Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I do not own any of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

FOR FOLCO

PROLOGUE:

Estella Bolger waited on the landing at Bucklebury for the Ferry that would take her back to the East Farthing. The months she had spent here in Buckland with her best friend Melilot were among some of the grimmest and longest of her life.

Yet she was reluctant to go, now it came to it, and the reason stood tall and strong beside her.

“It’s a good thing you take after your mother’s side of the family,” teased Merry Brandybuck, a mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes. “We’d never get Fredegar anywhere near the Ferry, the way he feels about the River.”

Estella, who had been smiling up at the hobbit beside her felt her face fall at the mention of her dear brother. “He’s still afraid of the River, but he would not let it stop him from doing what needs to be done anymore.”

“Freddy’s a stout fellow, and a good friend,” replied Merry. “I was very proud of him for fighting the ruffians and standing up to them, though just a bit surprised. Your brother has always been so peaceable and easy-going.”

“It was bound to happen,” said Estella sadly, “after what happened with Folco.”

“Folco?” asked Merry, puzzled.

She looked up at him sharply, dismayed. “You don’t know!”

He glanced down at her stark face and realization dawned. “Oh no--” he breathed, stunned.

She nodded.

CHAPTER 1

Fatty Bolger sat at the table in The Floating Log in Frogmorton, waiting for Folco to return with their ales. He was already a bit tipsy, something that was happening more often than it should ever since that awful night in Buckland. No. Didn’t do to think about that, or he would go beyond tipsy to downright drunk, and he did not intend to follow that road.

Just then he heard Folco’s voice, high and clear above the din. “And how is Lotho like a carp?”

At the laughter that followed, Fatty sobered as though someone had thrown ice water on him. He rose to go over there as he heard someone say the formula: “I don’t know, how *is* Lotho like a carp?”

“Why, they are both bottom feeders!” laughed Folco, delighted with his own wit. This drew general laughter. Lotho was not well liked, and most hobbits had yet to learn how long his arm had grown in the last few months.

Fatty groaned. This was an old joke of their friends, Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, often told to bring a smile their cousin Frodo’s face after an encounter with the despicable Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

But it was no longer a joke that was wise to tell in public.

As if “wise” ever entered into anything Folco might say.

Fatty glanced around the room. Perhaps they were lucky and none of the so-called “Chief’s” informants were there.

No. Worse luck. There was Ted Sandyman, his eyes glittering with amused malice as he caught Fredegar’s eyes. Sandyman had it in for Fatty and Folco both, as they had been good friends of Frodo Baggins. There was no chance that this little incident would not be reported to Lotho Pimple.

Well, loathsome Lotho could make things unpleasant, but he was off in Hobbiton at Bag End; perhaps he’d not bother. Still, he was getting his friend out of here as soon as he could, before he put his foot in his mouth again.

Sandyman watched the Bolger and the Boffin as they left. He had a score of his own to settle with them. That Folco had mocked him one night at The Green Dragon in Bywater, and those friends of his--especially Fatty Bolger--had kept the miller from getting his own back. Well, he’d have it back now, and then some. He smiled nastily to himself, as he thought of Lotho’s reaction to being joked about in the inns.

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“That’s right, Chief,” Sandyman said, “he said you was a bottom feeder, like a carp. Everyone there was laughing their fool heads off over it.” He knew just what to say to enrage his employer.

“He did, did he?” asked Lotho thoughtfully.

“Yes sir, he certainly did.” The miller knew that tone. Lotho was planning something dire. Maybe he’d do for that Boffin, like he had for Baggins and his cousins. For Ted Sandyman, like a lot of Lotho’s henchmen, were convinced that the Sackville-Baggins had set some of his Big Folk onto them, and had them done away with. Why else would Big Men on black horses raid that house in Buckland? He didn’t believe the stories that Frodo, Merry and Pippin and that gardener Sam, had gone off into the Old Forest. Why would they? Unless they were running from the Men. Either way they were gone and never coming back.

Lotho pursed his lips thoughtfully. He knew what Sandyman and some of his other people thought. He was amused that they believed he had been that ruthless; sometimes he believed it himself. And why not be?

