Chapter 1. Thorn: They'd Not Heard of the King

T.A. 1974, winter: End of the North-kingdom

The sweating hobbit rested the axe a moment in order to wipe at his face. Despite the heat the exercise of chopping had afforded, he shivered in the brief respite as icy fingers of wind plucked at him. Cold it was, colder than any winter he remembered. It would be good to shoulder an armload of firewood and return to the comfort of the cosy smial. He blessed the day his sons would be old enough to take over the chore.

More imaginative than most, he resisted the chill by resting his mind on thoughts of summer’s heat. Odd, that a few short months ago he’d fallen in the fields, stricken by the Sun as he followed the plough ponies. The past year had been noted for its extremes of weather: an unusually hot and dry spring followed by a rainy summer, a long and dry harvest time filled with feasting and farewells (he did not let himself dwell on the farewells) and then this bitter snowy cold.

Shouldering the axe once more, with just enough attention to keep from chopping a foot (feeling rather wooden as it was, in this cold), he thought of that day, last spring, when the first odd dream—he shied from calling it premonition—came to him. Fever dream is all it was, brought on by Sun’s heat. Certainly no premonition, for his brother Tokka had been alive and well and working the next field over at the time...

He pulled the plough ponies to a stop and wiped his face. He took the drinking skin from his belt and gulped some of the lukewarm water it contained. It did little to satisfy his thirst, however. He felt as if his tongue might cleave to the roof of his mouth... He shook his head to dispel the fancy and clucked to the ponies. They leaned into their collars and he steadied the plough as it began to turn over the rich soil of the Marish once more.

It had been an unusually warm day in Spring, the time for ploughing and planting, for seeding and hoping...

He thought about hope, and shivered as another gust of wind shook him, flinging icy particles of stinging snow into his face. Pausing in his chopping, he pulled the muffler as high as it would go without covering his eyes, and pulled the knitted cap down nearly to meet it. Though he tried to escape to thoughts of summer’s heat, the chill persisted and grew into a steady ache.

His brother and cousins had been gone too long, too long without a message. Gone to support the King in a distant conflict, as distant as the stuff of old tales, and yet they had not returned, nor sent word. No King’s messenger had come down the old road from Norbury in weeks... months... had it been that long? The winter weather was not enough to explain it, for King’s messengers travelled regardless of weather.

Resolutely he turned his thoughts back to Sun, and heat.

He squinted at the Sun, her face in the sky hard and unfeeling, no loving caress but a burning wrath upon the land below. His legs were turning to water; he staggered after the ponies. Before he could pull them to a stop he fell, and the lines he’d wrapped about himself dragged him along behind the plough before the ponies stopped of their own accord. He tried ineffectually to rise, managed only to roll himself on his side, blinking at the merciless Sun. He thought of the Lady of the ancient tales, who’d helped the Fallohides before they’d made the Crossing and settled in Western lands. ‘Mercy,’ he whispered.

Of a wonder a shadow fell upon him as a wisp of cloud was drawn across the scowling face of the Sun, and he closed his eyes in relief... He thirsted, and his breath came gasping...

***

He thirsted, and his breath came gasping despite the freezing wind that swept over that charnel plain. He cradled Marroc’s head in his lap, though his cousin was dead, eyes open and staring, a great gaping wound in the throat, the lingering warmth of life quickly stolen away by winter’s chill. He was the last of the Shirefolk, among the last of a dwindling number of Kingsmen. Kingsmen. He wanted to laugh at the thought of Halflings counted as Men amongst the soldiers of King Arvedui. But they had proven their stature, with their sturdy bows and stout hearts.

He wondered dully if the King yet lived. He’d seen Borogil of the King’s guard riding over the windswept North Downs  to the spot where the King’s banner had last waved, leading the King’s horse and a few others, all swift, all fresh and ready to run. Had the King escaped in the final charge? The enemy had overrun the defenders, shrieking and bellowing, the fearsome Black King stalking forward in their midst. Men had thrown down their weapons in despair, falling witless to the snowy ground, hewn by cruel steel until the field glowed more red than white under the icy glare of noonday Sun.

The Halflings had held their ground to the end, shooting until their arrows were spent, fighting desperately with their short swords against adversaries with far longer reach.

Tokka had held back his last arrow, watching the advance of the Black King as Marroc and his cousins defended him with shield and body. He held his breath as the fearsome Witch-king of Angmar advanced, as unconcerned as if it were a mere leisurely stroll through the garden. A few steps more...

The hobbit blew the frost from his fingertips, sighted, drew back the string, let fly. The arrow flew true, and his hopes blazed high, only to be extinguished as the Witch-king raised a gauntleted hand. The arrow kindled and crumbled, impacting the black-clad breast with a sifting of ash and no more. Tokka’s bow shattered in his hand, the string snapping against his cheek, a line of burning pain. He drew his sword and stepped forward to join his cousin Marroc as the soldiers of Angmar broke over them...

He wondered for a moment what his twin was doing at that moment. Was Bucca sitting by the hearth, mending harness, planning for the coming season when he’d be once again out in the fields, turning over the rich soil a long-ago King had granted the Halflings? With Arvedui vanquished, would the ravening hordes turn their faces southwards, overrunning the peaceful Shirefolk, reducing their land to blood and ruin, like the North Downs where their kinsmen now laid down their lives?

He was the last of the Shirefolk, amongst a dwindling number of Kingsmen. He heard the death-cry of yet another as the dark forces moved across the battlefield, dispatching the wounded with no more compassion than they might swat an insect. It would suit them to leave the wounded to freeze slowly to death under an impotent Sun that gave light but no life, no warmth; but they must move on, to hunt King Arvedui, and did not care to leave any living behind them, who might bind up their wounds and fight another day.

A shadow fell on the snow before him, blotting the heatless Sun, and Tokka looked up wearily, into the grinning face of a Man. Better to end it now than risk being taken alive, he thought. He’d heard a hissing thought in his head as his arrow crumbled to ash, a cold promise of pain and suffering to come, colder than the icy wind that swept the plain. He had no desire to be borne living to the dungeons of Angmar. Hopefully this Man was as stupid as he looked.

 ‘So,’ he said, his breath coming in little puffs of steam. ‘What are you waiting for? Afraid of a little Halfling, are you?’

The Man sneered and lowered his sword. ‘Why should I fear you?’ he said. ‘You’re for the dungeons. You’ll soon enough be singing a different tune.’

With a silent apology to Marroc for disturbing his final rest, Tokka pushed himself suddenly to his feet, rolling the body of his cousin off his lap. He brought up his own short sword, thrusting for the Man’s abdomen. Startled, the Man countered, not meeting the resistance he expected, for Tokka dropped his guard so that the long blade could do its work unhampered...

***

A/N The title is taken from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien: Prologue, "Of the Ordering of the Shire"

Note to readers: The reason for the revision ought to be obvious, for those who read the first version, but if not, suffice it to say that I overlooked the time-clues in my preliminary research. The battle on the North-downs in which the North-kingdom was lost occurred before the end of winter, the King met his end sometime in March, and winter lasted longer than usual that year. Thus saith the appendix. Hopefully the rewrite works.

Chapter 2. Thain: Taking Prisoners

S.R. 1410 (T.A. 3010, about 1000 years after the time of Bucca of the Marish) 

The sweating hobbit pulled the plough ponies to a stop and wiped his face. He pulled a drinking bottle from his belt and gulped some of the lukewarm water it contained. It did little to satisfy his thirst, however. He felt as if his tongue might cleave to the roof of his mouth... He shook his head to dispel the fancy and clucked to the ponies. They leaned into their collars and he steadied the plough as it began to turn over the soil of Whittacres once more.

It was an unusually warm day in Spring, the time for ploughing and planting, for seeding and hoping, for preparing for the future. He thought about the future and scowled. Young Pip was due to turn twenty this year, and if he didn’t show any more sense than he had here-to-date the farmer didn’t like to think about what the future would hold.

He squinted at the Sun, her face in the sky hard and unfeeling, no loving caress but a burning wrath upon the land below. He heard a cry and looked up, seeing a welcome sight. His wife approached, riding a sway-backed retired plough pony that picked its way carefully across the furrows. ‘Paladin!’ she called again, waving.

He waved in reply and pulled the ponies to a stop once more. She came up to him, her face red under its floppy hat. ‘You’ll cook yourself to death, working in the heat this way,’ she scolded. ‘Why not let the hired hobbits do the ploughing? They’re younger!’

 ‘They’re at work in the other fields,’ Paladin said mildly, wiping his pocket-handkerchief across his dripping brow.

Eglantine gave a delicate snort. ‘Here,’ she said, pulling a clay jug from the sack she carried.

 He took it, marvelling at the chill, unstoppered it, and thirstily downed half the gingered water it contained, well-sweetened with honey. As he lowered the jug Eglantine smiled at him.

 ‘Cooled it well in the spring,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to half-bake yourself under the blistering Sun it’s the least I could do.’

 ‘And lets you escape from the kitchen,’ he answered with a wink.

The summer kitchen was barely more than a roof with open sides, set a little way from their dwelling. Baking could be done and meat roasted without heating the smial.

 ‘What’s Pip working at?’ Paladin said after another swig of cold, gingery sweetness.

 ‘He finished all his chores,’ Eglantine said with the confidence of an unsuspecting mother who’s been told an untruth by a trusted daughter. Truth be told, Pimpernel had finished Pip’s chores this day as she all too often did, to save her brother a hiding. ‘Nell said he went off fishing, to try to catch something for supper.’

 ‘Hope he has better luck than the last time,’ Paladin grunted. He emptied the jug and capped it again, handing it back with a nod of thanks. ‘At least fishing is better than doing mischief.’

Eglantine leaned over for a kiss, smiled and took the jug, and turned her pony back towards the smial. ‘Don’t be late for tea!’ she called over her shoulder.

 ‘I’m never late for tea!’ Paladin shouted back. He clucked to the ponies and they finished the furrow. On a whim he unhitched them from the plough and led them to the little stream that skirted the field, into the stream if the truth be told, and the three of them stood cooling their feet for a good long time in the running refreshment. Paladin let the ponies drink a bit—not too much, certainly not more than was good for them—and then they left the shade of the trees that skirted the stream, ready to tackle a few more furrows before teatime.

***

Pippin laid down his fishing gear and sighed. Neither of the neighbour lads to either side of Whittacres Farm was free to play this day. Honestly, he didn’t know why his parents wouldn’t give him leave to tramp across the fields to Hobbiton and the Hill, if not the longer tramp to Buckland. To be fishing in the River, feet dangling from a boat, cool breezes swirling over the surface of the water. Better yet, to be raiding with Merry, daringly sneaking up on an unsuspecting tray of pastries cooling in a window...

His middle gave a lurch, reminding him of the bread and cheese Nell had packed for him before shooing him out of the smial. Though she’d stuffed the bag with enough to feed three grown hobbits, it was barely enough to satisfy a tween’s appetite.

Worse, the fish weren’t biting. What was a tween to do?

The smell of baking wafted on the breeze and he lifted his nose and sniffed. Ginger biscuits, or he’d missed his guess, but he never missed his guess, now did he? He knew that they were to have seedcake for tea, so this must be a neighbour’s baking.

Laying the pole in the crook of a tree, baited line still trailing in the stream, he went in search of his quarry.

...ah, yes, Auntie Hellebore was baking up ginger biscuits, he could see from his hiding place near his aunt’s open-air kitchen, not long after. The short hike had given him new appetite, and he greedily eyed the neat files of biscuits lined up like soldiers in a picture book as they cooled on their racks. If he just took one or two from each rack, now... No one seemed to be about. No doubt Auntie Hellie was churning, or directing her daughters in their tasks. At some distance he saw linens flapping on the lines, and who knew what other work his cousins might be busy about?

In his effort to nab the largest from the first rack, he upset the entire kit-and-caboodle into the grass. He looked around, but had not yet been discovered. He wiped the rack hastily with his shirt, making it look clean and unused, and set it carefully into its holders. Perhaps they wouldn't notice and would not remember that there ought to be five racks full instead of four. He scooped up the fallen soldiers as quickly as he could, then ran back to his hiding place, chortling to himself.

 ‘Don’t you worry,’ he said to his prisoners. ‘I know just how best to take care of you!’

***

 ‘I know there were five racks full,’ Poppina said in frustration, hands on her hips. ‘It was that hot a business, baking them!’

 ‘Well,’ Hellebore Banks said, ‘it’s clear enough to me that someone’s taken them.’

 ‘Who would do such a thing?’ the indignant daughter asked, raising a hand to wipe at her flushed face. She felt like bursting into tears after all the work she’d put in.

 ‘Someone as has never heard of the king, I warrant,’ the mother said grimly.

***

Pippin caught no fish that day, and he ate less supper than he might have (though he still ate enough to make his mother exclaim in despair about the difficulties of feeding tweens), and he was gloriously dirty—dirty enough to require a bath though it was only the middle of the week.

It had been a profitable day, all around.

Chapter 3. Thorn: No News is... No News

Bucca slammed the door behind him with his foot as he brought the last armload of split wood in and laid it by the hearth. ‘Not sure of the good it does,’ he said shortly. ‘Chilled you all, like to have the coughing sickness, just bringing in more wood to warm you.’

 ‘The smial will warm again in no time,’ his mother Lavender said calmly. She’d built up the fire again from one of the earlier armloads her son had brought in. The firelight glowed from her soft white curls, dancing over the laugh lines that covered her face in a pattern woven of love and joy. A goodly savour rose from the large kettle she stirred.

 ‘How’s Tuck?’ Bucca asked. His nephew, Tokka’s eldest, had been down with fever for several days.

 ‘Thorn’s sitting with him,’ his mother answered, blowing on the spoon to cool the contents, taking a sip, and adding a cautious palm of dried leaves to the stew. She’d add the salt at the last, that the meat might remain tender.

Bucca nodded. His father, the Thorn in point of fact, leader of their particular clan of Fallohides, had healing in his hands, or so it was said amongst the hobbits of the area. This fever had stubbornly resisted the old hobbit’s best efforts, however.

His face lighted as his own sweet Comfrey emerged from the Tokkas’ room. She stepped lightly for all her heavy burden, their first child, due to come forth any time now (overdue, to all accounts), and eagerly awaited.

 ‘I hope you’ve not taken a chill yourself,’ she chided, slender fingers unwinding the muffler she’d so carefully tied about his face and neck before he went out to chop.

 ‘You oughtn’t to be in there,’ Bucca said, nodding towards the Tokkas’ room. ‘Not so close to your time.’

 ‘If I’m to have the fever, I’ll have it,’ she said placidly. ‘We’ve all crowded together the last months, practically living in each others’ laps... at least it’s warmer that way, and less wood to chop.’

Tokka had moved his family from their own little smial into his parents’ hole when he’d been making his preparations to march north with his little body of archers, to the aid of the King in Norbury. Primrose and her five little ones had crowded into one bedroom to make the best of things, and truly they had brightened the smial considerably.

Bucca, of course, still lived with his parents, for until he had several little ones of his own he could hardly justify the labour of delving a new smial... not when there was always other farm work taking precedence. Having a smial of his own was even less likely now, with his brother’s load added to what he already carried. Thorn maintained that he was not too old to take up farming again, but the thought of his elderly father ploughing the fields made the younger twin shake his head. He’d manage somehow, until Tokka returned. Pity all the rest of the family were sisters, married and moved away. Another brother or three would have lightened the load considerably.

Why did his brother have to go to the North, in the first place, to succor a King they’d never seen?

Bucca had tried to dissuade him, the premonitions—no, dreams is all they were, just dreams—coming back to haunt him.

 ‘It’s my place, as eldest,’ Tokka had said, clapping his twin on the shoulder.

 ‘Eldest!’ Bucca had snorted. ‘How do you know they didn’t mix us up years ago? I might be eldest, for all we know!’

Tokka had laughed, and then sobered. ‘In any event, little brother,’ he’d said, ‘you’re newly wed, and due to become a father before the year is out! You cannot leave kith and kin.’ His own wife had not been expecting at the time... though now it was evident that she’d conceived on the eve of Tokka’s departure. Her babe would be born in the spring or early summer, and Bucca fervently wished his brother safely back in time to greet his youngest.

The Fallohides kept the tradition that those newly married or expecting must not be separated. A husband must avoid dangerous pursuits during the first year of marriage or even after, when his wife was in the family way, although in these modern times not every bereaved wife died of grief.

Thus most of the hobbits who followed Tokka into the Northland were unmarried. Many were the sighs and tears amongst the lasses of the community as they marched away. The rest of the archers had little ones no younger than the age of two, by tradition, or they’d have stayed behind. Their wives did not willingly see them go, but duty and honour was strong in them, and word had come that the King called all who could help to his aid in the struggle against Angmar. As many Fallohides as could be spared, and some Harfoots, though on the whole these were more timid and likely to stay-at-home, answered the call. Tokka, “eldest” son of the Thorn, was elected their Captain.

Primrose emerged from the bedroom, smoothing her skirts. Dark circles under her eyes showed the strain of ceaseless watching over her fevered lad. They’d tried to dissuade her, citing the need to protect the little one growing in secret, but she’d maintained that it was her place. Tokka was the only one who could reason with the stubborn hobbit mum, and he was not there, of course. ‘Fever’s broken,’ she said with a tired smile.

 ‘All the rest are sleeping,’ Lavender said to her daughter-in-love. ‘I tucked them up in our big bed and told them the story of the little leaves.’

 ‘That always sends them off,’ Bucca said wryly. It was a long, long, detailed story with much repetition, and it had always sent him off, in his time. Still did, as a matter of fact.

 ‘Good!’ Prim said. ‘I could use a little peace.’

 ‘Indeed you could,’ Lavender said, hanging up spoon and moving to escort Primrose to one of the comfortable chairs by the fireside. ‘Come, sit down, put your feet up, and take yourself a rest before they waken from their nap.’

It didn’t take much persuading, and before long Prim was toasting her toes near the fire whilst Lavender took up spoon once more to stir and sing. Prim soon dropped off to sleep, a smile on her face, and the old hobbit mum nodded satisfaction. ‘There’s a job well done,’ she whispered. ‘Bucca, you set the table now.’

Though it was lasses’ work he didn’t protest. Prim was asleep in one chair, his own Comfrey dozed in another, the little Tokkas were sleeping; if supper were to be a timely affair he’d better do what was needed. It didn’t take long to set around the hand-carved bowls and spoons and the serviettes, and set out butter dish and knife and the bread plate with a freshly-sliced loaf.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, he found himself wondering what Tokka was doing at that moment.

When would his twin return?

When would they have news from the North?

A gust of wind roared in the chimney at that moment, and he shivered.

Chapter 4. Thain: Day of Reckoning

 ‘So Peregrin finished all his chores, did he?’

At her father’s quiet words behind her, Pimpernel gasped and dropped the basketful of eggs she’d gathered thus far, which only compounded the trouble she was in.

 ‘Da, I...’ she began, and stopped.

Paladin’s face was more sorrowful than angry. ‘How many days is it now, you’ve finished his work for him?’ he said. She opened her mouth to answer, but he forestalled her. ‘How many weeks, lass?’ he said. ‘Months?’

 ‘It’s just...’ she said, and he shook his head.

 ‘I don’t want any more of your tales, lass,’ he said. ‘You’ve told your mum every day this week that Pip finished his work, and I had one of the hired hobbits watching out to see... you’ve been the one, curried the ponies, gathered the eggs, slopped the pigs and...’

 ‘I was just...’ Pimpernel said, and stopped.

 ‘You were just trying to spare me the grief of having a layabout for a son?’ Paladin said. ‘You were trying to spare your brother the consequences of my being grieved?’ His voice grew sharper as his indignation grew. ‘He’s not a little lad anymore, that you should listen to his wheedling ways, Nell. He’ll be a tween soon enough. He eats as if he were a tween already, but he’s hardly earning his keep, o no!’

Pimpernel hung her head as her eyes spilled over with tears. ‘I’m sorry, Da,’ she whispered. ‘I thought...’

 ‘The trouble is you didn’t think, lass,’ Paladin said, his tone softening involuntarily at the sight of his middle daughter’s tears. He shook his head. ‘We’ll talk more of this later,’ he said, and sighed. ‘Now, clean up the mess, and gather the rest of the eggs. I’ll see to the ponies and the pigs.’

Pimpernel nodded silently and turned away. She wished her da had taken her over his knee, or shouted, or stomped away—anger would be easier to face than sorrow. 

She could stand better before her father’s anger, meet it with determination on her own part, though either, the grief or the anger, seared her tender heart... She slowly cleaned up the mess of broken eggs, depositing the lot in the pigs’ trough, for they’d enjoy the treat, shells and all. She rinsed the basket clean and went on to gather the rest of the laying, returning to the house to meet her mother’s reproachful look. Eglantine and Pimpernel were rather more silent about their tasks that day than usual.

Paladin did not come on time to tea. His family sat at the tea table, waiting while the tea grew cool in its cosied pot and the piping hot scones lost some of their tender flakiness.

 ‘I don’t know what’s keeping your da,’ Eglantine said at last, twisting her serviette between her fingers. ‘Perhaps there’s been a mishap... Pip, would you...?’

At that moment they heard Paladin’s heavy tread in the hall, and he entered the sitting room. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘The work took longer today.’

Pimpernel looked up sharply and then fixed her eyes on her plate.

 ‘I’ll make a fresh pot,’ Eglantine said, jumping up, but Paladin waved her to her chair.

 ‘We’ll drink the tea as is,’ he said. ‘No need to waste it.’

 ‘Cold tea!’ Pippin exclaimed in disgust.

 ‘Might not be cold, had I not had to do your work as well as my own,’ his father said meaningfully.

 ‘My work?’ Pippin said, all innocence.

 ‘We might have called that look of yours “precious” at four, “sweet” at eight and “charming” at fifteen, but at nearly twenty it doesn’t suit you,’ Paladin said. ‘Your work,’ he added. ‘Currying the ponies, and slopping the pigs, aye, lad, the work you were assigned to do.’ He paused and swept the table with a glance. ‘Not Nell.’

 ‘You told?’ Pippin said to Nell, his tone infused with quantities of hurt and outrage calculated to make his sister wince, which she did.

 ‘She didn’t,’ Paladin said. ‘She’s been telling falsehoods to your mother and to me for I don’t know how long... what sort of crop are we raising here? A dreamer?’ He glared at Pervinca, who hurried through the necessary tasks of the day in order to steal away and bury her nose in a book. ‘A layabout?’ He glared at Pippin. ‘And what of your sister—telling falsehoods on your behalf?’ His voice was sharp at the last, and Nell pressed her serviette against her face with a sob and rose to leave the table. ‘Sit down!’ His voice cracked like a whip, and she sat.

 ‘It’s not her fault,’ Pippin said, abruptly reversing course to defend his sister.

 ‘I suppose it’s not her fault, completely, that we’re raising a litter as useless as any of those who proudly call themselves “Smials Tooks”,’ Paladin said.

 ‘Useless!’ Nell protested, emerging from her serviette. ‘But Pearl...’

 ‘Hobbits who sit about, eating and gossiping, looking down upon those whose honest work...’

 ‘And Isum!’ Pippin put in, naming Pearl’s husband. Isum did sit about, ‘twas true, but that was because of the injuries he’d sustained, coming between Thain Ferumbras and the charge of a wild boar. He still made himself useful, tutoring young Tooks.

 ‘...feeds and clothes them,’ Paladin continued, as if there had been no interruption.

 ‘And Ferdi!’ Nell said defiantly, naming the son of Paladin’s oldest friend Ferdinand Took who’d been more of a brother than a cousin to her father. As close as Pippin was with his Merry, and more, for they’d grown up together and remained close after marriage and children and adult responsibilities separated them save a few months of the year when they had visited back and forth, for the rest of the year separated in distance but never in spirit. Ferdinand’s son Ferdibrand had always been close to Nell’s heart, even after the devastating fire had robbed him of family, fortune, and free expression.

Paladin looked at his middle daughter with more pity than anger. ‘Thain Ferumbras is kind to those unfortunates unable to care for themselves,’ he said. ‘Cripples and half-wits, he takes them in, gives them what work to do that they’re capable of doing, and if not capable he extends his charity to them, food and shelter.’

 ‘As is only right,’ Eglantine said softly, seeing the pain in her daughter’s face. For years they’d spoken in jest of joining the two families, well, only half in jest. Now, of course, it was out of the question. The fire had left Ferdinand bitter and bedridden, turning his face away from his oldest friend when Paladin visited. Ferdinand’s sweet, delicate wife had died the day of the fire, his son had been reduced to a lack-wit and his daughter had run away some months after and been disowned. It was all very unhobbity, and so spoken of only in whispers, accompanied by shaking of heads, in the same manner as the deaths of Frodo Baggins’ parents.

 ‘In any event, it’s going to stop, and stop now,’ Paladin said.

 ‘Yes, Da,’ Nell and Pippin said together. Paladin smiled thinly. He’d received such assurances from his son on many occasions. This time, however...

Chapter 5. Thorn: Midnight Summons

Bucca quietly paced back and forth before the banked fire, his sleeping son in his arms. Son! A bare week ago he’d had no son, no heir, no promise of the future stretching beyond his lifetime. Now, nearly a week after greeting his son, Bucca could not remember life without him. It seemed as if this little hobbit, this little curl-topped bundle had always been a part of him.

 ‘Bucca?’ his mother said quietly behind him. ‘I can walk him a bit. You ought to rest.’

 ‘It is my joy to walk thus,’ he whispered in return. ‘We are laying great plans together, my son and I.’ Son. Would the word ever lose its thrill?

The eyes of deepest blue opened, the tiny mouth yawned wide. ‘He’s hungry again,’ Bucca said proudly. ‘Proper hobbit, he is.’

A knock came at the door. ‘What in the world?’ Lavender said.

 ‘Likely a call for the healer,’ Bucca said. ‘Settle this one for me?’ He held out the babe to his mother’s willing arms and went to the door. ‘Who comes?’ he called.

 ‘The Thorn is needed,’ a muffled voice called quietly.

 ‘Someone’s ill?’ Bucca said, opening the door a crack to admit as little winter chill as possible along with the muffled hobbit waiting there.

 ‘He’s needed,’ the visitor said. He was not a near neighbour. Bucca did not recognise his voice, and his face, as he pulled away the muffler, was only slightly familiar.

 ‘What about your own healer?’ he said.

 ‘What is it, son?’ Thorn said, emerging into the main room, bag in hand.

 ‘The Thorn is needed,’ the hobbit said stubbornly, but he would say no more than that.

The feeling that something was amiss was growing ever stronger in Bucca’s heart. His father caught his eye and nodded. ‘My son will accompany me,’ he said.

The stranger hobbit looked appraisingly from healer to son and nodded. ‘You’re the other one,’ he said.

Bucca bristled, but his father laid a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘Tokka led the archers to the Northland,’ he said.

 ‘Two of my sons marched with him,’ the hobbit said, and Bucca nodded. He remembered now, this face in the crowd, a hobbit with his arm about his weeping wife, younger sons calling and waving as the Shirefolk marched to the aid of the King.

 ‘Bucca of the Thorns, at your service,’ he said.

 ‘Rocco of the Ferns, at yours and your family's,’ the stranger hobbit said, and with that, of course, he was stranger no longer. Still he was unusually reserved for a hobbit. He hesitated, then said, ‘Come. There’s no time to waste.’

Bucca bundled up in cloak and muffler, took down his quiver and strung his bow.

Lavender emerged from the bedroom, having settled the babe in Comfrey’s sleepy embrace, in time to help Thorn muffle up. ‘Someone’s ill?’ she said.

 ‘Something like that,’ Thorn answered. ‘I’ll send Bucca back with word if I have to stay over.’ He pulled down the muffler to kiss his wife, snuggled his nose and chin back into the knitted warmth, took up his stout staff and said, ‘Ready.’

 ‘I’ll put another lamp in the window for you,’ Lavender said.

 ‘No,’ Bucca answered, some instinct stirring deep within. ‘As a matter of fact, shutter the windows.’

 ‘Is a storm coming?’ Lavender asked. ‘And here you are, going out in it?’

 ‘A storm may be coming, indeed,’ Thorn said. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’ He forced heartiness into his voice. ‘Fear not, m’love. With my son at my side, naught can oppress me.’ He looked to Bucca and back to his wife. ‘Shutter the windows,’ he affirmed.

 ‘I will,’ Lavender said, moving to the largest window first and taking the watch-lamp away to close the shutters. ‘You take care, and don’t take a chill!’

 ‘We’ll walk so swift that we’ll arrive before the wind knows we’ve gone,’ Thorn said.

The three hobbits eased themselves out through the barely opened door, partly to let as little cold as possible in, and partly—in Bucca’s mind, at least—to let as little light out as possible.

The night was dark, starless, and an icy wind howled over the Marish, sending scurries of snow racing over the hard, frozen crust beneath their feet. ‘Ponies?’ Bucca said, his mouth close to his father’s ear.

Thorn shook his head. ‘Too difficult to go quietly,’ he said. ‘And too hard to go to ground if need be.’

Bucca nodded. He was feeling the same unease. Rocco evidently was proceeding with the same sort of caution; though he lived in another community a good distance away, he’d evidently trusted to his own furry feet and not a pony’s back.

Though they carried no lantern or torch, the icy snow gleamed dully with a light of its own. The River was a wide, dark ribbon to their right, quiet in these months of sleep and cold, but not frozen all the way across. It formed a natural barrier to the Old Forest that brooded some ways back from the far bank, and to the dark things rumoured to be found there.

King’s Men had guarded the Bridge of Stonebows, though as of late they’d been gone. The Shirefolk hadn’t noticed, it being the winter months. No travellers came across the Bridge and onward through the heart of the Shire, on the Road that led to the Sea, not this time of the year, and certainly not with the weather so bitter. Thankfully no wolves had come across the Bridge in the absence of guards; no trouble had come at all, for the Shire was a rich land, and sleepy, and offered no harm to anyone, so why should anyone offer harm to the folk who called the Shire “home”?

The Shirefolk dozed in their comfortable holes and dreamed of Spring’s return, when merchants would come once more: travelling dwarves, or Men with new songs to sing bringing wares to finger and trade. It would be time to plant new crops, to gather fresh greens, to watch the crops grow, until the time to celebrate the firstfruits of harvest.

A time to welcome back far-travellers? Bucca certainly hoped so.

Chapter 6. Thain: Midnight Whispers

Pippin went to bed without protest that night, though his father sent him off earlier than usual, promising an early arising. An early arising did not worry the tween.

He wondered, as he so often had, why parents put their children to bed early and then stayed up talking themselves. He had suspected for a long time that his parents put the little Tooks to bed when they themselves were weary, for Pippin was never sleepy when bedtime was announced. It was frustrating to lie awake, listening to the rise and fall of talk wafting down the corridor from the kitchen.

In his younger years, he’d have crept down to crouch outside the kitchen door, to listen to the talk, to wait for discovery and the inevitable reward—his mother would give him a biscuit or scone, escort him back to his bed, tuck him in firmly and sing softly until her own head began to nod. She’d jerk awake, pat the coverlet, tell her young son to stay abed, and go back to the kitchen where Paladin would pour her a fresh cup of tea and the conversation would recommence until the next interruption. Some evenings Pippin would manage three or even four biscuits before his parents banked the kitchen fire and sought their beds... and then the smial would be dark and quiet, and he’d lie long awake, recounting to himself one of Bilbo’s tales, or planning his next adventure with Merry.

