Yes, I *am* aware that Greenfields is in the North Farthing, but don’t worry, you’ll see how it all plays out eventually.

I hope you enjoy my take on the Battle of Greenfields, and please let me know what you think of it!

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and its characters, places, dates, etc. belong to the Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema. The characters not found on the family trees or timelines belong to me. :-)  

Forget Me Not

Chapter One: The Shire’s Need

The year of 1147 had been one of the finest years in the history of the Shire, and the autumn harvest was plentiful. Everything was peaceful and quiet, as hobbits prefer. The Thain of the Shire, Ferumbras II was fair and just, well liked and very friendly with the people – he was often seen riding his tall grey pony around the countryside, visiting small villages and towns.

The Annual Harvest Festival in Quarry was livelier than ever this year, and it was talk of the entire Shire months before it even came. Preparations were being made, booths built, goods readied, quilts and new clothes sewn. The Quarry-folk also had a special reason for being so excited: this was the first year that the Harvest Festival had been held in their small North-Farthing town. It was normally held in the much larger Tookbank, Buckland or Hobbiton.

The morning of the Festival found a young hobbit leaning against a tree, his hands in the pockets of his brown trousers, a piece of straw sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He was clearly of pure Fallohide blood: fair skin (or it would be, but working in the sun had lent it a slight tan), a slender build, and luminous eyes, which were a peculiar color; they were a pale, soft green like a beryl-stone, giving him an almost Elvish look. But he was unquestionably hobbit, too -- there was a light sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a healthy flush to his face, and his dark chestnut curls were in a careless disarray.

At the moment, this young hobbit seemed to be waiting, impatiently, for someone in particular. He sighed, raising his eyes skyward, and sank down into the grass, leaning his head back against the bole of the tree. He muttered something under his breath, and began idly picking little blades of grass.

Finally, the sound of singing could be heard, and the hobbit raised his head. Coming up the dirt road towards him was another hobbit. The hobbit was singing in a loud, merry voice, apparently unaware of the awaiting one sitting beneath the tree, and took his time approaching.

As he neared, he stopped singing abruptly, and called out, "Hoy! Milo!"

The hobbit waiting impatiently beneath the tree stood up, taking the straw from his mouth and tossing it to the ground. "Hullo, Kali," he said in a good-natured but slightly annoyed voice. "’Tis about time you’ve decided to join me."

The hobbit, Kali (short for his more commonly used full name of Kalimac*) reached the tree and grinned. His normally fair skin also bore traces of a summer tan, but he was unmistakably Fallohide, with wild, dark golden curls and merry sky-blue eyes. "Have you been waiting here all morning, Milo?" he asked cheerfully, leaning against the tree.

"Yes," Milo answered, still attempting to look annoyed, but visibly having trouble containing a smile. "I’ve been up since dawn, but I expect that you’ve only just gotten out of bed, you good-for-naught." He meant this in jest, and the other knew it.

Kalimac playfully cuffed him on the shoulder. "Come now," he teased. "You expect me to believe that you’ve been up since dawn? I am not so easy to fool, cousin."

Milo sighed and shook his head, his annoyed frown giving way into an amused grin. "I have some errands to run before the Festival," he said, changing the subject, "and I was planning on riding, if you’d like to come?"

Kalimac nodded, eager for any opportunity to ride. "Certainly! Are you going to enter the race?"

Milo blew a stray ringlet from his eyes. "Of course!" he said. "I met up with Griffo yesterday. He was bragging about his new pony, come from Bree, he said, which he thinks is going to win the race." He shook his head again, as though finding it truly pitiful that Griffo Proudfoot, the town annoyance (a downright bully to those younger than he), would seriously think that his new pony could win the Festival Race that was to take place that afternoon. "My Briony could beat his fat old ‘Prancer’ any day."

Kalimac nodded in full and hearty agreement. Neither of them much liked Griffo, and he was often the victim of their infamous practical jokes (as they were just as often the victim of his teasing). "So could Shilling," he was quick to say about his own beloved pony. "Perhaps Griffo should give his pony a new name, like ‘Plodder?’"

"Or ‘Turtle?’" Milo suggested.

"Or…" Kalimac thought a moment. "I know! ‘Fatty Lumpkin!’"

Both lads laughed at the ridiculousness of the name, and as they continued talking, they walked down the road, arms draped companionably across each other’s shoulders. They stayed on the wide dirt road until it forked into two smaller ones, where they took the left-hand path, leading further into the forest.

