag folded his legs and laid himself down upon the ground, careful not to crush the hobbit, but close enough that Pick could lean back and take some comfort from the warm hide behind him.

The wizard moved from mound to mound, large and small boulders scattered on the path. Not boulders at all, Pick realised sickly, watching Grandalf stoop over each and brush away the snow. They were gobble-uns... and hobbits. The grey one, displaying strength far beyond his appearance, picked up the bodies of the gobble-uns and piled them to one side of the trail. He picked up the hobbits one by one, placing them in a line that seemed to Pick to go on forever. Finally the task was finished and Grandalf returned to the hobbit, lifting him gently and re-wrapping the cloak about him. ‘I did not find Blackthorn, I think,’ he said.

He carried Pick down the line of hobbits, stopping long enough for Pick to name each one. It was a long line, more than fourscore, but Black was not one of them, though Applethorn and Boxthorn were. ‘Some may have fallen from the path, as you did,’ Grandalf said softly. ‘I have one more to show you.’

Pick knew, somehow, that his father would be this final hobbit. Thorn lay propped against the wall, his face unmarked by pain or sorrow. In truth, he might have been asleep save the deathly pallor of his skin. His eyes were closed, and he smiled.

 ‘Not a bad end,’ Grandalf murmured, ‘and he accomplished his purpose. He saved his People.’

Pick looked at him in astonishment. The grey one nodded slowly. ‘He saved them,’ he reiterated. 'Had the goblins won, no bodies would lie here. They would have carried away your hunters, you know.’

Pick’s mouth opened wide in surprise, but his gasp hurt. Grandalf reacted at once, carrying him back to the stag, which hurriedly gained its feet, divining his urgency. ‘We’ll send a party of Elves back to care for the bodies properly,’ he said. ‘We’ll not leave them to the beasts and the weather, but there’s no time now. I must get you to Imladris, and once Elrond has dealt with your injuries we will seek out the rest of the People.’

 ‘May the Lady watch over them,’ Pick whispered.

 ‘I would say She already has,’ Grandalf replied as the stag moved past the grim line. ‘No wolves or other scavengers have been here, no travellers at all it seems. I think they will lie undisturbed.’ He leaned forward and spoke strange words to the stag, and the beast quickened its pace, leaving the silent pass behind them.

***

It took several days to gather all the remaining Fallohides from their hiding places. Elladan wished once more that Elrohir had accompanied him in errantry as he usually did, but his twin was still in the halls of the Wood Elves and would not be crossing the mountains until Glorfindel was ready to travel. He wished he had not left Imladris alone, but the hunch, feeling, intuition that led him had been so vague... he’d had no idea that he’d find nearly two hundreds of worn and weary Halflings, badly in need of aid.

He’d whistled his horse to come, but he could have used several dozen more. As it was, Beech, Leaf, and a few more incapacitated hobbits rode, squeezed together on the horse’s back. Each of the adults carried a small child, and groups of children walked holding hands, encouraging one another.

 ‘How far is it to Imladris?’ the Thorn asked. He walked beside Elladan, his wife Lily beside him. Like Holly, she was obviously with child, and much too thin. She had pulled her hair back, twisted it, and shoved a stick in place to hold it. She walked with her head high, looking about alertly.

Elladan shook his head. Distances were relative. It was a day’s journey, for him alone astride his swift steed. At hobbit-children’s pace, several days, perhaps a week? ‘Not too far,’ he answered. ‘You’ve walked farther.’

 ‘There’s snow in the air,’ Lily said. ‘Will we arrive before the storm breaks?’

 ‘Undoubtedly,’ Elladan said, but he was mistaken. The storm was upon them.

A thunder of hoofbeats approached, and the Elf-horse threw up its head and snorted, rolling its eyes. The hobbits stopped, pulling together in a compact bunch, the littlest in the centre.

 ‘The hunters,’ the Thorn hissed. Quickly all those hobbits who still bore weapons brought them to the ready, grim despair upon their faces. They were caught in the open, nowhere to hide.

Men on horses broke from the surrounding trees with shouts of excitement, bringing shafts to bear on the Little Folk.

 ‘Hold!’ Elladan roared, and the hobbits stared at him in astonishment. He seemed to have grown in power and majesty, not the merry friend who had shared their food but a mighty lord who stood between them and the Men.

 ‘Hail, Fair One!’ the leader of the Men said, reining his horse forward. ‘You have done Rhudaur a great service this day. Did you whistle these creatures from their holes, and now lead them enthralled to the river to drown them? We’ll save you the trouble. Our King has declared a fine bounty for each head we can bring him!’

 ‘These are not animals for the hunt,’ Elladan replied. ‘They are People, and under the protection of Imladris.’

 ‘People!’ the leader shouted, as his Men laughed in derision. ‘They are vermin! They have come to infest our lord’s hunting grounds, killing game that belongs to the King. Even were they people, the penalty for poaching is death! Stand aside! Or would you like to join us in our sport?’

 ‘You cannot slaughter helpless mothers and babes,’ Elladan said in horror. He was beginning to understand his father’s wary attitude towards Men. Once there had been a great alliance of Elves and Men, but Men seldom came to Imladris these days.

 ‘Babes grow up, and mothers bear still more to plague the land,’ the Man said. ‘Stand aside, or a stray shaft might pierce your heart. A pity it would be, for one of the Fair Folk so to shorten his days.’

 ‘This will be the greatest catch yet!’ another Man chortled. ‘Even better than two days ago, when we burned a warren of the creatures and shot them as they fled the flames!’

 ‘How many?’ Elladan gasped.

 ‘Fewer than an hundred,’ the leader drawled in a bored tone. ‘Hardly worth our while. This lot, now,’ he said, casting his eye over what remained of the Fallohides, ‘will bring us a pretty penny, or their heads will, at least.’

The attention of the Men was caught by Leaf, sliding from the horse, but his aim was not to cause them any inconvenience or harm. He merely embraced Holly and turned to face the bows of the Men. Thorn, too, had put himself between Lily and the arrows pointed at them, but now Lily stepped to his side and the two twined their arms about each other. Elladan realised that the hobbits were preparing to meet death, and he opened his mouth for another bitter protest when he was interrupted.

 ‘These People are under the protection of Imladris and the Lord Elrond. You are covered by many bows. Put your weapons away, or things will go ill with you.’

Chapter 22. The Rescue

The Men slowly lowered their bows and let their arrows fall to the ground. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the leader demanded. Dazed, they looked at him. He guided his horse to the nearest, pulling at the hunter’s bow. Jerking the weapon from its owner, he shouted, ‘He’s bewitched you all! Shoot!’ ...but none of them heeded him, staring at him as if in a dream.

 ‘Put your weapons away!’ the voice repeated, and the leader looked suddenly to the bow he held, horror and loathing in his eyes. He dropped the bow as if it burned his hand. ‘Now go!’ The horses tossed their heads up, eyes rolling white, bearing their riders away so suddenly that several of the Men were unseated. No matter, they gained their feet quickly and ran after the others, screaming.

The hobbits stood tense, still, staring into the surrounding woods. A light shimmered behind the trees, and on every side Fair Folk stepped from cover, bows at the ready, horses following them, jewelled headstalls flashing in the morning light. In their midst was an old, bearded man garbed in grey.

Elladan started. ‘Mithrandir!’ he gasped.

 ‘Son of Elrond,’ the grey one said with a nod.

At the sound of his voice, quite a few of the tiny hobbit children ran forward, shouting joyously. ‘G’andalf! G’andalf! G’andalf!’ They pressed against him, those closest clinging to his robes, the rest dancing and clapping around him.

A small hand pushed aside the beard, revealing that the grey one held a young hobbit in his arms. The Thorn started forward, calling in unbelieving joy, ‘Pick!’

 ‘Blackthorn!’ the little one called, ‘O Black! I thought you were dead!’ The wizard carefully put Pickthorn on the ground, in time for his oldest brother to throw his arms about him. Another hobbit stumbled to them, Hawthorn it was, saying, ‘Pick, O Pick, we thought you were the one dead!’ Holly came forward, laughing and crying at the same time, supporting her mother who moved forward as one in a dream and suddenly took her youngest son in a fierce, wordless hug.

The remaining hobbits stared at the Elves surrounding them, grim warriors, tall and fearsome. The first Elves to reach the perimeter of Small Folk smiled and their faces were transformed. They knelt to take the small hands outstretched to them, and suddenly they seemed merry as children to the wondering hobbits.

The Elf-horses stood very still as one small rider after another was placed upon their backs, until finally all the hobbits had been given a seat and the Elves turned their faces towards Imladris, walking beside their small charges, dealing out waybread from the bags they carried and drinks from silver flasks.

At first the hobbits were shy, but this state of affairs could hardly last, what with all they could eat and drink, horses to ride, and smiling hosts, and soon much talk arose amongst the travellers. The hobbits were especially curious about Imladris, and asked so many questions that more than one Elf threw up his hands, laughing, ‘You will see! You shall!’

And so they travelled to the edge of the wood and beyond, across a wide and foaming river and into featureless hills covered with heather. Valleys opened unexpectedly before them, and they could see treetops far below. There were gullies and dark ravines and pleasant green places with flowers growing bright and tall, even this late in the season, but as they skirted the first of these the hobbits fell silent and averted their eyes.

 ‘Those are bogs,’ Elladan said to the Thorn, who nodded.

 ‘Some of our children thought to pick the pretty flowers,’ he whispered. ‘Neither they, nor those who went to rescue them, ever came out again.’

Elladan was silent, thinking once more of the many losses these Little Folk had suffered. They journeyed on without further words as the Sun kissed the horizon behind them and the world darkened.

On they went into darkness. Elves removed cloaks and drew them around the little groups of riders on the horses' backs against the growing chill of night. The stars winked bright eyes and awakened to shine upon the travellers. On they travelled, the headstalls of the horses gleaming silver in the moonlight. On they continued, until jewels on the headstalls glimmered as the horses lifted their heads to scent the breeze.

 ‘We are home,’ Elladan said, pointing ahead. The hobbits riding his horse could see nothing in the darkness ahead, but suddenly they felt their mount tilting forward as if descending a steep slope, and the sound of many waterfalls came to their ears.

Suddenly one of the hobbits called out in their own tongue, ‘Light!’ Straining to look ahead, they saw a light far down and across a valley.

 ‘The Last Homely House,’ Elladan said. The smell of trees rose up around them and the air grew warmer as they followed the steep zig-zag path ever downwards, until at last they reached the bottom and an open glade not far above the banks of the stream that ran through the valley. The trees were hung with lanterns, and Fair Folk sat in the branches, singing. They called greetings to the Elf-warriors escorting the hobbits, and the warriors called back, their fair voices ringing through the darkness.

On they went to the very brink of the river, running swift and deep, and they could hear its song though they could not see it in the darkness. The hoofbeats of the horses sounded hollow as they crossed a bridge of stone, and had the hobbits seen how narrow it was they might have feared, but they knew only that their guides walked ahead of the horses for a little and then came back to walk beside them once more.

At last they came to the Last Homely House, and found its doors flung wide, light streaming out, and the many windows shone with a warm and welcoming light, and a tall, lordly figure waited to greet them.

 ‘Welcome,’ his rich voice rolled through the summery darkness. ‘Well come, indeed. Supper is ready, and bath and bed. Come in! Come in and be at rest.’

Chapter 23. In the Last Homely House

By the light of the lanterns shining upon them, the grey one saw Pick wiggling and hastened to lift him down from the tall horse before he fell and undid all the healing that had been accomplished. The little one ran to the doorway, threw his arms around Elrond’s legs and pressed his face against the bemused elf-friend’s knees.

 ‘We found them!’ he cried happily. ‘O All-Around! We found the People and have brought them safe!’

Elrond bent and carefully lifted the small teen until they were eye to eye. ‘I see,’ he said, and his smile was as kind as summer. ‘Come now, young Pick, let us lead them to supper.’ He settled Pick in the crook of his arm and waited.