How dare those hobbits down in Frogmorton be laughing and joking about him in inns anyway? He knew just how to put a stop to it--and to that fool Folco Boffin’s jokes, as well. He still owed Boffin an ill-turn anyway. The fool had nearly cost Lotho his chance to buy Bag End, offering Frodo a loan at the last minute.

If there were no inns, then hobbits could not get together in them to mock him or plot against him. And he’d need to send some of his Big Men to pull them down--all over the Shire. He’d start with the ones in Frogmorton and Budgeford. And if anyone objected, or seemed to object, or that he thought might object, then those Men could deal with them, too.

CHAPTER 2

Fatty sat in his parent’s front garden under a tree; Folco was sitting next to him, playing his flute. That flute was his friend’s most cherished possession, given to him by Frodo, on Frodo’s last birthday in the Shire. Although Fatty seriously doubted it, Folco quite believed that it was carved from an oliphaunt’s tooth. It had a wonderful sweet tone.

Life in the Shire had just not been the same since Frodo had sold Bag End to Lotho. The greedy hobbit thought just living there gave him more importance than he had; it was obvious that he had been buying up property all over the Shire. He had been trading away South, and had more money than anyone had realized. And now Lotho had brought in those Big Folk he had been using in the Southfarthing, and was having them enforce all kinds of “Rules”--whatever whim he thought of in his twisted mind.

Just then Fatty’s father came up the path from the road. Odovocar Bolger had quite a worried expression on his face.

“What’s the matter, Father?”

“A gang of Lotho Pimple’s men are in Frogmorton tearing down The Floating Log. They said the order has come from their “Chief” that inns are now forbidden. I think your mother and I are going to move up our journey to Tuckborough, else we may not be able to make it. Melilot’s parents are coming tomorrow to take her home from her visit to your sister, and much as I am loathe to say it, I think Estella should go with her to Buckland. Crossing the River is dangerous, but it is even more dangerous for your sister to be here around these ruffians and louts that Pimple has brought in.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Fatty.

“If you would stay here with Estella and Melilot until tomorrow, when Marmadas and Lilac arrive to pick them up, I would appreciate it. Then you can come join us at the Great Smials. I am loathe to leave Brock Hall unattended, but right now, there is safety in numbers.” He turned to Folco, who had stopped playing and was listening with a puzzled expression. “Folco, you and your parents might want to consider coming as well.”

“I’ll ask them, sir.” But it was clear that Folco did not really understand the situation. “I think I’ll stay here until Fatty leaves, though, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Folco, you know you are always welcome here.”

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Odovocar and Rosamunda had left after luncheon. Rosamunda was not happy with this situation at all; she was not ready in her mind for the visit to Tuckborough, and had hoped to wait until the seamstress had her new dresses ready. Usually, she would have had her way, but not this time. Her husband was too worried about the all the Big Folk, and he intended to see his wife and daughter safely out of the way.

“Do not leave your sister alone. And they must stay in the house until Melilot’s parents arrive tomorrow,” were his last instructions to Fredegar.

“Yes sir, I understand,” Fatty answered solemnly.

The four young people spent the afternoon in the front room. The girls were working on their needlework, while Fatty read and Folco played on his flute. They had a quiet and pleasant afternoon, and then went to the kitchen to prepare tea.

“Fatty, we are almost out of eggs, and we need another loaf of bread, if we are to have breakfast tomorrow,” said Estella.

“I’m sorry, sister, but it can’t be helped. Father said you lasses are not to leave the house, and I’m not to leave you alone.”

“That’s all right,” said Folco, tucking his flute into his jacket pocket. “I can go to the market for you.”

“Oh, would you? That would be nice of you, Folco.” Estella was as fond of Folco as she was of her brother. The Boffin lad was actually like a second big brother to her, though often nicer to her than her real one. Folco could say some unexpected things from time to time, as he never thought before he spoke, but he never teased.

“Go ahead with your tea. I’ll be back before it’s finished.”

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Teatime had come and gone. Fatty and the girls were not at first worried, as the amiable Folco had probably found some friends or acquaintances to chat with and had lost track of the time.