Amiably chatting and teasing, they strolled leisurely through the forest until they came to a small, fenced pasture at the edge of the trees. There, about half a dozen ponies were grazing contentedly in the warm autumn sun.

Milo and Kalimac hopped up to sit on the split log fence, and Milo, putting two fingers in his mouth, gave a long, shrill whistle. One of the ponies, a dark strawberry roan, lifted its head and gave an answering whinny.

"Come over here, Briony!" Milo called. The pony hesitated a moment, and then obediently trotted over to the fence, head-butting her master so hard that he nearly fell off the fence.

Milo laughed and patted Briony’s neck. "You want an apple, my lass?" He reached into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a whole red apple. Briony’s ears pricked up and she pawed the ground with one front hoof, her soft brown eyes pleading. "Now, now," scolded Milo, pretending to be stern. "None of that begging. Stop it."

Briony obediently stopped her pawing and stood still. "Very good," conceded Milo with a smile, and held out his hand with the apple. Briony eagerly took the entire thing into her mouth and trotted a short distance away with it to eat.

They watched in amusement as Briony was quickly chased around the pasture by several of the herd after her apple. The others, already shamelessly spoiled by their own masters and mistresses, ignored her. Not so Shilling.

Kalimac’s rather cocky black and white pinto was headed for the fence, eager to receive whatever treat he was sure was entitled to him. His stride was quick and imperious, his head held high and his eyes fixed boldly on his master, daring him to be empty-handed.

Fortunately (Shilling could be quite pushy when he did not get his way), Kalimac was not unprepared, having an apple, carrot, or sugar cube always in his pockets as he visited his beloved pony at least once a day. He pulled out a carrot and held it out to Shilling, who snatched it greedily, almost taking his master’s hand along with the treat. He did not walk away to eat privately, as Briony had, but stood close to the fence, to be close at hand in case there were more treats forthcoming.

While Shilling munched contentedly on his carrot, Kalimac slid off the fence and onto the pony’s back, pulling Milo with him. With Kalimac holding onto Shilling’s mane, and Milo’s arms tightly wrapped around his cousin’s waist, they got a now disgruntled and reluctant Shilling into a trot and headed across the pasture towards Briony, who had escaped her pursuers and was now finishing her apple under the shade of a large tree.

Upon reaching her, Milo slid off Shilling’s back and walked cautiously over to Briony, careful not to startle her. She placidly continued to eat, paying him no heed except to turn one ear slightly in his direction. Milo patted her shoulder and she turned to look at him, licking her lips, trying to get every bit of the sweetness that the apple had left.

Milo, with ease owing to much practice, climbed up onto her back, and gently urged her into a walk back to Shilling and Kalimac. "That apple certainly put Briony into a good mood," he commented as they began trotting through the pasture. "Or perhaps I’m simply a very talented rider." He grinned as Kalimac rolled his eyes. "Either way, she hardly twitched when I got up—she usually protests at least a little bit, timid little thing that she is." He fondly patted her neck.

Kalimac smirked. "Not old Shilling here," he bragged jokingly. "Nothing spooks him." Both of them laughed, knowing what a large exaggeration that was—Shilling, though quite cocksure and the leader of the herd, had been known to shy at his own shadow.

Reaching the far side of the pasture where the gate was, Milo slid off Briony’s back and opened it, making sure Kalimac and Shilling went out first. Then, he got back up on Briony, keeping a firm grip on her mane, and shut the gate, looking up to see the rest of the herd heading toward them. "Sorry!" he called to them with a laugh, turning Briony around. "Not today!" Then, he urged Briony into a quick trot to catch up to Kalimac and Shilling.

***

By the time Milo and Kalimac had finished the errands, played a prank on Milo’s older sister, Miriel, raided a local farmer’s crops, and stopped to have several meals in between, the Festival had begun and the race was not far away.

The two lads rode into the marketplace where the Festival was located, still bareback, but each now with a halter and reins. The crowd was thickly packed, so they stayed on the outskirts, able to see over the heads of the spectators from their high vantagepoints.

"Has the race started yet?" Milo asked the taller Kalimac, who got up on his knees to look.

"Half a minute." Kalimac shaded his eyes and looked around, trying to spot other racers. At last, he spied the large green field, hidden by hobbit holes and tall banners, where the race was to take place. "Ah, there’s the track," he said excitedly, glancing down at Milo. "And…there are your parents, Milo. They’re talking with my parents over by a pie booth, and…" He gasped and nearly lost his balance. "Oh, Heavens! is that Willow offering them some pie?" Miss Willow Gamgee was a very cheerful, good-natured (not to mention quite pretty) hobbit lass who had won more than a few lads’ hearts, Kalimac Brownlock’s not the least.