Elves were lifting hobbits down from the tall horses, setting them on their feet where the little ones stood as if rooted to the ground, staring at the grand dwelling.

 ‘This is your hole, Ell Adan?’ the Thorn whispered, his eyes wide with awe.

 ‘This is my hole, Thorn,’ the son of Elrond answered with a smile, lifting down the last hobbit from his horse, a tiny lass with enormous eyes who stared silently, thumb in mouth.

 ‘Come!’ Pick was shouting from the doorway. Thorn took Lily’s arm and walked slowly to the doorway, his head lifting as he approached. He stopped before Master Elrond and bowed.

 ‘Lord,’ he said. ‘We thank you for the timely rescue.’

 ‘I am glad that it was timely,’ Elrond replied. ‘Please, come, enjoy the hospitality of my House.’ He turned and escorted Blackthorn and Lily while the rescuers shooed shoals and eddies of hobbits before them into the house.

Supper was indeed prepared. Elrond had ordered the legs sawed off from two of the long tables and their accompanying benches in the great hall. The tables were set with the smallest dessert plates and tiniest implements. Fingerbowls awaited the steaming soup that stood in tureens at intervals; tiny cups meant for the strong elvish liquor held fresh, cold water; baskets were piled high with bread formed into hobbit-sized loaves.

Though the little ones were obviously starving, they took their places and stood waiting.

 ‘What is the matter?’ Elrond whispered to Pick. ‘Is something missing?’

 ‘They wait for you to take your place at the head,’ Pick whispered back.

 ‘Ah,’ Elrond said, nodding wisely. He moved to the head of one of the tables and lowered himself to the floor. As one the hobbits bowed to him, saying their thanks and waiting for his acknowledgement before they took their seats.

Elves quickly dispensed thick, meaty soup to each hobbit. Despite their appearance—they were filthy and clad in dirty, tattered furs—the little ones used spoons to eat their soup, did not grab at the piles of bread but passed the food politely, did not gulp their food but ate it with decorum. Of course, even the smallest ate more than a full-grown elf. It was amazing how the hobbits could eat and talk at the same time without choking or missing a bite.

Eventually the demands for second and third and fourth helpings diminished, the chatter quieted, and the smallest heads began to droop.

 ‘What now, my lord?’ Blackthorn said quietly. He seemed to have relinquished all command. Exhaustion was etched plainly in his features.

 ‘A bath, I think,’ Elrond said.

The Thorn nodded, a wry smile on his face. ‘I am surprised we were allowed to cross your threshold in our present state,’ he said. ‘My mother always made us wash before we would sit down to eat.’

 ‘An oversight on our part; my apologies,’ Elrond said smoothly. ‘Come along.’ He rose, and the hobbits rose from table as well, bigger ones picking up sleepy little ones and carrying them along.

Sleep was forgotten for a space in the wonder of hot baths; there was much splashing and giggling and elven laughter involved. Flannels sufficed to wrap the hobbit children emerging from the water, while hand-towels accommodated their elders. Their filthy, tattered garments had been spirited away while they bathed. Towel-wrapped, the guests were led to their beds.

Elrond had directed mattresses to be laid upon the floor, and sleepy hobbits tumbled on to these, two or three families to a bed. They burrowed under the blankets, snuggling together, clean, safe, warm, and full of good food.

Elves worked through the night, cutting and sewing simple garments for the guests. Leatherworkers took up unaccustomedly slender needles, tapestry embroiderers left off their intricate stitchery, cooks and stable workers and scribes and smiths laid down their usual implements to tackle the task. By the time the hobbits roused with the dawning, neatly folded piles of small shirts and breeches, tunics and undertunics, skirts and overskirts lay by each bed.

So began a time of rest and healing for the hobbits, wonder and laughter for the elves. The Big Folk learned quickly to look before they stepped. It seemed as if small hobbits were always underfoot, and as the children did not reach even the knees of an elf, “underfoot” they were in truth. The hobbits went everywhere in the great House, exploring every nook and cranny, asking questions wherever they went.

The cooks in the kitchens grew used to preparing in-between meals for their guests, and were flattered at the way all their offerings were happily consumed.

More than once, Elrond was interrupted with a question, but it hardly seemed to matter. Elves had time enough to spare. He spent long hours with the Thorn, going over maps, talking about the land to the west of the Misty Mountains. Mithrandir came and went. Upon his arrival he was always mobbed by small, excited hobbits. Even some of the elves began to call him “Gandalf”.

The days slipped slowly by, one running into the next in a seemingly endless stream.

 ‘What are you doing?’ It had become a common question in the Last Homely House. Now a rope-maker looked up from his work.

 ‘Twisting rope,’ he said.

 ‘Ah,’ Oakleaf said. ‘Beech here, his family twisted ropes for all the People.’

 ‘That’s so,’ Beech said. ‘May I see?’

The rope-maker nodded, and Oakleaf led Beech forward until he could put his hands on the rope. Beech blinked to try to clear his vision, running his hands along the finished length, then moving back to finger the individual strands. ‘It is much the same way we used to do,’ he said at last. ‘I do not recognise the fibre.’ He settled down happily to a discussion of tips and techniques, and eventually the elvish rope-maker found two capable assistants sitting with him, twisting rope as they continued to talk.

A weaver had the feeling of being watched, like a tickle on the back of her neck. Finally looking up, she saw a silent hobbit mother standing near enough to touch the loom. ‘Good day,’ she smiled.

The hobbit did not smile in return but only nodded gravely. ‘You’re weaving,’ she said.

 ‘Yes,’ the weaver answered, and while the hobbit watched, a few more fingerlengths were added to the cloth that was emerging from the loom.

It was time to vary the pattern. As she picked up a skein of the silvery yarn, the weaver heard an intake of breath from the little one. Looking at the hobbit, she saw the hazel eyes fixed hungrily on the yarn. ‘I’ve never seen such a colour,’ the hobbit whispered. ‘It shines like the river in the moonlight.’

Impulsively the weaver presented the skein to the hobbit. ‘It’s yours,’ she said. ‘If you have use for more, tell me. We have many colours you may choose from.’

The hobbit mother hugged the yarn to herself, tears in her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and was gone.

Chapter 24. The Ravelled Sleeve

Elladan sought out Blackhorn in the armoury where he was discussing fletching with an elf twice his height. ‘A word, if I might,’ he said.

 ‘If you’ll excuse me, Belethorion,’ the hobbit said, rising to bow. ‘I look forward to continuing our discussion.’

 ‘As do I,’ the fletcher said with a bow of his own.

As they walked down the corridor the son of Elrond said, ‘Glorfindel is coming over the pass with my brother and sister. Would you like to come with me to meet them?’

 ‘Has the snow melted then?’ the Thorn said in surprise. Here in Imladris there seemed to be no passage of seasons corresponding to those in the lost wood he’d known all his life. The trees had dropped leaves, true, but the weather continued mild and no snow or ice was found in that valley.

 ‘Snow is no hindrance,’ Elladan said. ‘We often travel in the depths of winter, when the passes are empty. We find it much more convenient, as a matter of fact.’

The two walked to the Hall of Fire, where a group of new and expectant hobbit mums was often to be found, sitting in a circle, talking and knitting. The littlest babes snuggled in slings that cuddled them against the bodies of their mothers; those slightly older lay on their backs on warm furry rugs, playing with their toes; toddlers piled the blocks some Elven carpenter had shaped for their amusement. Older ones rolled a ball back and forth whilst making sure none of the tiny tots strayed near to the great hearth. Elven musicians played softly in the background, adding to the peace of the cosy domestic scene, while the mothers-in-waiting busily knitted.

***

In their early days amongst the Elves they’d sat silent and solemn, thinking of fathers and brothers gone--and mothers, who'd not survived their husbands. The silent hobbits sitting by the fire had husbands yet because of Thorn’s decree, but in those early days, when the novelty of Imladris was wearing off but their wounds were still fresh, they wondered sometimes if it had been better for all the People to perish rather than linger as a burden and a trouble to these Big Folk, kind as they might be.

The littlest ones played of course, as little ones do, spreading smiles throughout the Last Homely House. They were watched over by their older sisters—so many brothers had fallen! The remaining fathers and lads applied themselves to learning as much as they might from the Fair Folk who sheltered them. Skills that they’d been in danger of losing, such as shearing and spinning and weaving, were being cultivated and nurtured once more.

Very few of the older hobbit mums survived the death of their husbands, so strong was the life-bond between mates. Mistress Thorn stayed to honour her husband’s last request, but she seldom spoke to any, ate little, and wandered the halls like a small, sad wraith.

It was not long after Araniliel the weaver gave her the ball of silvery yarn that she saw the little mother tucked up in a secluded window seat, knitting busily with two sticks that had up until this time held her hair atop her head. Now her greying curls cascaded upon her shoulders and the sorrowful lines of her countenance had smoothed into concentration upon the task.

This gave Araniliel an idea, and she pulled Mirthalwen into her plans. Together weaver and spinner patiently filled a basket with small balls in an assortment of colours and textures. Between them they carried their burden into the Hall of Fire where the silent hobbits sat in their circle, setting the basket down nearby, settling themselves with weary sighs.

 ‘The fire is so restful,’ Mirthalwen said. ‘Will there be song this evening?’

 ‘I believe some will sing during the day, for the Lord Elrond has declared a feast to welcome those returning, and so the musicians will practice in the coming days and prepare.’ Music was food and drink to Elves; they sang as easily as they breathed, needing no practice, but Elladan had told his father of the hobbits’ singing in Greenwood the Great before the terrible crossing of the mountains. Elrond had ordered music in the Hall of Fire as a balm to the wounded spirits of the surviving Fallohides.

 ‘Ah,’ Mirthalwen said, nodding. ‘Perhaps if we rest here a bit longer we’ll hear the start of the practice. I must admit my spirit is heavy within me, to cast away the work of my hands, even if it is just little bits and remnants.’ She carefully did not look at the basket. Several of the expectant hobbit mums had crept closer and were fingering the soft yarn, exclaiming in low voices over the colours.

 ‘Do you like it?’ Araniliel said, as if noticing them for the first time.

 ‘The colours are so pretty,’ Lily said, dropping a ball of yarn the shade of spring leaves, a flush coming to her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, we should not have...’

 ‘No, no,’ Mirthalwen said quickly. ‘It’s just remnants, not enough for the weaving. We were going to discard them, but...’ As if struck by a new thought, she added, ‘Would you like the yarn? Could you find use for it?’

That was only the first of the baskets that found their way to the Hall of Fire. Ever more little hobbits were wearing multi-coloured scarves and jumpers and the group of knitters grew as younger lasses learned the skill. The music and busywork were soothing to the hobbits’ frazzled nerves, and before long the young mums began to talk as they worked. It was a signature day when the first laughter was heard, and one of the musicians laid down his lute and went to tell the weaver that her healing “balm” was having the desired effect.

***

Now Elladan and Blackthorn paused to hear the end of the story Lily was telling a group of youngsters while her needles clicked industriously. The yarn had begun to appear in loose skeins and the little ones were busy rolling these into balls for the knitters as they listened. Lily reached the end of her story and the end of her row at the same time, then smiled to see her husband. Blackthorn stepped forward to kiss the hand she extended to him. ‘My love,’ he said. ‘Elladan has invited me to ride out with him.’

 ‘Just as long as you do not stray too far or for too long,’ she told him, arching her back to try to ease the burden of the growing babe.

 ‘Well Elladan?’ Blackthorn said, cocking an eye upwards.

 Elladan placed a hand to his breast. ‘My solemn word,’ he said. ‘Your husband will be back in time for the feast this evening.’

 ‘Very well,’ Lily said regally. ‘I do not expect the babe this day at any rate, but cannot speak for the morrow.’

 ‘Is it Last Day already?’ the Thorn said in surprise.

 ‘Already!’ Lily bristled, and several of the other expectant mums laughed. ‘Each day my burden grows, and you speak as if the time has flown! I will welcome the passing of the ever-longer nights and the promise that the babe will arrive with the Sun’s return.’