 Now that he was a tween, of course, or nearly so, there were no rewards for interrupting his parents’ conversations; there were only scoldings, and his father’s muttered, “If you are not weary enough to find sleep, I’ll give you extra tasks on the morrow to tire you enough for sleep to catch up to you!” ...which usually meant, of course, that Pimpernel was falling asleep in her dinner, for Pippin so often was able to cajole his soft-hearted sister into taking on his extra load. No more of that for the nonce, it seemed.

He shifted in his bed, cradling his head in his hands with his elbows splayed out to either side on the pillow. He wondered what sort of unpleasant chore his father had thought up for him. Really, it would be nice to be a hobbit of the Great Smials. His father, being descended from the Old Took himself, was highly placed enough that Pippin would be no common labourer. No, his cousins were more likely to be taking lessons in shooting and riding and dancing and proper conduct. There were undoubtedly lessons in reading, writing and ciphering as well—but Pippin’s mother had taught such to himself and his sisters. Paladin insisted that his children should be able to figure and to write in a fair hand. In any event such lessons would be no hardship for Pip, who could write in a fair hand though he had to grit his teeth to do so. He’d rather dash it off and be done with it.

He gave an impatient kick that unsettled the bedcovers that his mother had neatly tucked around him as she put him to bed, as if he were but half a tween’s age... What was wrong with his parents, anyhow? His father expected him to work like a grown hobbit, and his mother cosseted him like a babe. How did all the stories get started, about tweens wandering about the Shire of their own sweet will, visiting relatives and larking about? None of his sisters had exhibited such behaviour, and things didn’t look promising for Pippin, though once or twice he’d heard cousin Frodo urging his father to loosen his fist... he’d wondered at the time, but now things seemed clearer, here in the dark, alone.

No light came from the kitchen; all was dark and quiet. While he’d been cogitating his parents had finished their talking and gone to bed. Pippin turned over, pounded his pillow into submission, pulled up his coverlet and sighed. Why did folk think they needed so much sleep, anyhow? He thought of visits to Buckland. The Brandybucks were so much more sensible, staying up well past Sun’s set, even to having midnight supper. His belly rumbled at the thought.

As quiet as a shadow he rose from his bed, walking on silent hobbit feet to his door to listen. He ought to be able to find something in the pantry, and then perhaps he’d be able to sleep. Hearing double snores from his parents’ room he grinned. It would be no trouble at all... but grin turned to frown as he turned his head to catch a whisper of noise. There, it came again, sharp intake of breath from his sisters’ room. And again, in ragged pattern that he recognised, finally, as weeping.

He turned his face from the pantry, half-inclined to call out to waken his mother, to let her know that Vinca was suffering a nightmare. Something arrested him, however, and he crept instead to his sisters’ room, pausing in the doorway to peer through the shadowy darkness lit only by the turned-down watchlamp.

Vinca was a lump in the bed, curled tight and turned away, but Nell... Pimpernel was sitting up, hugging her knees, her face buried. As Pippin watched, he saw her shudder, heard the catch of breath that was all to be heard of her silent sobbing.

He slipped into the room, sat gingerly beside Pimpernel, and carefully encircled his sister with his arms. She started, looking up and then burying her face once more, shaking her head to entreat him to go.

 ‘What is it, Nell?’ he whispered.

 ‘Go, before you waken Vinca,’ she said brokenly.

 ‘Not until you tell me,’ he said stubbornly. ‘If Vinca wakens, we’ll all be in trouble together.’

 ‘No,’ she murmured into her knees.

 ‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble,’ Pippin began, driven nearly frantic by Nell’s tears. He was ready to promise anything, if he could just make her stop.

 ‘It’s not that,’ Nell said, and she tried to push him away. ‘Go to bed.’ The silver sheen of tears glistened from her cheeks. Pippin picked up a corner of the bedsheet and wiped gently at his sister’s face.

 ‘What is it, then?’ he asked softly. ‘Come, Nell. We’ve always been able to share our secrets.’

He caught bits and pieces of what she murmured, though she’d buried her face once more, and he stiffened, sitting upright in righteous indignation.

 ‘Aloysius Bracegirdle?’ he hissed. ‘Has he been bothering you? Why, I’ll...’

Nell unburied her face to shush him. ‘No,’ she said at last when she’d calmed her brother. ‘It’s not like that! He came to speak to Father, to ask if he might walk out with me.’

 ‘Walk out with you!’ Pippin said. ‘You’re too young for that! Why, that old...’

 ‘I’m old enough to marry,’ Nell said defiantly, but then her shoulders slumped.

 ‘You want to marry that old windbag?’ Pippin said, incredulous.

 ‘Of course not!’ Nell said. ‘But he’s a prosperous farmer, and Da wants to see me comfortably placed. He’s only thinking of my good... but I told him I didn’t want to walk out with anyone at the moment, and he told me to take all the time I needed.’

 ‘Good for you,’ Pippin said stoutly. ‘You ought to have some choice in the matter, to my way of thinking.’ To his mystification, his sister began to weep again.

 ‘What is it, Nell?’ he said in the most persuasive tone he knew.

He patted and stroked her back gently, consoling and cajoling, until finally she whispered a broken, ‘Ferdi...’

 ‘Is that it?’ he said, sitting back in dismay. Thinking through the conversation at supper, he nodded slowly. ‘Of course,’ he said.

 ‘He’s not a lack-wit!’ Nell said into her knees.

 ‘Of course he’s not,’ Pippin said, ‘nor mute, for that matter. Why, I’ve heard him speak, and he made perfect sense. He just hasn’t got much to say is all.’

 ‘You’ve heard him speak?’ Nell said, raising her head to look searchingly into his face.

 ‘Aye, and on more than one occasion,’ Pippin said, nodding for emphasis, and tightening his hold on his sister. ‘He just doesn’t like to talk in front of other hobbits, you see, because he stammers, and he fears they’d tease him.’

 ‘Which they would, those Smials Tooks,’ Nell said, stiff with resentment.

 ‘Nell!’ Pippin remonstrated. ‘Not you, too! Pearl’s a Smials Took now, remember, as is Isum, and they’re as fair-spoken as the day is long in the summertime!’

Vinca stirred and the two whisperers froze. Then Nell’s arms went around Pippin, and she gave him a hug. ‘You almost give me hope, to hear that Ferdi’s mute by choice and not by nature,’ she said. ‘But you’d better take yourself off to bed before Vinca wakens.’ She blinked hard and wiped at her face. ‘Da’s convinced that Ferdi lost his wits the day of the fire and now is of no more use than a dried-up cow.’

 ‘He’s no more witless than I am,’ Pippin declared.

Nell gave him a push, forcing him off the bed. ‘Somehow I don’t find that reassuring,’ she said, but she gave him a watery smile in the semi-darkness.

He flashed her his best grin and took himself off to his own bed, forgetting the lure of the pantry, and this time he dropped off to sleep with no trouble at all.

Chapter 7. Thorn: Cold Light of Dawn

Rocco stopped so suddenly that Bucca walked into him in the darkness. Thorn stopped short in time, out of long instinct, perhaps, or the warning that whispered to him in times of deep silence. All three Hobbits dropped where they stood, breathing together in their huddle, their dark mass no more than any other rock on the snow-swept plain in the dim light before the dawning.

Bucca could just make out the Great Road ahead. No travellers this time of year? Despite the bitter temperatures a steady stream of Big Folk was moving along, some in horse-drawn conveyances, some on foot pulling two-wheeled carts, most walking, or stumbling, bearing burdens.

He felt Rocco stir beneath him and moved to help his father to his feet. The three Hobbits did not stand to their full diminutive height but remained crouching low, however, alarmed by this enormous invasion, this seemingly endless river of humanity crossing into the land granted to the Little Folk by the high king some centuries ago. King Argeleb had charged them to speed his messengers, for true, but this...

Bucca felt a tug at his sleeve and Rocco was leading again, this time parallel to the Road, towards the Great River. Soon what had seemed a snow mound resolved itself into the bulk of a sprawling house, not unlike his parents’ dwelling, round windows shuttered to keep in the light, thick bulging walls to hold in the warm in winter and keep it out in the hot months of summer.

Rocco tapped at the door—two taps, a pause, one tap, and no more (His own door? Bucca wondered) and waited. The door opened the barest crack to admit them to the dark interior, and only after the door closed was the cover taken from a lamp to light the room they’d entered.

Bucca gasped, for the room was well-filled with bodies, though of a size to comfortably hold a number of Little Folk in feasting or talk. Hobbits filled only a part of the space, however, settled on chairs and chests and even on the table or leaning against the walls. A goodly amount of space was taken up by two tall Men, who sat upon the floor near the hearth.

Thorn stepped forward quickly, going to one knee before the Men, pulling Bucca after him. ‘My lord and prince,’ the old healer said respectfully.

The younger of the two Men nodded. ‘Rise, Thorn,’ he said. ‘What news do you have?’

 ‘News, my lord?’ Thorn said, rising in obedience to the command, steadying himself with a hand on Bucca’s shoulder.

 ‘Have you seen my brother?’ the prince of Arthedain said. To healer’s ears the words were slow and slurred, hampered by exhaustion or injury. ‘He said he’d seek you for a guide.’

Guide? Bucca wanted to ask. He saw the same question in his father’s face, but old Thorn merely replied, ‘I have not seen the Lord Aranarth, my prince, nor had word of him, since he came in the falling time, when the leaves were golden, to seek archers for the high king’s service.’ He paused, and dared to ask a question. ‘You have need of a guide?’

The other Man answered, ‘The Road is too vulnerable to attack. I thought to take the king’s sons and their families through the shelter of the woods and into the wild hills beyond.’

Bucca’s mind was reeling; he’d hardly heard what the aide said, past the word “attack”. Part of him wanted to thrust himself out of this room, race back to his home where only mothers and children now waited, and bar the door.

His father was nodding. ‘Indeed,’ he said, and waited.

 ‘Fornost is fallen,’ the prince said. He would have fallen himself, were he not already sitting. As it was, he slumped against his aide.

Thorn sprang forward, bending over as the prince was eased to the floor, his head in the other Man’s lap. He pulled the muffling cloak away from the throat to settle his fingers there, and nodded reassurance. ‘A swoon,’ he said. ‘Water!’

A basin of water was brought, and he pushed aside the dark hair to bathe the young lord’s face with a dampened cloth while the aide watched. It was not long before the eyelids fluttered open once more, eyes dull with pain and weariness.

 ‘Berenarth? What orders?’ the aide hissed. ‘We cannot stay.’

 ‘Go out again?’ Thorn said, standing to his full height to look the Man in the eye. ‘He’s in no condition...’

 ‘We dare not stay,’ the aide said. ‘We will bring danger down on your heads, death...’

 ‘They are in deadly peril in any event, old friend,’ Berenarth said, his grey eyes gaining focus. ‘They must seek shelter of their own, lest they be slaughtered in their byres and barns while peacefully going about their business.’ He struggled upright, and the other Man helped him to regain his sitting position.

 ‘Slaughtered?’ Bucca said impulsively. Thorn took his arm in warning, but he shook his father’s grip away. ‘Slaughtered? What of the King? What of his army?’

Berenarth shook his head. ‘So far as I know, they fight still upon the North Downs,’ he said. ‘My father took the greater part of the army to draw the Witch-king away from Fornost, to gain the people time to escape. Even so, his forces came down upon the city in the midst of the evacuation, and the fight was bitter to save what we could of our families, of the people...’

 ‘My son,’ the words were wrung from Thorn, though he knew the protocol. Part of the agreement giving Hobbits the Shire had been to acknowledge the high king as lord. One spoke to the king or his sons when spoken to, or when given leave to speak. Thankfully the high king and his sons came seldom to this part of the realm, for the free-and-easy Hobbits had no such rules amongst themselves—though as a rule they were shy in the face of Big folk—and only the chieftains had the presence of mind to treat with their lord in the appropriate manner. ‘My people—the archers who fight for the king; do they return with you now?’

 ‘They fight on the North Downs,’ the aide said quietly, ‘with the King.’

Thorn bowed his head, but raised it again to say, ‘And when will they return? Will they follow you?’

 ‘The King will try to follow if he can,’ Berenarth said. ‘We are to seek the land of Lindon and the harbours there. If Gondor sails to our aid as promised, her ships might even now be tied up, her soldiers debarking. With our people safely in Lindon we can return with the forces of Gondor, to drive the Witch-king from our lands once more.’

Thorn and Bucca exchanged glances. The Shire, it seemed was caught between the two opposing forces. Berenarth’s warning of slaughter rang true.

Thorn stood forth, turning to address the hobbits who crowded the room. ‘Rouse the Shire!’ he said. ‘There is no time to lose! Tell them to take as much as they can, for what they leave they’ll not see again... but seek the safety of the woods and wild hills!’

 ‘Empty the storeholes if you can,’ Bucca added. ‘Somehow I think we’ll not be planting new crops this spring. Take as much food as can be managed, and find places to hide it in the wilds. We’ll be eating acorn-meal and wild mushrooms as it is, before this is over.’

Rocco stationed himself by the door, assigning each departing hobbit to a community or clan to be warned. They would spread the warning far and wide in the eastern part of the Shire, to the north and south of the Great Road. He paused and raised his voice to ask the Thorn, ‘And what of the folk who live By-the-water? And in Michel Delving, on the way to the Far Downs?’

 ‘They’re on the Road, or near,’ Thorn said. ‘They’ll have their warning soon enough. The Marish is most vulnerable now, broad and open and closest to the River.’ He looked to the prince. ‘We have kept our part of the bargain, my lord. We have kept the Bridge of Stonebows and all the roads in good repair.’

 ‘You have indeed,’ Berenarth said wryly. ‘One would hope for many such loyal subjects in a more peaceful time. Your well-kept roads will speed our retreat, but they will offer no hindrance to the enemy.’

 ‘We could throw down the Bridge,’ the aide said urgently, but the prince shook his head.

 ‘No time,’ he said. ‘The Bridge is well built and has stood as long as the towers of Annuminas, longer, indeed. We will speed the people on their way, as quickly as may be, and station a body of defenders on this side. At least we can hold off a superior force for some time; the Witch-king’s forces will have to cross by Bridge or barge, and the ice will make boats a tricky proposition.’ His hand tightened on his aide’s arm. ‘Go now, give the orders. I will be rested and ready to go on when you return.’

 ‘You wanted a guide, my lord?’ Thorn said.

 ‘Yes,’ Berenarth said, settling back and accepting the cup that one of the hobbits had poured for him. His hand dwarfed the tiny vessel, and he drank the contents in a single gulp, wiping his mouth and nodding thanks as the cup was filled again. ‘My family is hidden in the byre, amongst the hay, lest disaster come upon us suddenly. We need someone to guide us through the woods and wild hills, towards the Towers on the far hills facing the Sea.’

 ‘Bucca,’ Thorn said, turning to his son.

 ‘I can take them as far as the Towers,’ Bucca said. ‘That’s as far as Tokka and I went, in our wanderings.’ They’d never have gone that far; most Hobbits wouldn’t, had it not been for one twin’s curiosity when the other tween would have turned homewards. Which twin? Well, they’d been bold by turns. It was only when they’d caught sight of the great Sea shining beyond the Tower Hills that good sense had won out and they’d both agreed that it was time to turn their faces back towards home and hearth again.

 ‘My thanks,’ Berenarth said. ‘Perhaps we could stop at your farm, to see if my brother has come.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Bucca said, but he was thinking of Comfrey, and Lavender, and Primrose, and the children. Tokka’s sons, and his own...

Chapter 8. Before the Break of Day

For all his difficulty getting to sleep at bedtime, Pippin was wondrous hard to rouse in the mornings. Paladin solved this problem on this particular morning by tipping his son out of the bed onto the floor. As the near-tween lay blinking up at him, the farmer said with a cheer he didn’t feel, ‘No time like the morning time! ‘Tis halfway to dawn already, sleepyhead! Up you come!’

Mother and sisters were not yet in evidence in the kitchen, and Paladin directed his son to start the morning fire, fetch water, and put the kettle on. Pippin did so, wondering if this was part of the promised reform. Thus far it didn’t seem so onerous, and he could always steal away for a nap later.

Tea was already brewing and early breakfast was on the table when Eglantine emerged. Her eyes were reddened and her face puffy in the lantern light. Pippin didn’t give it a second thought; he was never up before his mother. People usually didn’t look their best upon arising. Many was the time he’d awakened Merry with a pounce and laughed at his cousin’s pillow-creased countenance.

Pippin’s sisters were surprised to see him washed, dressed, and at table on their arrival, but of course no one commented. They ate their bread-and-butter and talked quietly, washing away sleepiness with cups of strong tea. Eglantine said very little.

At last Paladin put down his teacup and stretched. ‘Well, Pip-my-lad,’ he said, ‘drink up! ‘Tis time for us to take our leave.’

 ‘Where are you going?’ Pervinca said. ‘Can’t I come too?’ She bristled at the thought of her little brother ducking his chores once again.

 ‘Nay, lass,’ Paladin said. ‘Your mother needs your cheery help here, and your brother has other fish to fry. Give him a hug, now, for he’ll be gone awhile.’

 ‘Gone?’ Nell whispered, looking from father to mother and back again.

 ‘I’ve found a hobbit to take him on, teach him some useful skills,’ Paladin said.

 ‘You’ve apprenticed Pip?’ Pervinca said in surprise. It was not unheard of, for a farmer to apprentice a younger son or two, to learn new skills, but Pippin was his father’s only son. Of course, his father had hired hobbits to do the heavy work, and Pippin hardly pulled his share, but still...

Pippin’s mouth was open but no sounds came out. His head was spinning at this sudden, unannounced turn of events. He’d been apprenticed? His father was sending him away?

Eglantine rose from her chair and threw her arms about her son, murmuring something inaudible into his curls. She turned abruptly and took up a sack. ‘Here you are,’ she said.

Pippin automatically looked inside, finding his spare set of clothes there, neatly mended, clean and folded. ‘I...’ he said.

Pimpernel saved him the trouble of finding words with her hug, and she was followed by Pervinca, who was weeping.

 ‘It’s not as if he’s going to Sea,’ Paladin said with forced cheer. ‘Your brother will be back like a bad penny, don’t you know.’ He nodded to Pippin. ‘Come, lad,’ he said. ‘Your new master’s waiting.’

Old master was more like it, Pippin thought, when he met the hobbit. He and his parents had mounted ponies and ridden through the Green Hill country for some ways, up hill and down, following winding tracks and splashing through shallow streams in the valley until they reached a little hole in the side of one of the great hills.

Lamplight shone from the one round window, and the tang of wood smoke was in the air. Paladin knocked upon the little round door and it swung open to reveal an elderly hobbit mum, wispy curls drawn into a neat bun, wrinkled face wreathed in smiles. ‘Well come, Farmer Took!’ she said. ‘Missus Took! You’re just in time for breakfast!’

Pippin raised his nose to sniff at the promise coming from the smial, but instead of ushering them in, the old hobbit said, ‘Half a moment!’ and ducked back in through the door, leaving them standing on the doorstep. She came out again with a covered basket on her arm, beckoning them to follow her, chattering all the way.

 ‘He’s in from the fields, knowing you were coming,’ she said. ‘Thought it better if you didn’t have to go in search all over the Green Hill country.’

 ‘Very kind, I’m sure,’ Paladin said.

Round the corner of the hill they came to an enclosure with stony walls of shoulder height. A hobbit sat in the doorway, flanked by two dogs, and a murmur of sheep came from inside the enclosure.

 ‘Breakfast!’ the old hobbit matron carolled. The sitting hobbit rose to his feet, nodding in greeting.

 ‘Shepherd Brockbank,’ Paladin said with a bow. ‘This is my son, Peregrin.’

The sharp old eyes, set deep in the wrinkles of the weathered face, examined Pippin briefly before turning back to the farmer. ‘A bit small for his age,’ he said. ‘But wiry. I imagine he’s strong enough.’

Pippin flushed at this open appraisal, as if he were no more than a pony at market.

 ‘No harm meant,’ the old hobbit said, turning back to him with the hint of a smile.

Paladin’s nudge recalled his son to his manners. ‘Peregrin Took, at your service and your family’s,’ Pippin said automatically, adding a bow.

 ‘Aye, that be the truth,’ the old shepherd said with a nod, before turning back to the farmer. ‘Gladdy’s got hot breakfast ready, I’m certain, and more than enough if you’d wish to join her before riding back home,’ he said. 'Youngster and I'll eat here, of course.' He nodded to the basket on his wife's arm, and Pippin's face fell.

 ‘If you’ve the time, ‘twould be a kindness,’ the old hobbit matron said. ‘Though I’ll warn you, I might chew your ear off! Don’t get much chance to talk, living quiet here as we do!’

 ‘You all have a good chat,’ the shepherd said. ‘Lad and I’ll be fine here.’

Eglantine sniffed and hugged her son once more. ‘Be well,’ she said.

 ‘But...’ Pippin protested.

 ‘Work hard, do well,’ Paladin said. ‘We’ll fetch you back for your birthday.’

 ‘Birthday!’ Pippin said in dismay. Why, that was weeks off—near mid-summer! He was going to be exiled to this lonely place, without friends or diversion, with these hobbits he’d never met, until his birthday!

 ‘I’ll let you know then if I wish to take him on,’ the shepherd said. He measured Pippin with another look. ‘Seven years is the usual agreement.’

 Seven years! Pippin thought. His father was sending him away for seven years... for no more than having done mischief! He swallowed hard. Seven years was the usual term of apprenticeship, he knew, but he had no desire to spend his tween years following a flock of sheep! He and Merry had been laying plans for traipsing about the Shire, visiting Frodo and other relations, seeing what they could see before settling down to the responsibilities of adulthood...

But adulthood had come to him, it seemed. His father had sold him to a shepherd. He was an apprentice... or would be, so it sounded, after his twentieth birthday.

His life was over before it had begun.

Chapter 9. Thorn: Leaving Home and Comfort Behind

The byre was dark and shadowy and so quiet that Bucca could hear the swish of the cow’s tail and shudder of a plough pony shaking off sleep. ‘Hullo!’ he called softly. ‘I am here to guide you!’

He heard a movement in the hay, just the slightest movement. It might have been a cat after a rat, but knowing what he knew, he rather doubted it.

 ‘There is no time to waste,’ he hissed. ‘They are coming!’

It is not Thulion, he heard, no more than an exhalation in the hay. Stay.

More rustling in the haypile, and a soldier emerged warily, sword at the ready. Behind him came a woman, blinking in the light of the shrouded lantern. She was plainly dressed, and her clothes had been neat and well-kept before they’d acquired the look of hard travel. The hair that showed from under its covering was silvering and her face had the softness of age and gentle living.

 'I told you stay,' the soldier grunted, though he'd lowered his sword on seeing Bucca. 

The woman examined Bucca from head to toe and nodded to herself. ‘It is one of the Little Folk,’ she called softly over her shoulder. The rustling increased, and several more women emerged, each bearing a small child, and older children clustered about their feet. Bucca was to shepherd this flock through the woods and wild hills, ahead of a slaughtering force?

One of the women stepped a little in front of the others. ‘Berenarth,’ she said. ‘Where is my husband?’

Bucca bowed before her. ‘He is in the smial, my lady,’ he said. ‘The healer is binding up his wounds, and soon he will join us.’ He thought to himself that the prince belonged, instead, in a bed, but if the prince and his aide were to be believed, soon all beds in the Marish would burn. The only safety was to hide in the wilds and hope to escape the notice of the Men passing through.

 ‘Gather your bundles,’ the older woman said, and the others did so, not that they had much to carry. It seemed they had escaped the City with the clothes they were wearing and little else.

 ‘Come along,’ Bucca said. ‘Dawn is at hand. We must move as swiftly as we may.’

The two older women in the group, servants from their dress yet the others obeyed them meekly, marshalled their forces and emerged from the byre just as a family of hobbits entered, carrying hastily-assembled bundles. They shied away from the Big Folk and ducked into the byre, where the farmer could be heard issuing orders to his sons to load the bundles on plough pony and cow. Younger sons opened the pens containing pigs, goats, wing-clipped ducks and chickens and shooed the animals out of their shelters and into the cold.

Before Berenarth came out of the smial, leaning on Thulion his aide and flanked by the Thorn and Rocco, the hobbit farmer and his family were already leading the pack-bearing animals from the byre. One plough pony remained, and Rocco swiftly moved to bridle him and lead him out of the byre.

 ‘Get on,’ Thorn said to the prince.

Berenarth tried to straighten in defiance, but pain marked his face and his hand pressed against his side. ‘The littlest ones ought to ride,’ he hissed.

 ‘Get on,’ Thorn repeated. ‘You’ll only slow us down if you try to walk, and we cannot carry you if your strength should fail.’

 ‘Get on,’ the other Man said flatly, and he and the unnamed soldier helped Berenarth onto the pony’s back.

The hobbits might have laughed in other circumstances. The prince certainly looked ridiculous, his legs hanging nearly to the ground.

 ‘He will hardly carry me,’ he gritted as the women clustered round the pony.

 ‘He’s sturdy,’ Thorn said. ‘Pulls a plough in better times.’ He looked up and around at the Big Folk surrounding them and gave a nod. ‘Come along.’

Thulion was giving swift instructions to the soldier, who had sheathed his sword, his face grim but determined. At last the aide fell silent, and the soldier bowed before the prince. 'We will hold the Bridge to the last man, my lord,' he said.

Berenarth nodded. 'I know you will, my faithful guardsman,' he said. 'I shall see you again beyond the Seas, and lift a cup to you and your men.'

 'I pray you'll lift a cup here,' Thulion said, 'rather than There. In any event we must make haste.' The soldier bowed once more, turned, and began to jog towards the Road and the Bridge beyond.

Though it had dawned, the day was sullen and grey, heavy clouds threatening and a bite to the air. They caught a glimpse of the Great Road, still choked with refugees, before turning southwards, towards Stock and the road leading into The Yale, and the Woody End.

The Yale was quite a bustling little community of woodcutters set in the midst of a glade, for the trees of the Woody End marched farther than in later years. In point of fact, Shire-folk had not penetrated even half-way into the forest, but had settled around the edges of the wild country, in places like The Yale and Woodhall, Pincup and By-the-Water. Tuckborough and the Great Smials and the road that went all the way through the forest between Tuckborough and Stock were yet centuries in the future, and the father of the Tooks had fallen upon the North Downs.

 ‘We’ll be fine,’ Thorn told his son. ‘You run ahead and get everyone ready to travel.’

Bucca thought of his week-old son, and at the look on his face, Thorn patted his shoulder gently. ‘We’ll wrap the little ones well,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ll stand a better chance hiding in the woods where swords are less likely to find them.’

Bucca swallowed hard and nodded. His father had the truth of it, and saw clearly what they must do. It was why he was Thorn, leader of the Fallohides in the Marish, and why other Fallohides and even Stoors and Harfoots came to him for advice. He took a deep breath to set himself for the task ahead. His father would lead the family into hiding, and he would lead these Outlanders... and would he ever see his family again?

 ‘We’ll be ready to go by the time you reach the farm,’ he promised. ‘Stockbrook? Or Stock Road?’

His father squinted an eye at the sky. ‘ ‘Twill begin to snow again soon,’ he said. ‘Those clouds are too heavy to bear their burdens much farther. We’ll chance the road, at least until we reach the Yale, warn the hobbits there. Once in the wood it would be best to leave the road. No need to ease the task of pursuers.’

 ‘How will I find you?’ Bucca said, thinking too far ahead for comfort. He’d guide his charges to the Towers and return to the Woody End, and then...?

His father slapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘There is a tree,’ he said. ‘It is perhaps a quarter mile into the forest from The Yale. I’ll tell you how to find it, as we walk the road to The Yale. We’ll leave a watcher there, to watch for your return.’

Bucca nodded, reassured. Somehow knowing how to find his family on his return was all he needed to gather courage for the journey. ‘Right, then,’ he said, and with a quick bow to Berenarth he was on his way, running ahead over the snow to roust his family from their comfort and cast them into the snowy wild.

Chapter 10. Thain: The Sheep of His Pasture

 ‘Nae then, laddie,’ the old shepherd said, nodding to a grassy spot nearby. ‘Sit thasel’ doon an’ we’ll hae a bite afore the mams and wee lambies stir theirsel’s.’

 He’d abandoned the carefully articulated speech he’d used with Pippin’s father, and at the lad’s quizzical look he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Tis the way of a shepherd, laddie,’ he said. ‘Tha’ll soon learn to talk fit an’ proper, that yon'r sheep can understand thee.’

Pippin nodded, and accepted the still-warm fruit pockets and deep-fried sausage-wrapped hard-cooked eggs the shepherd offered, tearing off a goodly chunk of fragrant bread to round out the meal. As they ate, the shepherd pointed out various personalities amongst his charges. That one, there, was a wanderer born. Had to keep a sharp eye on her or she’d be off, finding her own way, leading her lamb astray with her. No sense, that one. And that young rascal over there, then... Now see t’other one over there, aye, with the crooked ear, she was a rare combination of good mother and good milker.

 ‘Good mother and good milker?’ Pippin said. He was trying to take it all in, even as he noticed that one of the dogs had crept close enough to rest a pleading nose upon his knee. He broke off a piece of sausaged egg and offered it tentatively, and the treat was delicately accepted.

It seemed the ewe was especially valuable. She bore twins every year and took great care of her babes, such that they required no supplemental feeding or fostering. In addition, her twins when ready for market were fully as large as the singles that other ewes bore, for her plentiful milk grew them quickly in strength and size.

 ‘And this’n,’ the old shepherd said, as a ewe came over to sniff at their breakfast and present her back for a good scratching. ‘She’s an auld love, she is.’

Pippin reached out to touch the soft wool. His father’s sheep shied away from casual touch, but this old ewe tolerated him, even leaned into his tentative hand.

The dogs were getting edgy, and the old shepherd chuckled. ‘Best tuck into breakfast afore they begin to nip at our heels,’ he said. ‘It’s past time for going, and they know it all too well.’

Pippin wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, sharing the last bit with his new friend.

 ‘Let’s move’m out!’ the old shepherd called, and the dogs moved purposefully into the fold. A great noise set up, mothers baaing for their lambs, little lambs bleating, and suddenly the sheep were in motion, streaming through the opening and into the field beyond, where they started to scatter, only to be bunched together by the dogs, working in concert and without direction from the old shepherd, who was folding up the rest of the food in a cloth and tucking it into a sack that he handed to Pippin. ‘Earn tha keep,’ he said.

Pippin shouldered the sack and the two hobbits followed the stately procession. ‘You don’t even whistle the dogs?’ he said.

 ‘They ken verra weel our way,’ the old shepherd said, and Pippin nodded. He was growing more used to the old-fashioned speech, and no longer had to think twice before answering.

They walked, and they walked, following the lead ewe with her tinkling bell. The sun rose in the sky behind them, and fleecy clouds scattered in the sky-pasture as the flock reached the lush grassy meadow that was their destination this day.

It was not an arduous day, but it was a hungry one for the tween. Old shepherds do not seem to need to eat as much as growing hobbits, and bread-and-cheese at nooning was about all Pippin received... no second breakfast, no elevenses, no tea, and as the sun was hovering over the western horizon, preparing to seek her pillow, the shepherd arose from the hillside and began to traipse away from the direction they had come from.

 ‘What?’ Pippin said, hurrying to catch him up, thoughts of supper foremost in his mind.