But then it began to get dark, and Fatty began to have a bad feeling--he dare not go in search of his friend, as he could not leave the girls alone in the house. Something had to be wrong. He had not had a feeling like this in the pit of his stomach since the night those Black Riders had come to Crickhollow.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise near the front door, a thud, a commotion, and the sound as of many footsteps running away.

The girls gasped and clutched at one another.

Fatty grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and cautiously made his way to the front hall.

Suddenly there was an urgent rapping on the door. “Fatty, please, open up!” The voice was that of Milo Burrows, who lived in Frogmorton.

Fatty flung open the door to a horrifying sight.

Standing there with Milo was his older son Mosco; lying on the doorstep was a battered and bloody form, that it took Fatty a few moments to recognize as his dear Folco.

“We must get him inside quickly, Fatty. I’ve sent Moro for a healer.”

Fatty and Mosco gently took up Folco, and brought him in, to lay him carefully on the settee in the front room. Estella and Meli began to sob hysterically. “What--” Fatty’s voice croaked, and he tried again. “What happened?”

Milo shook his head. “It was some of Lotho’s Men, with Ted Sandyman. They surrounded him--there must have been half a dozen at least. They--they beat him until he went down; then they kicked him, and--and stepped on him.” Milo’s voice broke at the last words, and he sobbed in horror.

Mosco’s voice was tight with anger. “None of us could get near him. After they finished tormenting him, Sandyman had them pick him up and bring him here. He said ’Let’s leave a little present for his friend Fatty. That’ll teach’em to upset the Chief.’ They brought him and dumped him on your doorstep; we followed as best we could without being seen, and that’s when I sent Moro for the healer.”

Fatty knelt by his friend, tears running unchecked down his face. “Oh, Folco, what have they done to you?” Folco’s breathing was shallow, and his eyes were glazed. His face was a bloody pulp. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, and his left hand was completely crushed. Both his legs seemed to be broken. Blood was coming from his mouth.

Just then, Moro came rushing in, accompanied by Lavender Bunce, the healer. She flung her satchel down and got on her knees to examine her patient. She turned to the sobbing Estella. “Go get me some hot water, immediately.” Estella and Melilot fled to the kitchen.

She began to examine him with competent hands, but after only a few moments, she sat back sadly, and shook her head.

“His broken ribs have pierced his lungs. He will never make it.”

“No!” Fatty cried out furiously, “you have to do something!”

But it was already too late. The young hobbit had breathed his last.

“No! Folco!”

Milo and his sons restrained the hysterical Fredegar. Lavender turned to the girls who had come in with the hot water. It was too late for poor Folco, but she had herbs she could mix to make a sleeping draught for Fredegar. “Someone needs to go for the lad’s parents.”

The Boffins lived at the other end of Budgeford. Moro nodded, and slipped out on the unpleasant errand.

Fatty knelt weeping on his friend’s broken body. He felt something hard in Folco’s jacket, and reached in to take it out--it was the flute, bloodstained but undamaged.

“I’m going to make them pay, Folco,” he whispered, “for you, they will pay.”

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EPILOGUE

“The next morning,” said Estella, “Meli’s parents came and brought us here to Brandy Hall, and I’ve been here ever since. I only ever had a few messages from Fatty while he was in hiding with his band of rebels. He abandoned Brock Hall, and he never did go to Tuckborough. He gave the Chief and his Men a very hard time indeed, until they captured him. Farmer Maggot was kind enough to get us word of that.”

Merry’s own tears spilled down his face. While not as close to him as Freddy, Folco had been a dear friend. And Fredegar and Folco had been as close as he and Pippin. He thought of how close he and Pippin had come on so many occasions to losing one another on the Quest. It still gave both of them nightmares. What must Estella’s brother be suffering? He looked down at her tenderly--she had loved Folco, too.

Estella made ready to get on the Ferry. She turned to Merry, and almost without thinking, they reached out to one another for a quick embrace.

As he watched her being poled across the Brandywine, Merry could not help but think about the Ring--one more bit of evil to lay at its doorstep, one more victim it had claimed.

Folco had played the flute so beautifully.