 ‘Last Day?’ Elladan said, lifting an eyebrow. ‘It is a special day of observance?’

Blackthorn laughed. ‘We observe no days,’ he said. ‘Seasons, more like, and moons, though I have not seen the Moon since coming here. We might have been here a few days or a lifetime for all I can reckon.’

 ‘Then what is Last Day?’ the son of Elrond asked. Just when he thought he’d learned all there was to know about the Fallohides, simple straightforward folk that they were, they’d surprise him again.

 ‘The days grow ever shorter as the year slows,’ Blackthorn said. ‘The nights grow longer, devouring the light, and it seems as if Darkness must triumph and cover all...’ His hand tightened on Lily’s as she shivered, and he added,  ‘but always there is the hope that Light will return.’

 ‘The Sun retreats under the onslaught of Darkness, pressed backwards, wounded, failing,’ Holly murmured, remembering her father’s teaching. ‘But then the Lady lends her grace and she returns renewed to fight for the sky.’

Coming back to Elladan’s question, Blackthorn said, ‘Last Day is not a day, actually,’ he said. ‘I mean, it is a day, but we know it only when it is behind us, already passed.’

  ‘The days grow longer as the Light returns,’ Lily said simply. ‘And so we know Last Day has passed and First Day has followed, and the Darkness has been driven away once more.’

 ‘I see,’ Elladan said slowly. The Little Folk were sensitive to Light and Darkness, more it seemed even than the Elves, who gave more attention to the time of Quickening than the winter solstice.

 ‘And there is a grand celebration to welcome the Light,’ Holly said firmly.

 ‘Indeed,’ Elladan said. ‘The feast this evening will serve to welcome more than returning Elves, I think.’

Chapter 25. First Foot

The Thorn sat before Elladan on the great grey steed Gwilohíth, feeling the ripple and surge of muscles beneath his feet as they climbed the steep zig-zag path out of the deep valley. The air grew ever colder, and the young leader of the Fallohides shrugged deeper into the fine cloak Elrond had pressed upon him as they walked from the Homely House. They emerged into a stinging storm, pellets of icy snow that lashed against their cheeks.

 ‘Lovely!’ the hobbit shouted, hearing Elladan’s laughter in reply. He was glad for the warm horse-hide under him and the light but warm cloak. ‘Real weather!’ He breathed deeply of the freezing air.

 ‘The valley is protected,’ Elladan said close to his ear, and he nodded. While he had hoped to see the Sun, and perhaps Moon and stars, for night came early in this time of the year, he’d settle for the stimulation of stinging snow, all the better for the feast and fire that would await them upon their return. Not for the first time, the hobbit wondered just how the valley was protected... that was one of the questions Elrond never quite answered, no matter how many different ways it was phrased.

The horse plunged forward into drifting snow, prancing playfully until a word from Elladan halted him. Ghostly figures loomed before them and Elladan slid from Gwilohíth’s back, shouting greetings. Squinting against the assault of the snow, Blackthorn thought he recognised Glorfindel, yes, and Elrohir, Tarion, Faron, Cúnirion, Lagoron, Nórion, other Elf-warriors he could not name, and in their midst, Arwen, snowflakes glinting like diamonds in her dark hair.

The hobbit was wearing several layers of clothing including a multi-coloured jumper, topped off by the Elven cloak, muffler wrapped over all, yet he shivered. The Elves, by contrast, were lightly clad yet seeming to feel no discomfort as they gathered around Elladan, exchanging greetings.

 ‘Blackthorn!’ Glorfindel said, turning from greeting Elladan. The hobbit slid from the horse’s back, trusting the snow, shallow as it looked, to give him a soft landing. To his surprise he found himself nearly buried, floundering in snow that felt as if it had no bottom.

A laughing Elrohir pulled him out of the snow, setting him firmly on the horse’s back. ‘Don’t try that again!’ he warned. Blackthorn looked in wonder at the Elves, all standing atop the snow as if it were a bare dusting upon the ground. Looking more closely down the horse’s flank, he saw that Gwilohíth stood nearly to his hocks in snow.

‘But let us not stand about taking the air!’ Elladan said. ‘The feast is laid, the Master is waiting and the other guests will grow hungry if we linger.’

Arwen walked beside the great horse in the dimming light, one graceful hand entwined in the long mane. ‘Other guests?’ she said. ‘Are your People at Imladris, then, Black?’

 ‘We are,’ Blackthorn answered, ‘Rescued from an untimely end and brought to the Homely House to recover our strength before setting out to find our new land.’

 ‘Untimely end!’ Glorfindel said, exchanging glances with Elrohir. He didn’t like the sounds of that.

 ‘There are stories to be told,’ Elladan said, ‘as well as plans to be made, but such can wait until after the feast.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Blackthorn said. ‘I’m perishing of hunger!’

 ‘We cannot have that,’ Arwen began, but her brother Elladan laughed.

 ‘When are you ever not hungry?’ he said.

 ‘Plenty of times!’ Blackthorn shouted back, but they had begun the descent into the valley and his words rang loud, no longer fighting to be heard above the wind. ‘After each meal,’ he added in normal tones. ‘For at least half an hour, or more, depending on the meal!’

 ‘The People are eating us out of House and Home,’ Elladan said behind his hand with a grin.

 ‘Your cooks are glad to be so appreciated,’ the hobbit retorted. ‘They have threatened to follow us to our new home, for they fear the time will hang heavy on their hands after we depart.’

Talk and laughter made the long, steep descent go quickly, and in no time it seemed they were crossing the narrow stone bridge. Elladan lifted the hobbit from the horse’s back and sent the steed on to the stables, to his own feast of oats, and thick bed of straw.

As the group approached the door, a small figure detached itself from the shadows. ‘Welcome!’ a small voice cried, assuming much the same tone as an official greeter might take. ‘Welcome to the House of Elrond!’

 ‘Pick!’ Arwen laughed, running forward to scoop the small hobbit up and whirling around until both were breathless with laughter.

 ‘I thought you’d never come,’ Pick said when they stopped spinning.

 ‘Have you been waiting long?’ Arwen asked solicitously.

 ‘No, but I’m hungry!’ Pick announced.

 ‘We cannot have that,’ Elrond said severely from the doorway. ‘Put him down, daughter, so that he may run to tell the cooks to serve.’ He just took enough time to kiss Arwen and greet her escort before he was ushering them to the feast, ‘For we must not keep our guests waiting!’

Arwen stopped short at the door to the hall, her gaze sweeping the tables. ‘There are so few,’ she said, turning to her father.

Glorfindel added quietly, ‘Are there only a few of the Little People come to the feast? I do not see Thorn.’

 ‘All are come,’ Blackthorn said. ‘And I am now Thorn. My father was slain by goblins in the passes of the mountains, with many other of our folk.’

 ‘And too many others died at the hands of the Men of Rhudaur,’ Elladan said grimly. ‘We will drink to their memory.’

 ‘It is our custom,’ Blackthorn said. ‘At the turning of the year, to remember those who will not see the return of the Light.’

 ‘Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘And we will drink to the Light, as well, and hope for the future. Come, Thorn.’ He led Blackthorn to the high table, for the Thorn and his mate would sit elevated on cushions to join Elrond and his children at the feast this evening. Beech presided over one of the tables of Little People, and Leaf headed the other.

Arwen’s eyes lighted as she recognised Pick’s mother, walking arm-in-arm with a hobbit lass heavy with child. ‘Mistress Thorn,’ she said, bowing to speak at hobbit height.

The hobbit mum smiled faintly, though she did not lift her eyes from the floor. ‘I am Violet,’ she said. ‘Only Violet. Lily here, she’s Mistress Thorn now, though we are hardly formal these days. Indeed, it is a wonder that there are any Fallohides at all.’

 ‘Call me Lily,’ that hobbit said firmly. ‘My husband ought to be called “Thorn”, but he answers to “Blackthorn” at the moment. He says he led the People to their deaths, and does not deserve the title.’

 ‘Not all the People,’ Arwen said, glancing at the two tables crowded with hobbits, not a grey head among them, and a disproportionate number of small children, she thought. Any further conversation was forestalled as Elrond called the feasters to their places. Lily escorted Violet to a place beside her oldest daughter Holly, then joined her husband at the head table. She looked in dismay at the pile of cushions.

 ‘You expect me to climb up there?’ she asked. Shaking her head, she turned to Blackthorn. ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she said. ‘I simply cannot manage it.’

 ‘I have an idea!’ Arwen said brightly. ‘Wait just a moment...’ She was not gone long, for she knew what she sought stood near the kitchen door, holding pots of herbs. A quick wash, a dab of polish with a dry cloth, and it would serve.

Lily couldn’t help laughing at the idea of a giant-sized high chair. ‘It was mine,’ Arwen said, ‘and one of my brothers used it before me. There is another, if...’

 ‘Cushions are fine,’ Blackthorn said hastily. The idea of sitting in a toddler’s chair to be at table height, at his age! If he had any hopes at all of leading the People after they left Imladris, he’d better avoid presenting such a sight.

Lily had no such compunctions. Arwen and Elrond lifted her into the chair and she settled back with a sigh. ‘I do feel safer,’ she confessed. ‘I have no sense of balance these days.’

The feast was served, a lengthy and varied affair, accompanied by much talk and laughter. Arwen noticed that Elves sat on the floor to join the hobbits at their tables, and hobbits sat on cushions to join the Elves at theirs.

When the feast finally ended, and even the hobbits declared themselves replete with good food, Elrond and Arwen rose and lifted Lily down from her high chair, setting her gently on her feet. Blackthorn slid from his cushions to take her hand, and the two hobbits walked between Elrond and his fair daughter down the hall, through the doors, across a wide passage and through the farther doors of the Hall of Fire.

Elrond moved to his accustomed seat, placing Thorn and his mate beside him. Lily sighed as the music began. ‘I have listened to them practice each day,’ she said, ‘and I never tire of their songs.’ She rested her head against Thorn’s shoulders and before long her eyes closed and she dozed, a smile upon her face.

 ‘I am sorry Gandalf could not join us at the feast,’ Blackthorn said.

 ‘He had an errand,’ Elrond replied. ‘He did hope to return in time for the music, however.’

 ‘You will tell me when the night is half-passed,’ Blackthorn said. ‘I fear I am not so well able to determine the passage of time in your valley. It seems to me as if time stands still here.’

 Elrond laughed. ‘I have already promised,’ he said. ‘When you see wine being served throughout the hall, you will know it is nearly time.’

 ‘Ah,’ Blackthorn said. ‘Very foresighted of you. Now you need not fear my asking you after every tenth breath whether it is yet time.’ Lily murmured in her sleep and moved her head upon his shoulder. He smiled tenderly at her, raising a hand to stroke her hair, then settled himself to listen to the music. Most of the resident Elves were in the hall this night, their expressions intent as the soft music filled the room, many cradling sleeping hobbit children in their laps.

Most of the adult hobbits were wakeful, faces solemn. Deep inside himself Blackthorn knew what they were feeling. Perhaps this time the Darkness had triumphed and the Light would not return. Yet, looking about the Hall of Fire at the many fair faces that had become familiar over the past weeks, looking into the face of the Lord who had opened his House to them, he felt hope stir afresh. The music soothed, pulling him into a half-dream where he walked in a fair land, fields and woods, well-kept roads and fences of neatly-piled stone, holes and houses with bright painted round doors, hobbit children playing in flowering meadows...

 ‘I beg your pardon, Thorn,’ a voice broke into his pleasant dream and he blinked, seeing Elrond holding two glasses, one blown to proper hobbit-size.

 ‘It is time, already?’ Blackthorn said, stretching. ‘How pleasantly the time passes here.’ He took the glass, gazing for a few moments into the bright fire, before standing to his feet. At a signal from Elrond the song ended and silence fell.

The other grown and half-grown hobbits shook off dreams and stood up as well, raising their glasses. The Elves waited.