Milo rolled his eyes. "Kali!" he exclaimed. "I don’t care about Willow! Has the race started yet?"

Kalimac got down to the proper position on Shilling’s back and gave Milo a wide grin. "Do you know something, cousin? You worry too much. Of course the race hasn’t started! Don’t you think I would have told you that?"

Milo raised his eyebrows. "Quite honestly, no."

Kalimac laughed. "That’s harsh, Milo!" The two turned their ponies away from the crowds and made their way around the marketplace to the pasture where the race would be held.

"Well, if it isn’t Milo Digwell and Kalimac Brownlock," sneered Griffo Proudfoot as they arrived. "I thought you two had finally gotten some sense knocked into you and realized that your scrawny old nags don’t stand a chance against my Prancer." The grey pony he sat – or to be more correct, slumped – on snorted indifferently and lowered its head to grab a mouthful of grass.

"Let them alone, Griffo," warned Linden Bolger, an older lad, just come of-age. He was well-liked by most in Quarry, for he was good-natured and sensible; Milo and Kalimac were fond of him, as well, but especially because he was not opposed to occasional mischief and sometimes joined them in their pranks. "Don’t you spoil the Festival day picking fights."

Milo, quite able to hold his own, smirked and reined in Briony beside Prancer. "Are you sure your little fatty here can make it through the whole race without eating?" he teased, unable to resist goading Griffo just a little. Linden sighed and rolled his eyes.

Griffo angrily jerked his pony’s head up and glared at Milo. "We’ll just see who’s laughing when I’m in the winner’s circle accepting my blue ribbon."

"Yes, we shall see…" Milo replied with a confident smile, earning an irritated growl from Griffo and a small chortle from Kalimac.

Just then, the whistle was blown, signaling the racers to get to the starting line. Briony pranced and snorted, impatient to be off, until the gentle, soothing whisperings of Milo calmed her down. Shilling was also jumpy, and no amount of soothing from Kali would calm him—until he was snuck a bit of carrot that Kali had taken from the farmer’s field earlier that day.

"Ready!" the announcer shouted over the whinnies and snorts of the ponies, and the spectators. "Get set!" Milo tensed on Briony’s back, leaning forward in anticipation. "G—" The announcer stopped abruptly as the sound of rapid hoof beats was heard, coming swiftly nearer.

Everyone looked up to see a rider on a wiry black pony, its coat flecked with foam, galloping toward them as though the whips of Sauron were behind them. The crowd parted to make room, and reaching the platform where the announcer stood, he reined in his pony to a rearing halt.

"A message," the rider gasped breathlessly. "A message from the Thain!" There was a murmur of surprise through the crowd. "Orcs…orcs are attacking the s-southern borders of the Shire…" Now there was a collective gasp, and the messenger took a moment to catch his breath. "The Thain asks that every able-bodied man come to aid—we need reinforcements, desperately." Having delivered his message, the rider promptly slumped forward in the saddle and would have fallen off, if it hadn’t been for the dozens of hobbit hands reaching out to catch him.

As they carried the messenger to the nearest Inn and led his pony to be stabled, a white-faced Milo turned to Kalimac, to see that his cousin was just as pale. "Orcs?" Milo whispered. "Attacking the Shire?"

***

News of the messenger traveled quickly through Quarry, and needless to say, the Festivalgoers hurriedly dispersed. Milo and Kalimac each went home after returning their ponies to the pasture. Milo felt numb and dazed, still trying to digest the fact that Orcs were invading the Shire. If they were not stopped in the southern regions, what would stop them from coming up north, destroying everything—and everyone—in their path? He, like all hobbits, had heard the terrible stories of Orcs, but he had never imagined that any could ever invade the Shire.

After changing out of his best clothes and into his normal blue-grey shirt, russet-brown trousers and matching weskit, he headed into the study, where his family normally met for meetings or discussions.

There, he found his tearful mother, Merylla, and two older sisters, Mimosa and Miriel, together on the sofa. His father, Moro, was sitting in the armchair, smoking his pipe and staring into space, and his tweenage brother, Mithro, sat on the floor by the hearth, whittling a piece of wood.

All looked up as he entered quietly and sat down in the armchair across from his father’s. There was an uncomfortable silence, until his father at last cleared his throat and spoke.