Shepherd Brockbank pointed ahead, where a hill bulked black against the sunset sky. ‘What?’ Pippin asked again, but the old hobbit just whistled, a cheery sound, and the dogs worked the sheep into a compact grouping which began to move into the valley between the two nearer western hills.

 ‘Come ‘long, laddie,’ the old shepherd said, and breaking into a jog he moved quickly to the fore, coming after a goodly hike to a sheepfold built of the native stone to about head-high on a hobbit. He opened the gate in good time for the bell-tinkling lead ewe to enter, and as she went through with her lamb at her side, two more sheep following, he chanted, ‘Aen, Taen, Tethera, Fethera...’ When he reached twenty, he picked up a small rock from the ground. Without stopping the count, he handed the rock to Pippin and nodded significantly.

Catching on at once, Pippin picked up a rock each time a score had been counted into the fold, until six rocks were in his hand.

 ‘Six score?’ the old shepherd said.

 ‘Aye,’ Pippin returned.

 ‘That’s fine then,’ the shepherd said. ‘Good day’s work, and supper’s waiting.’ He closed the gate and turned to the hill behind them, pushing open a creaking door and lighting a lamp just within. The light sprang up on a rude shelter, rough table, two benches, three beds against the walls.

Under the shepherd’s direction, the tween built a fire and fetched water from a spring trickling from the hillside, while the shepherd sliced smoked meat hanging from the ceiling beams and set it frying, and cut generous wedges from a large wheel of cheese on a deep, cool shelf. He took the bucket of water Pippin brought, opened a bag of flour, made a “well” in the flour, poured water directly in, and began to work leavening and salt into the flour and water until he was kneading a loaf. Pippin watched in astonishment: no mixing bowls, no kneading on the table, just a flat loaf neatly formed right in the flour sack and set on the stones to bake.

Muttering cheerily to himself the shepherd emptied the bag at his belt: fresh greens he’d gathered whilst the sheep were browsing.

It was a simple meal, but satisfying, and Pippin ate until he was full and sleepy. He found himself nodding off when, with a nudge, the old shepherd set him to washing up the simple implements while he went out to see to the sheep once more, and to feed the dogs.

When he returned, Pippin had finished washing up and putting away, and had banked the fire. The old hobbit nodded satisfaction and gestured to one of the rough beds with its sheepskin coverlets.

Pippin tumbled into the bed, not noticing if it was soft and yielding or hard as wool-covered sticks, and was asleep before he could pull the sheepskin up to his chin. No matter, for the old shepherd made sure the tween was well-covered before he turned down the lamp and sought his own bed.

Pippin’s last sleepy thought was that the life of a shepherd, if that was to be his lot, didn’t seem to be such a difficult proposition after all.

***

Thanks to Lindornea for sharing her knowledge of sheep and shepherding.

Chapter 11. Thorn: Out of the Fold

By the time the Big Folk reached the farm, Bucca’s family were ready to go. The hobbit mums had stuffed themselves and their little ones inside all the clothes they owned, topping all off with wrappings of mufflers until the small hobbits resembled woollen bundles with feet sticking out.

Bucca had loaded all but one of the plough ponies with sacks of provisions and was saddling the last.

 ‘Walking never hurt a body,’ Primrose was protesting.

 ‘Just about ready,’ he said, paying her no mind.

Lavender put in, ‘Of course not, my dear, but the snow is deep in places, and there’s enough ice about that you might take a nasty fall, and that would do the babe no good. Tokka would insist upon your riding, and Comfrey, holding the littlest in your arms!’

 ‘And you, Mum?’ Primrose challenged as Bucca boosted her onto the patient pony’s back.

The old hobbit mum smiled. ‘Walking’s good for me,’ she said mildly. ‘Thorn is always trying to get me out of my chair and onto my feet. I suspect all this has been arranged for my benefit.’

 ‘Just to get you walking!’ Comfrey gasped, and then she threw her arms about her mother-in-love for a fierce hug, though she was careful of the infant bound to her by a length of sturdy fabric.

 ‘Up you go,’ Bucca said as he took his wife’s elbow, working at keeping a calm and matter-of-fact tone. She transferred the embrace to him, and he returned it as fiercely, while he asked Whomever might be listening (The Lady?) to watch over those he loved. When he released her, he gently parted the fabric that wrapped his son, to lay a benediction upon the tiny brow. ‘Grace go with you,’ he said, looking up from his son’s peaceful countenance to meet Comfrey’s stricken expression.

 ‘But you’ll walk with us, to The Yale,’ Comfrey whispered, her eyes wide.

 ‘At least a part of the way,’ Bucca said, ‘But there’ll be no time for fare-thee-well when we reach there; we’ll shout our warnings and seek the safety of the trees.’ Unless disaster comes upon us sooner, he thought bleakly. He wondered just how long the Guardsmen would be able to hold the Bridge. Thank all that was good that the River was not frozen all the way across!

He boosted her up behind Primrose, his hands lingering a moment in the folds of her woollen wrap, as if he could memorise the warmth of her. 

 Thorn! his mother cried, and Bucca released Comfrey and stepped back, forcing a smile. Lavender waved vigorously at the approaching travellers, and then handed Bucca a tiny hobbit, which he handed up to Primrose.

They were able to settle two little ones in Primrose’s arms, and another between Prim and Comfrey. The pony turned his head to look back in mild astonishment at these proceedings, and Bucca gave him a pat and an apple from his pocket. ‘Carry them to safety,’ he whispered, and the furry ear twitched.

The Big Folk were pale despite the exercise of tramping through the snow, Bucca saw as they approached, and his father’s habitual smile was missing.

 ‘Do you wish to rest a little? Warm up in the smial?’ Bucca said. ‘We put some cider over the fire to warm before we started packing up.’

 ‘We’ll take the cider with us,’ Thorn said. ‘If you’ll pour it out quickly. And then douse the fire, for all the good it does. Likely they’ll burn it all anyhow, whether we leave them the gift of fire or not.’

Bucca stared at his father’s bitter tone, but Thorn only shook his head. Taking his son’s arm, he turned toward the smial. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘We must make haste.’

The two plainly dressed women ducked into the smial after the hobbits, plucking mugs from their hooks and piling them onto a tray, while the aide took the kettle from its hook and bore it, steaming, out to the yard. It was a matter of moments to scoop the mugs full of the hot, spicy beverage.

Lavender turned back to the smial for a last look, and Thorn eased an arm around her waist.

 ‘It was a good home,’ she said. ‘Many’s the joy we knew therein over the years.’

 ‘Home is where your treasure is,’ Thorn replied with a squeeze.

His wife smiled, blinked away her tears, and accepted with murmured thanks the brimming mug of hot cider held out to her by one of the serving women.

Thorn raised his mug high, saying in a clear voice, ‘I bid you Wes hael, my lord, and all your kin with you, and swear that when this evil is past we shall drink it again in your halls, or mine.’

Wes hael! The Big Folk echoed, and all drank as they turned from the smial and began to move towards the dark woods. A sifting of snow began to fall, and Bucca heard his father mutter a plea under his breath, to the Lady if she still watched over them, for the snow to lay a heavy blanket upon the land.

The going was not so difficult here, for they walked the lane to the road. No need to flounder in the drifts. Whichever way they chose, they’d leave a clear trail, unless the snow came fast and heavy; and soon would be a good thing, it seemed from the urgency of the Big Folk and the Thorn.

 ‘What is it? What happened?’ he whispered, pulling Thorn a little to the side.

 ‘As we were leaving a great cry arose behind,’ Thorn said very low. ‘We saw nothing, of course, for we’d passed out of sight of the Bridge, but there were terrible shrieks and screams. I fear the forces of Angmar arrived and have slaughtered all who had not yet crossed to safety. We hurried, and the sounds died slowly as we put the Bridge behind. At the last we heard, faintly, the cries of Men and the clashing of arms. I do not know how long the King’s Men can hold the Bridge.’

And so they walked, at the best pace the hobbits could manage, on the road into the rapidly emptying community of Stock. When they reached Stock, they found the main street jammed with laden hobbits and laden beasts, and pandemonium reigned: mothers shouted to their young ones, fathers called orders; many holding bows seemed to be taking leave of their families.

A way opened through the crowd when the good folk of Stock caught sight of the Big Folk. Hobbits shied away from the travellers, pushing back against the press. A small group of hobbits moved against the tide, reaching Thorn and the Outsiders at last. Bucca recognised the chieftain of the Marish Harfoots at their head.

 ‘Greetings, Thorn! Terrible news!’ the Harfoot said. ‘We’re sending folk into the woods, to whatever safety is to be found there, and I’m putting archers on the rooftops to rain arrows down upon any unwelcome visitors.’

 ‘They’re not likely to come away with their lives,’ Thorn warned, and the Harfoot nodded grimly.

 ‘So much I gathered,’ he said. ‘A messenger arrived, exhausted and out of breath, to report that women and babes were being slaughtered on the far side of the River. I don’t imagine any greater mercy for our folk.’

 ‘Douse all fires,’ Thorn said. ‘Likely they’ll burn all, but let’s not do them any favours.’

 ‘Already given the order,’ the Harfoot said, ‘and sent word on to Yale, and By-the-Water.’ Greatly daring, he looked to Berenarth on the pony. ‘My liege?’ he said, and bowed hastily.

 ‘Son of the King,’ Thorn corrected. ‘Lord Berenarth, if I might present Hamwise o’ Stock, chief of the Harfoots here in the Marish.’

 ‘Master Hamwise,’ Berenarth said wearily.

 ‘At your service,’ Hamwise answered with another bow. ‘Perhaps another time we might lift a pint together, but for the moment I think you ought to be on your way, m’lord.’ He turned away, calling orders, and pushed his way into the crowd.

 ‘This way!’ Bucca called, pulling at the plough pony bearing his greatest treasure.

They moved through the crowd onto the road to The Yale. The crowd thinned rapidly as they made their way out of Stock. Not many hobbits were taking to the road, guessing rightly that pursuit along that route would be swift and deadly. They’d seek the shelter of the trees, travelling as deep into the woods as they could before going to ground, or climbing high into the trees, secreting themselves in forks, and nests of squirrels and dens of foxes and badgers, and any hollow or hiding place they might find.

As they walked, Thorn told his son of the tree where he’d leave word. A great tree it was; two, rather, twins growing from the same great stump, twining together until they separated in their quest to reach the heavens above. ‘Follow the stream that runs through The Yale,’ he said, ‘about a quarter of a mile, and you’ll see the tree.’

 ‘I’ll find it,’ Bucca said. ‘I’ll find you.’

 ‘I have every confidence,’ Thorn said. ‘But I think we’ll leave the road here, and not travel all the way to Yale.’

Bucca followed his gaze, back through the dimming woods towards Stock. The Sun had sought her bed in the West as the heavy clouds began to shed their burden of snow. Flakes had been falling thickly as they paced along the road, but the storm had let up for the moment.

At first it seemed as if the Sun were rising again, to paint the eastern sky with brightness, but then Bucca realised that what he saw was the burning of Stock.

 ‘They’ll be coming,’ he said.

 ‘We’ll leave the road here,’ Thorn said. ‘Hamwise sent a messenger to The Yale, and so they don’t need our warning, even were it not too late. I don’t want to be caught out in the open.’ He stopped, threw his arms around his son. ‘Grace go with you,’ he said.

 ‘And with you,’ Bucca choked. When Thorn released him, he stumbled to the pony bearing the son of the King and took a rein in his hand. Looking up, he said, ‘We leave the road here.’

 Berenarth lifted his drooping head. ‘Lead on,’ he whispered, and then his eyes closed once more and he slumped against the aide who walked beside him.

Bucca craned for a last sight of Comfrey, disappearing into the woods directly south, and then he was alone with only Big Folk for companions. He felt small and inadequate for the task, but he squared his shoulders and raised his head, projecting a confidence he did not feel.

 ‘This way,’ he said boldly. They followed.

Chapter 12. Thain: Scattered Sheep

The days, green and glowing, melted slowly, one into another, a stately procession rather like the sheep they followed from high pasture to low. Pippin grew to love the music of the moving flock: the old ewe with her tinkling bell, the calls of mothers and their lambs, each beast with an individual voice that he came to know, the whistles of the old shepherd and the songs he’d hum as they walked along.

When they reached the pasture for that day, they’d seat themselves upon a hillside with a good view and watch the sheep scatter to their grazing. It was a time for thinking, or quiet talk, or making music. The old shepherd often took a wooden flute from his pack and played a tune that floated soft and sweet on the breeze, while the lad lay back and drowsed.

The dogs would recline nearby, reluctant but dutiful, watching the sheep with severe concentration, ever ready to jump into action at a word or gesture from the old hobbit. Their joy, of course, was to work the sheep, but they knew better than to pursue pleasure without orders. That way lay the indignity of being tethered by a rope to the shepherd’s side, or even left behind when the flock went a-journey, awaiting more sessions of patient training until they were trustworthy to fulfil their duty once more.

The shepherd showed Pippin how to carve a flute of his own, and then he taught the lad to play. The sweet wild music carried on the wind sometimes to the ears of farmers in the field, or a lonely traveller on a winding track through the Green Hills, bringing the old tales of faerie folk to mind.

The days of sun were pleasant, the days of mist not quite so, and the days of pelting rain only to be endured, huddled in a cloak of oiled wool. Sheep must graze, no matter the weather, as the old shepherd told Pippin, hauling him out of bed the first day that a hard driving rain pelted the little round window of their shelter. They ate a hot and hearty breakfast that morning, but did not delay in going from the snug warm to the cold wet. Pippin learned to greet a rainy day with “The grass be greenin’,” to which the proper answer was invariably, “Aye, may it grow e'er greener!”

The dogs worked as they ever did, even with their feathery coats plastered to their wiry bodies. They seemed to take no notice of the rain save to fold their ears back against their heads, giving even more evil appearance to their usual wolfish crouch.

 ‘They look as if they’d sooner grip than drive,’ Pippin said, huddling deeper in his cloak, hood pulled as far over his face as he could manage. He stamped his feet a bit to keep the blood going round and thought of the warm shelter they’d left and the cold shelter that awaited them ahead; cold, at least, until the fire he’d kindle took the chill off.

 ‘Nae, laddie,’ the old shepherd said with a smile. He stood stoically, not seeming to notice the wet and chill. He might have been a gnarled old tree, planted on the hillside. ‘It’s just to get the auld mams’ attention, as need be.’

Pippin snorted and shook his head, thinking about the lessons he’d learned. Sheep paid attention, all right, contrary creatures that they were. If you moved towards the head of a sheep, the dratted thing would move away from you, and you if you moved towards the hindquarters it would move towards you! It was opposite Pippin’s instinct of the rightness of things, and it irritated him no end. He was learning the shepherd’s patience, however, and no longer saw the sheep as being deliberately obstructive. The more he knew of their ways in general, and of the individuals in particular, the better he could manage them. He mastered his temper as well, having learned to use an even tone with the dogs, never to react in anger or frustration, partly by the old shepherd’s example and partly from explicit instruction, in long talks upon a green hillside.

He knew he was making progress when, at the satisfactory completion of a task, he received a muttered “That’ll do” from the old shepherd, just as if he were one of the dogs!

He learned the whistles to direct the dogs, how to bunch the sheep or to shed just the few desired, how to gather the scattered, how to recover stragglers, the likely places (and unlikely) to hunt for strays. He became expert at finding hidey-holes and hollows and all the places a wanderer might go. He watched a few late lambings, and helped with one that would have gone badly otherwise. He learned the paths and pastures, the shelters and sheepfolds, the routes that brought them every seven to ten days to the little smial where Gladdy would greet them with a song and a simple feast.

Pippin wasn’t sure how many times they’d returned to the little smial on their journeys, perhaps the eighth or ninth, when the old shepherd sat back from the table with a satisfied sigh. He’d finished recounting to Gladdy the adventures of the past week, and now he winked at Pippin whilst observing that the lad was “a keeper, i’ truth!”

Pippin beamed, while old Gladdy hopped up to serve him another slice of berry tart in celebration.

The old shepherd tamped his pipe and got it going to his satisfaction, then leaned back and casually mentioned that he’d go on to market next day, to fetch supplies.

 ‘We’re not going out?’ Pippin asked, but Gladdy shook her head with a smile.

It seemed that Pippin had learned his lessons well enough to take the sheep out on his own for a day or three. The old shepherd would meet up with him “ha’ the way”. He’d have the dogs, of course, to keep him straight.

 ‘O aye,’ Gladdy said wisely. ‘The dogs could likely take yon sheep all by theirselves, could they but work the gates on the folds.’ She and her husband laughed heartily while Pippin returned an uncertain grin. He was to take the flock out, all by himself! It seemed easy enough... what could go wrong?

He was up early next morning. There was no trouble rousing him these days. Going to bed with the sun, rising early, walking to the next pasture, plenty of fresh air and plain food, all made for sound sleep and easy wakening.

Gladdy had a hot breakfast ready and a sack full of lunch hanging by the door. The old shepherd had already gone, for it was a long walk to market, pulling a rough cart behind him. He’d risen halfway between middle night and dawn to make an early start.

Pippin felt a thrill of excitement as he walked out of the smial and the dogs fell in on either side, eager to begin the day. The sheep were singing their morning song, and he called out a cheery greeting as he unlatched the gate. The Sun was rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looked to be smiling on the day as the white woolly river frothed from the fold.

The sheep knew the way, and it was hardly any work at all to walk alongside in the swinging, ground-eating stride that came so naturally now. Mid-morning they reached the pasture, and Pippin perched on the usual vantage point on the hill, ordering the dogs into their down-stay as the sheep scattered over the green.

It was rather dull on his own, he found. The dogs pricked their ears politely when he spoke, but their intent gaze never left the sheep. Indeed, he had the feeling that they were only half-listening to him, and would only hear him clearly if he commanded them to go to work.

He sang a few songs, played his flute, ate the meal packed in his bag, filled his waterskin from a spring that trickled out of the hillside, and as the day warmed he rested his feet in the icy stream cascading down: deliciously shivery! A shining stone caught his eye and he reached into the sparkling water to pluck it from its bed. He put it in his pocket to show Gladdy on his return to the smial. She had no sons living to bring her trinkets and treasures, and was touched whenever Pippin picked up somewhat or other and brought it to her, even if it was something with a tendency to jump, a green frog or brown hopper.

He yawned widely. There were hours to go before it would be time to pick up and proceed to the next fold and shelter. He wondered if the old shepherd would meet him there, or if he would be alone this night. He lay back upon the hillside, folding his arms behind his head, watching puffs of fleecy cloud scatter in the sky-pasture above. One of the dogs sat up abruptly, and he turned an eye on the pasture. All was as it should be, and he ordered her back to her down-stay, well-pleased when she obeyed.

He sighed. Ah, but this was the life. Warm sun, soft music of sheep and bell and stream, cooling water on his feet...

He sat up suddenly, his shadow grown incomprehensibly long in the short time since he’d closed his eyes to feel the sun on his face. He realised he’d dozed, and been wakened by the whining of the dogs. They were still there, in their down-stay, but clearly uneasy.

The sun hung low in the sky, and not a sheep was in sight on the pleasant meadow below.

Chapter 13. Guiding the Flock

They walked through the night, stopping only long enough to shift burdens; at times a serving woman would give her bundle to a Mistress and lift a child to her back, and some time later they would trade burdens. The aide walked alongside the pony bearing the son of the king, and Berenarth leaned upon him at times, but neither spoke.

Bucca bore a flickering torch to guide those who followed him, though he didn’t need to see to know where he was going. Some built-in sense of direction told him, without help from moon or stars, that they were heading more-or-less directly into the West.

As they travelled away from the River, the country climbed slowly, a long, gradual rise. To the north lay farmlands on either side of the great Road, cleared and ploughed and ready for the kiss of spring sunshine, sleeping under a blanket of snow.

Bucca wondered how long the soldiers of the King had held the Bridge, and if even now death was sweeping across the well-ordered land, racing down the Road on foam-flecked horses, swinging sharp blades at any living thing they found, firing villages and farmers’ homes and byres and haystacks, sowing ruin and reaping destruction, staining the serene snow-blanket with crimson horror. He could only hope that Hamwise’s warnings had not been too late in arriving. In his mind’s eye he saw families of hobbits hurrying across the snowy fields with hastily-packed bundles, seeking refuge in the woods. He hoped that the soldiers of Angmar would not follow and search the woods for his charges.

With the dawning he’d called a halt, finding a thicket of thorns, showing the Big Folk how to burrow under the snow, wiggle their way on their bellies into the midst of the briars, huddling together for warmth. Though scratched and bleeding, they were sheltered, out of the wind, and out of sight. A thick covering of snow lay over the top of the brambles, a roof of sorts, and as the snow continued to fall it would blot out the trail they’d left.

Bucca went on some ways with the pony, tying the beast securely before going to ground himself a little distance away in an abandoned hollow in a snow-covered log. He’d left strict instructions that the Big Folk were not to stir from their hiding until he came for them at dusk or after. He wrapped himself in his cloak, chewed a strip of dried meat, took a few swallows from his wineskin, and slept.

He wakened before the Sun sought her bed, listening to the winter silence in the forest. No wind stirred the branches, and all the forest creatures seemed to be in hiding. He heard no rumour of Men, and at dusk he emerged from the log, collected the pony, and went back to gather up his flock for another night’s journey.

So they travelled, night after night, under star-filled sky, peeping through the bare branches, or gentle snow that sifted peacefully down upon them. The land continued to rise, slowly, until they reached the first of the great hills in the area that one day would be named Green Hill country. Someday these hills would be crowned with grass, fine grazing for sheep, and the valleys would be filled with farms, with only occasional copses of trees, but now the forest marched unbroken over the ever-growing heights, all the way to where the cliffs of the Far Downs demarcated the edge of the land given Hobbits by a long-dead king.

Bucca was grateful for the cover the forest provided. Had they escaped over the open plain, the forces of Angmar likely would have overtaken them by now. Surely the Witch King sought the sons of Arvedui. Without doubt his Men had orders to search every body, look into every face, making sure the line of kings was ended.

Sometimes Berenarth’s eldest son would pace alongside the hobbit. Any hobbit lad would have chattered away, but this boy walked in grim silence, eyes haunted by what he’d seen as Fornost fell. Berenarth himself weakened as his fever grew, and before they reached the Far Downs they had to bind him to keep him on the pony, and gag him to stifle his ravings as they travelled.

After days of travel, Bucca lay on his belly, wriggling forward through the snow to the cliff edge, to look out over the plain. Thulion, Berenarth’s aide, lay beside him. The Man pointed to the shadowy hills on the horizon. ‘Tower Hills,’ he said.

 ‘And beyond them, the Sea,’ Bucca said. ‘And then what? You’ll sail away on ships, beyond Angmar’s reach?’

 ‘We will ask aid of Cirdan,’ Thulion said, shrugging deeper into his cloak. ‘At the very least the sons of the King will find refuge in Lindon, until Gondor comes. The Elves are no friends of Angmar.’

Gondor. A vast land, far to the South, teeming with Men. Bucca tried to imagine it, and couldn’t. He’d never seen more than a score of Men together at any one time. Men came into the Shire, certainly, travelling the King’s Road, or peddling their wares, or singing songs or telling tales in exchange for food and a place to sleep. They never came in great numbers, for the King had given the Shire, from River to Far Downs, to the Shire-folk, and Men, though they might traverse its span, were not allowed to settle.

They were nearly to cliff’s edge, and then they must discover how to descend safely. The Road ran through a cleft in the cliff and steeply down, but how safe was that way? Did the soldiers of Angmar hold the plain against them, waiting to slay refugees coming through the Shire?

Bucca wriggled forward, sliding over the snow. His fingers found purchase in some icy rocks, and he pulled himself cautiously to the edge of the cliff and looked over. He gasped and ducked his head quickly.

 ‘What is it?’ Thulion hissed, pulling himself quickly to the edge and peering over. He swore under his breath.

Two armies were spread out upon the plain. The aide read the banners. ‘Our Men,’ he said, ‘are holding the line. But Angmar is greater; she must have poured half her hoards onto the plain.’

Bucca nodded, sick at the thought of all those Men crossing his homeland, and the destruction that must have been wrought as war swept over the Shire. He hoped that most of the Shire-folk had fled into hiding, rather than being crushed beneath advancing Angmar.

 ‘How will we get down?’ he whispered.

 ‘We’ll crawl, like insects, after darkness falls,’ Thulion said, ‘But you needn’t test your mettle, Bucca. We’ll leave you and the pony here, with thanks for your aid, and hopes to return with a suitable reward someday.’

 ‘No reward is needed,’ Bucca muttered. He’d only done what any hobbit would do, pressed by circumstance, driven by need and duty.

The aide continued, ‘I’ll tie my lord onto my back, to free my hands for climbing. The ladies can climb with the babes tied to them, and the older children have done enough climbing for sport that they’ll manage.’

Bucca shuddered. He couldn’t imagine climbing for “sport”, though he’d heard a wandering tale-teller spin a yarn about his little son climbing a tree just to see what he could see.

 ‘How then, through the enemy line?’ he whispered.

 ‘The stream,’ Thulion breathed, and the hobbit nodded. Icy cold yet warmer than the winter air, it essayed steaming from the downs, flowing across the plain, right through the two armies. From their vantage point he could see the soldiers of Arthedain guarding the streambed, but those of Angmar seemed to disdain the watercourse. Guards walked along the top of the banks, but none were in the stream itself. If they didn’t freeze in the water, the Big People could all but submerge themselves and slip past, letting the current carry them to safety.

 ‘I’ll watch you down,’ he said, ‘and return to our last hiding, to wait out the day, if for some reason you should need me further.’ He’d begin the long journey back to the Marish when darkness fell again, after he saw Thulion and his charges safely across the plain.

Thulion shuddered. ‘One dip in the stream is about all I’d care to take,’ he said, but then he placed a warm hand on Bucca’s shoulder. ‘I thank you,’ he said, ‘and I’ll keep it in mind, in case the King has need to send a message to the Shire-folk.’

Bucca turned to stare at the plain once more. ‘The King is there?’ he whispered, as his eyes searched the banners. Tokka!

 ‘He rode to the North on swift horses,’ Thulion said, ‘intending to swing southwards again as soon as he might. If he was pursued northwards and never came to Lindon, his sons were to take word to Cirdan, to send a ship for him.’

 ‘I don’t see his banner,’ Bucca said.

 ‘Banners fall with their bearers, even as the King rides on,’ Thulion said. ‘It is possible that there was not time for another to jump down from his saddle and take it up again. An army in retreat does not necessarily pay heed to the niceties of rank and order.’ A great number of banners, tokens of lords and knights of Arnor, were missing from the massed ranks spread over the plain.

The aide did not believe that the King would fall. Arvedui, strong and wise, having resisted Angmar to the end, would rise from the ashes of Fornost and reclaim his own. Thulion had saved one of the sons of the King. He could only hope the others had escaped as well. But even if Aranarth, the heir, was lost, the line would continue with Berenarth, or the son of Berenarth. Thulion rested his head on his forearm for a long moment. He was so close to bringing his injured lord, and Berenarth’s family, to relative safety. Even if the army of Arthedain were driven back across the plain, across the Lune itself, Lindon and Cirdan shone before his eyes, beacons of shelter.

 ‘Thulion?’ the hobbit whispered.

 ‘I will keep watch here,’ the aide said at last, raising his head once more. ‘You go back and tell the others to get what rest they may. Though they be chilled to the bone in the stream, when night next comes, they will again know the warmth of a watch fire when we reach the King.’

Chapter 14. Thain: Through the High Waters

Pippin stared about him, his thoughts building in panic much as the threatening clouds in the sky-pasture above reared ever higher. The fleecy cloud-lambs had disappeared, sucked into the maws of monstrous thunderheads, building ever higher in the late-afternoon heavens, crowned with fire as the Sun ducked beneath them on her way to the horizon.

There was a low rumble of thunder, rolling through the Green Hills, making the ground tremble underfoot at the last, and this galvanised the lad to motion. The old shepherd had taught him what creatures of habit sheep were. ‘Likely to take themselves off to the fold without us, if we don’t pay heed,’ he recited, and with a sharp word to the dogs he was off at a run towards the distant fold.

He ran, and he ran, until a stitch took him in the side and he had to pause, bent over, leaning heavily on his shepherd’s cane for support, kneading at his ribs with an impatient hand as he gasped for breath. Stubbornly he resumed walking, while the dogs ranged ahead, looking back to urge him onwards. At last the bothersome stitch was reduced to the point that he could ignore it, and he broke into a jog once more.

Rain began to fall ere he reached that day’s resting place, but he heard the rumour of sheep before he crested a hill to see the flock, standing in a large, uncertain clump outside the fold. He stopped, breathing heavily, and whistled the dogs into action. Joyously they leapt down the hill, bunching the stragglers, as Pippin followed. He moved to the gate, opened it, and began to count as the sheep streamed in.

Six score there were, and more, but not enough. Not the whole of the flock by any means, since nine lambs had been born since Pippin’s arrival to swell the numbers. Worse yet, the most valuable ewe was missing with her twin lambs. Good mother and good milker echoed in Pippin’s dismayed head. The “auld love” was missing as well, Pippin’s personal favourite amongst the sheep. She was due to lamb any day now, and out in wind and storm, prey to stray dogs or other dangers that meant death to a defenceless sheep...

He set the dogs to guard the gateway whilst he rapidly hauled buckets of feed from the storehole into the fold, and buckets of water to fill the drinking troughs. His father would have been astonished to see him moving about his chores so quickly; but when Pippin finished here, his greater task was yet to be begun. Closing the gate, making sure it latched securely, he ducked into the shelter to light a lantern, called the dogs to his side and jogged back over and around the great hills, back to the pasture, as the wind plucked at his cloak and the rain began to bucket down.

Pippin put his head down and slogged through the dimming day. The Sun had disappeared in the storm, though she still lent her light to the land, struggling, watery light threatening to drown in the deluge. The waters would be rising in the bottomland, where the sheep liked to stray, to graze on the rich grass found there. There were boggy areas to be found there as well, which is why the shepherd chose his pastureland carefully. While Pippin had slept, the strays most likely had sought the bottom of the valley near the stream, the good grazing, the copses of trees, the thickets. Any about to drop a lamb might well find herself a sheltered hidey-hole, and Pippin knew that stormy weather such as this was likely lambing time. He’d check the bottomland first, to make sure no stray was stranded, and then he’d search the thickets.

The storm winds pushed him along, and it was a good thing he bore a lantern rather than a torch, for even that sheltered flame flickered and fought for life. He didn’t need the lantern, having the rain-washed daylight to go by, but if he were still out searching after dark the lantern might be handy, and it was of a clever design such that he could hang it on his belt should he need free hands. He ducked as lightning crowned the hilltops around him, but kept going determinedly.

Reaching the grazing valley, he stared through the pounding rain. The stream here split itself, forming a small island, a hump of green in the centre surrounded by an ankle-deep trickle most of the warm months of the year. Now the water was coming up rapidly, as he’d feared, threatening to inundate the small island, and just his luck: he could see a few small woolly puffs on the rapidly disappearing green.

He charged down the hillside to the edge of the fast-moving stream. The trickle had become a torrent, rushing by with a loud and boisterous roaring song. He hesitated but for a moment, just long enough to place the lantern atop a flat rock well above the waterline, before plunging in. The current nearly swept him from his feet, but by shuffling along, not lifting his feet from the flooded ground, he was able to make his way, even as the waters rose above his knees, to his waist... He used the long crook to steady himself, pushing it into the mud on his downstream side.