 ‘We gather to remember,’ Thorn said in a ringing voice that filled the hall.

 ‘We remember,’ the hobbits murmured, and the Elves echoed.

 ‘We honour those left behind,’ he said, and his voice dropped, the next words spoken in a low tone. ‘Father. Apple. Box...’ All about the hall, the other hobbits were naming names, loved ones who were not with them now. Sobs were heard, and tears spilled, but the soft litany continued until every name had been said.

 ‘We gather in thanksgiving, for all our blessings, known to us, and beyond our knowledge,’ Blackthorn intoned.

 ‘Thanks,’ the hobbits repeated, lifting their glasses to the ceiling and then toasting their hosts and rescuers.

 ‘We gather in hope,’ Blackthorn concluded, ‘and to welcome the return of the Light.’

 ‘Light!’ the hobbits shouted, lifting their glasses once more, and then draining the contents. Blackthorn turned to Elrond. ‘May your cup never be empty,’ he said, ‘and may your heart ever be full.’ All about the hall the other hobbits were saying the ritual words to each other and to their elven friends, and the Elves found themselves repeating the sentiments.

A tall figure in grey appeared in the doorway and the hobbits chorused, ‘Gandalf! Welcome!’ Quite a few moved to the doorway, seizing his hands to draw him into the room, bringing him to where Blackthorn stood beside Elrond’s chair.

 ‘Your foot is first over the threshold,’ the Thorn told him. ‘To bring good luck for the new year we must gift you.’

 ‘Gift me?’ the grey one said, bemused, quirking a shaggy eyebrow.

 ‘Mother?’ Blackthorn said, and Violet stepped forward, a bulky parcel in her arms.

 ‘You must take it,’ she said. ‘It will bring us luck.’

The grey one took the parcel as the hobbits gathered about him. Curious, the Elves watched as well. He untied the string, unwrapped the paper to reveal a scarf knitted of silvery yarn the colour of moonlight on the river.

 ‘Put it on!’ Violet said firmly.

Grandalf fingered the soft yarn thoughtfully, and then a smile creased his aged face. ‘How does this come to me?’ he asked.

 ‘You were first to set foot over the threshold after we called to the Light to return,’ Thorn said. ‘Yours is the first foot. We must gift you for luck.’

 ‘Put it on,’ Leaf said.

 Beech added, ‘We need all the luck we can get!’

Gandalf laughed softly and placed the scarf around his neck. ‘Soft and warm,’ he said. ‘And just the right colour!’

 ‘You see?’ Lily said in satisfaction. ‘Already the luck is starting.’

Chapter 26. Of Life and Death

A few days later Pick sought out Blackthorn in Elrond’s study, where he was going over maps with Elrond and Gandalf. ‘It’s time,’ he said, excitement dancing in his eyes.

 ‘Time for what?’ Blackthorn said absently, his thoughts on the discussion at hand. Though Gandalf assured him that there were already hobbits living at peace in Cardolin, how were they to safely cross Rhudaur to get there? The Fallohides were a free and independent people. He couldn’t ask the Elves to shepherd them wherever they went, as if they were stupid sheep needing protection from wolves. He sighed. Perhaps they did need protection. He thought of all the orphaned little ones in his charge.

 ‘I won’t tell Lily you said that!’ Pick grinned.

 ‘Lily! It’s time?’ Black gasped.

 ‘Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you?’ Pick said, pulling at his arm to lead him from the study.

 ‘My apologies, Master Elrond, Gandalf...’ Black said over his shoulder, and the two Big Folk smiled and nodded.

He found Lily holding Holly’s hand and weeping. ‘I’m here now, love,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘It hurts so, and I wish...’

Suddenly he understood. Her mother, like so many of the other hobbit mums, had laid her life down when the hunters did not return from the pass. ‘Pick,’ he said, ‘Go fetch Mum.’

Understanding bloomed in the teen’s eyes and he nodded. ‘She’s with Araniliel,’ he said. ‘The weavers were interested in the patterns the People used in the Before Days. I’ll fetch her forthwith.’

He was as good as his word, returning soon with Violet. ‘Ah, lass,’ she said, soothing Lily’s forehead with a smile. ‘Your time has come, I see. We’ll bring you safely through.’

Lily’s sisters and Violet and Holly did their best to ease her in her travail, and Blackthorn held her hand through the hours, all the rest of that day and the two days that followed. ‘Why is it taking so long?’ he asked during a pause. He didn’t remember Pick or any of his little sisters taking so much time to be born.

 ‘First babes often take longer,’ his mother answered soothingly. ‘Black, why don’t you go and fetch another bucket of water?’

 ‘I’ll go,’ Primrose said, but Violet shook her head. ‘No, let Black fetch it,’ she said firmly. ‘He could use the chance to stretch his legs.’

 ‘Black?’ Lily said, half rousing as another pain seized her.

 ‘He’ll be right back,’ Violet said. ‘Go now, Black.’ Reluctantly he went. As soon as the door closed behind him, Violet bent close to Lily’s ear. ‘You must fight, my dear. Don’t give up.’

 ‘I’m so tired,’ Lily murmured. ‘So tired.’

 ‘I’ve done all I know,’ Violet said. ‘You have to do your part, love, breathe through the tightenings and rest with the easings. Think good thoughts and keep inviting the babe to come and greet us.’

 ‘I don’t know how!’ Lily wailed. ‘He won’t come!’

 ‘Stubborn, just like his father and grandfather before him,’ Violet said. ‘You have to fight, Lily, for if you die my son will lay down his life to follow you.’

 ‘Black,’ Lily gasped.

 ‘The People need him,’ Violet persisted. ‘There’s no other for them to follow, no other who’s heard the Lady’s voice. They’ll scatter like the leaves in the falling-time and be lost on the wind. You have to try, Lily!’

 ‘You stayed,’ Lily’s sister Primrose said boldly. She’d been grateful for Violet, though perhaps a bit resentful as well. Why had her own mother left them, and Mistress Thorn stayed though her mate had left the world?

 ‘It was my beloved’s last request,’ Violet said softly. ‘How could I not honour him?’ She swallowed hard, tears in her eyes, as Holly’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

 ‘Then if it is possible to live on when your love has passed from the world, Blackthorn might live on if...’ Primrose could not bring herself to finish the thought. Her hand tightened on her sister’s, and she added under her breath, ‘Try, Lily, don’t give over.’

 ‘He won’t,’ Violet said. ‘He does not love the People as much as he loves Lily. Perhaps, if she asked him to stay as Buckthorn asked me...’

 ‘What?’ Lily gasped. ‘Walk alone into the night?’ Her eyes were dark with fear. ‘Without my love?’

 ‘Do you want him to die?’ Primrose hissed.

 ‘But... we would be together,’ Lily protested. ‘It is the way of the People.’ When a mate died, grief took the other. Why eat or drink when one’s love waited Beyond?

 ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Violet said, squeezing her hand. ‘My Buckthorn still waits for me, I’m sure, and when the time comes for my passing we will once again walk together.’

 ‘New land, new ways,’ Holly murmured. ‘But you will not die, my sister, for my father foresaw your son walking in the new land, don’t you remember?’

Suddenly Blackthorn was there once more, bringing not a bucket of water, but Elrond himself.

 ‘You bring an Outsider?’ his mother said sharply.

 ‘I remember Pick saying how the Lord Elrond eased his pain, when his ribs hurt so much he could scarcely breathe,’ Blackthorn said. ‘Lily, he’s here to help. Will you trust me?’

 ‘I do,’ Lily whispered.

Elrond sat himself on the floor beside the mattress, laying a gentle hand on Lily’s forehead. ‘Peace,’ he said softly, and followed this with many words the hobbits did not understand, a soothing flow rather like a cool stream on a hot summer day. Lily’s breathing steadied and she looked into the kind eyes, ageless, wise, and full of compassion.

 ‘You have run a long race and you are very tired,’ Elrond said now. ‘I will lend you my strength. It has been long since new life graced my House. Such a gift you bring us!’

Violet had her hand on Lily’s belly, feeling the muscles tighten and ease, though the lass no longer moaned with the effort. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s better. We’re getting a steadier rhythm now.’ The hobbits began the song and the birth began to progress as it should.

At last Blackthorn was holding a fine, strong babe in his arms. ‘Look, my love,’ he said. ‘Our son!’

 ‘Our son,’ Lily whispered, joy spreading over her face. ‘O let me hold him!’ Blackthorn laid the babe in her arms, then hugged his mate with tender care.

 ‘I will take my leave,’ Elrond said, rising, pausing to bow. ‘The cooks have been planning a feast of celebration; I will tell them it is time.’

 ‘Thinking of food at a time like this?’ Violet said, her eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘We’ll make a hobbit of you yet, Master Elrond.’

Elrond laughed.  ‘I cannot think of a more delightful prospect,’ he said.

***

More babies followed, to the delight of the Elves. Who needed cradles when many willing arms were ever ready to take up a tiny mite, providing of course that the one in possession was prepared to relinquish the babe?

If the Elves were astonished at Lily and Blackthorn’s little one, they were doubly charmed when Holly and Oakleaf’s twins came into the world after a relatively short labour, to Violet’s relief. Master Elrond could hold a twin in the palm of each hand.

When a full score of new Fallohides had sung their first song and no more were expected, at least for the time being, Blackthorn sought out Elrond in the study. ‘I rode up out of the Valley with Elrohir,’ he said. ‘Spring has come to the land once more.’

 ‘It is the time of Quickening,’ Elrond agreed.

 ‘My people are very happy here,’ the Thorn said. ‘But this is not our place. It is time for us to make our way, to take up our new land.’

 ‘I have had the same thought,’ Elrond said, ‘but only waited for you to speak. Perhaps your Lady tells us it is time for you to go.’

 ‘Perhaps,’ Blackthorn said. The Lady had not spoken to him clearly as She had to his father, but he did feel a restlessness that had not troubled him before.

 ‘A moment, Thorn,’ Elrond said. He sent for Glorfindel and Gandalf, and a tray of sweet biscuits and wine for good measure. He'd found the hobbits were better able to concentrate with food to nibble.

Gandalf told of his travels down along the Hoarwell, through the land of Rhudaur to Cardolan. He spoke of the Harfoots and their excitement at the news of the Fallohides’ coming.

 ‘How are we to get the People safely home?’ Blackthorn asked. ‘You speak of regular hunting parties and patrols in the land.’

 ‘We will have to win the cooperation of the king of Rhudaur,’ Elrond said. ‘Glorfindel and I have talked of this.’

 ‘How?’ the Thorn said.

Glorfindel smiled grimly. ‘I do believe we ought to pay them a visit,’ he said. ‘I have rested and recovered and am ready to ride out once again. Will you come with me, Thorn?’

Blackthorn nodded. ‘I will,’ he said.

***

 ‘You’re riding out into Rhudaur?’ Lily said fearfully. ‘But...’

 ‘I ride with Glorfindel,’ Blackthorn answered. ‘They’ll not find it so easy to take my head from me with him for company.’

 ‘One Elf? Against an entire kingdom of cruel Men?’ Lily said.

 ‘One Elf and one Fallohide,’ Blackthorn answered firmly. ‘How can any stand against us?’

 ‘But...’ Lily said. She looked down at their sleeping babe. ‘Black, if you should not return... I could not promise, I could not!’

 ‘I know,’ Blackthorn said softly, bending to embrace her. ‘I would not ask it, even though I would fain see you live, my love. Holly or Bluebell would take our son, should we pass from the world.’

 ‘But what will the People do without a Thorn?’ Lily whispered. ‘None has heard the Lady’s voice, save yourself.’

 ‘Then I had better return, hadn’t I?’ Blackthorn said lightly.

Chapter 27. Ride to Rhudaur

The stars were in the midst of their nightly dance as the great elven horse emerged from the hidden valley. He tossed his head, eager to run, and Glorfindel laughed and patted the gleaming neck. ‘Would you run all the way to the king of Rhudaur, Assilim?’ he asked.