"I assume you’ve heard about the message from the Thain?" His deep green eyes were grieved, and Milo could not bear to look at them.

Milo nodded mutely, staring down at his hands, lying in his lap.

"All able-bodied men to come defend the southern borders…" His father murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The glow from the hearth lit up his clear-cut features and grey-flecked black hair.

Milo sighed softly and dared to look up. "I suppose that would mean that you…and I must go?" he half-asked, half-stated hesitantly. His mother let out a quiet, choked sob and buried her face in Miriel’s shoulder. Tears streamed silently down Mimosa’s cheeks, and his Mithro’s whittling faltered for a moment.

Milo’s father sighed, not taking his eyes from the snapping fire of the hearth. "So it would seem," he said heavily. "We are to leave tomorrow, at first light." Milo’s mouth fell open slightly in shock. Tomorrow? He’d thought that he’d have at least one last day to spend with his family before leaving…perhaps never to return…

Mithro’s angry voice interrupted his melancholy thoughts. "Why am I not able to go? I am not afraid!"

"Because you’re still a tween—" Miriel began, but Mithro cut her off. "But so is Milo! He won’t be of-age for another month!"

"And you won’t be of-age for another six years," their father argued firmly. "You must stay here, Mithro. Your mother and sisters need you."

Mithro began to protest, and his father added, "If we do not drive those Orcs out within a month, I will try to send for you, and you may come and help."

Mithro’s fiery blue eyes, so like his mother’s, were doubtful. "Promise?"

"I promise."

***

Ferumbras Took, Thain of the Shire, paced anxiously back and forth in his large study in the Great Smials of Tuckborough, a frown of worry on his face. His younger brother, Bandobras, stood behind his desk, watching as the Thain paced. At last, he sighed. "Ferumbras," he said, "stop for a moment, please! You’re making me dizzy."

"I can’t help it," the Thain replied. "Where are they? We must have reinforcements by the end of this week or our armies will be destroyed!"

"That is why I am here. Captain Grenthorne has sent me another message."

Ferumbras stopped his pacing and hurried over to the desk, placing his hands upon it and leaning forward to stare into his brother’s sea-grey eyes. "You have a message? When did you receive it? Why did you not tell me? Does father know?"

Bandobras allowed himself a small smile. "I received it only an hour ago, but you would not give me the chance to tell you—you were too occupied with your pacing and worrying. And yes, father knows about it, and he sent me to tell you."

"Well? What is it?"

Bandobras’ smile disappeared and he ran a hand through his sandy curls. "It is not good news, I fear, brother," he admitted. "But do not worry, I have come up with a solution to it that father agrees upon."

Ferumbras nodded and braced himself for the news. "Tell me."

"Captain Burrow and many soldiers fell north of Sarn Ford just two days ago."

Ferumbras closed his eyes for a moment, and put a hand to his suddenly aching head. Bandobras reached out and put a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder.

"How many fell altogether?" Ferumbras asked heavily.

Bandobras sighed. "Over fifty, at last report."

There was a long moment of heavy silence as Bandobras’ words sunk in. Then, the Thain spoke again, in an anguished, sorrow-filled voice.

"And what is your solution to this latest setback?"

"When the reinforcements come, I shall take Captain Burrow’s place and lead them into battle."

Ferumbras looked up incredulously.

"Surely you cannot be serious, brother?" he half-asked, half-pleaded. "How could father give his consent?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued, his voice rising in pained anger. "Well, I am the Thain and I shall not allow it! You will not go into battle, brother. Not while I draw breath." Suddenly, his voice cracked and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent grief.

Bandobras, tears in his own eyes, walked around the desk and pulled his brother into a loving embrace, wishing above all else that gentle, placid Ferumbras could be spared the strain and trials of being Thain.

The two brothers stood so for they knew not how long, each taking comfort in the other’s presence, until finally, Ferumbras raised his head, wiping the remnants of tears from his face.

"I am sorry. If father believes that you should go…" he sighed sorrowfully. "Then who am I to disagree?" He squared his shoulders and looked his brother in the eye. "Very well, Captain Bandobras. You shall go with the reinforcements."

Bandobras smiled sadly, tears still shining in his eyes. "Fear not, brother," he said gently. "I will return soon enough. As soon as we have driven these foul orcs from our home, I will return. You’ll see."