The dogs swam against the current, heads high, splashing with their feet as the stream tried to wash them away, but they fought with the fierce determination characteristic of their kind, to reach the sheep they saw ahead. As it was, one of the dogs reached the island first, pulling herself onto the land and shaking with vigour. Pippin was next; he shook as well, more with relief than anything else. It was a good thing Merry had spent all those lazy summer days teaching him how to swim, ducking him under the surface, playing and splashing and helping Pippin learn to use the water, to regard it with respect but not fear.

Just as he got his breath the other dog managed to reach the island, racing to his side and showering Pippin with more water as he shook it from his coat, staring up at the young shepherd with tongue hanging ridiculous out one side of the panting mouth as if to say, That was great fun! Shall we have another go?

The ewe—it was the valuable mother-and-milker—would be reluctant to enter the fast-moving water. She’d be more likely to make the attempt with the encouragement of seeing her lambs on the other side, Pippin decided. The little ones were old enough that they wouldn’t try to enter the flood in a mindless attempt to return to their mother. He caught up the nearest and turned into the water, with the mother following him to the edge and ba-ahing her distress in a deep, worried voice, and the other twin added its thin bleating.

 ‘Come along!’ Pippin shouted, shouldering the lamb as best he could and forging deeper. ‘Come along!’

The dogs elected to stay on the island, seeing their only chance for herding standing there in the form of the distressed ewe and her remaining twin. They couldn’t herd a lamb on hobbit’s shoulder, after all!

Pippin reached firm ground and set the lamb down, turning back into the flood. Aen, as a shepherd would count. One lamb was safe.

Taen, he chanted at the end of the next round-trip, though it was not as easy in the doing as it was in the later telling. He was exhausted from fighting the current and the water had risen above his waist... even the hobbit-sized sheep the Shire-folk used would be hard-pressed to cross the water at this point. A sheep could swim, true, but they feared fast currents, and Pippin had his doubts about getting the ewe into the water, even with two lambs now bleating on the shore. She’d have little choice but to swim, soon enough, the way the island was disappearing in the rising waters... Better to direct the swim than to have her swept from her feet and drowned in panic.

The ewe’s attention was on her lambs as she stood at water’s edge calling to them. It shouldn’t be too hard to get her into the water... but push as he might, Pippin could not budge the stubborn creature. He pursed his lips to give a piercing command and the dogs leapt joyously into the fray. A sharp nip was enough to startle the ewe into the water, and Pippin grabbed at her wool to pull her along.

Eyes wide, she fought him, resisting the pull as she realised the water grew ever deeper before them.

 ‘Ye’ll have to go deeper afore you climb out,’ Pippin grunted, maintaining his steady pull. With her sharp hoofs she could at least dig her feet into the mud beneath the waters, keeping them both from being swept away, but of course once she started to swim he’d have to rely on his staff to anchor them. Even so, they might travel some ways downstream before being able to climb out again.

The ewe slowed and stopped. Another few steps and she’d be swimming, and the fast waters terrified her. Pippin shouted and pulled, the dogs jumped in and nipped, were carried downstream, struggled against the current to return and harry the sheep again, and still she stood firm.

 ‘Come along!’ Pippin yelled with a mighty tug, and she moved! But seconds later he realised to his horror that she moved only to surrender, folding up her legs underneath her and lying down, the water closing over her head. She feared quick death less than the struggle to cross the swift-moving waters, and so she had chosen.

Pippin thrust his staff into the mud as far as it would go and ducked under the water himself, striving to lift the ewe though she weighed as much as he did, or more. He got both arms under her and heaved, trying to roll her over, to push her up, to get her onto her feet once more, but his plans went further awry as her weight shifted, pinning him underwater!

***

Thanks to Marye for giving permission to use her true story about the old ewe and the flood!

Chapter 15. Thorn: Dark Waters

One of the serving women, called by the others only "Nana", reached into her clothing to remove a hidden flask. ‘Just a sip each,’ she warned, passing it to  Berenarth’s wife. Emeldwyn nodded slowly. Unwrapping the babe she bore, she tipped the flask to wet her finger, and then she rubbed the liquid on the baby’s gums. The babe’s eyes widened and the little one sucked greedily at his mother's finger.

 ‘There’s a love,’ she said softly. ‘Time to sleep.’ She watched until the little eyelids began to droop, and then wrapped the infant once more, binding the babe firmly to her body to leave her hands free. She poured a tiny amount into the cup that served as the top of the flask, holding it to a toddler’s mouth. The child gave a soft exclamation of delight and asked for more in a lisping voice, but the mother shook her head with a smile, saying, ‘You’ve had your share. Let’s bundle you warm, now, for it’s time to sleep.’

The older children did not protest that they’d been sleeping all day, for they knew what would follow as soon as the little ones were dosed to sleep, gagged against crying out in their dreams, and securely bound to the women’s fronts and backs.

While these preparations were being made, Bucca tied cloth over the pony’s hoofs, that no sound might betray them amongst the rocks atop the cliff overlooking the plain.

Thulion coaxed a dose of the sleeping draught into Berenarth, gently tied a gag in place, and lifted his lord onto the pony’s back. Bucca moved to the pony’s head, with Berenarth’s eldest beside him. ‘My lord Berethor,’ the hobbit whispered. ‘I wish you all safe journey.’

 ‘And swift return,’ the lad said grimly, sounding much older than his ten years. ‘They’ll pay. Mark my words.’

Bucca nodded slowly. Vengeance was foreign to a hobbit heart, but he was sick at the thought of death and ruin spilling across the peaceful Shire, and before that, the slaughter of innocent babes and their mothers and sisters, not to mention the faithful guardsmen who fought to the last man to protect them.

In silence beneath a thin slivered Moon they walked from the edge of the wood to a place where jumbled boulders marked the descent Thulion had chosen.

Thulion lifted Berenarth from the pony and knelt upon the ground near the edge of the cliff while Bucca steadied the son of the King behind him. The aide had tied Berenarth’s hands together; now he slipped his lord’s arms over his head, pulling the limp body against his back. Young Berethor wound strips of dark cloth around the torsos of both Men until his father was securely bound to the aide.

With Bucca and Berethor guiding him, Thulion crawled to the edge of the cliff, easing his legs, and Berenarth’s, into space. Bucca held tight though the thought of the drop below made his head swim, until the aide had gained a foothold. At Thulion’s nod, Bucca released his hold, and the Man began the slow descent to the plain.

Watchfires were scattered like two jewelled lines the length of the plain, as far as Bucca could see. The snow glowed eerily in the thin moonlight; the canvases that sheltered sleeping soldiers were pools of shadow. The stream meandered, cold and steaming, through the two opposing armies that might have been frozen in time.

Though heavily burdened, Thulion made the descent silently. When he was well down, the children began. Bucca watched in horrified fascination as one by one, these little ones—not even as tall as a hobbit, most of them—moved down the side of the cliff as if they had feet like the ants he’d watched as a child, that could climb up or down a sheer surface without slip or fall.

Next the women began, grimly silent but determined. The children had scampered down the rock face by comparison. Each woman had a small child bound to her front and another bound to her back, hampering her in climbing though none protested or balked. The two serving women with silvering hair were slow and careful in their movements, though they bore their years with fortitude.

The last woman to descend was the first Bucca had seen in the byre as this nightmare had begun, the woman who’d emerged behind the wary guardsman though he’d told her to stay. Bucca still remembered the exasperated but knowing look on the Man’s face. He’d evidently known her well. It came as a shock to see an echo of the soldier in her face now, as the moonlight stripped years from her countenance. A kinsman, he’d obviously been, perhaps even a son. Dead now, of course, holding the Bridge against the forces of Angmar to the last.

She eased her lower limbs over the cliff and paused, leaning on the edge to stare into the crouching hobbit’s eyes. ‘Bless you,’ she whispered. ‘You brought us through. We’ll never forget.’

 ‘My lady,’ he whispered in return, to be answered by a wry twist of the woman’s mouth. Evidently it was the wrong thing to call her, but Bucca knew little of the niceties of Men’s society. Before he could beg her pardon, however, she reached to cup his face in her hand.

 ‘Bless you,’ she repeated. ‘May you be led safe back to your family, and may they be preserved from harm as they await you.’ In the next moment she was gone, making her way slowly down the cliffside.

Bucca dared to lean over the side, clutching at the rocks to either side until his hands ached from the strain, to follow the small black shadows that slipped along the base of the cliff towards the stream. He heard nothing, not a splash or overloud gasp or little one's cry as each shadow slipped into the black water and disappeared. Still he watched until he grew stiff with cold and the moon began to set in the Western sky. Halfway to dawning, he thought. What would the dawn bring?

There was no stir in the enemy camp, no sign of the passing of the little band of refugees at all. He wondered if they’d frozen and drowned, carried to the Lune and then to the Sea. At least they’d be beyond the reach of Angmar.

He scooted back from the cliff’s edge until he could turn and crawl to where the hobbled pony waited. He removed the hobbles and silently slipped once more into the forest. He travelled perhaps a mile before finding a thicket suitable to conceal the pony, and crawling into a hollow nearby, ducking under thorny bramble bushes, he pulled his cloak over his head and gave himself up to sleep.

A/N: Chapter edited: Bucca withdraws from cliff's edge at midnight rather than dawn. 

Chapter 16. Thain: To Higher Ground

No beckoning watchlamp burned in the small round window, promising refuge from the dark and storm when the old shepherd reached the shelter.

Perhaps the lad had forgotten to put the lamp in the window... but when he threw open the door, he was greeted by cold silence and darkness. The sheep were in the fold; he’d looked therein first thing upon arriving, noting with satisfaction that they’d been fed and watered. He didn’t count them, for young Pippin knew very well that he ought to count them as he put them in for the night, and the lad had learned to be conscientious in that duty.

But the shelter was dark and cold, and lad and dogs were gone. No sense traipsing about in the wind and rain; no telling where Pippin had gone, undoubtedly seeking a stray. Best to start the fire and get supper underway, a nice hot meal to greet the lad, though it was closer to dawn than suppertime. Pippin’s cloak, dripping wet, hung by the cold fireplace.

The old shepherd sparked the fire and soon had a kettle of stew on the hook and bread kneaded and set to rise. While waiting for supper to cook, he went out again, moving supplies from cart to storehole. He’d made his way back from market around the circle of shelters; this, the first in this week’s sequence of pastures was his last stop. Next week he’d make it the last stop and drag the cart homewards on their last day... actually, the lad would drag it homewards, and glad to make himself so useful if the old shepherd’s lessons had born any fruit.

In any event, all the shelters along the grazing path were now fully stocked. It had been a good day and night of effort, and the sheep hadn’t lost a day of grazing while he was away.

When the storehole was full the old shepherd carried a few sacks into the shelter, to fill the little larder, and by the time all was stowed to his satisfaction the bread was risen and ready to bake, and Pippin’s cloak was steaming nicely. It ought to be dry by morning, though the heavy oiled wool was as saturated as if the lad had taken a bath wearing it. It ought to have shed the rain... No doubt Pippin was soaked to the skin, and the heavy water-filled cloak was more of a liability than a help, but the shepherd still frowned at the thought of the lad out in the storm, unprotected.

The old shepherd put the loaves on and gave the stew a stir, trying not to worry about the lad. When morning light came he’d leave the sheep in the fold and backtrack to the pasture where Pippin ought to have been that day, to look for sign of the lad and the dogs, though in this downpour it was doubtful he’d find any. Resolutely he pushed such thoughts away. No use borrowing trouble.

The loaves were golden and steaming on the rough wooden table when a thump, as of a kick, perhaps, came at the door. The old shepherd threw back the door with a glad cry. Pippin stood holding a newborn lamb.

 ‘Tha’s half-drowned,’ the shepherd observed, urging the lad into the shelter. ‘Fine weather for fish!’ He took the lamb from Pippin and laid it close to the fire, rubbing the little creature with rough sacking.

 ‘Whose?’ he said, eyes on his task.

Pippin stood dumbly before the fire, and the old hobbit looked up to see him holding out his hands as if to scoop the warmth to himself. The lad was wet through and shivering violently.

The old shepherd wrapped the lamb securely and left it to warm, then pulled another piece of sacking from the shelf. He stripped away the lad’s sopping clothes and began to rub the deathly-cold skin with the sacking to stimulate the circulation, much as if Pippin had been a lamb, and indeed, meek as a lamb the lad stood, staring into the fire without a word, swaying on his feet, shivering exhaustion all too evident, too done in to do much for himself. When the lad was dry and glowing, the old hobbit sat him down on a sheepskin before the fire, wrapping more skins around him, and then he fetched a mug of tea, lifting it to Pippin’s lips when the lad didn’t seem quite able to get his fingers round the mug.

At last the lad had recovered enough of his senses to speak. ‘Thankee,’ he said faintly.

The old shepherd nodded. ‘Whose lamb?’ he asked again.

 ‘Auld love’s,’ the lad murmured. He could scarcely form the words, and his eyelids were closing of themselves.

 ‘All accounted for?’

 ‘Aye. She was the last. Hid in a nice sheltered thicket to have her lamb, but caught her wool on the brambles and couldn’t get free,’ Pippin said almost inaudibly.

The old hobbit managed to get some bread and stew into the lad, and then he tucked him up right there by the fire.

The little ewe-lamb had warmed nicely and the shepherd carried her out to the fold, to reunite her with her worried mam. The “auld love” nuzzled her wee babe all over and then the little one settled to nurse, her fuzzy tail signalling her content.

 ‘All’s well with the world, eh lassie?’ the shepherd said approvingly. He watched a moment longer before leaving the fold. Checking the dogs’ shelter, he found them curled together, already asleep. The tip of one tail stirred as he stroked a sopping head, but neither wakened to his soft words, and so he left the sleeping dogs to lie, just as the old hobbit proverb advises.

The wind was dying as he stepped into the shelter. He banked the fire, looked the lad over a last time, and rolled himself in his bedding to grab a few winks before the dawning.

In the morning over breakfast Pippin confessed his neglect of the previous day, falling asleep, following the flock to the fold, counting the sheep and coming up short.

 ‘And so tha went back,’ the old shepherd observed. ‘Who?’

 ‘The auld love,’ Pippin said, ‘and the cock-eared ewe and her twins.’

The old shepherd nodded. The favourite and the most valuable; poor luck for the lad’s first time out alone, and he said so.

 ‘Tweren’t luck,’ Pippin said shortly, not meeting his eyes. ‘I fell asleep, fool of a Took!’ The last words were spoken low, in a bitter tone, and the old hobbit had a feeling he was hearing an echo of some other voice.

 ‘Fool wouldn’t have sought ‘em,’ he said calmly, refilling the lad’s mug with hot, strong tea. He liked it strong and black—in his early days he’d milked a ewe for his use in tea and porridge, but it really wasn’t worth the bother. Pippin had learned to drink his tea the same way, and the old hobbit nodded approval as the lad sipped without seeming to notice the lack of sweetening or milk. Spoilt, the lad had been, when the old shepherd had taken him on, but he was coming along nicely.

 ‘Auld love was in a thicket,’ he said, ‘and t’other?’

 ‘She’d crossed the stream to the little rise in the centre,’ Pippin said, ‘her lambs followed her, and when the storm broke the water came up fast.’

 ‘Aye,’ the old shepherd said. He sat back and lit his pipe, concentrating on getting it going just so. ‘How’d ye get her out, then?’

 ‘Took one lamb acrost, and then t’other,’ Pippin said. ‘I thought, if she saw her little ones, she’d be more likely to cross the water.’

 ‘How high?’ the old shepherd asked. Pippin’s hand hovered about his waist and the old shepherd's eyebrows rose.

 ‘And coming up fast,’ Pippin said. ‘Someone’d spilled the bucket.’

 ‘So I noticed,’ the old shepherd said. Dragging the cart along the grassy track had not been pleasant in the downpour, but thankfully it had not been all that far from the second shelter to the first.

 ‘I got her in,’ Pippin said, and then he swallowed hard. ‘No I didn’t,’ he corrected himself, for he wouldn’t take credit for a deed not his own. ‘The dogs got her in,’ he amended. ‘I walked alongside, on her downstream side to steady her, but when she got to the middle, she just... lay down!’

The old shepherd nodded. ‘Give up on thee, did she?’ he said. ‘They get to be so affrighted, they freeze and there’s no thawing them.’ He pulled on his pipe. ‘So what did tha then?’ he asked.

 ‘I tried to pry her up,’ Pippin said. ‘I nudged her with my foot, but she wouldn’t move. Her head was under water! She’d drown! The dogs were swimming around us, harrying her, but she lay like a lump! I dove down under to try to lift her, and the current rolled her atop me...’ He was breathing raggedly, his shadowed eyes staring in fearful recollection.

There was a long pause, and the old shepherd finally said, ‘And then?’ When the lad didn’t answer, he laid a gentle hand on Pippin’s arm. ‘Tha drowned not, or I’d be breaking the fast wi’ a gast, I would,’ he said quietly. ‘Then, what?’

Pippin’s head began to shake, ever so slightly, and after another long pause his eyes met the old shepherd’s. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t get her up, couldn’t get free, all was rushing and darkness and no air for the breathing...’

 ‘Tha drowned not,’ the old shepherd repeated, holding the lad’s gaze firmly. At last Pippin nodded.

 ‘Next I knew I was on the bank,’ Pippin said, ‘Tuck licking my face and Nip whining,’ he said. ‘The ewe was fussing over the lambs, safe on the high ground.’ His hands left his mug to rub at his face. ‘I was drowning,’ he said. ‘And then I wasn’t. That’s all I know.’

The old shepherd nodded. Had there been a lone traveller passing through the meadow, who’d seen Pippin’s predicament, he’d surely have stayed on to succour the lad. It was a mystery... Slowly he said, ‘There’s things in this world that’re beyond our ken, laddie. P’rhaps twasn’t thy time yet. P’rhaps there’s more for thee to be doin’ with thy life.’

Pippin shook his head, bewildered. ‘I don’t understand,’ he admitted.

The old shepherd moved his hand from the lad’s arm to his shoulder. ‘Th’art young, yet,’ he said. He patted the shoulder. ‘Th’art a brawe bonny lad, Peregrin Took, and I’d be that glad to call thee a son of ma own! Th’art a keeper, i’ truth!’

A tentative smile touched the lad’s face, and he blinked away sudden moisture that seemed to surprise him by its advent. ‘But I fell asleep,’ he said.

 ‘Think tha that th’art the only shepherd, ever falsely soothed to sleep?’ the old hobbit said, and chuckled. He clapped the shoulder one more time. ‘Coom nae, laddie,’ he said. ‘For ‘tis past time we be taking our charges out to the day’s feast!’

Chapter 17. Thorn: As Cold as Death

Alive without breath, as cold as death;
Never thirsting, ever drinking;
Clad in mail, never clinking;
Drowns...

It was nearly too irritating to bear, to go to his death with a children’s riddle spinning through his fading thoughts. All sensation was gone, even the icy grip of the gently moving stream. He wasn’t sure if he breathed air or water... an odd notion, breathing water. Perhaps he breathed not at all.

He thought his eyes were open, for he remembered seeing the torches not far from the stream as they'd passed through the enemy encampment, letting the current pull them along. His mail, of course, would have carried him to the bottom, so that he had to keep walking, struggling to keep his head above the water and Berenarth’s as well, but his legs grew ever heavier and now he really did not know if he still walked or if he lay at the bottom of the stream, pulled down by his mail. Alive without breath, as cold as death...

The women with their slumbering burdens had floated ahead, caught by the current, carried along, and so had the older children. Berenarth’s son had tried to stay with his father and Thulion, but the cold had taken him at last; he’d lost his footing and in the final view the aide had seen of the lad, by the fading light of the enemies’ torches, he’d been floating face-down in the stream. Asleep at last, borne to the Lune and on to the Sea, for ever beyond the Witch King’s grasp... Drowns...

When the pain began in his extremities he welcomed it at first, proof that he still had extremities; that he had a body that could feel pain meant he was not yet dead. As the pain grew in intensity he tried to clench his teeth, that he might not betray his lord with a sound, though the chattering made him think his teeth might shatter as fits of violet shivering seized him. At last he was able to make out sounds through the roaring in his ears. When had the roaring replaced the silence? He did not know.

Thulion. Do you hear me? Thulion?

There was something important that he could not quite remember. If only the shaking would stop... He became aware of furnace heat surrounding him, though after a time this resolved into warm bodies pressing close. He opened his eyes, squinting against the light of a shaded lantern, and turned his head to the side, meeting the eyes of a soldier, inches away. He realised then, as warm skin pressed against his skin on both sides, that he was wrapped together with others who braved his deathly-cold to share their living warmth. He pushed against the constricting blankets as a voice said, ‘He’s wakening.’

Wakening, he meant to say, but the word came out in a series of shudders. W-w-w-w-- 

I’m awake! he wanted to shout.

 ‘Sit him up,’ the voice said. ‘Captain Thulion, I have a warming drink for you. Swallow this down, now.’

The bodies on either side of him eased into a sitting position, propping him between them, and a mug was held to his lips. He sipped, then swallowed eagerly, feeling the warmth moving down into his frozen innards. He was nearly able to get a word out, halfway through the mugful. B-b-b-b-b--

 ‘Don’t try to talk, Captain,’ the voice said, and Thulion tried to focus on the speaker.

Fair was the face, fairer than any Man’s, and the eyes youthful and ageless at the same time. The lips smiled as recognition came into Thulion’s eyes, and the Elf nodded. ‘I am sent from Cirdan,’ he said. ‘A messenger reached us, telling of your plight. We are readying boats to take your people across the Lune to safety in Lindon. Angmar dares not cross the water; there is a power in the Lune and in the land he has not the strength to face... at least, not yet.’

 ‘B-b-berenarth,’ he managed, succoured by the warmth of the drink and the slow warming of his body. ‘Aranarth? Ciryarth? Ciryanor?’ Sons of the King. ‘Arvedui?’

 ‘Rest now,’ the Elf said, motioning to Thulion’s props to lie themselves down once more. The aide felt the men huddle closer; he wished to push them away, to fight free of the blankets, to rise, pull on his clothes, and go in search of his lord, but a warm lassitude was spreading through him and his eyes closed despite his best efforts.

When he wakened again he was alone in his blankets, and young Berethor crouched beside him. When the boy saw the aide’s eyes open, he said, ‘Captain. I owe you my life, and that of my mother and sisters.’

 ‘Your brother,’ Thulion whispered.

Berethor shook his head, his expression much too old for his years. ‘He had a peaceful end, at least,’ he said quietly.

The tent flap was raised, and a head poked through, torches guttering in the bitter darkness beyond. ‘My lord,’ the soldier said. ‘Your boat is waiting.’

The boy’s mouth twisted and he gestured as if to push the words away, but he answered, ‘I come anon. Is the assault upon us?’

 ‘Angmar yet waits, my lord,’ the soldier answers. ‘It is said the Witch King will arrive with the dawning, to attack with the rising sun at his back, dazzling our eyes.’

 ‘Then let the men rest while they may,’ the young lord said, ‘but ready to spring up at once, should the alarm be sounded.’

The soldier bowed and withdrew.

 ‘My lord?’ Thulion said, his eyes widening as the implications came home to him.

 ‘Don’t look at me so, Captain. For all we know my grandfather the King will come. He has the palantiri to show him a safe passage, after all. He may well be awaiting us in Lindon.’

 ‘Berenarth,’ Thulion said, more a statement than a question. Somehow more than a few syllables was beyond him, in his present state of exhaustion.

The boy shook his head, his face expressionless, but he put a hand on the aide’s shoulder. ‘My faithful Captain,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you, my father was not taken by the enemy, to be borne back to fallen Fornost, to suffer Angmar’s torments. He died in peace.’

Thulion closed his eyes and swallowed hard. All for naught. All for naught. He must have said the words aloud, for the small hand squeezed his shoulder with surprising strength.

 ‘You brought us through,’ the young voice said, filled with fierce pride. ‘We are forced back, but not defeated. They think to drive us into the Lune to drown, but elf-boats take our people to safety under cover of darkness even now. An ever-dwindling number of soldiers hold the line, while empty tents give the lie to our enemies that we stand against them, waiting for the dawn.’ The hand was withdrawn and the boy rose. ‘Litter bearers wait outside, to bring you to a boat. We’ll meet again in Lindon, Captain Thulion.’

Before the aide could form a reply, the boy was gone.

There was no point in asking after the other sons of the King.

***

Not long after he hid himself, Bucca heard a crashing in the underbrush, and he froze as it came ever closer. A patrol of Angmar, perhaps, hunting in the woods for stragglers? Perhaps the royal family had been discovered in the icy stream, and soldiers had been sent out to find and capture or destroy any more refugees.

The hobbit huddled into a tight ball, hugging his knees, wishing he could burrow into the frozen ground as the blundering sounds approached. He breathed shallowly, hoping that the pony would not betray his presence with a snort or whicker.

The sounds ceased abruptly, a few steps away, as if the maker had stopped to listen to the silence of the forest, and Bucca held his breath, though he thought the heartbeat pounding in his ears just might be loud enough to give him away.

As suddenly, the steps resumed, and before Bucca could move to right or left a heavy booted foot came down, crushing the breath from him even as the Man who’d blundered into him lost his balance and fell atop the hobbit with bruising force.

 Chapter 18. Thain: Near Escape 

The flock had made the rounds twice over and were a day away from home and Gladdy when a lone walker traipsed around the hillside into the valley for that day’s grazing.

 ‘Halloo!’ the old shepherd hailed, raising a hand high.

 ‘Halloo!’ echoed back, and Pippin stood to his feet, shading his eyes as the figure trudged towards them. With a sudden glad cry, he ran down the hillside on feet lightened by joy. ‘Frodo!’

 ‘Pippin!’ Frodo returned, hastily setting down his sack to embrace the dancing youth.

 ‘Frodo! It’s been so long—What are you doing here?’

 ‘That’s just it: It has been so very long,’ Frodo said. ‘No young Tooks have appeared on my doorstep to eat me out of smial and home for ever so long. Why, I wrote to Merry to scold him for keeping you so long, and he wrote back in astonishment, saying he was thinking of scolding me for the same!’

As the old shepherd came up to them, Pippin released Frodo and half-turned, saying, ‘Shepherd Brockbank, I’d like you to meet my cousin Frodo Baggins.’

 ‘At your service,’ Frodo said at once with a polite bow.

The old shepherd nodded as he returned the greeting, keen eyes taking in every detail from the cut of Frodo’s coat to the fine linen of his shirt: every inch a gentlehobbit.

 ‘ ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, sir,’ he said, ‘after hearing so much of you from the lad.’

 ‘Not all bad, I hope,’ Frodo said with a laugh.

 ‘Are you on one of your tramps?’ Pippin asked eagerly. ‘Have you been to see the Elves?’

The old shepherd repressed a snort at the thought of Elves, and Frodo laughed again and clapped his young cousin on the back.

 ‘I am on this tramp to see you, as a matter of fact,’ he answered. ‘I went to Whittacres, to ask after you, and Paladin directed me to the Brockbanks’ and then Mrs. Brockbank...’

 ‘Gladdy,’ the old shepherd interrupted.

 ‘Eh? What’s that?’ Frodo said, momentarily diverted.

 ‘I wager she told you to call her Gladdy,’ the old shepherd said solemnly, though there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Missus Brockbank was my mother, you see.’

Pippin noticed that the old shepherd had left his rural speech and settled into the formal tones he’d used with Paladin and the travellers they encountered in their wanderings.

 ‘She did at that,’ Frodo admitted.

 ‘Then honour your elders,’ the old hobbit intoned. ‘My wife is “Gladdy”, and you may call me Bracken, if you please, sir.’

 ‘Only if you leave off the “sir” and call me “Frodo”,’ that hobbit said. ‘ “Mr Baggins” would be my Uncle Bilbo.’

 ‘Ah,’ said the old shepherd thoughtfully. Mr Frodo Baggins certainly didn’t seem to be speaking of the dead when mentioning the departed, though Mr Bilbo Baggins had disappeared a number of years ago and not been heard of since. ‘Well, sit yourself down, Mister—Frodo, and rest your feet. We’ll be moving the flock to the fold soon enough, and you’re welcome to a bed and a bite of supper if you like.’

 ‘My thanks,’ Frodo said. The three returned to the vantage point on the hill that gave a good view of the scattered flock.

Frodo caught them up on the news of Hobbiton, Overhill, Bywater, Waymeet and Whitwell. ‘Folco’s  in a bit of a bind,’ he said, naming his Boffin relation from the first family of Waymeet. ‘It seems he got in over his head at the honey vats and nearly drowned!’

 ‘How ever did he manage that?’ Pippin said, wide-eyed.

 ‘Someone evidently put it into his head that a little mead would never be missed if he got it from the vats before it was bottled or casked,’ Frodo said. Eyeing his mischievous young cousin, he added, ‘I’m not sure he’d’ve thought of it by himself.’

 ‘Where ever do you think he got the idea?’ Pippin asked, all innocence.

 ‘I shudder to think,’ Frodo said, with a mock shiver to emphasise his words. ‘Merry, perhaps...’

 ‘O not Merry!’ Pippin protested. ‘He’d think the whole idea quite ridiculous, I’m sure!’ As he had, when Pippin had proposed the idea in the first place.

 ‘Not Merry,’ Frodo agreed with a sidelong glance. Pippin, of course, remained the picture of innocence.

 ‘Near drowned in a vat of honey?’ the old shepherd said. ‘Sounds an unpleasant end. As bad as a bog, I’d reckon.’

 ‘Nearly as unpleasant surviving, I heard,’ Frodo said solemnly. ‘He was mired chin deep, as you can imagine, and they had to drain the vat to get him out. His father was not best pleased.’ He shuddered again. ‘Good thing it wasn’t you, Pippin. You’d’ve drowned for sure. Folco’s just enough taller than you, he was able to balance on his toes and keep his face clear until he was found.'

Pippin gave a shiver of his own. It had been his plan, and Folco’s, to sneak into the mead-works in the middle night to see what treasure they might find. Folco had evidently received word that Pippin’s visit had been put off, perhaps for ever, considering Paladin’s plan to apprentice his son, and so the young Boffin had decided to try Pippin’s plan by himself.

 ‘Must’ve been a mess to clear away,’ Pippin said nonchalantly.

 ‘In more ways than you know,’ Frodo said with a meaningful look. ‘And who’s going to buy the honey, after Folco was immersed in it, I ask you?’

 ‘Folco’s da, most likely,’ Pippin said with a grin. He ducked as Frodo tousled his head as if he were a much younger hobbit.

 ‘Boffin,’ the old shepherd said reflectively. ‘Boffins of the Yale?’

 ‘A branch of that family,’ Frodo said, and the rest of the afternoon was spent pleasantly pursuing genealogies and family connexions.

That night after a simple supper, Pippin went out for the last check on the sheep before turning in. ‘I’ll accompany you,’ Frodo said. The old shepherd nodded from his seat before the fire, as he tamped his pipe and prepared for a relaxing smoke to end the day.

The auld love, seeing Pippin’s lantern, came up to the gate for a good scratching, and he was happy to oblige. As she leaned against one side of the gate, Frodo leaned on the other side and looked from ewe to young cousin. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asked at last.

 ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Pippin said.