The Thorn chuckled at the resounding snort. ‘At this rate we’ll be back in time for tea,’ he said.

 ‘Let us indulge him, shall we?’ the Elf-lord said, and gave the great horse his head. Assilim leapt forward as if to catch the wind, and ran so smoothly that it seemed to the hobbit that they were flying. For a moment he clutched more tightly at Glorfindel, but soon relaxed again, settling into the rocking motion. As the stars wheeled overhead the ghostly horse floated down the long slope to the Ford.

The Thorn awakened from a half-dream as the horse slowed, then stopped. ‘Are we there?’ he said sleepily, blinking in the dawn light that turned the silver horse to rosy-gold.

 ‘We have reached the Ford,’ Glorfindel answered. He spoke to Assilim with words that flowed as swift and smooth as the river at the bottom of the steep slope, and the horse picked its way carefully down the winding path to the bottom. He lowered his head to drink, then stepped delicately into the water, stopping to splash with a front foot.

 ‘No time to play, Assilim,’ the Elf-lord said. The horse snorted and tossed his head then plunged deeper. The stream was swollen with runoff and Glorfindel lifted his feet from the stirrups, bringing his knees up over the cantle of the saddle as the water rose above the horse’s belly. Deep and swift and icy the current ran, brushing the hobbit’s toes before the horse began to climb again.

 ‘You call that a ford?’ Thorn said.

 ‘It is the only crossing for miles,’ Glorfindel answered. ‘The river runs quite deep and swift along its course.’ He settled his feet again in the stirrups. ‘How about breakfast?’ Thorn obligingly dug waybread from the saddlebags and passed one wrapped bundle forward, munching absently on another as he took in their surroundings. Half-starved, exhausted, having barely escaped death, he’d not noticed much when they’d passed through the Ford on their way to Imladris.

Assilim snatched several mouthfuls of grass from the riverbank and then walked along the path, looking alertly about. They covered the flat mile between Ford and hills and entered a deep cut that rose before them. The horse lowered his head to climb the steep incline.

‘What makes the stone red?’ Thorn asked, looking at the steep moist walls to either side. He inhaled deeply as the scent of pine surrounded them, and looked about as echoes multiplied the sound of the horse’s hoofbeats. He relaxed again, seeing no hunters of Rhudaur surrounding them.

 ‘Iron in the rock,’ Glorfindel answered. Emerging from the tunnel of rock and overhanging trees, they came to a grassy place. The Elf-lord spoke softly to the horse and slid from the saddle, lifting the hobbit down, then slipped the bit out of Assilim’s mouth. ‘We’ll let him graze,’ he said. ‘It is a good place to rest before going on.’ They walked slowly along the Road, listening to birdsong and the tearing, chomping noises of the grazing horse.

Finally Glorfindel slipped the bit back into Assilim’s mouth, lifted Thorn into the saddle, and settled lightly behind him. ‘You may ride ahead of me now,’ he said. ‘There’s more to be seen now that the Sun has risen.’

 ‘Not to mention I make a good shield,’ Thorn replied. ‘Should we encounter hunters of Rhudaur, that is.’

 ‘I shan’t mention that,’ Glorfindel said. He leaned forward to speak to Assilim and the landscape began to flow past them once again, forest interspersed with grassy places. Forested hills arose on the north side of the road, and occasionally they passed sturdy walls in good repair, or a frowning fortress upon a hilltop. ‘Lords of Rhudaur keep the Road for their king,’ Glorfindel said. ‘They know better than to challenge an elf-horse, however.’

 ‘How do they know?’ Thorn asked curiously.

 ‘It is probably the bells on the harness,’ Glorfindel answered, ‘or it might have something to do with seeing one of the Firstborn on the horse’s back. Though they see us but seldom, they still tell many stories about the fearsome Elves and their enchantments. We have not disillusioned them, and so they leave us in peace.’

 ‘Ah,’ Thorn said wisely. He had seen few enough Men so that he did not know, yet, how they differed from Elves. Big Folk all, and tall they were, and the Men he had seen in Rhudaur had worn chain mail and helms on their heads, making it difficult to see their faces. Truth be told, he’d paid little heed to the Men he’d encountered, his gaze caught instead by the tips of the arrows pointed at the People in deadly menace. Their voices had been harsh, he remembered, not like the music of the Elves’ speech, but he could not recall a single countenance.

Several times they passed patrols of mounted guardsmen, or farmers or woodsmen driving carts along the road, but Glorfindel neither slowed nor stopped, breezing past the open-mouthed Men they encountered with no more greeting than a raised hand. ‘We seldom travel the Road so openly,’ he murmured in Thorn’s ear. ‘Since Arnor broke herself into three pieces, the kings bristle at each other across their borders and look with suspicion at travellers.’

When evening came, Glorfindel guided Assilim off the road and into a sheltered dell. ‘We’ll rest here tonight,’ he said. ‘None will disturb us here, and on the morrow we will take the northern road to the capital.’ He hung a nosebag of oats on the horse and settled to the grass, pulling out a silver-studded leather flask, extending it to the hobbit. ‘A drink,’ he said, ‘and a mouthful of food, and then it will be time to sleep.’

Thorn knew the drink well; a mouthful refreshed him and made the waybread that followed taste like a feast. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That is just what was wanted.’ There was no need for conversation; they’d made their plans before leaving Imladris. When finished, Thorn stuffed some dried sweet fern into his pipe and smoked it. ‘All the comforts of home,’ he said.

Glorfindel nodded with a smile. He had tried smoking, as had many of the Elves, but found no satisfaction in it. If he wanted to breathe smoke, he’d sit by the hearth of a windy day. Mithrandir, on the other hand, had taken to the new pastime, and was often to be found, when in Imladris, smoking and talking with the Fallohides. He rather wished the wizard had accompanied them on this journey. ‘Time to sleep,’ he said now, though he did not need sleep the way a Man or Hobbit did. ‘Tomorrow will be a busy day.’

Thorn’s pipe was finished. He tapped it out and put it back in the pouch that hnng from his neck. Pulling his cloak tighter about him, he yawned and stretched himself upon the grass, falling quickly into slumber.

****
 
Thorn arose early to wash his face and shake the leaves from his cloak. His fingers lingered in the soft material. How much his People had lost in their years in the forest! His mother was the only remaining Fallohide who remembered the old skills such as weaving and cheese-making, though in the months at Imladris she’d been passing her knowledge on to the rest, and they’d learned much of the Elves as well. Writing, now... there was a gift indeed. Even when the storyteller passed out of the world, his words would remain for future generations.

Thorn thought again of all they had lost, the stories, the history of the People... He determined that in the new land they would no longer live as wood spirits, but as people once more, raising crops, weaving cloth, blessing the land and being blessed in return. And they would keep records, writing down the names of those who came into the world that they might not be completely lost when they left it again.

Assilim grazed nearby. Thorn walked over to the great silvery beast. ‘Every time I see you idle you are eating,’ he said, patting the nose Assilim pushed into his hand. ‘Are you certain you’re not a relation of mine?’

 ‘He is indeed,’ Glorfindel said, returning to the dell. ‘Stout-hearted, clever, loyal, true... and always ready to eat.’

 ‘As am I,’ Thorn said. He had taken their breakfast from the saddle bags while waiting for the Elf-lord to reappear, and the twain sat now to their meal in comfortable silence. When finished, Thorn dusted crumbs from his fingers and stretched.

 ‘Are you ready?’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘There’s no time like the present,’ Thorn said.

It was a curious thought to the Elf, and he put it away for later consideration. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘The king has heard of us journeying in his land, and a large body of mounted Men awaits us on the Road.'

 ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Thorn said, scrambling to his feet.

 ‘What, and interrupt your breakfast?’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘You have a point,’ the leader of the Fallohides said. Glorfindel saddled the horse while Thorn slipped the bridle over the conveniently-lowered head. When finished the hobbit rubbed his fingers along the great jaw and the horse stretched out his neck, lower lip hanging loose in delight as he abandoned himself to the caress.

 ‘You have him eating out of your hand,’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘In the new land there are hobbit-sized horses,’ Thorn said. ‘ “Ponies”, I think Gandalf called them.’ He smiled absently as he combed the long forelock with his fingers. ‘Someday I hope to own one.’ He looked up. ‘Well, then,’ he added more briskly. ‘Standing here is not getting us any closer to the new land.’

Glorfindel lifted Thorn to the saddle and settled himself behind the hobbit, then spoke to Assilim. The horse moved out of the dell, slipping like a mist through the trees to the road. Thorn heard them before he saw them; harness jingling as impatient horses lipped their bits, stomp of a restless hoof, Men murmuring and falling silent at a sharp command.

 ‘We are come, Captain,’ Glorfindel said as Assilim emerged from the trees. ‘Take us to your king.’

 ‘This—is what you’d bring the king? This—vermin?’ the captain of Men said in shock. ‘I thought we’d exterminated them all!’ Evidently the hunters had lost all memory of the encounter with Mithrandir and the rescuing Elf-warriors, or had not reported the encounter.

 ‘This is the king of the Halflings,’ Glorfindel replied calmly. Though Thorn was prepared for the phrase, it still gave him a turn to hear it. He’d never met a “king” and wasn’t sure he wanted to be called such. He did not want to be classed with the ruler of the Men who’d slaughtered so many of the innocent and helpless among his People.

 ‘Ah,’ the captain said, outrage turning to something more sinister, dark satisfaction perhaps. ‘You bring my lord a great prize, a fine head for a trophy, and give him the pleasure of taking it himself.’

 ‘My business is with your king,’ Glorfindel said, and though his voice was mild to Thorn’s ears, the Men before them quailed. Thorn wished he could look behind him to see Glorfindel’s face, but that might spoil the effect the Elf-lord was making, so he settled for sitting as tall as he could, lifting his head, his face grim and determined. ‘Lead on,’ Glorfindel added. The captain stammered a reply, jerked at the reins of his horse, and shouted to his Men.

Though they began the journey to the city surrounded by mounted troops, Assilim slowly moved forward until he led them, tossing his head and breathing steam in the early-morning air. He pranced along the road, a glorious sight, tossing his long mane and prancing, showing off for the farmers and cotholders they passed while the captain pressed his troops to keep up.

Thorn looked about them as they rode. It seemed to be a well-ordered country. Not long after they turned off the East-West Road, passing between two of the great hills with their frowning bulwarks, the forest gave way to a rich valley, dotted with stone houses. Cattle and sheep grazed in lush grassy meadows; farmers were already out in the fields ploughing; bright laundry hung from lines in the yards and smoke rose from chimneys, a homey sight. Many of the lanes leading from road to farm had painted signposts with names and decorations: Sunnyview, Hillsdale, Singingbrook. On a hill ahead of them he could see many buildings inside encircling walls—a city, Mithrandir had called it. A great stone keep crowned the hill. That was where they’d find the king.

The hobbit stiffened as they rode past a lane that ran from road to farmhouse, a lane decorated with more than name and painted picture. A small skull was perched atop the signpost. Glorfindel said nothing, but his hand tightened on Thorn’s shoulder. As they drew closer to the town, more skulls were to be seen. One farmstead had a skull atop each fence post along the road, a boast of the farmer’s prowess at hunting, perhaps.

People ran and shouted, pointing as they rode into the city, falling silent as they approached. Thorn could not know it, sitting before Glorfindel on the saddle as he was, but the Elf-lord’s face was terrible to behold. Assilim no longer pranced playfully but jogged along, his neck curved, with rolling eyes and nostrils red and flaring, ears pinned back, striking out occasionally with his forefeet as if ready for battle. Thorn stared straight ahead of him, but could not help seeing the small skulls decorating doorposts and gardens.

They followed a road that wound around the hill, passing through gates at every level. ‘An imitation of a greater City,’ Glorfindel murmured in the hobbit’s ear.

 ‘The decorations as well?’ Thorn said grimly.