Ferumbras nodded, and the two pulled out of the embrace. He kissed his brother’s brow as a blessing and Bandobras headed for the door. "Farewell," he said softly, before shutting the door behind him.

Ferumbras stood, listening to his brother’s soft footsteps slowly, heavily getting further away down the hall, until they disappeared altogether.

***

"Father, please! You should not go!" Miriel pleaded with her father for the final time. "You are needed here!"

Moro sighed and kissed the top of his eldest daughter’s head. "I am sorry, Miriel," he said softly. "But I am needed even more down south, to protect the borders of the Shire." He smiled slightly. "Don’t fret. Milo and I shall be back before you know it."

Miriel allowed her tears to flow freely down her cheeks as she tightly embraced her father. "Good-by, Father," she whispered. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Moro returned quietly, then walked out of the front door to say farewell to his wife.

Milo awkwardly approached his oldest sister. She sniffed and looked up, managing a small smile as she wrapped her arms around her brother, hugging him close. "Take good care of Father," she murmured. "And take care of yourself as well, Milo." She pulled out of the embrace and held him at arm’s length. "I love you," she whispered, kissing him tenderly on the forehead.

Milo was concentrating too hard on not breaking down and sobbing in front of his sister to reply, but he nodded and kissed her on the cheek. "Good-by," he finally managed, before quickly turning away.

Mimosa was next, and that farewell was even harder than the first. His sister was not quite as controlled as Miriel, and it was a long moment before Milo was able to pull away from her embrace and move outside where his father, mother, and brother waited.

Merylla was wrapped in her husband’s strong arms, controlling her emotions but shaking violently. He was murmuring something to her, his own normally stoic face white and anguished. Milo stepped back, unwilling to interrupt and say farewell to his mother.

Mithro approached him, standing before him and studying his face for a moment, before launching himself into his older brother’s arms. "Oh, I wish I could come," he said sadly, pressing his face into his brother’s shirt. "I hate letting you and father go alone like this!"

Milo mastered himself, and held Mithro at arms’ length. "You remember father’s promise," he said earnestly, willing his brother not to make this harder than it already was. "I pray it never comes to that. But now you are needed here—what if the orcs were to attack the Northfarthing? You must be here to help protect mother and the girls." He embraced Mithro again. "Father and I will return soon, you’ll see. And we shall be safe."

Mithro nodded against his brother’s shoulder, and then pulled away, mastering himself. "I’ll take care of everyone here," he promised sorrowfully, bowing his head to hide his tears. "And I’ll miss you and father. Be safe."

"We will," said Milo softly, running his fingers through his brother’s dark curls. "I shall miss you, and think of you every day. Good-by."

"Good-by," Mithro whispered, and in an uncharacteristic burst of affection, he raised his head and kissed Milo on the cheek. Then he drew his sleeve over his eyes, and reached into his pocket. He brought out a small, blue forget-me-not. "Here," he said, dropping the flower into his brother’s hand, "a forget-me-not, so you’ll think of us." He looked up, smiling weakly. "I shall be thinking of you." Then, he drew his sleeve again over his eyes, and pressing his brother’s hand one last time, he hastily returned inside the house. Milo swallowed back tears and carefully placed the small blue flower in his pocket.

Now came the hardest farewell of all: his mother. Merylla had pulled out of her husband’s embrace, and turned to her son. Moro respectfully drew back, allowing mother and son a private farewell.

"Well, my lad," Merylla began, her hands on Milo’s shoulders. Then she laughed, weakly. "Not such a lad anymore, I suppose. Why, taller than I am and nearly of-age. How fast you’ve grown! And now off to battle with your father." She sobered, closing her eyes for a moment. "You will take care of him, won’t you, love?"

"Of course, mother," Milo promised tearfully.

"And take care of yourself, too, Milo," she added. "I don’t know what I shall do without you."

"Mithro is here to help you," said Milo, lowering his eyes, unable to look his mother in the face. "He can take care of things."

"But not like you, my dear," Merylla said, tears rolling down her cheeks again. She still attempted to be strong. "We shall have to manage, I suppose. But hurry back, won’t you? Drive those orcs out of the Shire and return home, safe and sound."

"Yes, mother," Milo promised again. "We will. And we shall be back just as soon as we can. You will visit poor Kalimac’s family while we’re gone? His parents must be brokenhearted to send him off alone."