 ‘I could talk to Paladin,’ Frodo said. ‘Certainly, you’ve pulled your share of pranks, but don’t all young hobbits? It’s as if we’re born with a quota of mischief that we must spend before we reach three-and-thirty. I know I certainly did.’

 ‘I’ve spent more than my quota,’ Pippin said. ‘I do believe I was well into the red, as a matter of fact.’

 ‘What do you know about being in the red?’ Frodo asked in surprise. ‘I’ve never heard you take an interest in business before!’

Pippin laughed. ‘I help Gladdy with the records,’ he said. ‘Her hands are twisted and painful, and she finds it difficult to hold a quill any more, and the old hobbit doesn’t read or write. I’ve learned a fair bit about managing and making do, turning a profit and watching your expenses and keeping your losses to a minimum.’

 ‘Have you?’ Frodo said, bemused by this practical talk from his carefree young cousin.

 ‘O aye,’ Pippin said. ‘Half the sheep belong to my da, you know, and the other half to old Brockbank. But when he apprentices me, come midsummer, Da will sign half his sheep over, to be held in trust for me when I come of age. Why, I’ll have a flock of my own when I’m old enough...!’

 ‘A bright future,’ Frodo said quizzically. ‘You want to be a shepherd?’

Pippin threw back his head and laughed. ‘D’you think it bothers me, to be an oddity amongst hobbits? A wanderer born, going from place to place, coming home to smial every so many days... Why, I learned such habits from the best of hobbits!’

 Frodo protested, ‘I’m not away that often! Why, I spend weeks, months at a time at home...’

 ‘And then off you go,’ Pippin said, ‘without a word to anyone, and it’s anyone’s guess if you’ll turn up again, or disappear completely as Bilbo did before you!’

Frodo chuckled and slapped Pippin on the back. ‘Kindred spirits, we are,’ he said. ‘Me with my wanderlust, and you with your curiosity. P’rhaps some day we’ll go off together and have an adventure, Tooks that we are.’

 ‘You’d need me along of a certainty,’ Pippin said stoutly. ‘For I’m much more Took than you!’

 ‘I won’t argue with that,’ Frodo said, and paused. ‘But what will you do about your place?’

Pippin looked at him for a long moment, and deflated. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘Of course I won’t be able to go off at a moment’s notice. My da’s about to sell me, and I must fill out my obligation.’ He sighed. ‘Seven years!’

 ‘Seven years,’ Frodo said soberly, ‘after which you’ll be freed...’

 ‘But not free,’ Pippin said heavily. ‘Why, I’ll be but seven-and-twenty, still under my father’s thumb for six years more, before I come of age and may do as I like.’

 ‘I could talk to Paladin,’ Frodo said again. ‘You’re not bound, not yet. If your father doesn’t need you on the farm, you could come live with me, learn mapmaking or some such, or you could spend part of the time at Brandy Hall and learn something of mastering...’

 ‘It sounds grand,’ Pippin said wistfully, ‘but my da would never countenance such a thing. He does want me on the farm, you know, learning the land, pulling my share. In a sense I’m pulling my share here, watching over his interest in this flock, learning record-keeping and responsibility.’

 ‘There are other ways of learning responsibility,’ Frodo argued, but his young cousin shook his head.

 ‘No, Frodo, and thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve grown to like this life,’ he said. ‘I’m never bored, you know; each day is a new adventure. There are dark foes to fight,’ he gestured expressively with his crook, as if fending off a vicious dog, ‘rivers to cross, mountains to climb, damsels to rescue,’ he rubbed a little harder at the auld love’s back and she half-closed her eyes in bliss. ‘It’s a good life, and the old hobbit’s been as good as a father to me, or better.’

Frodo nodded. He’d asked about, learned as much as he could about the old shepherd before seeking out Pippin, and all reports had been more than satisfactory.

 ‘D’you know,’ Pippin added reflectively, ‘he’s never raised his voice to me, not once, in all the time I’ve been with him. And I’ve done some of the stupidest things you can imagine...’ He sighed. ‘So if it’s a choice to go back to Whittacres, to go back to the way things were, with a respite here and there, a visit to Bag End or Brandy Hall to season the sauce, well, I’d rather just spend the next seven years here, if you don’t mind.’

 ‘I see,’ Frodo said slowly.

 ‘Do you?’ Pippin said candidly.

 ‘I do,’ Frodo said. ‘It’s rather how I felt about going to live with Bilbo. Certainly there was a lot of talk, a lot of gossip, an awful lot of unpleasantness from the Sackville-Bagginses. And I did some of the stupidest things you can imagine, and Bilbo never closed his heart to me, but always welcomed me as if I was of value.’

 ‘Frodo!’ Pippin said in shock. ‘Of course you’re valued...’

 ‘Hard to believe it sometimes,’ Frodo said reflectively, ‘bouncing from pillar to post, you know. No one looking after me, really, just another young one to scold, to push out the door, to grumble about being underfoot. “Go and play, lad, and do try to keep out of trouble for once in your life!” and “That poor Baggins lad, ah but he drives me to distraction! The Hall would be better off without such a rapscallion, I say—why he’s a shame and a disgrace to the Brandybucks, and the young Master so kind to him, almost as if the lad were his own!” ’

 ‘But Auntie Ally and Uncle...’

 ‘They were kind,’ Frodo said. ‘I don’t mean to dishonour them, Pippin, but Saradoc was busy with Hall matters and Esmeralda was so very ill after Merry was born, and for a long time after. I know that they loved me, but I never belonged to them. A lot of it was my fault, of course.’

 ‘Your fault?’ Pippin said, confused. He couldn’t imagine Frodo being at fault in any matter.

Frodo smiled and patted his shoulder once more. ‘My fault,’ he said firmly, ‘and let it stand there, Pippin. I never really felt wanted, until Bilbo picked me up and took me in like a stray kitten. Made me his heir, imagine that! One of the worst young rascals of Buckland!’

 ‘And so you turned over a new leaf, to please him,’ Pippin said.

Frodo laughed. ‘Not at all!’ he said honestly. ‘I was something of a rascal for quite awhile, testing him, seeing if he really meant it, if he really wanted me, and it turned out that he did.’

He smiled in recollection, looking into the distance, and then his eyes returned to Pippin. ‘So you see, young cousin, I know a thing or two about being wanted rather than found wanting.’

Pippin nodded.

 ‘Well, I suppose we’d better take our rest,’ Frodo said. ‘Morning comes just as early as ever, whether we seek our beds early or late.’

And so they turned away from the fold and walked slowly back to the little shelter.

Though the old shepherd tried to give up his own bed to the gentlehobbit, Frodo would have none of it. He rolled up in a blanket on the sheepskin rug before the banked fire, and despite the hardness of the floor, he was the first one asleep.

Chapter 19. Thorn: Beginning of the End

A/N: Chapter 15 edited to show that Bucca withdraws from the cliff’s edge at midnight rather than dawn. Sorry about that. Misread the timeline.

Had the hobbit retained any breath after being trodden and fallen upon, it would have frozen as his assailant silently scrambled to his feet, sword at the ready and pressed to Bucca’s throat. Bucca stared hopelessly at the blade, his last thoughts for his tiny son, who’d never know his father... but then the cloaked figure muttered something under his breath and took the sword away again.

Bucca tried to suck in the freezing air but it hurt, and a low moan escaped him as he screwed his eyes shut. He heard the man fall to his knees at his side, and the overlarge hands fumbled at his clothing as a voice whispered roughly, ‘Where is the pain?’

He could not get enough breath to answer, but opening his eyes, he saw the black bulk of the hood-shadowed face, outlined against the stars, very close to his. It did not seem to him that a soldier of Angmar would be concerned about his pain, unless intending to inflict more, perhaps, but this man seemed more solicitous than threatening. The fingers were gently prodding along his ribcage, and he winced and feebly tried to push the probing hand away, even as the lack of air dizzied him.

 ‘Shallow breaths,’ the man whispered.

 As if I could do aught else, the hobbit thought wryly.

As if the man read his thoughts, a low chuckle issued from the hood. ‘We’ll mend things just as soon as we can, Master Bucca, for Bucca you must be, so closely do you resemble your twin.’

Tokka! This man knew Tokka! He wanted to ask after his brother, but it was all he could do to draw enough breath to keep away the darkness hovering at the edges of his sight. He wondered how this man could see his face in the dark. Was he of the elf-kind?

 ‘Come now,’ the man said, re-wrapping the hobbit’s cloak securely about him. ‘The King sent the army to Lindon, so to Lindon we too must go.’

Bucca wanted to protest, to warn the man of the enemy forces spread out over the plain, but the shifting of his broken ribs as he was lifted sent him spinning into darkness.

When he wakened, knowing he’d swooned, he was unsure of where he was at first, so strange were the sensations that assailed him. He was flying; he was hanging; he was floating? He was a small child carried upon his father’s back once more... but no, when he opened his eyes, he hung suspended in space. He recognised the plain that he’d seen from the edge of the cliff, but the view was different, somehow—and then he knew. He was tied to the man’s back, suspended, hanging in space with only air beneath him. He tried to move, to struggle, but he was tied securely, and a gag in his mouth kept him from crying out.

Eyes wide with terror, heart pounding, he could do nothing but try to suck air through his nose. Against his back he felt the bunch and smoothing of the man’s muscles, an occasional stillness followed by movement. He understood in a flash that the man had tied him to himself, back-to-back, to keep the hobbit from smothering, as he might had he been face-down, what with the trouble he was having drawing breath. As it was he had a fine view of the plain slowly coming up to meet them. He thought he might have preferred smothering.

At last the sense of motion stopped, and he realised that the man stood upon the plain, at the base of the cliff. The illusion of height came from being tied to the man’s back. Helpless to move or protest, Bucca rode like a sack of provisions as the man stole along the base of the cliff towards the sound of falling water.

Knowing what was to come did not make it any easier. The man eased himself into the stream so slowly and carefully that there was no sound of the water being disturbed, and though Bucca felt the downward motion, he was still shocked by the sudden icy chill when his feet touched the surface. The sharp breath he drew nearly plunged him once more into black unknowing, which might have been a mercy. As it was he must endure the slow creeping of the freezing water, ever upwards, stopping at last a handspan beneath his chin.

All the muscles of his body clenched tight against the cold, adding a deep ache to the pain of his ribs. When the shivering started, the torment was nearly more than he could bear. Surely the dungeons of Angmar could do no worse! Yet he was borne along, unwilling captive, in a never-ending waking nightmare. He could only hope that as they passed the enemy camp some guard might see them and send an arrow to end his suffering.

No such luck. He watched the torches creep by as they moved silently downstream. As they traversed the heart of the enemy encampment, his bearer sank down in the water until Bucca thought they’d both drown, but his nose remained above the surface—barely. At first he’d felt the man below him shivering violently, while he could still feel anything at all. The deadly chill crept from his extremities inward, and he welcomed the numbing sensation of it even as his thoughts once more fastened on his family, in hiding he hoped. Perhaps they’d been caught by the soldiers who’d swept through the Shire, and even now were waiting for him on the Other Side. He wanted to squeeze his staring eyes shut, to try to see their faces, but all movement was beyond him save the shallow breaths that seemed to come without his conscious thought.

He heard the barest whisper. Here’s another! ...and saw a bulk rise up against the starlight, a faint gleam that was a sword held ready. He felt the subtle heave as they came out of the water, pulled by many hands into freezing air that made the memory of the stream warm by comparison.

 Not Angmar? 

I think not—he has a Halfling with him.

No time to warm them, nor to take them to a tent to gaze upon their faces, not even to seek the answers to questions. Bind him, and bring him to the boats.

But Bucca was already bound. And boats? What was this about boats? He’d never been in a boat in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now! He’d always fished from the shore. It was the sensible thing to do. 

But if he’s of Angmar!

Then the Elves will throw him in the Lune, with curses for defiling their fair soil with his feet. At least if he’s of Angmar, we’ll save the Halfling from him. Fancy using a Halfling for a shield! The whisper dripped with contempt.

Bucca wanted to answer but they left the gag in place. He was cold and stiff and did not feel the unwinding of the bonds that held him to the man. He did know, however, that he was lifted in a soldier’s arms, much as he’d lifted his small niece to carry her off to bed when she’d fallen asleep as they welcomed the evening with song... long ago and far away, in the home that undoubtedly lay in ashes now.

He was not a child, but they were treating him like one. The man, at least, he saw by the dim light of the stars and the distant torches, had the dignity of being borne on a litter, even though he was bound hand and foot, and gagged to prevent his crying out.

Hurry! The sky begins to lighten in the East.

There’s no time!

Hurry! To the boats! When Angmar attacks the Elves will cast off even if the boats are empty!

Figures rustled past them like rats, there were soft thumping noises and then an unsettling rocking motion. He saw a man lift a long stick, with cloth tied around the end where it widened. The cloth-wrapped blade went into the water and with a soundless stroke the boat jerked forward.

He lay in the boat, facing back whence they came, and so he could see the slowly brightening sky above the cliffs. They were little more than halfway across the River Lune when the Sun peeked above the horizon, and suddenly the air was filled with the terrible sound of Men and perhaps other things, screaming, howling, shouting, and then came the clash of metal on metal.

No longer attempting to move stealthily, the paddlers drove the boat forward at speed, away from the battle, away from the coming of the Dread King. Bucca saw tears on the countenance of the Man who faced him, plunging his paddle into the water as fast as he might, even as the hobbit saw the beginning of the slaughter that they were leaving behind. The beginning was all he saw, for he closed his eyes and turned his face, sickened at the sight though far away, and seen through a haze of pain and tears.

Chapter 20. Thain: Change in the Wind

In the deep dark halfway between middle night and dawn, a tap came at the door. Gladdy danced to the door, carolling a song of welcome. ‘How do ye?’ the hobbit at the door said, stepping in with a grin.

 ‘Thom! Ye’re in good time!’ Gladdy said. ‘There’s just time for a mug o’ tea afore the washing up is done.’

 ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Thom answered with a bow. He’d set out from Whittacres just before midnight, and while the night was mild, he was feeling a mite sleepy, as he allowed.

 ‘So kind of Paladin to send a cart and driver for us,’ Gladdy said. ‘I don’t know as I’d’ve been able to come to the birthday breakfast, otherwise.’

 ‘ ‘Tis only a haycart,’ Thom cautioned, ‘but the best he could send, indeed! Waggon won’t go well on these back-country tracks!’

 ‘Piled high with hay, I’d warrant ‘twill be as comfy-cosy as the Thain’s own coach,’ Gladdy said with a decisive nod. ‘Come now, Thom, and sit thasel’ doon there on yon bench, and drink up!’

Thom sat down as indicated, watching in wonder as the washing up was proceeding merrily. To see Paladin’s son, singing his way through his work, nay, better yet, working with a will, quick and efficient! It could make one wonder if this were the same lad as was hauled away before the dawning, all those weeks ago, and scarce heard of since. Talk was, he’d disgraced his parents somehow and they were trying to hush things up as best they could.

O’ course, from the joyous preparations on the farm the past few days, getting ready for the lad’s birthday, it seemed as if all was forgiven, whatever the trouble had been.

At last all was washed, dried, and put away, even Thom’s mug. Pippin held out a freshly-dried hand. ‘Well come, Thom,’ he said. ‘I trust all are well on the farm.’

 ‘You’ll be seeing soon enough,’ Thom said. ‘More than well! Why, you’d think the Thain hisself was coming, from all the preparing.’

 ‘A birthday breakfast fit for the Thain!’ Pippin said, laughing. ‘Why, this-here shepherd won’t know what to do with himself!’

 ‘Just do the next thing, just as I taught thee, laddie,’ the old shepherd said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘If’n it lays, keep an eye on it; if’n it moves, follow!’

 ‘If’n it’s dirty, wash it, and if’n it’s tasty, eat it!’ Pippin chanted dutifully, and laughed again. He patted his belly. ‘I think I’ve done enough of the latter, to keep me until we reach the farm.’

 ‘Your mum packed up a basket, just to keep you from starving to death before we reach the farm,’ Thom said.

 ‘And I’ve packed another!’ Gladdy crowed, pointing to the basket by the door. ‘Come, Thom-lad, make thasel’ useful and pack up the waggon!’

 ‘I’ll just look over the sheep once more,’ Pippin said.

The dogs came from their rest to trail at his heels, though it was early by all accounts. They didn’t mind arising well before their usual time, if it meant they’d be at the glorious work all the earlier. To their disgust, Pippin didn’t open the gate and call the sheep forth; he merely filled the water troughs and forked a goodly amount of hay into the fold. The sheep would stay put this day, safe in the fold until the shepherds’ return in the evening.

The dogs slunk back to their rest, grumbling as only a disgruntled sheepdog can do, as the hobbits settled themselves in the hay waggon. It had taken all three, Thom, Pippin, and the old shepherd, to lift Gladdy into the blanket-covered hay.

 ‘A soft bed, indeed,’ she affirmed as Shepherd Brockbank tucked another blanket around her. ‘And all the stars above for company, and the Moon too, and in a jolly mood for having nearly drunk his fill!’

The old shepherd elected to sit next to his wife, and Pippin crowded onto the seat beside Thom as the hired hobbit clucked to the pony. ‘So, Thom, tell me all the news!’ he said.

 ‘All!’ Thom said. ‘We’ve only twae hours or so...’

 ‘Just skim the cream from the top then,’ Pippin replied.

Though Thom had more desire to ask questions of Pippin, as to what had wrought this amazing change in the lad (really, the Pippin Thom knew would hardly be awake at this hour, much less cheerful!), he began to recount the happenings and the gossip of the past weeks. Gladdy put in her share of questions from the back of the hay waggon, and she and the old shepherd burst into peals of laughter at more than one point. When Thom ran out of news, there was always a song to sing, and partway through the slow, rumbling journey they shared out the contents of the baskets.

The Sun was just peeking over the Green Hills as they pulled into the yard of Whittacres Farm. ‘Goodness,’ Pippin said, staring at the tables set up, and the bustling hobbits carrying plates and baskets of bread and platters of food.

 ‘It’s a mercy you were born in midsummer, young Pip!’ Thom said. ‘I don’t think they could fit all these tables into the barn, even, were you celebrating in midwinter!’

 ‘The more, the merrier,’ Gladdy said in a carrying whisper. ‘Plenty of witnesses!’

 ‘Aye,’ the old shepherd said behind her. Witnesses a-plenty to see you become our lad.

Though the tween didn’t say so, Pippin knew what he was thinking. They’d talked it over, the past few weeks, and now the thought of signing away the next seven years no longer gave him a pang. Rather, it was a nice, safe feeling, to know his future and to be in complete agreement. He thought he understood something of his father, now. Paladin was a farmer, son of a farmer, and he was right in the place he belonged, on the farm. Take him off the farm and he was a fish out of water. Pippin felt a little of the same, coming from the wild hills to the civilisation of the farm... He appreciated his father’s wisdom in this matter, now. The hills were his home, and he could be contributing to his father’s efforts while fitting the place that had been found for him. He wondered, had his father known, twenty years ago when he’d named his son “Wanderer”?

There was no more time for thinking, for two of the hobbits had hastily put down their burdens and flung themselves on Pippin as he climbed down, calling his name as they threatened to drown him in hugs and kisses.

 ‘Nell!’ he laughed. ‘Vinca! Good to see you!’ No childish, self-centred “Did you miss me?” but hugs for his sisters, even as he looked about for his parents. ‘Something smells good! I hope you’ve not been working your fingers to the bone!’

 ‘It’s a veritable feast!’ Vinca said. ‘Why, Da even fatted a calf for the occasion.’

Eglantine came, then, falling upon her son with her arms wide. They shared a long embrace, while she whispered welcome into his ear. At last she put him back and gazed earnestly into his face. ‘You’ve been eating well,’ was all she said.

 ‘Well indeed,’ Pippin said, giving her another hug. He looked up to see his father standing by, silent, waiting, and held out his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Paladin took the hand, allowed Pippin to wring it with enthusiasm, and nodded as a smile crept across his face. ‘I’d hoped...’ he said, unaccountably at a loss for words.

 ‘Aye,’ Pippin said, and in the next moment father and son were embracing, Paladin slapping his son’s back as they parted once more.

 ‘Ye are more than welcome,’ the farmer said with a broad grin.

When Saradoc saw that Pippin had finished greeting his parents, he released Merry’s arm. ‘All right,’ he said.

Merry was off like a shot from the bow across the yard to seize his beloved cousin. ‘Pippin!’ he shouted. ‘My, but it’s good to see you! We expected you in Buckland weeks ago!’

 ‘I had a previous engagement,’ Pippin said, and turned. ‘Shepherd and Mrs. Brockbank, may I present my cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck?’

 ‘At your service,’ Merry said with a proper bow. He’d thought to pull Pippin away while the breakfast preparations were being finished, but Paladin must have given his son the chore of shepherding the visiting Brockbanks, for Pippin stayed by Gladdy’s side, introducing the old shepherd and his wife to every friend or relative that approached bearing good wishes and congratulations.

A table off to the side bore a great pile of packages in bright wrappings, for it was custom for a guest to bring a token to celebrate a new tween reaching his first score of years, but Pippin hardly spared it a glance, nor did he appear to have prepared a heap of presents of his own choosing for his guests. Empty-handed, he greeted each new arrival, thanking them for coming. ‘Frodo! And you’ve brought Folco with you. Aye, Folco, and has all that honey sweetened your disposition?’

 ‘Cloying!’ Frodo said, laughing. ‘I can hardly bear his company, but he’s stuck himself to me and I cannot win free!’

 ‘Quantities of hot water ought to suit,’ Pippin said, and immediately turned to properly introducing this cousin to the Brockbanks.

 ‘Make it tea and I’ll cooperate,’ Folco said after tendering his service to the visitors with a graceful bow. ‘In the meantime...’ He was interrupted by a shout of excitement from the fringes of the gathering crowd.

 ‘What in the world?’ Pippin said, but Frodo, who was taller than most, craned to see the newest arrivals. He grabbed at Pippin’s arm.

 ‘Don’t look now, cousin, but your birthday breakfast is to be graced with the presence of the Thain himself,’ he said.

 ‘You jest,’ Pippin said flatly, but Frodo shook his head.

 ‘Best go and greet him, lad,’ he urged. ‘He’s the one hobbit whose good graces matter.’

Pippin might have stayed to argue, in the old days—Lobelia Sackville-Baggins coming to mind as another whose good graces might matter—but mindful of his responsibilities as he was nowadays, he excused himself to the Brockbanks and thrust his way through the crowd, to find, as Frodo had said, a small party of mounted hobbits just arriving in the yard: the Thain, two hobbits of his escort, and, to Pippin's joy and delight, his oldest sister, come all the way from the Great Smials though from Thom's report she was expecting again and in miseries from the all-day-long sickness.

With all that was in him he wanted to shout, ‘Pearl!’ He wanted to hurry to the side of Pearl’s pony, help his sister down, and swallow her in a great hug, exclaiming over the tiny daughter she carried cradled against her. He wanted to move next to his brother-in-love’s pony, get crippled Isum safely on the ground and to a comfortable seat, and then deal with his little nephews, riding three-to-a-saddle.

He did none of these things, however, for he knew his duty. He bowed low before the Thain’s pony. ‘Sir,’ he said at his most formal. ‘I am most honoured that you deign to brighten this day with your presence.’

Ferumbras nodded and slid from his saddle, ignoring the steadying hand of his head of escort. ‘Happy birthday, young Peregrin,’ he said, unsmiling.

Merry made a face and as quickly schooled his expression. Proper stick-in-the-mud, the old Thain was, and the lively party threatened to become a solemn affair.

Paladin and Eglantine stepped forward, and the Thain congratulated Eglantine on Pippin’s birthday, presenting a small nosegay of bright wildflowers, picked along the way by one of the hobbits of his escort.

 ‘Thank you, Sir,’ Eglantine said with a pretty courtesy.

 ‘I hope it’s not too much of an imposition,’ Ferumbras said, turning to Paladin. ‘Pearl mentioned that she was coming for Pippin’s birthday celebration, and I invited myself along. A score of years! A goodly number.’ He’d come for another reason, a disturbing rumour that had reached his ears, but there was no need to bring it up unless it appeared to be bearing fruit.

Thain or no Thain, Tooks know how to celebrate, and after all were seated there followed a grand feast, with song and story mixed in.

Gladdy listened to many an anecdote with wide eyes. ‘Who’d’ve thought our lad to be so high-spirited?’ she whispered to the old shepherd. ‘Why, he’s as steady as the day is long in the summertime!’

Merry gave her a look of astonishment at this. He wasn’t sure who these old hobbits were, or why they were seated at the head table with the family, but Gladdy had clung to Pippin’s arm with a proprietary manner through all the preparations, and it grated on him. His parents, though equally in the dark, had treated the old hobbits with respect and the courtesy that was to them as natural as breathing, and he followed suit, though he burned to get Pippin off in a corner and ask him what was what. Well, he’d have time after the party was over and the main body of guests had departed.

Oddly enough, Thain Ferumbras had declined a seat at the head table and sat lower, eating and drinking and talking with the rest. ‘I’m here as a cousin,’ he’d said as Paladin had tried to put him in the best chair, ‘and not as close as many of the cousins here, at that! It’s not often I get to take off my official hat and enjoy a good celebration!’

At last the eating and drinking were winding down and the guests sat back, replete, though some still nibbled at this and that to fill up the corners. ‘Speech!’ someone shouted, and the rest took up the cry. Merry happily pounded the table, adding his own voice to the tumult.

Pippin stood up, seeming flustered, and looked about. ‘I... I...’ he stammered, and flushed.

 ‘Spit it out, lad!’ someone shouted, and many laughed.

 ‘I thank you,’ Pippin managed.

The crowd cheered this obvious but very suitable speech. Pippin remained standing, and all expected him next to go to the table that groaned with its load of presents, to begin opening and exclaiming over each. They’d be here until teatime at least, before every gift-giver was thanked! (Merry smirked to think of Pippin, laboriously writing out a thank-you note to each giver... It would take him a week or two of effort, at the least, but Eglantine was a stickler for such niceties. He hoped he’d be able to coax Pippin away from this onerous task to do a little fishing or a prank or two, before they departed for Waymeet, to visit Fosco’s family, and then Bag End for a week or three with Frodo.) He wondered what sort of present Pippin would have for him? Some joke or other, more than likely.

However, Pippin stayed where he was, and Paladin rose, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. Another speech? Ah, yes, the farmer was clearing his throat.

 ‘We’ve come together to celebrate a birthday,’ Paladin said. ‘My son has reached a full score, and now looks forward to the future.’ He nodded to the Brockbanks, and the old shepherd rose and moved to Pippin’s other side.

Merry looked from his mother to his father, but both seemed to be as in the dark as he was. He looked further, and was disturbed to see Pervinca blinking away tears, Pimpernel unaccustomedly sober, and Pearl pulling at Isum’s sleeve, her look distraught. Frodo’s eyes were fixed on Pippin’s face, and he nodded at what he seemed to see there. Merry wanted to pull him aside, demand to know whatever it was Frodo knew, but this was neither the time nor the place...

The Thain sat straighter in his chair, though no one noticed, for all eyes were on those standing at the head table.

 ‘You are witnesses,’ Paladin said. ‘On this day, I bind my son as apprentice to Bracken Brockbank...’

Merry missed the rest of the customary words in his perturbation. Paladin was selling his son to the old hobbit? Seven years’ servitude? His only son, and heir?

He wanted to stand up, to voice his protest, but his father put a heavy hand on his arm. Merry tore his eyes from the standing hobbits to meet his father’s calm gaze. We don’t know what this is about, Saradoc seemed to be saying, but we’ll sort it out later. What we will not do, however, is make a scene!

Merry nodded reluctantly. Two years before his father had become Master of Buckland, on the death of Merry’s grandfather, and Merry was no longer “son of the heir” but the heir to Buckland himself, which entailed certain responsibilities on his part. He’d settled into the role fairly well, but enjoyed the respites with cousins such as Frodo and Folco. He’d been looking forward to a respite from care with Pippin, as well, but now...!

The old shepherd was nodding and had begun his response, placing his hand upon Pippin’s other shoulder. Soon Paladin would remove his hand, leaving Pippin in the hands of the old hobbit, and all would be done! Merry felt his breath come short, but Frodo kicked him under the table and when he looked at his older cousin in annoyance, Frodo winked. All is well. I’ll tell you all about it later. What was going on here?

Before he could wonder further, a voice from the crowd boomed out, saying just the word Merry wanted to shout. ‘Stop!’

The old shepherd broke off in surprise, and a murmur of astonishment rose from the watching hobbits. They’d been amazed, to be sure, to learn that Paladin was selling his son, though of course he had every legal right to do so, once the lad turned twenty. But this...! The buzz quickly died as Thain Ferumbras rose ponderously to his feet.

 ‘Sir,’ Paladin said at a loss.

 ‘I do not approve this business,’ the Thain said, looking from Paladin to old Bracken. ‘If any agreement is standing, I hereby annul it. Peregrin Took, you are free of any obligation that has been forced upon you.’

 ‘No obligation has been forced upon me!’ Pippin said in protest, before he was quelled by the warning pressure of his father’s hand.

As if the lad had not spoken, the Thain continued, lifting his hand with its heavy signet, sign of his office, for emphasis. ‘I dissolve this agreement, and forbid any future binding of this lad. You wish to talk of the future? Talk, then, of his being Thain, when his time comes!’

Chapter 21. Thorn: Clarifications

Bucca wakened from nightmare; the sharp breath he drew stabbed through him, leaving his head swimming and the darkness rising up to claim him once more. It was true! The forces of the Witch King had overtaken the last of those fleeing to the boats; the fearsome sorcerer had thrust an iron-gauntleted hand into the air and the Lune had raised up waves in answer, cutting the boats off from safety, dashing them against the Eastern shore and the deadly blades waiting there to drink of the refugees’ blood. And now he lay in unending torment in the dungeons of Angmar...

He clenched his teeth against the scream that rose in him, but could not suppress the moan that was wrung from him as he felt hands pushing him back down onto some instrument of torture only whispered of in memory. He heard other moans around him as if in answer, and he breathed his brother’s name, for in dreams he’d seen Tokka in this place. But instead of splintered wood at his back, he felt incomprehensible softness, as of yielding cushions, and pillows propping him half-sitting. Soft voices murmured, and now instead of menace it seemed they spoke comfort.

Opening his eyes wide, he stared into the shadowy face of the one who tended him: another of the Fair Folk, undoubtedly, at once youthful and ageless, eyes that were depths of understanding and gentle sorrow. A voice that was low and musical spoke in soothing tones, a hand gentle for all it was overlarge came to rest upon Bucca’s forehead, and the hobbit gave a shallow sigh, though he trembled still.

 ‘Not... Angmar?’ he whispered, dread melting away into relief.

 ‘Not,’ the Elf said softly, and added a few more words.

Bucca shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered.

The Elf nodded soberly and then his gaze grew more intent, more demanding, his eyes taking on depth until Bucca felt he might possibly drown. He was saved by the drooping of his eyelids.

Memory rose up to surround him; nightmare strove to encompass him once more, but a soft word, filled with command, blew the chilling fog to tatters and the darkness took on comforting warmth and softness. Bucca slept.

When he wakened again daylight was pouring into the room through wide windows; indeed it was difficult to tell where the room ended and the sky began.

 ‘Are you with us?’ a voice spoke to his side.

He turned his head with difficulty, so great was the lassitude that held him in its thrall.

 ‘Who...?’ he whispered, staring into a face that seemed familiar to him.