 ‘No, I believe those were additions by this people, perhaps at the behest of their king,’ Glorfindel returned. His tone was light, but Thorn fancied he could hear a distant rumble of thunder and smell a sulphurous fury building. They said no more as they passed the final gate, riding into the courtyard of the king of Rhudaur, grim guardsmen moving to surround them as Assilim halted before the keep, half-rearing, tossing his head, and whistling defiance.

Thorn felt much the same.

Chapter 28. Before the Face of the King

Glorfindel dismounted and lifted Thorn down. Assilim pawed the ground menacingly as a guardsman approached to take his reins. Glorfindel lifted a staying hand.

 ‘Touch him at your own peril,’ he said.

Stung, the Man answered, ‘I offer him no harm, only rest and food in the stables of the king.’

The horse laid his ears back and glared at the Man, flaring reddened nostrils and baring his teeth. The guardsman hastily stepped back. ‘Would you rather tie him here to await you?’ he said.

Glorfindel smiled faintly and answered, ‘He will wait without being tied. Let no man try to lay hand on him, for he will kill or cripple any that approaches.’

The guardsman bowed, ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, and raising his voice, added, ‘You men heard him! Don’t touch the Elf-lord’s horse!’

From the expressions on the faces of the surrounding Men, Thorn guessed that none had any intention of touching Assilim.

The captain of the guard said now, ‘If you will leave your weapons with me, sir...’

Glorfindel lifted an eyebrow at the Man. ‘I have no need of weapons,’ he said mildly. Several of the soldiers moved uneasily. ‘We will see the king now,’ he added firmly.

 ‘Certainly, sir, right this way,’ the captain said, indicating that they should follow him.

Glorfindel followed at a leisurely pace to spare Thorn the indignity of trotting to keep up. Looking behind him, the captain modified his own pace without comment. They passed through a wide gateway into a sheltered courtyard. On either side of the stones leading through the centre of the yard was a pleasant expanse of velvety green grass surrounding an intricate knot garden with a fountain at its heart. Birds sang and the music of the fountains soothed, at least until one saw that the streams of water poured from the mouths of small skulls. Thorn’s pace did not slacken, nor did he look to one side or the other, but he plainly saw the fountain playing on one side of the courtyard, and that the other fountain, twin to the first, was only partly finished, though already in play. It awaited fresh material, seemingly, for its completion.

They entered the keep. The captain of the guard stopped in the entry hall, hung with bright banners. ‘Would you care to take some refreshment?’ he said cordially.

 ‘A last meal for the condemned?’ Thorn asked with a wry lift to the side of his mouth.

 ‘Would you care for some refreshment, my lord?’ the captain said to Glorfindel again, pointedly ignoring the hobbit.

 ‘Not even the courtesy of a final meal,’ Thorn said.

The captain’s jaw tightened but he still kept his gaze on the Elf-lord.

 ‘We,’ and Glorfindel emphasised the word, pausing before going on, ‘need no refreshment. Thank you for the kind offer, but we wish to bespeak the king without delay.’

 ‘As you wish, my lord,’ the captain said with a bow, then turned to lead them to the waiting king.

The hall of the king was large and bathed in sunshine from the windows set high in the eastern and western walls. Bright tapestries lined the walls and musicians played softly from a balcony. Finely-clad courtiers milled near the entry and along the sides of the room, talking and laughing while servants circulated with trays of food and drink. Still, it seemed to Thorn that a murk overlaid this pleasant scene, as of a dark shrouding fog.

The Man who sat upon the throne was young, Thorn thought, but then he was not familiar with Men. The unlined face was noble, the grey eyes keen, the dark hair untouched by time. Lord Elrond had told him that the Men of the West aged more slowly than hobbits. Still, this one was young, some instinct told him. Young, restless, reckless perhaps, ruthless of a certainty.

The king of Rhudaur rose at the approach of one of the Fair Folk. ‘My lord,’ he said with a dip of his chin. ‘Welcome! It is too long since any of the Fair Folk graced our city.’

 ‘I bring you greetings from the Lord Elrond Half-elven,’ Glorfindel said in reply.

 ‘He sends a goodly gift, as well,’ the king said, smiling coldly at Thorn. He fingered the hilt of his sword and stepped nearer. ‘A fine head of curls on this one! The Lord of Imladris has heard of my collection, it seems?’

 ‘He has heard that you sleep upon a mattress made soft with hair shorn from small heads and feet,’ Glorfindel answered, ‘and that you have promulgated a new form of decoration in your land.’

 ‘It is all the style,’ the king said offhandedly. ‘But what can you expect?’ he said, lifting his hands in a shrug. ‘The king sets the style for the court and the land follows.’ He sighed. ‘Pity the supply is so limited. My hunters have brought me no fresh heads for months... or have you a fresh source of material?’

 ‘I have brought the king of the Halflings,’ Glorfindel said, ‘and not as a gift.’

 ‘King of the Halflings?’ the king of Rhudaur said with a bark of laughter. ‘The Lord Elrond dresses vermin in fine clothing to gain a higher price, I suppose? What does he want for them? I’ll pay well for all he can send me, especially if they sport as fine a crop of curls as this sample of his wares.’

 ‘I have brought the king of the Halfings,’ Glorfindel repeated, ‘to speak with you.’

 ‘Speak? Or did you mean squeak?’ the king of Rhudaur laughed. ‘You Elves have a name for speaking to trees and plants and all sorts of animals, I know.’ He chuckled again, then sobered. ‘Forgive me, I mean no disrespect. Of course you may choose whatever pets you like. We have no need to speak to animals before we put them to proper use.’

 ‘We are not animals,’ Thorn said, ‘but People, for all our stature—or lack thereof.’

 ‘Very nice,’ one of the king’s counsellors said. ‘I have a bird from the Southlands that speaks nearly as well. You’ve trained the creature, it seems.’ He exchanged an unpleasant smile with the king.

 ‘Will you not hear him?’ Glorfindel said. ‘Have your minds fallen so far under shadow that you cannot see what stands before you?’

 ‘The joke is wearing thin, my lord,’ the king of Rhudaur said. ‘I see you quite well.’

 ‘Do you indeed?’ Glorfindel said, and raised his arm.

Acid light etched every surface, brilliance flooded the great room, drowning everything and everyone within in brightness, driving every shadow from the room. There was no sound at all, of music or conversation or startled cries or even the rattle of the swords and pikes of the guards as all weapons fell to the stones.

Thorn watched in wonder as the king staggered back, one arm thrown over his eyes. The guards trembled and became as dead men; the courtiers bent double, hands over their faces; the servants froze in place, trays extended uselessly.

The Elf-lord spoke softly, yet every word dropped clearly into the silence. ‘How far you have fallen, O Men of forgotten Numenor! The Shadow surrounds you, it approaches, it encroaches; can you not see it? Can you not feel its icy chill blowing across this land?

 ‘If you do not turn from the path you have chosen, you will be lost and Shadow will cover all. The land will fall empty, the walls broken, the fortresses haunted, the dwelling places desolate, and the people will fade and be forgotten. Not even the names of her kings shall be remembered. Hear my warning, and turn!’

The radiant glow faded as Glorfindel lowered his arm. The king straightened, blinking, and brushed at his tunic as if there were stains or wrinkles there. The courtiers shook their heads, looked uncertainly at one another, and in another moment began hesitantly once more to talk as the servants bearing trays resumed their duties. The musicians found their place on the pages of music and took up where they had been interrupted. No one seemed to notice that the guards still stood as statues, frozen in place, their weapons on the stones at their feet.

 ‘I beg your pardon,’ the king of Rhudaur said politely. ‘You were saying?’ He seemed a pleasant and noble Man without the lurking murk hanging over him.

Thorn took a deep breath. ‘We ask nothing of you, O king,’ he said, ‘save only safe passage through your country. We will take no game, we will leave no mark but the passing of our feet, and these will be gone with the next rain.’

 ‘How would you travel?’ the counsellor with the talking bird said.

 ‘We would follow the Road to the river you call Hoarwell and then down the course of the river until it leaves your country, passing into the land of Cardolan, whose king has welcomed us to join the Halflings who have already built villages beyond the Angle.’

 ‘Cardolan,’ a second counsellor grated. ‘Another bone to pick.’

 ‘Peace,’ said the king. ‘We are not at war with our brothers in Cardolan.’ Not yet. The thought of Cardolan darkened his brow, but he spoke yet pleasantly to the visitors. ‘Very well.’

 ‘Yes?’ Thorn said.

 ‘Your people will have safe passage through my land, along the Road and the banks of the Hoarwell, until the Moon has poured himself out and filled himself once more. Any of your folk who linger in my land thereafter, their heads are forfeit.’ As he spoke the latter words, Thorn saw shadows creeping into the room, regathering about the king and his counsellors.

 ‘In addition,’ the king said.

 ‘Yes?’ Thorn replied.

 ‘In addition, any... Halflings... who stray more than an hundred paces from the Road or the riverbank lose their protection and are fair game for my hunters. Be assured, your passage will be marked.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Glorfindel said, for he and Elrond had conversed upon this very matter.

 ‘Very well,’ the king of Rhudaur said, gesturing to the scribe who’d taken down his every word. ‘Write a pass of safe conduct for the Halflings, and send the word throughout the kingdom. There will be no hunting allowed within an hundred paces of the River Hoarwell until the next waxing of the Moon.’

As the scribe wrote, the king turned again to his guests. ‘Can we offer you refreshment?’ he said. ‘Would you care to rest before returning to Imladris, my lord?’

 ‘No, though I thank you for the kind thought,’ Glorfindel said.

 ‘Would you like to see the new gardens? Of course, only the bulbs are blooming this early in Spring, but the gardens have been designed to appeal to the eye no matter the season.’

 ‘I regret to say we must be returning immediately to Imladris,’ Glorfindel replied. ‘The Lord Elrond awaits my report.’

The scribe had finished the paper promising safe conduct; he blotted the page and dropped a blob of blood-red wax near the bottom, then held it out to the king. Without looking, the king pressed his ring to the soft wax and said, ‘There, that’s done.’ The scribe waited a moment for the wax to harden, then rolled the paper neatly, tied it, and handed it to the king with a bow. Immediately he returned to his scribing, for his king was a Man of action and would send out messengers to proclaim the ban on hunting near the Hoarwell without delay.

The king held out the pass to Glorfindel with a flourish. The Elf-lord nodded to Thorn, who took the pass from the king.

 ‘Captain!’ the king rapped out.

The captain of the guard came to life, looked in astonishment at his fallen sword, and scrambled to pick it up and re-sheath it. Snapping to attention, he said smartly, ‘Sire!’

 ‘Escort our departing guests to the entrance; make sure they have all they need for the return journey,’ the king said. ‘Then send me your fastest couriers. They are to proclaim a message throughout the kingdom.’

 ‘Yes, Sire,’ the captain said with a bow, and turned with elaborate courtesy to Glorfindel and Thorn. ‘If you would follow me, sirs,’ he said.

 ‘It has been a pleasure,’ the king said, turning back to the guests. ‘Please, come again sometime when you have more time for us to show you proper hospitality. O, and please convey my warmest regards to the Lord Elrond, and tell him he will be well come whenever he chooses to grace us with his presence.’

 ‘I will pass your regards on to him,’ Glorfindel replied. ‘My thanks.’

The king bent to address Thorn. ‘May you have a safe journey, little one,’ he said. Thorn nodded, at a loss for words.

The chancellor announced the next matter requiring the king’s attention and the king of Rhudaur stood tall once again and resumed his throne.

Glorfindel and Thorn silently followed the captain out of the throne room, through the entryway and out to the courtyard with its tinkling fountains. Assilim stood just outside the gateway like a fine statue, head high, watching for them. When he saw them he whickered and tossed his head.

 ‘Will you need anything for the return journey?’ the captain said. ‘Food, or drink, or anything else?’

 ‘Thank you,’ Glorfindel replied. ‘We have all we need.’ He lifted Thorn to the saddle, lightly stepped up, and settled behind the hobbit.