"Of course I will," Merylla assured him, smiling a little. "I’ll visit them every day. I’m sure it will give us all some comfort." She sighed, knowing that Milo and Moro must be going. There was a long moment of silence until she pulled her son into her arms, pressing him tightly to her. "Oh, my dear son. I pray that you’ll be safe." She drew back slightly, cupping his face in her hands and stroking away the tears that slid down his cheeks. "None of that, love. I know you must go, and I think you’re the bravest lad in the Shire. I’ve no doubt that you and your father will return, safe and victorious."

They were both silent, Milo having no words to say and Merylla studying her son’s face intently, trying to memorize every detail of him. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed him, on his forehead, his cheeks, and his mouth, overcome with love and grief for her oldest son. "I love you, my dear Milo," she told him earnestly, as his tears increased and his lips began to tremble. "And you must remember that when you go down south to help the Thain. Stand strong and brave against the enemy, thinking of everyone back home, who love you dearly and think of you and miss you every second of every day." She stood on her tiptoes to plant one last kiss in his chestnut curls. "Come home safe, and proud, my love," she whispered, smiling. "Good-by."

Milo swallowed hard and pressed his forehead to her shoulder for a moment. Then, mastering himself, he stood up straight and met her eyes, smiling a little. "I shall think of you and everyone else every second," he said. "And I shall try to give you and father pride." He bent down slightly to kiss her on the cheek. "I love you." She smiled, stroked his face one last time, and he drew a deep breath. "Good-by."

With that, he turned away, and joined his father, forcing himself not to look back.

The two did not speak until they reached the Brownlocks’ home, where they met Kalimac just coming out of the front gate. His normally cheerful, smiling face was pale and tear-streaked, and he could only manage a weak grin when he joined Milo and his father.

"Hullo, Milo, Mr. Digwell," he said quietly. Milo put his arm over his friend’s shoulders, assuring him that he understood his sorrow. Kalimac’s father had fallen from a hayloft several years ago, and badly crippled his leg, therefore making it impossible for him to go into battle. There were no brothers to accompany his son, and so Kalimac would have been alone if not for Milo and his father.

Trying to keep their spirits up, the three travelers kept up conversation about anything and everything, until they reached the town square, where a large group of hobbits had gathered to join the Militia; from lads barely out of their tweens, to grey-headed fathers nearing the three-quarter mark.

The messenger from the Thain, having recovered from his exhaustion yesterday and given a fresh pony, stood watching as the new soldiers continued arriving. It was well over two hours before everyone who was able had come and joined the Militia, and another hour more as the messenger went through the crowd and dismissed the oldest recruits.

"If you are a father," he said loudly, calling for everyone’s attention, "with a family at home, you are free to go. There must be some able hobbits to stay here in case there is an attack from the North."

Milo looked up at his father, gasping with this unexpected hope. "Did you hear that?" he whispered. "You can go back home!"

Moro watched as quite a few older hobbits left, and then looked down at Milo, placing his hands on his son’s slim shoulders. "Milo," he said quietly, "I need you to tell me honestly. I cannot bear to leave you here alone—"

"Kalimac is with me," Milo assured him, thinking only of the joy his father’s return would bring their family. He was not greatly worried for his own safety, but he was concerned for his father’s, and wanted more than anything else for Moro to return home. "And I am not afraid. I shall be safe."

Moro sighed. "I know, my lad," he said heavily. "I know. But honestly, now. Would you truly be all right if I stayed here and took care of the family?"

Milo stared at his father for a moment, then lowered his eyes as he thought, knowing that a hasty answer would not be accepted. "Yes," he said at last. "I would be all right, apart from missing you of course. And you must go. Mother and the girls need you."

"My brave lad!" exclaimed Moro, blinking back tears. He quickly embraced his son, as the messenger called, "Last chance for those of you who wish to stay!"

"Thank you, Milo," Moro whispered hoarsely. "I am proud of you, more than I can say. Take care of yourself, and come home soon."

"I will," Milo promised, swallowing hard. With a final pat and quick farewell to Kalimac, Moro Digwell left and joined the long line of other fathers returning to their families.

To Be Continued...

Gaah, those farewells were hard to write. I tried to keep the "fluff" to a moderate level, which is pretty difficult to do considering the circumstances. Oh, well. I am currently in the middle of the next chapter, and I hope to post it soon. Don’t forget to review!

* Kalimac is the early word, meaning ‘jolly, or merry,’ that Meriadoc is derived from. By the time of the War of the Rings, the word itself had no meaning (though it was still used), but at this time in the Shire, ‘Kalimac’ is used instead of ‘Meriadoc’ to mean ‘Merry.’