There was a movement beyond, and Thulion—how glad Bucca was to see the Man alive! —stepped forward to say, ‘My Lord Aranarth, the ship is nearly ready to cast off...’

The Lord Aranarth, Bucca thought. Of course! He’d seen this Man once before, when he’d come to gather hobbit archers to aid the King against Angmar. ‘Prince...’ he whispered.

The Man’s lips tightened in a humourless smile, and he nodded his head, irony lying heavily upon his features. ‘No longer,’ he said, ‘or at best, a prince without a land.’

Thulion stiffened. ‘Gondor will come,’ he said. ‘We’ll drive Angmar back into the bogs whence they crept. Once more they’ll be little more than the scum atop a midgewater pond.’

 ‘Gondor will come,’ Aranarth said wryly. ‘And Cirdan’s ship will find my father the King in the ice lands and bring him safely to Lindon, to march at the head of the splendid army of Elves and Men, at last uniting North and South in glorious cause.’

 ‘My lord,’ Thulion said in protest.

 ‘He will have another chance to claim the Kingship over both Kingdoms,’ Aranarth said bitterly, ‘and of course there will be none of Arnor to gainsay him, with so many dead, and perhaps influential lords of Gondor will conveniently die in battle to clear the way to the Throne...’

Bucca breathed a little too deeply and could not suppress a gasp of pain.

Immediately Aranarth leaned forward, taking up the hobbit’s hand. ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘Shallow breaths. I fear I made kindling of your rib bones when I stumbled over you in the wood.’

Bucca nodded. ‘M’lord,’ he breathed.

Aranarth’s lips tightened in what might pass for a smile. ‘They told me you’d be wakening soon,’ he said, ‘and so I am here, before I am swallowed again by pressing matters. I wanted to thank you for leading my brother’s family to safety.’

Bucca nodded again, at a loss for words. He wasn’t quite sure how one ought to speak to the heir to the King. His father would know, of course, and Tokka would have been easy, making a joke perhaps about how Kings put their breeches on one leg at a time. Of course, this Man was dressed in mail and tunic with a cloak thrown over all. He didn’t seem to be wearing breeches as it were, rather some sort of leggings made of leather and mail. Bucca thought it must make for uncomfortable sitting...

As if the Man read his thoughts, Aranarth’s lips lifted in a more genuine smile. ‘Very like,’ he said. ‘Tokka used to wear the same expression, just before setting an entire mess to laughter.’

 ‘Tokka,’ Bucca said eagerly, leaning forward despite the pain it cost him. ‘Tokka, is he with you? Did he come with the army? My people...’

 ‘Steady,’ Aranarth said again, settling the hobbit back against his cushions with a gentle but firm hand. ‘We know not who might have crossed the Lune, nor even what number might have been saved. Some are yet straggling in, having taken a northerly course around the Lake.’

 ‘But no Halflings among them,’ Thulion said. The son of the King flashed him a look of annoyance but the soldier stood his ground. ‘I will offer no false hope,’ he said, meeting Aranarth’s glance without apparent discomfort. ‘Bucca has been true in all his dealings with us.’

 ‘Would that you would offer the same courtesy to your prince,’ Aranarth said.

 ‘The King rode to the North,’ Thulion said. ‘I myself chose his guard, and they rode the swiftest horses in the realm. Angmar pursued the army, not the King.’

 ‘As Angmar prevents the King, if he lives, from retreating over the Lune to Lindon,’ Aranarth said.

 ‘Doubt you that the King waits even now? Art so eager to assume the crown, my lord?’ Thulion said softly, and the two men locked gazes as if they were alone in the room as some unspoken message passed between them.

Bucca moved restlessly, and the moment passed. Aranarth released the hobbit’s hand and rose with a pat to the shoulder. ‘Marshall your forces, my friend,’ he said, ‘that you may heal as quickly as your folk seem to do. I remember Marroc broke his foot and yet he was able to march less than a month later...’

 ‘It might have had something to do with the fact that he cared not at all for being carried like a babe in arms when the army was moving,’ Thulion said.

 ‘He wouldn’t,’ Bucca said involuntarily, and when the Men turned to him, he added, ‘He’s youngest in his family, you know, with more older sisters to worry him than you could shake a stick at.’

Aranarth chuckled and patted the hobbit’s shoulder once more. ‘Is that why he’s one of Tokka’s doughtiest warriors?’ he said. ‘And always out to prove that a Halfling is twice the warrior that any Man might be.’

 ‘That sounds like Marroc,’ Bucca said.

 ‘As soon as I have any word at all of the Shire-folk I’ll send to you,’ Aranarth said, ‘or Thulion here will.’

 ‘I will,’ Thulion said.

 ‘But for the moment I must go to see off the mariners who will brave the winter seas to rescue the King, who is caught between the claws of Angmar and the jaws of the northern ice,’ Aranarth said. 'Rest well, my friend, and heal. We will yet have need of archers, should Gondor come.'

 'Gondor will come,' Thulion said.

Aranarth's lips tightened, but all he said was, 'Come along, Captain. Let us not keep the mariners waiting.'

Chapter 22. Thain: Explanations

A stunned silence followed Thain Ferumbras’ extraordinary statement. Paladin had gone pale, but now his face flushed very red as he slowly removed his hand from Pippin’s shoulder. Seeing his fists clenched at his sides, Eglantine rose hastily and went to her husband’s side, laying an urgent hand on his arm. Paladin had come round the wrong side of Mistress Lalia, who’d ruled the Tooks before Ferumbras, and she certainly didn’t want him to make the same mistake now.

 ‘His being Thain?’ It was with obvious effort that Paladin spoke calmly, for his chest was heaving and he spoke through his teeth, forcing out each word in turn.

 ‘Da, I...’ Pippin began, but the old shepherd squeezed his shoulder gently, and he fell silent.

 ‘He won’t be Thain, no more than I,’ Paladin gritted.

Ferumbras matched his glare calmly. ‘Indeed,’ he said.

Paladin straightened. ‘My grandfather renounced the succession when he left the Smials,’ he said.

Ferumbras shook his head, something like pity in his eyes. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but there’s nothing in writing to that effect.’

Merry looked from uncle to Thain, and then to his father. Pippin? Thain?

 ‘Not possible,’ Paladin choked out. He looked as if he were about to be taken in a fit of apoplexy, and Eglantine’s eyes were wide with worry.

 ‘Dinny-love,’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘Please...’

 ‘It looks as if he might be Thain sooner than later,’ Ferumbras said, ‘for if something happens to yourself, he'll be the one to follow me when I go... Calm yourself, cousin… Baragrim!’ he snapped out suddenly.

The head of the Thain’s escort jumped up, reaching Paladin’s side as Pippin’s father staggered, taking hold of him from one side—Pippin grabbed his father’s other arm to hold him up—and guiding him to a chair. Another hobbit hastily dashed a glass of water into Paladin’s face, causing him to shake his head, and Pearl grabbed up a wineglass and held it to her father’s lips, urging him to drink, while Frodo and several others fanned the stricken hobbit with their serviettes.

 ‘Surely,’ Eglantine quavered, ‘surely there’s something in writing.’

Ferumbras shook his head. ‘Adelard has searched through the records,’ he said, ‘and found nothing. It may be family legend, the parting words of Hildigrim to my father, but family legend is not binding, nor has it the same weight as a document with the requisite number of signatures in red ink.’

 ‘You’re saying,’ Eglantine said, and stopped, swallowing hard.

 ‘I have no son, no heir,’ Ferumbras said. ‘Paladin is my next-of-kin. He inherits all my holdings, should I mount my pony and fall on my head this day.’

 ‘Don’t want...’ Paladin mumbled, pushing away the wineglass, but he was just as likely talking about his inheritance.

Ferumbras smiled faintly. ‘I thought I might marry,’ he said. ‘At one time I was quite hopeful.’ His eyes rested for a moment on Pearl, and then went back to Paladin and Eglantine. ‘But now I see there’s no point in it. Even if I should marry at this late date—’ he shook his head, eyes glinting with regret ‘—even if I should father a son, I should have to rival the Old Took, for him to be old enough to follow me as Thain.’

Merry looked to his father, who was nodding. The Tooks were not like the Brandybucks. If his father were to die before he came of age, a regent would watch over Buckland until Merry was old enough to take the reins. But the Tooks demanded immediate succession by a qualified candidate. They were too impatient to wait for a young heir to grow into the position.

 ‘But what if my husband renounces the succession now?’ Eglantine said boldly.

 ‘I am sorry, my dear,’ Ferumbras said. ‘Old Gerontius made it quite clear that it was up to his children to make up their minds, for all time following. The choice did not fall to their descendents. And so Isembold removed his line from the succession, and Hildifons...’

 ‘He had no line,’ an old gaffer interrupted, before his wife jerked his arm to silence him. ‘He went off on a journey, like mad Baggins...’

 ‘The papers are all in order, as old Gerontius set them up,’ Ferumbras said. ‘You cannot shirk your duty, short of being under the Ban or banished outright.’

Paladin straightened in his chair. ‘I have never shirked my duty,’ he said bleakly. The ruddy colour had faded from his face, leaving him stark white.

 ‘I know,’ Ferumbras said. ‘It’s a bitter draught to swallow, cousin, but I thought it better to bring it up now than to let you bind yourself into a contract, a totally unsuitable arrangement for the son of the future Thain.’

Paladin’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

 ‘In any event,’ Ferumbras said, as if there were no staring crowd surrounding them, ‘your son must commence his training. He has known only the life of a small-holder. He knows nothing of life in the great holes, or management of more than a few pigs in a pen, or a single flock at best. The Thain holds a great deal for the Tooks, and you... and your son... have much to learn before you’re harnessed to the waggon. I don’t expect to live forever.’

 ‘His training,’ Eglantine echoed.

Ferumbras nodded. ‘He’ll ride back to the Smials with us, I think,’ he said. ‘He might as well begin his lessons at once. Reading, writing, ciphering...’

Eglantine lifted her chin. ‘I’ve taught him such,’ she said proudly.

 ‘Riding,’ Ferumbras said, ‘management, dress, manners,’ his mouth twisted, ‘even dancing. A Thain must be a well-rounded hobbit, after all, and young Peregrin has only thirteen years or so to prepare.’

 ‘Thirteen years?’ Eglantine said.

Ferumbras smiled without humour. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If your husband is dead-set against being Thain, he can resign the office in favour of his son as soon as the lad comes of age... if Paladin can bring himself to saddle his son with the position so soon, that is.’

Pippin had the bewildered look of a wild bird as the cage door closes.

 ‘Well then,’ Ferumbras said. ‘It was a fine feast, and I thank you for your hospitality. Unless the lad would like to stay and open his presents, I do believe it is time for me to return to the Smials now.’

 ‘I—’ Pippin whispered, gulping.

 ‘Fine, we'll have your things sent on,’ Ferumbras said, turning to his head of escort. ‘Saddle our ponies, will you?’

 ‘Very good, Sir,’ Baragrim said.

 ‘Will you be staying over, my dear?’ Ferumbras said to Pearl.

Pippin’s oldest sister shared a look with her husband. They had planned, as a matter of fact, to stay a week at the farm before going back to the Great Smials. But if Ferumbras were to be dragging Pippin there... well, the lad would need someone familiar to take his part, to ease his way in unfamiliar circumstances. At the moment, the way Pippin was looking, she thought it better to cut their visit short and keep watch over him.

 ‘No, Sir,’ she said. ‘If it’s no trouble, we’ll ride back with you.’

 ‘No trouble at all,’ Ferumbras said easily. He moved forward, bowing to Paladin. ‘I hope you feel better soon, cousin,’ he said. ‘I thank you for your generous hospitality.’

Nodding to Eglantine, he put an arm over Pippin’s shoulders, and talking jovially, he led the tween away.

It appeared that Merry wouldn’t have a chance to speak to his younger cousin after all.

Chapter 23. Thorn: Hobbity Questions

Bucca improved more rapidly than many of the Men brought over the Lune; it seemed no time at all before he was on his feet, wandering about the Havens, poking his nose in everywhere he was allowed and some places he was not, or at least, he was politely escorted out of again. He would stop to watch Elves at work on various tasks, some familiar and some whose purpose he could only guess at.

Some of the Fair Folk spoke to him in the common tongue, making music of the words. With his kind’s ear for language, Bucca also began to pick up the tongue they used amongst themselves, a lilting language with myriad shades of nuance for every subject, compared to Common Speech, except perhaps the subject of food. Hobbits have developed or adapted quite a number of words devoted to that subject.

He was drawn often to the wharf, looking out to the graceful ships riding at anchor. It was an ever-changing sight, and something thrilled in him to watch a ship raise white sails to catch the wind, borne to far-away places that he could not even imagine. Tokka had been the imaginative one, inventing stories where there was a lack of facts to go on. Of course, in his time among the Elves of Lindon and the Men of Arthedain, Bucca had learned more of far-off places than Tokka ever dreamed.

One day as he sat upon a coil of heavy rope, a voice spoke behind him. ‘So, Master Bucca, will you take ship someday, to see far places?’

He scrambled to his feet and bowed. ‘Master Cirdan,’ he said. He found the Elf-Lord’s long white beard a constant source of fascination. The only beards he’d seen before bristled luxuriantly from the countenances of dwarves. Somehow Cirdan’s beard made him both more approachable and more other-worldly at once.

Cirdan seated himself and gestured to the hobbit to do the same. ‘Would you sail, Bucca?’ he said.

Bucca glanced at the billowing white sails that were diminishing into the distance and shook his head. ‘Much as the idea tempts me,’ he said, ‘I have love to keep me here.’

 ‘Family and farm,’ Cirdan said. ‘I’ve heard you talking in the Hall.’

 ‘The farm is gone, I’ve no doubt,’ Bucca said, but Cirdan smiled.

 ‘The buildings might be burned,’ he said, ‘but the land remains. In the spring the new shoots will rise from the ground, the flowers will bloom, the rains will fall...’

 ‘But if darkness covers the land, what will grow? All will whither and die,’ Bucca said.

 ‘Not while there are doughty spirits to push back the darkness,’ Cirdan said. ‘Gondor will come, have no fear of that, to march with the Men of Arnor and Elves of Lindon. And the Lord Elrond will march from Rivendell to join the battle, and catch the dark army as between a great pincers.’ He gestured as if he were the smith, grasping a piece of metal heated to yellow-red heat, to pull it from the fire for shaping.

Bucca felt his heart stir within him; somehow Cirdan had a power to kindle courage and hope with his words. The hobbit had noticed this over the past few weeks: Small knots of Men of Arthedain would be sitting together, fletching arrows or sharpening weapons or mending armour, silent or muttering, and as Cirdan passed by, their heads would lift for a moment, something like hope would come into their faces, and they’d stare after him in silence for some moments before going back to the task at hand.

 ‘But...’ Bucca said.

Cirdan laughed. ‘It is always “But” with you, Master Bucca,’ he said. ‘Another question, have you?’

 ‘Why do you shelter the Men of Arthedain?’ Bucca said. ‘Why are you so confident that Lord Elrond will march to their aid? You live in peace and safety, and from what I’ve heard he does as well.’

Cirdan listened gravely. Indeed, he said nothing, as if waiting for more.

Bucca swallowed hard. He was full of questions, true, but now they seemed impertinent.

Cirdan smiled, and the kindness of a summer breeze was in his eyes.

 ‘But... I’ve heard the Elves do not concern themselves with the affairs of mortals,’ Bucca said hesitantly. ‘After the Alliance of Elves and Men, after Gil-galad fell...’ His voice trailed off at the shadow of sorrow that crossed Cirdan’s face.

 ‘Yes,’ Cirdan said softly. ‘We suffered many losses, to drive the Shadow from the land. And always it takes shape again... but we did not think of such things. We grew estranged from Men, and retreated into our own fastnesses, for their vigour, their growth, their reach was distressing... they cut down the forests, they ploughed the meadows and wildflowers under, they used up the land, used it unwisely, and abandoned it for fresh lands, they delved for precious metal and stones, always taking, never giving back or thinking to preserve what they had, never satisfied and always wanting more...’

Bucca shook his head. Such thinking made no sense to him. Certainly you cut wood at need, but for every tree you cut down you planted another, or two or three. Certainly you ploughed a field and sowed it, but you also gave it rest after a few years, leaving it fallow to bloom with whatever wildflowers found hold there, while you ploughed and sowed a different field. Meadows were necessary places, for where would one picnic without them? And what need had he of gold, silver or precious stones? They were pretty, certainly, but served very little practical purpose.

 ‘But...’ he said again, and stopped in chagrin as Cirdan laughed.

 ‘Yes, Master Bucca, what is the “but” this time?’ he said. ‘Or is it perhaps the same one?’

 ‘But you took them in,’ Bucca said. ‘You did not stay in your fastness. Aranarth told me the Lune would rise against the Dark Captain if he sought to cross into Lindon. Your people might have kept safe, but instead you sent boats over to retrieve as many as might be, and some of your Elves spilled their blood, indeed, gave up their lives, fighting alongside the rearguard to cover the escape. Why?’

 ‘We must seem as terrible beings to you, young Master,’ Cirdan said soberly. ‘Content to withdraw while your people are driven into hiding, or slaughtered. Your people, who never offered offence to any,’ he said, and he bowed his head in grief, almost as if he could see in Bucca’s memory the burning of Stock. When Cirdan raised his head again, he continued, ‘Content to live at peace, preserving our land, refusing the passage of time, of years, looking inward and turning away from all that we deem “not our concern”. That is what you have thought of us, I have no doubt.’

 ‘You did not stand by and watch the Men of Arthedain slaughtered upon your border,’ Bucca said uncertainly.

Cirdan laughed again, but it was not a merry laugh as had been before. ‘We “stood by”, as you say, while the Shadow took Rhudaur, and again as the Men of Cardolan were overwhelmed and slain. But Arthedain’s end was less convenient, happening upon our border, as it were. Difficult to turn one’s eyes away, when the screams of the wounded and dying mingle with the singing of the birds...’

 ‘I did not say such a thing,’ Bucca bristled, forgetting for a moment that he spoke with the Lord of the Havens, immeasurably older, so far as he knew, than himself, and possessing inestimably more power than the most powerful Man he knew, the dispossessed son of the King of Arthedain.

 ‘It is not difficult to read your heart, my young friend,’ Cirdan said gently. ‘My people are “a selfish lot” by your thinking. And so we take in the remnant of Arthedain, and welcome the Men of Gondor to our wharves, and join with them to march against the Witch King, as will Elrond of Imladris and all the Elf Lords of his household...’

Bucca hung his head in shame, but Cirdan continued.

 ‘...and you would have the right of it, my young friend.’

Bucca was wishing that he could sink into the ground as the summer rain, leaving no trace. Cirdan fell silent, to allow his words to do their work. At last the hobbit raised his head, puzzlement on his face.

Cirdan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you have the right of it. Though my people build the ships that sail into the Uttermost West, I am not yet ready to quit Arda for the Blessed Realm. Shadow’s reach is growing, ever growing, and as it grows stronger, the Lords of Shadow may grow bold enough to test, even breach the protection of the Grey Havens, and Imladris, yea even unto the Golden Wood.’

 ‘And the Lord Elrond?’ Bucca said hesitantly. He’d heard of this august being spoken of by the Elves and the Men alike, a legendary figure who’d stood with Gil-galad, even as Cirdan did.

 ‘He stays for his own reasons,’ Cirdan said. ‘Not that he frees all of his thoughts with me, nor I mine with him, for that matter. Suffice it to say that this task has been set before us, and we will see it through.’

Chapter 24. Thain: Into the Future

Pippin’s head was spinning; he scarcely heard anything the Thain said to him, as a matter of fact, as they walked towards the paddock where the ponies of the Thain’s party waited, for these had not been turned out in the field like those of the other guests. As a result, he found himself pulled to a stop at the fence, to watch the hobbits of escort saddling the ponies, and then he realised Ferumbras was waiting for a response.

 ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said politely.

 ‘I asked if you had any questions,’ Ferumbras said patiently. ‘Is everything clear?’

Pippin stared at him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s clear. I don’t understand...’

 ‘Your grandfather...’ Ferumbras began.

 ‘I know all about that,’ Pippin said with a sharp gesture, not caring that he was being rude... to the Thain. After all, the Thain was being interminably rude, in his opinion, to interrupt this joyous occasion, to cut short Pippin’s hopes and dreams for the future, to impose his will in the situation.

After all, he thought with cold logic, what does it matter, if I’m a shepherd for the next seven years? I’ve more than a dozen years before they can force the seal of the Thain upon my hand.

 ‘Very well,’ Ferumbras said, maintaining a mild and pleasant tone. Pippin wasn’t fooled. There was a will of iron beneath the velvet manner. ‘What is it you do not understand?’

 ‘Why may I not even bid my loved ones farewell?’ Pippin said. ‘Why must my party be cut short?’

The Thain gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Do you think it will be a joyous occasion?’ he said. ‘More of a funeral feast, I’d say, but I could not let things go on as they were going, or there’d be the deuce to pay.’

 ‘And the old shepherd,’ Pippin said. ‘What’s he to do? He needs...’

 ‘Now that's a pony of a different colour,’ Ferumbras said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘I may be hard, but I’m not unjust. When I heard the rumour of what was to be done this day, I made certain arrangements. For a surety, I would not see an innocent party harmed, not if I could remedy the situation. I was going to deal with this once we were ready to depart, but you might as well have your mind set at ease now.’ While Pippin wondered, the Thain raised his voice. ‘Haral!’

One of the two hobbits saddling ponies straightened and turned at once. ‘Sir,’ he said smartly.

 ‘Let Baragrim finish,’ Ferumbras said. ‘Attend me.’

Haral pulled the girth he was fastening, made sure it was tight, gave the pony a pat and stepped away. ‘Sir,’ he said again.

With a closer look, Pippin realised that Haral was only a tween, a few years older than himself, perhaps, but not old enough to be a hobbit of the Thain’s escort. Personal servant to the Thain, perhaps?

 ‘Come along,’ Ferumbras said to the two tweens, turning back to the party, where hobbits were milling uncertainly and all tongues were wagging at once. Of course they fell silent in the face of the Thain’s approach.

Pippin saw Merry’s face brighten as they neared him, and he could just imagine what his cousin was thinking. He’s changed his mind! or something of the sort. Pippin had no such illusions. There had been such a note of finality in Ferumbras’ tone, like the snap of a trap shutting, or a snare pulling tight, and no matter how he might struggle, like the hapless hare he could not slip out of the strangling noose.

Gladdy was weeping, the old shepherd’s arms about her, his own expression bleak and his face drawn long with sorrow.

 ‘Shepherd Brockbank,’ Ferumbras said.

 ‘Sir,’ the old shepherd said, straightening and pulling Gladdy to his side. She hastily wiped at her streaming eyes and somehow managed to stifle her sobs, raising her woebegone face to meet Pippin’s sad gaze.

 ‘May I present to you Haral Goodchild, son of Bedelia Took and Garal Goodchild? He comes of a good family, and I will vouch for his character as a steady worker.’

 ‘Master Goodchild,’ the old shepherd said gravely.

 ‘He came to me three years ago, orphaned, and my steward thought he would make an excellent personal servant. He has satisfactorily learned all tasks set before him, and served loyally and with vigour and wit.’

 ‘I’m very happy for you,’ the old shepherd said, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

 ‘I would like him to be trained as a shepherd,’ Ferumbras went on. ‘I think he misses the out-of-door life that he knew as a farmer’s son, and while I have no doubt it will be difficult to replace him, I would apprentice him to you, if you’ll have him.’

 ‘You’ll...’ the old shepherd said, while Gladdy stared, wondering.

There were two ways to be apprenticed in the Shire, in those days. In the most common method, a Master would “buy” an apprentice, from a family with too many mouths to feed, to train for a period of seven years, paying a fee to the apprentice’s family and providing room and board and instruction in return for labour. But a wealthy hobbit might pay a Master to train one of his children in a trade, if that child showed an interest or aptitude in a skill. Better to have a tween that was happy and productive than idle and given to mischief.

 ‘I’ll pay you to take him on,’ Ferumbras said, making himself completely clear. ‘I imagine we’ll both benefit by the arrangement.’

 ‘I...’ Brockbank said, completely at a loss.

 ‘You take him on for a month and a day,’ Ferumbras said. ‘We’ll finalise the agreement then, if he proves himself satisfactory. Which I’ve no doubt but that he will.’ He clapped young Haral on the shoulder and said, ‘Be well, lad.’

 ‘Sir,’ was all Haral said. Evidently he’d been prepared for this turn of events, where Pippin had not.

Ferumbras gave Pippin a little push. ‘You wanted to say your farewells,’ he said. ‘Time is wasting.’

Gladdy gave a little sob and stepped forward, holding out her arms, and Pippin stepped into her embrace, hugging her tightly.

 ‘Go with grace, lad,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I’ll be thinking good thoughts, your way, and expecting to hear the best in return.’

 ‘Bless you, Gladdy,’ he whispered, fiercely fighting back his own tears.

He stepped back and held out his hand to the old shepherd. ‘Thanks,’ he said briefly, though his eyes spoke volumes. ‘I won’t forget.’

 ‘See that you don’t,’ the old shepherd said with a nod. Then, to the Thain, he said, ‘May the lad come for a visit, on occasion?’

 ‘I’m that sorry,’ Ferumbras said, his tone gentle but final. ‘He’ll be much cumbered with business, you know. Lots to learn, what with him a tween already and so much ground yet to cover.’

 ‘Aye,’ the shepherd said, and then he pulled Pippin into a hug. ‘Make me proud, lad,’ he whispered, for Pippin’s ears alone.

The lad could not speak; he merely nodded against the old shepherd’s cheek.

Brockbank gave him a pat on the back and stepped away. ‘Come, lad,’ he said to Haral. ‘Let us get some food into ye, afore we have to start the long journey homewards.’

At some unspoken signal, Gladdy took Haral from the other side, and the two old hobbits escorted the tween away without a backward look, to spare Pippin further grief, though the set of their shoulders gave silent evidence to their own. Hot with resentment, Pippin watched the other tween walk into the life he coveted.

With another nudge from the Thain (Pippin wondered if he were to be no more than a trained pony, responding to hands and heels, a twitch on the bit and a dig in the side), Pippin stepped forward to a quick flurry of hugs from mother, father, two sisters, and an assortment of other relatives and friends, and then he was helping Isum towards the waiting ponies.

He lifted his little nephews onto the back of the pony they shared, helped Baragrim lift Isum into the saddle, assisted Pearl into her saddle, and mounted the pony Haral had ridden from the Great Smials.

With nothing more than the shirt on his back, he rode out of his old life and into the future.

Chapter 25. Thorn: Of Wind and Wave

On a day when the wind blew blustery and the sky shone silvery grey, Bucca, wrapped in a cloak of Elven-make, sat upon a piece of driftwood and watched the waves curling up the beach. The harbour itself, behind the breakwater, was calm, too calm for his restless spirit. Spring was coming to the land; he could smell it on the wind, and he thought of the rich fields of the Marish, the calls of the birds returning to the land to build their nests and raise their families, the new lambs, the calves, the foals that ought to be coming into the world, the fields that ought to be showing signs of life, though he knew there was no life in the fields; scouts sent out had returned with tales of blackened ruin where hobbit communities had thrived, of empty fields gone to weed and burned-out farmsteads. Where the little folk had gone was a mystery, but all had disappeared without a sign.

Bucca could only hope that his family, and others, still hid in the remnant of the vast forest that had covered the heart of the Shire, remainder of a far larger forest that Cirdan told him had once extended from the Lune southward to a golden wood, and even to a far land where Tree-folk lived and tended trees as shepherds might tend sheep. Certainly Men had cut down many trees in the land, in the past, but as the land that became the Shire stood empty, before a long-dead King of Arthedain granted the Shire to those who followed Marcho and Blanco, the forests had grown up again, from the End of the Woods near the Brandywine River (what the hobbits called the Woody End) all the way to the Far Downs.

But then, great swatches of the forest had reportedly been put to the torch by the army of the Witch King. The great Green Hills, that had been covered with the myriad greens of a forest, now stood bare save the charred skeletons of the few trees left standing. Bucca hoped that the majority of hidden Shire-folk had escaped the burning. There was no way for him to return to the place where his father had said they would meet once more. Was it a true saying? Did his father wait, even now? Or had Thorn said the words, only to comfort his son as he sent him to do his duty to the son of the King?

 ‘Are you not chilled, Master Bucca?’

At the words, he looked around, and then jumped to his feet, to bow low before Cirdan. ‘I am well,’ he said. Pulling his cloak closer about himself, he said, ‘Thanks to the kindness of my hosts, who have provided me with warm clothing, to add to the clothes I was wearing when I came to you.’

A swirl of gulls blew over them, their cries wild and piercing, and Cirdan lifted his eyes to the sky, and then looked farther, to where the clouds and raging sea merged into one.

 ‘What do they say?’ Bucca said curiously.

 ‘There is a great storm, far to the north...’ the Elf lord said slowly, his eyes sweeping the horizon. Did his far-seeing eyes perhaps see the first sails of Gondor’s promised fleet? Bucca peered out to sea, but saw nothing but tossing waves.

 ‘What lies to the north?’ Bucca asked.

 ‘A great ice bay,’ Cirdan answered. ‘Forochel, it is called. Folk live there, simple, honest folk calling themselves the Lossoth, who know little of evil, sheltered from enemies by the harshness of their chosen land.’ He shook his head. 'Though they know enough of Angmar to fear him, and his icy grip.'

 ‘But Angmar would not find it desirable to march into their land, to possess it?’ Bucca said.

 ‘Perhaps, after there was nothing else to conquer,’ Cirdan said. ‘The thought of any folk living free, even the strange and unfriendly Lossoth, is enough to bring his wrath to bear.’

 ‘How can they be strange and unfriendly, and yet simple and honest?’ Bucca wanted to know. ‘And how do you know this? Have you met them?’

Cirdan laughed softly, but did not answer. Instead he began to describe this strange folk, accustomed to bitter cold, who lived in houses made of snow, and ran on the ice without slipping and sliding, with bones strapped to their feet, pulling wheel-less carts that slipped over the ice and snow without need for horses or ponies—not that there was any forage for such creatures anyhow. The Lossoth hunted sea-creatures for their meat, eating it fresh and raw (Bucca shuddered at the thought), and often camped on the south shores of the bay at the feet of the Mountains to gather and dry leaves and berries, and to dig roots in the brief warm of the summer months.

 ‘Some are encamped by the seashore even now,’ Cirdan said, ‘though the time of Quickening comes even later to the far Northlands. They must still be locked in the grip of ice, considering how slow the weather has been to warm, this year.’

Bucca nodded. Somehow Cirdan had received word that the King of Arthedain had escaped to the far north, to hide in old dwarf-tunnels near the far end of the Mountains. Just how he had come by this information, Bucca did not know, but he had heard the Men of Arthedain speaking among themselves in low voices about the far-seeing of this Elf-lord, who seemed to see farther than any other, and in ways beyond the understanding of a simple hobbit.

 ‘Is that where you met them?’ Bucca said. ‘On the south shores of the bay?’

 ‘They trade there with the Elves of Lindon,’ Cirdan said, without directly answering the question. ‘Though they do well with the spears and knives they fashion of bone, they value the metal weapons that we have to trade, and we in turn value the furs they offer, warm and soft. A hood lined with such fur will not freeze stiff from one’s breath, no matter how cold the weather.’