 ‘Farewell!’ the captain said. Glorfindel lifted a hand in response and Assilim walked with dignity from the fortress, through the winding streets, and out of the city.

Once they were on the road once more and Assilim had broken into a canter with no encouragement from his rider, Thorn spoke. ‘I see why you counselled me to be patient.’

 ‘O?’ Glorfindel replied.

 ‘Yes,’ Thorn said. ‘It is as you said. Men are not so hard to talk to. You just have to get their attention first.’

Chapter 29. The Last Leg

And so Imladris was a veritable whirlwind of packing up and preparation, for the Moon was just past his full, and Thorn insisted quite stubbornly that the People would walk the Road and down the course of the Hoarwell to Cardolan, neither borne on the backs of elf-horses nor shepherded on their way. The only concession he made was to allow Mithrandir to accompany the People on their journey, as the grey one often travelled anyhow and would be “going the same way” quite by coincidence.

Unbeknownst to the hobbits, Elrond held council in his study with Mithrandir and the Elf-lords who resided in Imladris. ‘We cannot merely relinquish them to their fate,’ Elrond said soberly. ‘It has been impressed upon me that the Halflings are of import in the scheme of things.’

Glorfindel nodded. ‘I too have received that impression,’ he said.

 ‘And I,’ Elladan said. At his father’s indication that he should elucidate, he spoke of the dreams that came to him while staying with the Wood-Elves, of the urgent need to cross the mountains, of the restlessness that would not let him stay in Imladris but sent him searching until he found the Fallohides.

 ‘They will be under the protection of the king of Cardolan,’ Mithrandir said slowly.

 ‘Ah, but the lives of Men are short, as is their memory, and a time may well come when that protection fails,’ Elrond said. ‘Who would have thought that Arnor could be broken after such a short history, by something so trite as the quarrelling of brothers?’

 ‘Who would have thought the Shadow could creep upon Rhudaur, with all her guards and fortresses?’ Glorfindel added soberly. ‘Oh, the kingdom is prosperous, the people peaceful, the court colourful, the king noble in appearance, but Rhudaur will fall. It is only a matter of time.’

 ‘We must set a watch upon the Halflings,’ Elrond said. ‘Without their knowledge, of course.’ He glanced from face to face. ‘As long as they enjoy the protection of the king of Cardolan, it will suffice that the Wandering Companies pass through that land on occasion.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Mithrandir said. ‘And I will do my part.’

 ‘That will prove no hardship, I think,’ Elrond said with a smile.

***

There was a grand feast on the eve of leave-taking, with songs and speeches and stories told. Quite a few Elves walked with the hobbits all the way to the Ford of the Bruinen. Elrond insisted that elf-horses carry the Fallohides over the Ford, and after all were safely over there was a farewell picnic upon the green of the Western side.

At last Thorn arose and bowed to Elrond. ‘We take our leave, Lord,’ he said, ‘but we shall never forget your kindness.’

 ‘ “Never” is a word that not even the Elves use lightly,’ Elrond replied.

 ‘As long as I live, then,’ Thorn amended.

 ‘That is a fair promise,’ Elrond said. ‘Grace go with you, my friend, and may a star shine upon the hour of your arrival in the new land.’

All around them Elves and hobbits were exchanging farewells. Finally Thorn raised his voice in the “a-journey” song. Others quickly joined in, shouldering their burdens—some carried supplies, others bore little Fallohides. The Elves stood and waved until the travellers disappeared into the steep cut in the hills and the song faded in the distance.

Gandalf walked with Thorn and Lily at the head of the migration. Pick, with all the restless energy of youth, walked some of the time by the wizard’s side, when he was not ranging back along the line of hobbits and trotting forward again to report progress to Thorn. He was curious about the walls and fortresses they passed... but not enough to risk having his head separated from his shoulders. All the hobbits had been warned of the consequences of straying from the path.

They met an occasional waggon on the Road. Men of Rhudaur looked glumly at the passing hobbits, mourning, perhaps, the loss of the bounty set upon the curly heads. Travellers from Arthedain stared open-mouthed at the sight, while Men from Cardolan waved and called greetings to the Little Folk.

When nightfall came they camped immediately by the Road. “One hundred paces,” the king of Rhudaur had stipulated, and the hobbits had caught glimpses of grim hunters waiting in the trees. They had no doubt that these would be ready to act swiftly should any hobbit stray, and close watch was kept on the young ones to prevent tragedy. Gandalf assured them that there was no need to perch in trees; the king’s guardsmen kept the Road clear of danger.

Walking and camping, they made their way across the southern border of Rhudaur, coming to the Last Bridge after about ten long days of steady walking. The Moon had emptied himself completely; indeed, a pale New Moon shone coldly down as the Fallohides crossed the great stone bridge. ‘We are halfway to our goal,’ Gandalf told Thorn when they had reached the other side and stood watching the rest of the hobbits cross. ‘And ten or twelve days ought to see us out of the land of Rhudaur.’

 ‘That will be a relief,’ Thorn said. ‘At that rate, the Moon will be near full when we cross into Cardolan.’ He looked up at the darkening sky. ‘We can afford no delay.’

 ‘Then call your People to rest,’ Gandalf said gruffly. ‘They are stumbling in their weariness, and should not attempt the descent down to the riverbank in the darkness.’

 ‘Very well,’ Thorn answered. ‘You have the right of it.’ He raised his voice to call the halt. ‘We’ll camp one night more upon the verges of the Road!’ he said. ‘On the morrow we shall seek the riverbank.’ Turning back to Gandalf, he said, ‘I had thought to move from Road to river in darkness. It might be difficult to maintain a distance of one hundred paces from either.’

 ‘There is a path that runs down into the valley, beside the Bridge or nearly beneath it,’ Gandalf said. ‘The People will be safe.’ Indeed he spoke truth. Those hunters who thought to trap the Fallohides between Road and river were turned back by the stern Elf-warriors who had shadowed the hobbits’ journey from the Ford. These stepped from the shadows to discourage Men who lurked hoping to catch a straggler or two, and then faded once more out of sight.

Down the Hoarwell the hobbits travelled, their hearts growing lighter with every step. Though the Angle belonged to Rhudaur, as they put distance between themselves and the Road the habitations of Men grew fewer and farther between, until at last they walked through wilderness. One day Thorn stopped, grasping at Gandalf’s hand. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing.

Across the Hoarwell small figures stood knee-deep in the shallows. The wizard smiled broadly and called a greeting, receiving waves in return. ‘Stoors,’ he said. ‘Fisher-folk. Hobbits, like yourselves.’

 ‘You did not tell me about them,’ Thorn said.

 ‘I did not know that they had come West of the Misty Mountains,’ Gandalf replied. ‘When last I spoke with their chief, he was still considering the journey over the Redhorn Pass.’

 ‘They are in Rhudaur’s territory,’ Thorn said worriedly. ‘You told me that all of the Angle between the Hoarwell and the Bruinen—Loudwater,’ he corrected himself, for they would soon be living in Cardolan and wished to speak as the Men there spoke, ‘that all of the Angle is claimed by Rhudaur.’

 ‘Yes,’ Gandalf said, ‘I did. However, happily for the Stoors the Men of Rhudaur seldom travel so far to the South. Their energy and their envy is concentrated to the North, nearer the great watch-tower of Amon Sul, which is in dispute amongst the three northern kingdoms. We are very near the convergence of the Hoarwell and Loudwater, and will soon leave Rhudaur behind us.’

At last the day came when the Fallohides reached the confluence of the two rivers. ‘So we have reached the Greyflood?’ Pick asked, staring in wonder at the shining expanse, wider than any river he’d seen before, save the Great River perhaps.

 ‘No, this is yet the Hoarwell,’ Thorn explained, while Gandalf nodded at his side. ‘The Greyflood is still quite a distance away.’

 ‘We will not see it,’ Leaf said with a smile. ‘From the maps we studied in Imladris, we are only a day or two from the nearest of the villages founded by the Harfoots.’

 ‘Less than a day,’ Gandalf corrected. ‘By this time tomorrow you will be home.’

 ‘Will it be home?’ Beech said quietly at Leaf’s side. He peered intently at the wizard, but could not see well enough in the twilight to read Gandalf’s expression. ‘Will the Harfoots welcome us?’

 ‘Indeed,’ Gandalf said with a ringing laugh that reassured Beech. ‘They are expecting you!’

 ‘How can that be?’ Thorn said in wonder.

 ‘One of the Wandering Companies passed this way,’ Gandalf said. ‘They told the king of Cardolan that you would arrive with the waxing of the moon, and he passed the word on to the hobbits of the land. If I am any judge of hobbits, a great feast has been in the preparation for the past fortnight!’

 ‘Home,’ Lily said softly, to be echoed by others. She added, ‘It is a fine word.’

 ‘Home on the morrow,’ her husband said with a smile.

 ‘And on the morrow we can say, “Home today”!’ Pick shouted.

 ‘I can hardly wait,’ said Thorn. ‘Home.’

Chapter 30. Warm Welcome

It was a hobbity homecoming for certain. The travellers walked down the green valley alongside the silver-shining river under the bright Sun.

 ‘Not much woodland here,’ Thorn said, ‘and if Men have been here long, why have we seen so few?’

 ‘The Men who settled this land cut down the trees and used up the rich soil, for they were careless and hasty, short-sighted, thinking only of this year’s harvest, not giving back to the land to keep it green and growing,’ Gandalf replied, his look far away as if seeing the valley filled with neatly cultivated fields and farmsteads. ‘There was a drought and a wind came to blow the soil away, and the Men moved on to other lands... This land has lain fallow for many a year.’

 ‘Is it of use?’ Thorn asked doubtfully, and the wizard laughed in reply.

 ‘The river has carried more soil into the valley and spread it nicely for you,’ he said. ‘I’d suggest farming the low-lying land but living on higher ground.’

 ‘Fallow ground for Fallohides,’ Leaf laughed. ‘Sounds quite fitting!’

 ‘There were forests here, then,’ Beech said. He saw only a blur of green and blue with a smear of silver that he knew was the river.

 ‘At one time, yes,’ Gandalf said.

 ‘So there could be forestland again,’ Beech said. ‘Fallohides without forest does not sound at all fitting.’

 ‘After we’ve planted a tree for each one lost on the way, we’ll have quite a start,’ Thorn said quietly. ‘Our grandchildren will walk in the glades and remember.’

 ‘What’s that up ahead?’ Pick asked, pointing to a grey line in the green landscape, small figures perched atop.

 ‘We come to the first of the Harfoot settlements,’ Gandalf said, ‘and I believe those are Harfoots.’ As he spoke the figures detached themselves from the wall, disappearing over the hill with a great waving of their arms. On the breeze came faintly their excited shouts. ‘Ah,’ Gandalf said. ‘The watch-hobbits have announced your arrival.’

As the Fallohides approached the wall they saw a crowd of Harfoots come over the hill and stand waiting. One jogged forward from the rest to a gate in the wall. He swung this open and waved his arms. ‘Welcome!’ he shouted. ‘Welcome, cousins! The feast is ready and your places are laid. Come! Come!’

The rest of the Harfoots raised a welcoming song. In wonder and delight the Fallohides passed through the gate, each welcomed in turn by the chief of the Harfoots, enveloped in hugs, their burdens taken from them, chattering hobbits surrounding them and leading them over the hill towards the smell of roasting meat and crusty bread hot out of the oven.

Comfortable dwellings had been delved in the hillsides. Smoke rose from every chimney and the doors were thrown wide as more hobbits poured forth. Blankets were spread on the grass of the common and huge roasts sizzled on spits in pits dug to one side, while long tables positively groaned to be relieved of the burden of food that they held.

Before the tingling in their feet from the day’s long journey had subsided, the Fallohides found themselves with loaded plates, sitting mingled with Harfoots on blankets. Indeed, they might have been all of one piece, but for the Harfoots being darker of hair and skin and shorter in stature.