Bucca nodded, rubbing his cheek against the fur that lined the hood of his cloak. What a wonder, that he was wearing something that came from such a far, strange place!

 ‘Will they help King Arvedui?’ Bucca asked. ‘You have said they are simple and honest, and yet unfriendly.’

 ‘They might take pity on a wanderer, lost and starving,’ Cirdan said. ‘In any event, they would be afraid of the weapons of the King and his bodyguard; long swords of sharp metal, spears with wicked tips... Indeed, they would be cautious.’

 ‘Your ship went out many days ago,’ Bucca said. ‘I would have expected it to have been there and back again by now...’

 ‘You and others,’ Cirdan said wryly. ‘The Men of Arthedain are brave soldiers, but sailors they are not. They know nothing of contrary winds, or treacherous seas...’

Another spate of gulls blew above them, crying in sharp and somehow anguished tones. Though their voices sounded little different from the previous flock, Cirdan threw up an arm as if to ward off evil news, and his face twisted with some terrible emotion, becoming suddenly the mask of a stranger and not the calm and unruffled Shipwright Bucca had come to know.

 ‘My lord, are you ill?’ Bucca said in amaze.

Cirdan answered not, but stumbled away without a word, as the hobbit followed, peppering him with anxious questions.

The guards at the gates, seeing their lord’s face, stepped forward with urgent questions of their own, but he silenced them with a sharp word. Bucca, winded, stopped at the gate to catch his breath, and Cirdan disappeared into the crowd of Elves and Men going about the business of the day.

No Elves came to the evening meal, and there were murmurs of speculation amongst the folk of Arthedain, which fell silent as a song of lament arose from the direction of the stony beach, carried on the keening wind.

Bucca, having lost his appetite, crept from the dining hall, and all the way to the gate, which he found guarded by Men and not Elves.

 ‘Where are the Fair Folk?’ he asked.

The soldiers guarding the gate simply pointed in the direction of the trail to the beach. ‘Mourning,’ one of them said.

 ‘Mourning?’ Bucca said. ‘What are they mourning?’

 ‘Perhaps a ship has been lost at sea,’ the other soldier said, and shrugged. ‘How should I know? Why would anyone tell us anything? We’ll likely be the last to know.’

Chapter 26. Arrival

The ride to the Great Smials was somewhat familiar to Pippin; his family took this track at least once a year, to visit Pearl and her family after planting was done and before the first crop was ready to be harvested, and before the Brandybucks arrived at the farm for their annual visit.

They rode several abreast on the road to Tookbank, Isum and Baragrim flanking Thain Ferumbras, Pippin and Pearl to either side of the pony bearing the three little ones. Isum raised his voice in pleasant melody, and Baragrim joined in. Pearl, though she was looking rather pale to Pippin's eye, added her voice, and the three little Tooks chimed in, humming where they did not know the words, two of them tunefully and the third wandering through the music at will, sometimes hitting the right note but more often sounding his own tone.

Pippin did not feel at all like singing. Ferumbras did not sing, either, but the ponies pricked their ears and seemed to move to the rhythm of the singing of the others.

They stopped off at the little inn in Tookbank for a bite to eat and were on their way again, to the end of the road, which turned into a farm lane, and then a track, so narrow in most parts that they must ride single file, meandering through the great Green Hills, winding round one hill and then another, splashing across small streams that ran through the valleys, passing neat little smials, sheep and cows in the fields, laundry snapping on the lines in the breeze, little hobbits chasing one another through the meadows, or lying amidst the wildflowers, making stories out of cloud-pictures. These would jump to their feet, on seeing the travellers, and wave wild greetings as the riders passed by.

At last, after several hours' ride, they came into Tuckborough, tucked up around the skirts of the large Hill that contained the Great Smials. Several lads ran out from the stables to take charge of the ponies. Baragrim motioned to Pippin, and so instead of helping Isum from his saddle, the youth found himself attending the Thain as Ferumbras descended heavily, with a grunt that bespoke his age and weariness.

Pippin would have turned away, to help Isum and accompany his sister's family to their quarters, but the Thain's hand on his shoulder stayed him, reminding him where his duty now lay. At a nod from the Thain, Baragrim went to help Isum instead.

'I will require nothing more of you for the time being,' Ferumbras said. 'Settle in, take stock of your surroundings, take tea with your sister's family, and join me at late supper in the great room. I expect you to be punctual.'

'Yes, Sir,' Pippin said. Ferumbras waited, as if expecting more, then nodded and turned away.

Baragrim hailed the tween, and Pippin hastened to take Isum's other side, to help Pearl's husband hobble into the Great Smials.

'Why don't you use a wheeled chair?' Pippin said, '...the likes of the one that Mistress Lal...'

'Hush,' Isum said urgently, looking behind them. His face relaxed as he saw Pearl busy with the three lads. Trying to guide them all in one direction was rather like trying to herd a flock of butterflies. 'Mind your tongue, Pip, now more than ever! You know better...!'

Pippin ducked his head, feeling half his age for his momentary thoughtlessness. Of course Isum would not use a wheeled chair, even if the smiths and leathercrafters formed another like Lalia's, not when Pearl had the blame for Lalia's death, whether or not the fault was hers.

Isum had the right of it, of course. Now that he was at the Great Smials for more than a visit he must mind his tongue and not speak whatever came to the top of his head, the way he was used to doing back home.

Baragrim began speaking now, to cover Pippin's gaffe, talking "shop talk" with Isum, about stray dogs, and trail maintenance, Men seen in the Shire for good or ill, and the possibility of wild swine in the neighbourhood, all matters of concern for the hobbits responsible for the safety of the Thain. Isum had been head of the Thain's escort at one time, after all, and his advice was valued by his former follower.

'And then of course there's the matter of arranging the lad's escort...' he said.

'The lad's escort?' Pippin echoed. 'Do you mean myself?'

'Aye,' Baragrim said, pulling a corner of his mouth in a semblance of a smile. 'Who else would I mean?'

'Gently, Barry, go gently,' Isum said. 'Lest he break the jesses before they're even tied.'

'That's not funny,' Pippin said, turning back to his brother-in-love.

'I wasn't joking,' Isum said mildly, and then he gave a sigh of relief, for they'd reached the door of his apartments. Baragrim pushed the door open, and they soon had Isum settled in a comfortable chair with his twisted legs elevated on soft cushions. 'If you'd be so kind as to do the same for my wife...' he said to Pippin.

'I am well, really,' Pearl scolded lightly. 'You'd think I never was expecting, before...'

'All the same,' Baragrim said, 'you're to sit yourself down, Pearlie, and suffer having your feet up whilst these fine lads of yours serve you. You've been in the saddle too much of this day, to my way of thinking...'

'Go fuss at your own wife,' Pearl said, but Baragrim only laughed as he set a low stool at Pearl's feet.

'Come, lads,' he said. 'Perry,' -- this to the eldest of the children -- 'you're old enough to pour out, now, are you not?'

'I am!' the youngster said stoutly.

'Good,' Baragrim said. 'You run down to the kitchens, then, and tell them the Thain's ordered tea for the Headmaster's family, and when it's brought you serve out, and have them fetch the dishes back to the kitchens, mind! Your sweet mama is not to be serving or washing up or anything else this eve, by order of the Thain!'

'Aye, Captain Baragrim!' young Peribold said, standing stiff and straight at attention, copied by his younger brothers. Baragrim saw the three of them out into the corridor and pushed the door nearly to behind them, turning back as if there were some unfinished business yet to address.

'I can help Pearl...' Pippin began, but the head of escort fixed him with a stern eye and shook his head.

'It's not your place,' he said. 'You're not to be fetching and carrying and running messages as if you were any common lad.'

'But...' Pippin said.

'And I'm to see you settled in,' Baragrim continued.

Pearl looked helplessly at Isum. 'The guest room, I suppose,' she said. It was the only spare room they had.

'No, missus,' Baragrim said with a short bow. 'I'm to make other arrangements.'

'Not the dormitory,' Isum said. 'You're not going to throw young Pip in with the other pups, his first day here, are you?'

'Not the dormitory, no,' Baragrim said, 'though that would have been my first inclination... a few nights with you, his family, until he starts to get used to the place, not just being a visitor but actually a part, and then to bunk in with a group of other lads. Surely, there might be a bloody nose or two until they established a pecking order, but...'

'But...?' Pearl said, rising from her chair.

Baragrim waved her back down. 'But the Thain wishes to make the lad's position absolutely clear to all and sundry,' he said.

Pippin found his mouth open; he closed it and asked a question of his own. 'My position?' he said, feeling stupid.

Baragrim turned to him, that ironic twist returning to his mouth. 'Heir to the Thain,' he said. 'Unless and until Paladin decides to remove to the Great Smials, you are his representative, and are to be so treated.'

'I'm not even one-and-twenty!' Pippin protested. 'Why, I couldn't be Thain even if...'

'If old Thain Ferumbras were to pass this very night,' Baragrim said, lowering his voice, 'then Paladin would have no choice but to take up residence here, and you'd still be "Heir". Ferumbras is just giving you some time to try it on for size, get used to it, that you might be less of a grief to your father when the day comes...'

'Less of a grief...' Pippin echoed, stunned.

Baragrim nodded, his face grim. 'They make allowances for visitors, you know,' he said. Pippin did not know, but he saw Isum nod, and Pearl gulp back tears. 'Well, laddie-my-own, you're not a visitor any more, it seems. You belong here.'

It was not the sort of belonging Pippin had ever coveted. It was enough to make him wish to be a wanderer once more. 'Make allowances,' he prompted.

Baragrim nodded again. 'Aye,' he said heavily. 'But no more. Every word you say will be picked apart, every move you make will be recounted, every thought you think will be speculated upon...'

'Lovely,' Pippin said, his own mouth twisting in unconscious imitation.

***

There were some compensations, Pippin discovered, after Baragrim escorted him to his new quarters. He had an entire suite of apartments to himself! Imagine that, a tween, with his own apartments!

...not entirely to himself, as it turned out. He'd have to put up with the intrusions of his own staff: a holekeeper, stern, stout and grey-haired and undoubtedly efficient in her discharge of her duties; a hobbitservant who had the charge of Pippin's most private quarters and his wardrobe--imagine, an entire wardrobe of fine and fancy clothes for every occasion; a tutor, who'd fill his mornings with instruction; and a minder.

'A minder!' he protested to Baragrim, having been introduced to quarters and staff and on his way back to Pearl's for tea. 'What do I need a minder for? I'm not a child!'

'Custom,' Baragrim said, and seeing no one in the corridor they were traversing he dropped his voice and added, 'Lalia spoilt her son, and pampered him, and it was all part of her family's tradition, that a child remained a child until three-and-thirty years were safely passed. Ferumbras knows no differently, and has decreed that you will have a minder, as is proper and well.'

'It is not well,' Pippin said. 'Not at all!'

'He will only be your shadow at night,' Baragrim said, 'in case of bad dreams, or if you waken hungry in the middle night and wanting something to eat.' He saw the tween brighten at the thought, and smiled to himself before delivering the rest of the news. 'During the day, you merely have to keep him apprised of your whereabouts, so that he may fetch you whenever the Thain sends for you.'

Pippin swallowed hard, as if feeling a chain being fastened to his ankle. 'I merely have to keep him apprised...' he said, 'but what about all that "escort" nonsense?'

'You will have an escort assigned to you,' Baragrim said. 'It will be his... or their... duty to go with you when you leave the Great Smials, to ensure that you are not harried by stray dogs, or rogue Men, or the like.'

'I don't need child-minders watching my every move!' Pippin said, indignant.

Baragrim sighed. 'If you wouldn't mind going along with it all,' he said, 'you'll certainly make my life easier, and the lives of my hobbits. If you slip your escort, it'll cost them a day of water rations at the very least.'

Pippin suppressed a grin, scarcely hearing the last words. It hadn't occurred to him that he might "slip the escort" until Baragrim had mentioned the fact, actually. It should be no more difficult than giving one of his older sisters the slip, in earlier years, when they'd been set to watch him.

'And of course, if you're out with one of your older cousins...' Baragrim was saying.

'I shouldn't need an escort if I'm with Frodo or Freddy, or Merry or Folco,' Pippin agreed.

'I'd beg to differ,' Baragrim said wryly, 'knowing the mischief you've been able to make with some of them... but the Thain has said it, and so I must make it so.'

'I'll have to issue a steady stream of invitations, then,' Pippin said thoughtfully.

Baragrim actually smiled. 'You do that, lad,' he said. 'The Great Smials will be all the livelier for all the new blood and fresh ideas.'

Chapter 27. Thorn: Arrival

High summer had come to the land, and sometimes Bucca walked outside of the gates, breathing the scent of meadows and sun. Rich fields of grain billowed in green waves, fair folk waved, Men of Arthedain who took solace in working in the fields bent their heads, sowing seeds or cultivating the growing crops. Their swords were sharp, their quivers full, they were ready, should Gondor come as promised.

After the days of mourning had passed, Aranarth would not take the title "King", no matter how his advisors pressed him. 'King,' Bucca heard his voice floating out of the opened window, of the hall where the nobles and captains of Arthedain gathered. 'King, without a kingdom! Nay... let us win our land free again from the filth that has overrun it, and then perhaps we'll talk about king and crown.'

How they knew the ship had foundered in the storm, taking all on board into the icy depths, was beyond the hobbit's ken. Perhaps the gulls had brought the message to Cirdan. In any event, it was generally acknowledged that King Arvedui was dead, and that the stones of seeing had gone to the bottom of the Sea with him.

'Pity,' Bucca heard Thulion say. 'We've no idea what is happening on the other side of the Lune... we could use someone with the talent for far-seeing...'

A word of rebuke from Aranarth silenced the Man, but Cirdan spoke as if he'd not just had his honour impugned. 'Indeed,' he said. 'I wish I knew where Mithrandir wandered, that I might send a summons to him. His counsel would be welcome. Long has he journeyed, looking into the things of the Enemy...'

'The Grey Pilgrim offered us little enough advice, as Angmar massed upon our borders. Be vigilant! he told us. Be watchful!'

'Captain Thulion!' Aranarth said again.

'We were vigilant and watchful, for all the good it did,' Thulion muttered. 'The king sent to Gondor, seeing the stormclouds building, and Gondor promised to come...'

The king's aide had soured since word of Arvedui's death. No longer did he stand on the wharf during the few hours he had free of his duties, watching for the sails of Gondor. He seemed in danger of being consumed by bitterness, yet continued to do his duty in a dogged manner, serving a king without a kingdom, a king in exile, living in a far land amongst a fair folk, but still, not his home.

'We have some idea what is happening on the far side of the Lune,' Cirdan said now, and Bucca sat up and listened more closely. 'We have sent out spies of our own, to scout out the land...'

'Birds...' someone muttered. 'What good are...?'

'They have told us that the land lies empty, fallow, the fields overgrown with weeds, the ruins of barns and byres and dwellings empty and desolate.'

Bucca's heart sank.

'Empty...' Thulion echoed.

'Empty of Angmar's army, as well,' Cirdan continued. 'There are outposts along the Road. Messages travel the King's Road from the watchers on the Eastern banks of the Lune, towards the North Downs. But there are no great encampments... the bulk of the army have been withdrawn. Many have been put to rebuilding Fornost, for much of the city was burned when it was taken...'

Norbury rebuilt, Bucca mused. It seemed strange, somehow, to think of Angmar building something rather than tearing it down. Of course, whatever was built would be terrible to behold, he had no doubt.

It struck him suddenly that Cirdan had said the land was empty of Angmar's forces, except a few messengers along the Road. The bulk of the Shire-folk would have escaped into the forests, if they had escaped at all. Obviously they would not return to their farms, not if they crept from the shelter of the trees and saw Men on horses travelling the Road. But his people might still be alive, and hiding, living by hunting and gathering as the Fallohides had before crossing the Misty Mountains!

He made a firm resolve in himself, that he would make his way homewards, to the tree his father had told him about, to see... to see if any still awaited him there. Perhaps they thought him long dead, but he'd never give up hope of finding them. He'd search until he did find his loved ones, or until his last breath, whichever came first.

He scarcely took note of the discussion as plans tumbled over themselves in his head. He'd have to gather provisions for the journey, find some way of crossing the Lune, and avoid the watchers on the far side, the sentries who sent regular reports back to Angmar...

'Master Bucca?' ...and suddenly he became aware that his name had been repeated while he'd been deep in thought. He looked up into Cirdan's face, the ancient, wise eyes holding amusement. 'You have found a pleasant place to enjoy the afternoon sun, it seems.'

'Very pleasant,' Bucca said, scrambling to his feet. 'Sunny, yet perfectly located to catch the caress of the breeze.'

'Yes,' the Shipwright said. 'The windows catch the breezes as well, directing them into the hall for the comfort of those within.'

'Ah, yes?' Bucca said, trying to look baffled and politely inquiring.

'And so, did you have any questions you needed the answers to?' the Elf-lord said, turning his steps towards the harbour, long steps, long legs, of course, but slow to allow the hobbit to keep pace without getting out of breath. 'I thought I would save you the trouble of apologising before launching into a dozen or more.'

'Will Gondor come?' Bucca blurted. Seldom were his questions so boldly invited, though the Elf-lord was remarkably patient with him and seemed to enjoy the hobbit's company, in the brief hours when his attention was not claimed by duty or discussion.

'The gulls have brought news of a vast fleet,' Cirdan said. 'Many ships... one is to hope that they are not Corsairs, coming to assault the Havens, but filled with Men of Gondor, come to the aid of their northern kin.'

'Is that why you've sent all your ships away?' Bucca said. He had wondered, but no one seemed to know the explanation, why Cirdan would man the ships with skeleton crews and send them from the safety of the Havens.

He supposed that the combined forces of Arthedain and Lindon would be enough to repel the Corsairs... but the thought of two titanic forces clashing made him feel once again as small and insignificant as an insect, easily crushed.

'The harbour is cleared for action, to welcome foe or friend,' Cirdan said. 'It is a pity that the birds cannot distinguish one sort of banner from another. All Men look alike to them, they say. However, the sails of the ships are not dark-of-night, they say, and in that we may find hope.'

'And when will they come?' Bucca said, craning eagerly out to sea. A handful of the Fair Folk stood upon the docks, their far-seeing eyes looking into the distance, and Cirdan called up to him who stood in the watchtower high above, but received only a shake of the head in answer.

'If they keep driving before the wind and tide,' Cirdan said, 'and do not lay off, for whatever reason, they will arrive at any time... and we will be ready to greet them.' He smiled at the hobbit and added, 'I bid you good day, Master Bucca, and come not late to the daymeal.'

'Never!' Bucca said, and the Elf-lord laughed, before turning away to hail the Harbour-master, to walk away, voices low, in serious discussion. Bucca hesitated, wanting to follow, for he'd not yet had a chance to ask about the possibility of being landed on the far side of the Lune, to begin to make his way homewards. If home existed, that was.

It would have been difficult to eavesdrop, having no eaves nearby for starters, though Bucca had grown used to the language of the Elves of Lindon and could make himself understood, after a fashion. He, in his turn, understood much better than he could speak. He thought he had an idea of the topic, anyhow, and the next day saw his suspicions confirmed as men-at-arms took up their posts on the docks, in the shadow of the buildings, and on the rooftops, watching for the arrival of the expected fleet.

It was Gondor they expected, but with Gondor so belated and no news to be had, it was possible the Corsairs had attacked their southern kin, attacked and overwhelmed them, and now, bolstered by their success and perhaps even lent strength by the Enemy, were on their way to assail the northern harbours. There was no harm in being ready to repulse an attack, in any event, with so great a fleet reported by the seabirds who wandered the wind currents above the swelling waves.

And so, on a foggy morning Bucca sat upon his customary rock on the beach, watching the waves come in. It was quiet here, with all the Men and Elves massed in the harbour, waiting... perhaps if battle came, he'd be able to creep into the long grasses and avoid being spitted by arrow or sword. He was only a hobbit, after all, and rather a cowardly one at that. Tokka had been the bold one, the one who'd led them into adventures. Bucca had been the prudent one, the voice of caution, for all the good it had done him.

Prudence, that was what it was, he told himself, even as his face burned at his private conviction of cowardice. What good could he do in a battle? What good could he do at all?

He hunched in his cloak, miserable, not even noticing the sounding of the bell for the morning meal as the fog-shrouded sea slowly brightened before him in the rising of the sun at his back.

He heard a faint cry, carried on the wind from the harbour, and something moved him to slide over the rock, to crouch behind its comforting bulk, peering into the fog. He blinked, was it but a phantasm, a trick of sun and fog and sleepy eyes? No, it was not mere fog that billowed on the waves, but a sail, a large white sail, and another... and a red sail, and yellow, and blue, and striped bright colours, and painted designs, and more of sun-bleached white! And below the sails the form of a ship, ships, more ships, sun glinting from shields and spears and helms lining the decks, more than he could count as the fog lifted, revealing a vast fleet lying off the point, filling the Gulf as far as the eye could see, and from the far bank of the Lune where the watchers of Angmar crouched came the faint blast of a warning horn.

A cheer arose, coming from the dockside, thin at first but growing in volume until it seemed the ancient buildings of Mithlond themselves joined in the praise. The hills of Lindon rang with the sounds of welcome.

Gondor had come.

Chapter 28. Thain: Lessons to Be Learned

The days fell quickly into a routine of sorts for the young son of Paladin. He ate early breakfast with the Thain--on High Day this would take place on the banks of the nearest fishing stream, where they'd spend half the morning casting for trout and salmon. In the Thain's study, listening to Thain Ferumbras talking about the many concerns of the Thain and Took, Pippin learned how to tie flies, intricate bits of feather and wire to tempt a wary fish to strike. At the same time, the old hobbit was teaching him about the ways of managing Tooks and Tooklanders, what "lures" to use to draw them to do what was best for the Tookland, what strategies worked best, ways of getting stubborn Tooks to come around in their thinking while making them believe it was all their own idea.

The rest of the morning was spent with steward, copying out records, or tutor, learning by heart the history of the Shire as all young gentlehobbits had drummed into their heads by rote: names and dates, mostly, dusty and dry and uninteresting, save the snippets that stirred memory in Pippin of Bilbo's storytelling. Dull names came to life when attached to the lives of real people and places he'd seen, whether with his own eyes or through the storyteller's. But for the most part, dull and dry it was, and the sting of a switch on his palm when he was inattentive, though the tutor dared not hit hard enough to leave a mark.

All the copywork must be done in a fair hand, or else it must be done over, and in this way Pippin learned something of contracts and agreements, rents and records, testaments and tithes, and all the rest of those documents spawned by an orderly society.

Afternoons were more interesting, at least most of them were. There were, of course, the lessons in deportment which included dancing and polite conversation, manners such as how to hold a door open or how to pull out a chair or such accommodations to the fairer sex. Happily these lessons occupied only one day of the week, and the others were filled with shooting and riding and other enjoyable sport, and best of all his sister's husband Isumbold was headmaster for these fine arts that every gentlehobbit worth his salt ought to know.

Shooting was not Pippin's favourite lesson, however. He found it rather frustrating, in point of fact, to try to manage a bow. He could throw a stone with the best of them, striking his target swift and true, but to fit an arrow to the string, draw back and shoot...? The arrow-fetchers learned to stay behind the shooting line when it was Pippin's turn to shoot, venturing out after his arrows only when his quiver was empty. It was that, or crouch behind the target while the arrows whistled past, waiting for a shout of "All clear!"

He took a great deal of good-natured ribbing from his Tookish cousins, though of course no one was truly unpleasant to him. He was, after all, representing the heir to the Thain. One day he would be Thain himself, and they wanted him to remember them kindly when that day came, of course.

On this bright autumnal day he rode round-and-round atop a sleek and well-groomed pony, as Isumbold called out orders. It would have been tempting to drowse as they trotted along, but Isum didn't give them the luxury: They went from walk to trot to canter to cutting down the centre of the ring and changing leads to trotting again... And all the while, Pippin was trying to remember to keep his elbows in, his heels down, his hands in contact with the pony's mouth...

'Halt your ponies!' Isum barked out, and Pippin sat up straight and pulled on the reins, though he hardly needed to. His pony stopped at hearing the command, actually. However, he was congratulating himself on how well he was doing when he was thrown off balance--Hilly's pony, behind him, had not halted, blundering into the hindquarters of Pippin's pony, who took exception to this and kicked out with both heels.

Not to be put off, Hilly's pony dodged the flying hoofs and reached a long neck to snap at the rump of Pippin's pony. A full-scale battle threatened, when Isum manoeuvred his own pony into the middle of the combat, crowding too close to Pippin's pony for that one to get in any more good kicks, even as he landed a sharp blow with his riding crop on Hilly's pony.

When at last order was restored and the ponies were lined up, more or less in a straight line, Isum glared at the class. 'Hilly,' he said.

Hildibold shrugged his shoulders. "Hilly", as his cousins called him, was the son of a healer, just a little younger than Pippin. Entering his tween years, he was old enough to learn the healer's arts, but had asked his father if he might instead learn riding and shooting, following in the footsteps of his beloved older brother Tolibold, who hoped someday to be a messenger for the Thain, or even rise as high as one of the hobbits of the Thain's escort . Mardibold, the eldest son, was already practicing the healing arts, and so the old healer indulged the wishes of his youngest son. He was quite the best rider in the class, and knew it well.

'What was that all about?' Isum said. 'This is not the Battle of Greenfields.'

'Oughter be,' another student snorted to Pippin, but was quelled with a glance from the instructor.

'It's this pony,' Hilly said. 'You call this a riding pony? He ought to be put down and his bones fed to the dogs.'

'If you had proper control...' Isum began, but Hilly dared to argue.

'A stone troll would have a softer mouth,' the tween said, 'and would probably be easier to control! This fellow's mouth has been spoilt, and is hard as iron, or harder...'

But Isum's attention had been drawn by two figures walking past the ring, and he interrupted. 'Verilard!' he called.

The Thain's chief hunter stopped, and his assistant with him. 'Was there something you wanted, Isum?' he said.

'If I might borrow your assistant,' Isum said.

Verilard's assistant stood beside the hunter, head down, staring at his feet, and at Isum's words he hunched his shoulders. The few derisive hisses stopped when the students' eyes met Verilard's glare. 'Ferdi,' the hunter said quietly, laying a hand on his assistant's shoulder. 'Isum would like you to demonstrate...'

'Yes, if you please, Ferdibrand,' Isum said, in his most formal and polite tones.

The hunter's assistant glanced up for a moment, and then down again, but Ferdi had taken in enough, in that glance: Isum was calm, expectant; most of the students wore stony expressions, Hilly openly sneering; Pippin had an eager look--he was one of the few who sought Ferdi out and talked with him. Well, Pippin did almost all the talking, but he didn't seem to mind, and he never teased Ferdi about his silence or his stammering, when he did try to force out a word or two.

Ferdi nodded, still looking down, and ducked through the bars of the ring.

'Hilly, if you please?' Isum said, and Hilly slid from the saddle, presenting the reins to Ferdi with a mocking bow.

Ferdi silently took the reins and turned to Isum, the question that he could not voice plain to read on his face.

'Mount, and show us the gelding's gaits,' Isum said.

Ferdi nodded and mounted, and to Pippin's satisfaction, Hilly's pony was transformed: his head came up, his neck bowed, and without any apparent command on Ferdi's part he stepped out into a walk, made a graceful turn as he reached the fence, and began to circle the perimeter, first at a walk, then trot, then canter. The only movement Ferdi showed was to rise to the trot; otherwise he might have been a statue, for all the watching students saw. And the heretofore jerky motions of the pony were smooth; his neck remained bowed, he was obviously "on" the bit.

'As you see, this pony knows how to go under a rider who understands him,' Isum said. 'Your hands are too heavy, as I've been telling you, Hilly, and he's been fighting you. You have to feel his mouth. This is not a wrestling contest! And all the while you are communicating with your seat, your legs...'

The class watched the previously sulky pony float around the ring a few more times before Isum said, 'Enough, Ferdi. Bring him into the centre.'

Pippin watched with satisfaction as his "useless" cousin, without apparent movement on his part, brought the pony from the fence into the centre of the ring, lining up with the other ponies, and though his pony's ears went back as he came up beside Pippin's pony, he obediently halted before Hilly.

Ferdi dismounted and held out the reins to Hilly.

'Now, Hilly,' Isum said. 'Mount.'

Hilly mounted and the pony's head immediately came up too high.

Without thinking, Ferdi took hold of the rings at either side of the mouth, pulling back.

'Not a game of tug,' Isum said. 'Feel the contact, Hilly.'

Frustrated, the tween jerked on the reins, but Ferdi maintained his grip, and so he took the jerk and not the pony's mouth.

'Loosen your reins, Hilly,' Isum said, and the tween had no choice but to obey, with Isum and all the class staring at him. He loosened, and felt Ferdi's gentle pull-and-give. 'That's, it,' Isum said, more softly, but Hilly heard, and then suddenly Ferdi had let go the rings of the bit, and Hilly was feeling the pony's mouth through the medium of the reins, something he'd not paid much heed to in the past.

But the tween did not revel in the new-found knowledge. He was, at that moment, burning with humiliation. The hunter's half-witted assistant had shown him up--Hilly, the best student in the class!

He'd find a way to make Ferdi pay... But he'd have to be cautious. The Thain's fair-haired lad had defended the half-wit, on several occasions when Hilly or other young Tooks had been mocking him. It would be best to stay on Pippin's good side, considering that he would likely be Thain one day.

'Come along, Ferdibrand,' Verilard said now, and his assistant ducked back through the bars to join him.

'Our thanks, Ferdi!' Isum called. 'You may join our class at any time, for I could use someone to demonstrate proper techniques!'

Ferdi nodded, though he stared at his toes, while Hilly's anger rose. He was often the one called upon to demonstrate to the rest of the class, being the most advanced rider amongst the tweens, and if he'd drawn a decent mount instead of this old nag, today's humiliation would never have happened.

He was glad of the hunter's answer. 'I am sorry,' Verilard said, lifting his cap from his head in salute. 'I cannot spare the lad at the moment.'

'Pity,' Isum said, but he nodded in dismissal and turned back to the class. 'That is all for today,' he said. 'Take them to the stables and give them a good grooming. Old Tom will be checking them over for me, and if I find any of you have shirked you'll find yourselves polishing harness instead of taking tea this day.'

Hilly pulled a wry mouth, but by the time Isum's eyes reached his end of the line he was nodding and smiling, for the instructor's benefit. The students polished the ponies before they rode, and again afterwards. It seemed a waste of time, when they were only going to be turning them out to graze, and the beasts would roll in the grass and the mud and undo their grooming.

He looked forward to the day when he'd have someone else to do the grooming for him. Ferdibrand, for instance. Yes, someday he could afford to be generous. He'd hire the half-wit to keep his ponies shining and clean out the muck from their stalls. It was about all the hobbit was suited for, after all.

He didn't understand Pippin's fascination for the half-wit. Didn't they have diverting times, Pippin and Hilly and a handful of other Tookish tweens? Instead of wasting his time on Ferdi, Pippin ought to be spending his free hours productively. He was a great one for thinking up pranks, for instance, and the chief cook had turned the hungry tweens away, just the other day, when they'd gone to beg a snack after riding. "Too close to teatime." Hah! If Pippin were put on the task, Hilly was confident he'd come up with a good practical joke to pay the chief cook back...