 ‘Your hair is golden as the Sun!’ one of the Harfoots said in astonishment to Pick. ‘How did it come to be that way?’

 ‘Probably the same way your hair grew brown as a nut,’ Pick laughed. ‘My mother keeps telling me I have her grandfather’s hair, but I only remember his hair being white!’

Gandalf looked in satisfaction at the heads bent together in conversation: copper, gold and bronze intermingled with mahogany, ebony and silver. Songs arose and it did not take the two groups of hobbits long to blend their voices in harmony. The wizard ate his fill, listened to happy chatter and song, smoked a pipe and allowed himself time to savour the homecoming.

As the light began to fade, the Harfoots stood to fold up the blankets and clear away the feast, helped of course by their newfound friends. Beds had been made ready; the Fallohides would sleep this night as guests, and on the morrow begin the work of delving their own dwelling places, staking out their own fields and readying them for planting, finding Harfoots of similar trade to work with, and all the other details of making a new life.

Gandalf rose and stretched, knocking out his pipe. ‘So, Thorn,’ he said, interrupting that hobbit’s animated conversation with the chief of the Harfoots. ‘I will take my leave.’

 ‘So soon!’ both leaders chorused together. ‘The celebration’s barely begun,’ the Harfoot added.

 ‘Nevertheless, there is work to be done,’ Gandalf said, ‘and I have rested from my labours long enough. I bid thee fare well, good friends, and hope to find you well when my journeys take me this way in the future.’

 ‘You’ll find a warm welcome, Grey Wanderer,’ the chief of the Harfoots said with a bow. ‘We’ll always have a plate for you.’

 ‘Thank you,’ Thorn said. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done,’ he gave the wizard a keen glance, ‘whether we knew of it or not.’ Gandalf laughed and gently enveloped the small, firm hand in his large one.

 Pick threw his arms about the wizard in a fierce hug. ‘Don’t be a stranger!’ he said.

 ‘I won’t,’ Gandalf said. ‘You may be assured of that, my young friend.’

(Author's note: Don't go away, there is still a little bit left to go.)

Chapter 31. Epilogue

It was a beautiful autumn day, of the sort to rival the beauty even of Imladris, the Watcher thought. Imladris was Always, of course, smiling and soothing the spirit, a place to drink deep and be refreshed. The Shire, however, was beautiful in her own way with her moods and changes. He’d come to know her seasons in his turns at Watching. Winter stillness, when the trees rose stark and black in soft-falling snow; Quickening, with myriad greens and burgeoning life; Summer’s sky of brightest blue with ever-changing clouds or velvet black sprinkled with star-jewels — each had its own place in his heart. But the falling-time, ah, when it seemed the land put on her gayest gown for a last wild dance before snow-sleep, the riotous colours, the smell of leaf-smoke in the crisp morning air, the achingly-blue sky above, ah-h-h-h; there was nothing quite like it anywhere else in Middle-earth. He smiled and wondered what the others would say, should he voice this thought in Imladris or Lorien.

Perhaps it was because he was deep in such thoughts that he did not remark the young Halfling sleeping in the late-afternoon sunshine on the grass atop the Hill. Thankfully the small one was asleep! ...for the Watchers were to be unseen in their duty. There was something about this Halfling, however, something in the tilt of the chin, perhaps? He really ought to have stepped immediately into the cover of the trees once more, but the nagging familiarity caught at him just long enough for the Halfling’s eyes to open, blink, stare in astonished wonder... and then the Watcher remembered.

 ‘Pick?’ he said involuntarily, then ‘Thorn?’ but of course it could not be. Still, the resemblance was remarkable.

The Halfling scrambled to his feet, hastily brushing leaves from his clothes, snatching the knitted hat from his head to reveal bronze curls—not golden, as he remembered, of course it was not the hobbit he remembered, how could it be?—and bowed, managing to keep an eye on the apparition lest it evaporate into thin air.

‘Bilbo Baggins at your service,’ he said breathlessly to the Elf, for Elf it must be, though he’d never seen one in his life, only heard about them in the Old Took’s stories. He’d only half-believed his grandfather, nay, less than half-believed, but now...

 ‘And at your family's,’ the Elf replied with a delighted smile and bow of his own. His arm swept out to encompass the view from the top of the Hill and he added, ‘The Shire is particularly lovely this day.’

Unthinking, Bilbo followed the gesture, and when he looked back to where the Elf had stood the Fair One was gone.

 ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘O please!’ There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know...

 ‘Bil-bo! Bil-bo! Bil-bo Baggins!’ came the faint sing-song from Bag End partway down the Hill. Scarcely breathing, the young hobbit stood rooted to the spot and looked all about him. Surely the Elf was not far. He’d find him, he had to! He had always come obediently to his mother’s call before, but... First things first!

 ‘Bil-bo!’ came his mother’s sweet voice again.

The young hobbit hesitated, his eyes still searching for something that was already fading in his memory, something wondrous, that took his breath away and filled his heart with unknown longing. An Elf, wasn’t it? He grasped desperately at the thought.

‘Supper’s on!’ rang on the breeze, and his tummy gave an answering rumble. The Elf was gone; somehow he knew this beyond doubt, but someday... someday he’d follow a path to where the Elves lived... he would!

 ‘Sup-per!’

He turned back towards Bag End, raising his young voice to cry an answer. ‘Coming, Mother!’ First things first, after all...

1/28:
Part I of Shire is finished! Now I can turn the whole kit-and-kaboodle over to my editor, sit back, sigh, and take a break until the Muse begins to whisper once more. Reader comments are certainly still welcome; my editor, too, will read them and take them into account as she performs her delicate surgeries... (wincing at the thought, voice echoes... "Don't worry, this won't hurt a bit!")

1/27:
Am in the middle of writing the chapter following "Before the Face of the King". Apparently have been misled by my copy of Atlas of Middle Earth. Don't know if it's the book or the way I'm looking at it, but the map showing "Migrations of Hobbits" makes it look as if the Fallohides came down that river that runs just north of Rivendell which looks as if it might be a "north branch of the Bruinen" or some such, whereas the text (and "About Hobbits" in FOTR) plainly states they came down the Hoarwell. I was referring to this map the whole time I was outlining this story, and now that the story is nearly finished that map does not look right.

Thinking hard. When did the Fallohides come down the Hoarwell? Can I stretch the point and make it that they came out of the mountains that far to the North, following the Hoarwell downstream before they went looking for Imladris? That sounds kind of torturous and dumb, though I suppose it's possible. Not that I am going to go back and belabor the point and write it in, but am thinking about those readers (like me) who are sticklers for accuracy in the details. Poor souls.

Otherwise, to get to the Hoarwell they have to cross Rhudaur along the East-West Road all the way to the Last Bridge, and then they can go downstream. Makes more sense than taking them across Rhudaur proper just to get them to go down the Hoarwell because it says they did that in "About Hobbits". Of course I could just cut the whole "evil Rhudaur" plot point and rework the journey out of the mountains... Naw. Have made my bed and just have to figure out how to lie in it. (Hey, this close to midnight that sounds like a plan.)

I suppose I shall have to revise "Before the Face of the King" slightly to reflect this fact. If you have already read the chapter before revision and are suddenly wondering in the following chapter, 'Hey! What're they doing on the Road?' ...well... that's what happened. The Road is the most direct route to the Hoarwell. Am going to arbitrarily decide that the country around the Bruinen is unsuitable for hobbit walking parties. Down the Hoarwell we go!

1/26:
The end is in sight! Once the Fallohides reach Cardolan, meet the Harfoots, and settle down, this part of the Shire's history will be finished. Then it will be time to think about Marcho and Blanco leading the hobbits from Bree to what would become the Shire. I will probably write in more modern times while that material is percolating (Frodo Gamgee's wedding, or Faramir and Goldi's wedding, or Faramir and Ferdibrand's journey to Gondor, or Merry Brandybuck and Merry Gamgee going to Rohan, or the building of the Great Smials. One of those, probably.) Not sure yet if there is a story showing how the hobbits came to Bree from Cardolan. In any event, stay with me. The end is near. Whew. Many thanks to the readers who commented.

1/20:
The writing is going very slowly. Am thinking of severely pruning the chapter "Of Life and Death". It might just be background information and not necessary to spell out... but my editor is too busy to look at "Shire" until the end of the month. Don't know yet what I'll do with the chapter, or the ones preceding it. No reader comments in 10 days... is that a good thing or a bad thing?

1/9:
Thanks to input from Eiluj, something tells me the Fallohides will soon be "home" (at least, home for the nonce, until it is time for them to move on to Breeland about 250 years later).

Now I have to decide whether to continue after that point (their settling down) in "Shire", making it one of those super-long stories, or if I should have a Shire: Part I followed by Shire: Part II... decisions, decisions... (thoughtful frown)

1/8/04:

I am stalled on the story at the moment, looking for appropriate elf names for residents of Rivendell. Got any favourites?

We are close to the end, as far as the outline is concerned. It is just that I need some elf names for the next chapter! Have been researching but haven't come up with much yet.

From The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien, Appendix B:

1050

- About this time a shadow falls on Greenwood, and men begin to call it Mirkwood.
- The Periannath are first mentioned in records, with the coming of the Harfoots to Eriador. These roamed over Eriador as far as Weathertop while the Fallohides and Stoors were still in Wilderland.
 

c. 1100

- The Wise (the Istari and the chief Eldar) discover that an evil power has made a stronghold at Dol Guldur. It is thought to be one of the Nazgul.

c. 1150

- The Fallohides enter Eriador.
- The Stoors come over the Redhorn Pass and move to the Angle, or to Dunland.
- Sometime after the Fallohides cross the mountains, the Harfoots, Fallohides and Stoors settle in ordered communities in the westlands of Eriador.

c. 1300

- According to The Atlas of Middle Earth, it was about this time that hobbits began to move further westwards, to the area of Bree. 

1601

- Marcho and Blanco of the Fallohides, followed by many hobbits, cross the Bridge of Stone Bows into the land granted them by the King of Arnor. 

Geographical Notes: (revised 1/5/04)

I am assuming a forest stream, not on any of the original maps, that runs from the "mountains" in the middle of Greenwood in a south-westerly direction, finally emptying into the Anduin some ways past Dol Gundur. The oily black unpleasant pollution is spreading slowly northwards from the direction of Dol Gundur, against the current, as the Necromancer's power grows and overshadows Greenwood with his evil influence. It is not the "Enchanted River" encountered by Bilbo and the dwarves in The Hobbit, but similar in character. It may have dried up in the hundreds of years between the Fallohide's emigration and the time of The Hobbit, or there may be some other reason it does not appear on any of the maps drawn in these modern times.

The earliest recollections of the Fallohides suggest that they were a peaceful farming people in the upper vales of the Anduin. Scraps of remembered oral history indicate that they were driven from the land into the wood (Greenwood the Great) by Men who coveted their rich farmlands. Within the sheltering eaves of Greenwood they received aid from an unexpected source, allowing them to survive and adapt to woodland life. To escape being hunted like animals, they removed southward, finally establishing a community about halfway between Dol Gundur and the Old Forest Road. There they lived quietly for many years, forgotten by Men (except for the handful of good-hearted Men who traded with them, but kept their existence a secret at the hobbits' request) and overlooked by Elves and others, until this story begins.

The terrain described in the crossing of the Misty Mountains is based upon descriptions in The Hobbit. The Fallohides crossed the mountains nearer to the path of Bilbo and the dwarves, to the North of Rivendell, rather than the way the Company took, to the South, in Fellowship of the Ring.

The terrain described in travelling from the woods where Men of Rhudaur hunted, to Rivendell, is based upon The Hobbit. Borders set forth in The Atlas of Middle Earth were used to determine that it was the Men of Rhudaur who encountered the Fallohides immediately before they were guided to Imladris by the son of Elrond.

The descriptions of Rivendell come from The Hobbit and Fellowship of the Ring, along with quite a bit of daydreaming.