A/N The names of the men of Rhovanion are a rough approximation, following JRRT's convention of using adaptations of Gothic words to come up with such combinations as Marhari, Marwhini, Vidugavia, and Vidumavi. Since resources on the language and usage of the Goths have proven somewhat hard to find, any "howlers" (to the perceptions of those more knowledgeable) are hereby apologised for in advance.

Chapter 29. Thorn: Lessons to Be Learned

Day after day, ships tied up at the quayside to divulge their passengers and cargo and, once emptied, left the sheltered harbour to anchor off the coastline, for so vast a fleet had sailed from the Southlands that it might take the better part of a month for all to debark and for the provisions and munitions they brought, enough for a war of great kings, to be unloaded. Bucca never tired of watching the flow of new faces, though few noticed him, half-hidden as he chose to be, seated in the shadow of a piling.

Tall Men of Gondor there were, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with proud, stern faces, looking very much like their kinsfolk from Arthedain. With them came some who were shorter, swarthier of skin; but the ones who caught the hobbit's imagination were the tall Men with hair that shone as the sun in a summer sky and eyes that were as blue as the heavens, laughing Men who led great horses snorting down the planks from the ships. These, he heard, were of a land called Rhovanion, whose king had sent his sons and nephews to the battle.

Indeed, these princes of Rhovanion walked the docks with Aranarth and him who was Captain of Gondor, Eärnur, and it seemed to Bucca that shadow and sunshine walked together, the dark-haired Numenorians and the bright and bold Riders, as the latter styled themselves. Aranarth was grim and Eärnur eager, while the Horse-princes walked lightly along the docks as if they scarcely trusted the wood beneath their feet.

The armies spread out over the plain, and bonfires sprang up, and there was feasting, especially among those of Rhovanion who were greatly relieved to have solid land under their boots, and under the hoofs of their horses, and fresh grass for the grazing instead of dried fodder, and fresh water running from springs and streams to take away the taste of slightly brackish water from barrels.

Cirdan met daily with the Captain of Gondor and his officers, and Aranarth who accepted the title of Captain of Arnor if not "King", and the princes of Rhovanion, laying plans.

In the meantime, Bucca was laying plans of his own. He was fully healed from his injury, though his ribs still ached when the weather was changing. He had fletched a quiver full of arrows, and having found a yewtree growing in a glade, he had fashioned himself a bow to take the place of the one he'd lost on the night Aranarth had trampled him. His bag was packed with dried fruit and journey-bread baked by the Elves--fine stuff it was, more like a feast-day cake in flavour than the hard biscuits that Tokka's archers had taken with them to the battlefield.

He had cut a sturdy staff suitable for walking, and for fending off the larger of the predators to be found in the forests of the Shire, at least long enough to go to ground or climb into the branches of a tree. He had a warm yet light cloak of Elven-make--he could not name its colour, for it was woven of many colours blended together, browns and greens and heather and grey, and wearing it he could crouch and lose himself amongst the grasses of the meadow or trees of the forest. Why, even in the shadow of the piling on the quayside, the cloak seemed to hide him from the piercing eyes of the arriving warriors.

Elves, however, were another matter. 'Ho, there, Master Bucca!'

The hobbit looked up, recalled from his thoughts and plans, and scrambled to his feet to bow. 'Galdor!' he said. He no longer stammered and blushed, and having been underfoot for some months had taught him to address most of the Havens residents as neither "Lord" nor "Master", but simply by their names.

The names of these tall Men of Rhovanion were not so strange to his ear as the Elves' names had seemed.

The Elf bowed with a smile, but his companions, two of the youngest among the princes of Rhovanion, stared with open-mouthed astonishment. 'Master Bucca of the Marish,' Galdor said. 'If I may present Marfráuja and his kinsman, Valwisai...'

'Lord of horses,' Bucca said in the old tongue, that his father had insisted on teaching Tokka and Bucca, though some of the words had changed since the Fallohides came over the Misty Mountains so many centuries ago, and the Common Speech had replaced many other words and phrases. The Men stared at this, and at Bucca as he continued. 'I heard him introduce himself when he arrived, three days ago now. And Maker of songs,' he added, with a bow to the pop-eyed princes.

'You speak our tongue!' the first prince said, 'or something to that effect.'

'Do not insult him!' the second said, falling to one knee, to see eye-to-eye with the hobbit. 'You...' he said, his eyes taking in every detail, from curly head to curly foot. 'You are... are you... one of the hole-dwellers of legend?'

'Hole-dwellers!' the first scoffed. 'Children's tales, to beguile the little ones to sleep when the fire burns low.'

'You know of hole-dwellers?' Bucca said.

'Not that any has ever been seen by my people, my father, my grandfather before him, nor his grandfather, but there are old tales...'

'Lwis...'

'Fráuja...' the second said in the same vein, and then he turned back to Bucca. 'It is said that they brought luck to those who beheld them, which was not so easy a thing to do as they could disappear in the twinkling of an eye, and one of their frowns could sour the milk...'

'You are not going to sour the milk for the evening meal, are you, Master Bucca?' Galdor said.

'I will temper my frowns,' Bucca said in a judicious manner.

'The cooks will be most grateful,' Galdor said.

'You cannot deny that he is a Halfling,' the second prince said.

'A young Dwarf, perhaps,' the first insisted. 'He has not yet grown a beard, and...'

Bucca had been about to deny that he was any sort of Dwarf, young or not, but Galdor made a face, as of one drinking soured milk, and he laughed instead.

'I have never seen a Dwarf,' he said, 'no, not in the looking glass, nor anywhere else, for that matter.'

The second prince threw his head back and laughed. 'Whatever you may be, Master Bucca,' he said, thrusting out his hand to show it was empty of weapons, 'you are not slow of wit!'

Bucca touched his empty palm to the large one, in gesture of friendliness. It was not a soft palm, but well calloused, and the fingers curled around his with a gentle strength.

'Valwisai is too long a name to shout on the battlefield,' the prince said. 'It would be much less of a burden if you should call me Lwis.'

'And I am Bucca,' the hobbit said, withdrawing his hand from the clasp, with another bow.

'My kinsman, however, you may continue to address as Marfráuja-waúrdja,' Lwis said with a grand gesture that was rather spoilt by his mischievous grin. 'It is a cumbersome name, and he finds it troublesome and inconvenient.'

'If it would not be too much trouble, Master Bucca,' Galdor said, 'I am called to a meeting with my lord and the lords of Arnor, Gondor, and Rhovanion.'

'If I may be of assistance?' Bucca said, and nodded as Galdor made it clear that, Bucca being the princes' elder, he was putting the young warriors in the hobbit's charge while their fathers and older brothers were occupied. It was not so much child-minding as keeping the restless and high-spirited young men out of trouble, now that they were recovered from the long sea-journey. Back home on their rolling plains, theirs was a wandering life, keeping their borders secure. The younger warriors, having cut their teeth on tales of battle and glory, had been overjoyed to respond with their elders to Gondor's call, to bring aid to the North.

The sooner the army took to the field, the better, or so the Men of Rhovanion believed. Sitting encamped was tiresome, and these two young princes had already stirred trouble with their restlessness, in challenging some of the young Men of Arnor to contests of physical strength. The Men of Arnor, having faced a more fearsome foe than the princes could imagine, had no tolerance or patience for boasting.

Cirdan had set a watch upon the princes, to preclude further difficulty. Galdor thought that perhaps the hobbit would keep the two youngsters diverted for this afternoon at least.

'We are not invited to join in the deliberations,' Lwis said as the Elf took his leave, and Marfráuja grimaced. 'It is a council of war, and the young hotheads are considered more of a burden than a benefit in making plans.'

'Plans,' Marfráuja said under his breath, unconsciously grasping the hilt of the knife in his belt. 'They can talk the sun down out of the sky, and all the while the enemy makes his escape...'

'They withdraw from the land they have despoiled,' Lwis said, 'but only to gather on the northern plains, where their dark lord will meet us in strength.'

His kinsman hushed him, and both looked about surreptitiously. Bucca supposed that he was not the only one to have listened at windows.

Perhaps he and his new companions could learn a thing or two from each other.

Chapter 30. Thain: Gritting His Teeth

The knock was an urgent one; being the son of a healer, Hilly had early learned to distinguish the frantic callers from the social ones. Being the youngest, he was the only one at home, at the moment, washing up the few dishes from his father’s elevenses before walking over to the Great Smials to meet his friends for the noontide meal, and some free time (younger and older hobbits would nap after the midday meal, but the tweens would go out walking upon the meadows, or toss a ball in the yard between Smials and stables—that is, when they weren’t getting into mischief). Another riding lesson would follow.

‘I’ve got it!’ he called down the hall, hearing his father’s acknowledgment from the study as the tween opened the door. ‘Yes?’ he said, eying the panting hobbit on the mat.

‘It’s Gran,’ the lad said. ‘She’s having her palpitations, and the tonic isn’t helping... Mum said to fetch...’

‘Yes, yes,’ old Haldibold said, for he'd hurried down the hallway, shouldering his coat, and now he took up his bag from its place by the door with every appearance of urgency. ‘Her palpitations, eh? Not the joint-ache, or the stomach-trouble this time...?’ Old Mrs. Sandbarrow was something of a gadfly in the old healer’s estimation—if it wasn’t one thing with the gammer, it was another, as they say, and most of it aimed at gaining attention from her beleaguered daughter with such a large and busy family.

Haldibold would stop by, sit and hold the old lady’s hand, take a cup of tea with her and a goodly portion of gossip, and leave a harmless bottle of “tonic”, bitter and bracing, to hold her over until his next visit.

‘O aye, her palpitations, it’s awful, ‘tis,’ the lad said, nodding vigorously, his eyes wide. ‘Mum’s beside herself!’

‘I’ve no doubt,’ the old healer muttered, and turning to his son, he said. ‘It sounds like an urgent case, and yet I had a parcel to deliver to the Great Smials, old Ferdinand’s balm. Would you leave a note on the door as to my whereabouts and take the parcel with you when you go?’

‘Gladly,’ Hilly said, and with only a word or two more, the door closed behind his father and the lad. ‘And have a lovely tea, while you’re at it,’ he said to the closed door, and turned away with a chuckle and a shake of the head.

He went to his father’s study and penned a hasty note to be fastened to the front door on his leaving: Healer at Sandbarrows’, Motley Farm. There was a paper parcel lying on the desktop, neatly tied up with string. Hilly lifted it and felt the contents through the paper. A jar, it was, and heavy. Probably full of the skin-softening balm his father made up in secret. Haldibold had passed the secret on to his eldest son, Mardi, who was already working in partnership with his father, but a secret it remained. Though Haldibold was happy to sell jars of the balm to those who asked for it, healers included, the recipe was something to be kept in the family.

Ferdinand Took had been badly injured when the roof of a burning stables had fallen upon him. He’d been pulled from the flames, burned nearly to death, his arms and legs so damaged that they’d had to be cut away, but the hobbit had not died as expected. Some said he lingered for the sake of his half-wit son, Ferdibrand. In any event, he lived in the care of the healers in the Great Smials, upon the charity of the Thain and the meagre wages of his son.

Hilly’s mouth twisted, thinking of the half-wit. Ferdi had been called once more to help at their lessons, to demonstrate a tricky bit of shooting over water, and to Hilly’s indignation the hunter’s assistant had shot fair and true where most of Isum’s students had missed the mark. How he wished he could make the half-wit squirm with embarrassment, the way he had when he’d confidently set his sights on the target and shot, only to hear his cousins’ hoots as his arrow missed, after all his boasting.

How was he to know that shooting over water was tricksy stuff? And how had the half-wit gained such prowess in hunting? Hilly had figured that old Verilard took Ferdi along to carry the game he shot himself, nothing more. But it seemed the half-wit could shoot as well as he rode. It rankled that an idiot could out-do Hilly...

In any event, he must deliver this parcel to Ferdinand’s watcher, and he’d have to hurry himself or he’d be late to the nooning. One more black mark against Ferdi, he thought, unfairly, but then a spoilt tween is not always fair or considerate.

The day was a fair one, the sky blue and the sun warm, with not a hint of the crispness that had crept into the evenings of late. Many of the hobbits of Tuckborough were out in the fields, for this was the time of year that harvest workers were hired and good wages were to be had. Road repair, too, was in full swing before the autumnal rains should come. Tooks were expected to give ten days a year to the roads of the Tookland. Hilly stepped around a wide patch where a sweating hobbit was shovelling gravel to fill a hole; he shifted the parcel under one arm and took out his handkerchief to dab at his brow. When he was older, a hobbit of the Thain’s escort, he wouldn’t need to do road work like any common hobbit. He’d hire someone like... like the half-wit, for instance, to do his ten-days’ contribution, much as his father paid young Tom-next-door so that he would not be taken from his healer’s work.

After skirting the patch in the road, Hilly walked briskly, a gait suited to an important hobbit with places to go and things to do. It wouldn’t do to be seen trotting as if he were an errand lad. If, someday, he were sent out with urgent news, he’d ride a fast pony, of course, and cut a fine and dashing figure. But for now, on foot, he must present the proper image; not sauntering along, that some gaffer might hail him to “do a favour”, nor trotting, as aforementioned.

Boldly he mounted the steps leading to the Great Door. Many of the local hobbits avoided these, since old Mistress Lalia’s fall, but Hilly disdained superstition and nonsense. It was not for him to go through one of the lesser doors as if he were a mere tradeshobbit.

He entered the Smials, blinking in the relative dimness as he came in out of the bright sunshine, but his eyes adjusted quickly. He nodded pleasant greetings to those he encountered in the tunnel that skirted the face of the Smials, until he reached the infirmary with its large round windows opening onto a view of flowering meadows and heather-covered Green Hills beyond.

A healer’s assistant greeted him, though he could see he’d come at a busy time—the tables in the large and pleasant gathering-room were being laid for the noontide meal, for those well enough to leave their rooms to eat. ‘For Ferdinand,’ he said, hefting the parcel.

To his disgust, the assistant directed him to take the parcel himself, “There’s a dear lad”, and went back to her bustling without a second glance.

Hilly knew the way, of course. He’d been there with his father more than once, until he’d decided he didn’t want to be a healer himself someday.

Ferdinand occupied one of the inner rooms on the right-hand side of the tunnel, not one of the rooms with windows that showed the changing seasons of the outside world. Not for him to look on the world that had chewed him up and spat him out, no, not for him to let the light of day illuminate his terrible scars. He preferred to hide himself away in a small, dark room with a tiny hearth, comfortable chair turned away from the door, where he passed the weary days, and a bed.

Ferdinand’s door was pulled almost to, and Hilly paused and knocked softly, knowing better than just to force his way in. Who knew what sights might meet the eye?

‘Come,’ he heard, in pleasant albeit hushed female tones. ‘Violet? Is it...?’

‘Hildibold,’ Hilly said, pushing the door a little. ‘I bring...’

‘Haldi’s balm? Ah, good, Hilly, I’m glad you’ve come,’ and the door opened to reveal a watcher, one of the healers’ assistants, not a healer herself but suited to sit with a sleeping patient, or deal with the needs of one awake.

‘Old Ferdi’s not well this day; he didn’t feel well enough to get out of bed this morning,’ she whispered, standing by the door. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s been terribly restless and just dropped off. I need to... if you wouldn’t mind, just for a moment...?’ And pulling the door open a little wider, she gestured toward the bed and the lump that was all to be seen of its occupant.

Ferdinand was under strict “no visitors” orders. The healers turned away almost everyone who came to see him, save his son, of course, and the Thain (who could not have been turned away in any event). It was the hobbit’s own wishes, not out of any consideration at those who might be shocked at his scar-seamed appearance, but more for the bitterness that gnawed away at his insides until his soul resembled the ruin of his body.

Hilly, acting as his father’s assistant, had seen the hobbit a few times. He’d seen worse... though not a living hobbit, of course. He had helped his father with the dressings when Haldibold had been called in to consult about bed sores, and he’d earned his share of grumbles and curses from old Ferdinand. He felt very little compassion for the sour old fellow, and much of that little was related to the half-wit, Ferdinand’s only son. A sore trial it must be for Ferdinand, to have to live on the charity of the Thain, to have lost his only daughter to an unsuitable marriage and his son to idiocy.

Now the corner of his mouth twisted in a semi-smile; the assistant needed to take care of some personal business, and knowing Hilly had assisted his father in the past, she thought to ask him to watch with Ferdinand for a minute or two... but she reminded him of his grandmother, and had insisted on presenting him with a tin of sweet biscuits on one of his visits with his father. ‘Surely, Rosie,’ he said. ‘I have but a moment or two, but I’m happy to oblige.’ That ought to hurry her along.

‘Bless you, lad,’ she said fervently, and slipped past him into the corridor.

A snore came from the bed as Hilly entered. He laid the parcel softly on the table, noticing with interest the glass that stood there, a full set of carved wooden teeth reposing therein. Happily old Ferdinand was sawing logs, and Hilly wouldn’t have to converse with the hobbit.

Rosie returned within a few moments, breathlessly thankful, so thankful that Hilly felt a momentary pang, feeling the outline of the wooden teeth in his pocket. He had little worry that Rosie would remember he’d been there; she was very old, after all, and while suited to watch with a sleeping hobbit and call in one of the healers if there were signs of trouble, her memory wasn’t what it used to be.

But Ferdinand would not be happy to awaken to the next meal, and find his teeth missing. With any luck, he’d make his son even more miserable with his grumblings than the half-wit usually was. It wasn’t enough, really, to pay Ferdi back, but it was a start...

Chapter 31. Thorn: A Matter of Timing

Something had changed. Bucca could smell it in the air of Lindon; he could feel it, somehow, in the earth that curled between his toes. For that matter, he seemed to taste a difference in the water, in the food.

Though he knew much that once had been in his life, was now lost, and for all he knew he was the only Halfling to survive, to remember the Shire as it was, green and living in the cool mist of a morning, shining under a smiling sun, glistening of a frosty moonlit middle night... somehow so long as he had not seen the destruction for himself, Stock yet stood in the back of his mind, as it had of any of a number of market days, bustling with cheery folk going about their business with no cares for the “outside”, or even, really, awareness that there was an “Outside”.

When he closed his eyes, sitting down in the grass, his back to a tree in the “near” pasture, listening to the pleasant chomping of horses on the grass, he might have been in one of his own father’s fields, drinking in the sweetness of the early morning birdsong, before hitching the ponies to the plough and beginning the day’s first furrow.

But even before the sun rose high enough to burn away the lingering mists, another song blended with that of the nesting birds: a song of cold steel, borne on the breeze; a thunder of horses, charging across a distant meadow; rough voices of Men and fair calls from Elven throats, raised in command.

Bucca missed the busyness of the recent past, the responsibility of shepherding the young princes, coming to know more of their words and their ways. They were as bright and bold as any tween Bucca had known, as reckless and in need of subtle guidance; as ravenous as any growing lad he’d known, they ate nearly as much as Bucca himself, which when speaking of those belonging to the race of Men, was saying something!

But now the youngsters were busy with riding manoeuvres and sword drills, and Bucca's time was once more his own. He’d asked Cirdan for a ferry across the Lune. Surely the Shipwright could spare a small boat and one body, to row a hobbit across. Bucca asked nothing more. His own feet had carried him here, nearly all the way from the Brandywine to the Lune, and they’d serve to carry him back again.

But the Elf Lord had stared gravely at him, one hand absently stroking the long beard so unusual among Elves, pursing his lips as in deep thought, before he slowly shook his head. ‘The time is not yet right,’ he said quietly.

Bucca had wanted to demand to know just what would constitute the right time? But for some reason he found Cirdan’s gaze, those ageless eyes, unnerving in their regard, at that moment. He thought he read sympathy, and worse... pity?

What is it that you know? he wanted to say, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. What is it that the birds have cried on the morning breeze?

But the Shipwright nodded, brought his hands to his knees in a soft slap that portended his departure; he rose and bowed to the frozen Halfling. And Bucca remained, still as a statue, for some minutes after Cirdan left him, questions tumbling in his brain.

Questions... questions...

He blinked his eyes open as the thundering hoofs fell into sudden silence and a voice was raised in seeming anger, addressing the faults of the riders, urging them to greater effort, greater diligence, greater...

He scrambled to his feet, for the Riders would charge again and yet again, drilling their formations, forming wedges to drive forward and wheels to address a flanking enemy; and any lingering birdsong would be drowned in the riot of mock battle, shouts, and clashing of steel.

And the Captains would be meeting, after overseeing the progress of the armies’ training through the first hour of the day.

***

Bucca dug into the garden bed, relishing the feel of earth embracing his fingers. The soil was loose here, well-worked, mingled flowers and herbs flourishing. The living scent of green and growing things rose around him in soothing counterpoint to the serious talk coming through the open window not far away.

Elves and Men, coming and going, hardly seemed to take note of the small figure. Indeed, Bucca, finding solace in the gardens, was a familiar sight.

‘...but if Elrond does not come...!’

‘Can you not persuade him? Surely he sees the danger to himself as well as the rest of...’

‘There is a hidden power in Imladris, they say... evil things do not enter there. Perhaps he thinks...’

‘But if the Lord Elrond does not come...’

‘...a dearth of archers...’

‘...what I would not give, for even two-score archers like those Halflings who supported us on the plain...’

Bucca’s heart stirred within him. Tokka!

‘Aye. Small they were, but doughty, and their arrows never went awry. I saw one strike the Witch King himself, though the shaft fell to ashes as it landed...’

Bucca scrambled to his feet. Of their own accord, it seemed, they carried him to the large open window, trowel hanging forgotten from his hand, and there he stood, openly listening to the grave voices within.

‘Surely, Cirdan, he would listen to you!’

Bucca saw the Elf Lord shake his head. ‘He has turned his thoughts away,’ he said. ‘He listens to another voice, and does not hear my words.’

More than one of the debaters gasped at this news, and one Man half-rose. ‘He has been... turned?’

Cirdan waved the Man to be seated. ‘I did not say such a thing—it would not be impossible, but I deem it would be nearly so, in any event. His attention has been drawn to the South, and he argues now with the Galadrim, and all my messages have fallen on deaf ears, it seems.’

‘But without Imladris...’

‘We will fight with the few archers we have. Surely your folk, Lord Cirdan...’

The Elf Lord nodded, his face grave. ‘There are a few archers among the folk of Lindon,’ he said. ‘But we are a peaceful folk, growing our food in our fields, and taking most of our meat from the Sea, with little need to hunt with bows. I will send what archers I can, though they will not be many.’

‘I will go,’ Bucca said into the silence that followed. ...though his rash words carry him far from the Shire, farther, even, than he was now, and perhaps no returning...

Cirdan did not seem surprised to see him there, nor at his contribution to the discussion.

The eyebrows of a prince of Rhovanion rose; he opened his mouth to speak but his brother beside him dug a sharp elbow into his ribs, whispering, ‘My son told me of this one, how he can shoot an arrow through a ring tossed into the sky...’

‘I thank you, Master Bucca,’ said Aranarth, rising to bow. ‘Perhaps we ought to have invited you to take part in our planning. Your bow would be most welcome.’

‘Especially if it were to be accompanied by those of your kinsfolk,’ Ciryanor said at his brother’s side. He had seen the arrows of the Shire-folk falling, a deadly rain, amongst the encroaching enemy, while he had still held out hope that they might prevail on the battlefield; he had seen Tokka’s arrow strike the Witch King and crumble to dust, just before one of Arvedui's aides had cried out, pointing to the thick smoke rising from the city, and inexorably the battle disintegrated into chaos. He had ridden for a good way northwards with his father the King, before breaking off to take a message to Cirdan, to beg a ship to the Ice Bay to retrieve the King and the small body of Men with him.

There was still an alliance of sorts between Elves and Men, in the face of a common Enemy, the Darkness that would destroy them all in its malice. Cirdan, if not Elrond, saw clearly the threat before them.

‘Yes,’ Aranarth said, his keen grey glance burning into Bucca’s eyes. ‘Any archers that you could gather, in the face of Imladris’ desertion, would be a boon.’

Bucca smiled grimly. He had been seeking a suitable excuse to go home, it was true, and every reason he’d brought up, to this point, had been quietly countered by Cirdan or the sons of Arvedui.

However, it seemed that the right time had come at last.

***
A/N: Yes, though I seldom write movie-verse, I sometimes refer to it if it doesn't conflict with book-verse. The opening to this chapter is a bow to Peter Jackson's "Fellowship", just because it seemed to fit.

Chapter 32. Thain: The Right Place at the Right Time, part 1

O I'll take the Long road, for I know the way;
And you'll take the Short to arrive ere I may.
But I'll win the race, for you know what they say:
"Short cuts, they make for long delays. Short cuts, they make for long delays."
  --Tookish Walking Song

The young Tooks, tweens who shared Pippin’s afternoon instruction, were more animated that day than usual. Indeed, there was even a rumour of food that sprouted wings and flew through the air, though when an older Took stalked over to their table, the riotous talk subsided suddenly. The lads sat demure as lasses in a sewing circle, passing the food down the table in a more conventional and socially approved manner.

When old Uncle Flambond turned away with a sniff, the tweens’ behaviour continued to be sedate, though the table buzzed with such energy it was a wonder that it did not take flight, plates, utensils, food and all.

 ‘And have you heard the latest?’ Isenar hissed, looking around the group.

Hilly leaned forward; he had an ear for gossip. A chorus of whispered “What?” went around the table.

‘Old Ferdinand’s wooden teeth have disappeared! Imagine it! Someone had the nerve to walk into the old fox’s den and lift them while he was asleep!’

‘Where was his watcher?’ Hilly said. ‘Didn’t anybody notice anything?’

‘Not a thing!’ Isenar said smugly. ‘You know how it is; he’s so sour that they can only find the stupidest watchers to sit with him...’

Pippin jerked upright. ‘That’s hardly fair!’ he said. ‘The watchers are all very devoted to their duty, and old Ferdinand is difficult, to be sure, but...’

‘Bet it didn’t sweeten his temper any,’ Fortinald said with a snicker. ‘When did it happen?’

‘Yesterday,’ Isenar said.

‘I can imagine he gave his poor half-witted son a miserable time of it at late supper, then,’ Everard said, from further down the table. Being ten years older, he was nearly to his majority and thus did not take part in many of the pranks and scrapes of the younger lads.

Tolibold, Hilly’s older brother, nodded sadly. Truth be told, he rather liked Ferdi’s company. Ferdi wasn’t one for the Talk, which Tolly despised, and he didn’t chew one’s ears off in a manner of speaking, while stalking wild birds and coneys, which was a good thing in Tolly’s estimation. He was one of those rare Tooks who preferred comfortable silence to aimless chatter.

Hilly’s lip curled, but at Pippin’s sorrowful expression he suppressed the sneer, putting on a neutral expression. ‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘Look, here he comes now, as a matter of fact, and he looks worse than what the cat dragged into the stables this morning.’

‘Not that you’d catch that one in the stables, without him being dragged,’ someone muttered, but Pippin said “Hush!” The entire table quieted as Ferdibrand walked up to them. It was a wonder, Hilly thought to himself, that the dimwit knew where he was going, walking with his head so low. But Ferdi stopped before Pippin, holding out a folded paper, though he never lifted his eyes from his toes.

‘What’s this, Ferdi?’ Pippin said, infusing cheer into his tone as he turned from the table. He paused, as if awaiting an answer, and then taking the paper he opened it to peruse the writing therein. His face broke into a wide grin, and waving the paper he turned back to the group. ‘Half holiday!’

A cheer broke out, quickly stifled as heads turned in their direction.

‘What is it?’ Hilly said, trying to get a glimpse of the writing, though Pippin held it just out of his reach.

‘Isum’s been called to consult with the Thain,’ Pippin said, folding the message and tucking it away. ‘He says we’re to practice the skills we’ve been learning...’

‘Riding?’

‘Shooting?’

‘Tracking, I think,’ Pippin said in satisfaction, and when Ferdi would have pulled away he grabbed the older tween’s sleeve. ‘Ferdi, I do believe we shall need your help; for surely Master Verilard is busy catching fat coneys for the Thain’s supper...’

Ferdi shook his head, slowly at first but as he tried to pull away his countenance took on a more panicked look.

‘We shall!’ Hilly said, jumping into the conversation. He’d found that to be in Pippin’s good graces, one must be kind to the lackwit—at least, in Pippin’s presence. And it didn’t do to tease Ferdibrand in Pippin’s absence, he’d discovered, for all too often it reached Pip’s ears and he’d deal sternly with the culprit. Hilly had been lucky enough to be a mere bystander on one such occasion, and he’d mended his own ways quickly. He did not want that icy regard turned in his direction, nor to be frozen by his cousin’s disdain. ‘Who’ll be the Fox?’ he added. ‘Ferdi?’ He put on a smile. ‘You’ve learnt so much of tracking from Master Verilard...’ His smile became more genuine as he imagined the panic-stricken tween running ahead of a pack of baying young hobbits after they flushed him from cover.

His older brother Tolly rather spoiled things, however, by saying, ‘Nay! Ferdi’s to run with me! Who else, I say?’ Ferdi succeeded in pulling free of Pippin’s grip, but then he stood still, as if in astonishment, at Tolly’s approbation.

‘I!’ said Everard.

‘I’ll be the Fox,’ Pippin said decidedly, and of course there was no gain-saying him.

‘The younger set ‘gainst the older,’ Tolly said. ‘And whoever finds the Fox first and flushes him out wins the round!’

In any event there’d be no losers. The group that didn’t find Pippin first would have to buy a round of drinks for the Fox and the successful Hounds, but all would enjoy downing the half-pints allowed tweens, fresh and cool after a rousing chase.

‘So, where do we end?’ one of the younger tweens wanted to know. His half-pints came few and far between, and so he hoped his elders would elect a place with decent beer, at least.

‘Bird and Babe,’ Pippin said, which was the tweens’ cheeky name for the “Falcon and Faunt”, roughly two miles from Tuckborough as the crows fly, or somewhat longer if you stayed in the lane. ‘If you haven’t found me by eventides I’ll meet you there!’

***

The lads divided themselves into two teams or “hunts” while Pippin made his preparations, going to one of the assistant cooks to cadge a bit of bread and cheese, a few apples and pocket-pies and a few other odds-and-ends for a “picnic tea”. All was soon tied up in a sack that he threw over one shoulder. As he exited the Great Smials by one of the lesser doors, a quiet voice stopped him.

‘Are we going somewhere?’

‘Baragrim!’ Pippin said, affecting surprise, and then allowing some of his real chagrin to show he lowered his bulging sack to the stones of the courtyard. ‘O—you thought I was going off without an escort, did you?’

‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ the head of escort said mildly. So far the tween had given him no trouble. He went about with his cousins a great deal, of course, making a formal escort hobbit unnecessary. Or so Baragrim told Ferumbras, whenever the old hobbit asked.

‘I’m just waiting for my cousins,’ Pippin said. ‘We’re to have a grand chase, Fox and Hounds, you know.’

‘Ah,’ Baragrim said. ‘I’d heard something to that effect. Going to go baying about the countryside with a pack of tweens, are you?’

Only if they find me, Pippin thought, but gave only a grin in answer.

Baragrim chuckled. ‘Don’t run yourself to ruin, young fellow!’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Pippin promised. Shouldering the sack, he went whistling across the courtyard to the stables, ducking into the dusty quiet. Most of the ponies were out in the field in such splendid weather, and at this time of day much of the stall-cleaning was done and the stable hobbits were enjoying a space of free time after the noontide meal.

Thus no hobbits saw him as he walked down one of the long corridors of the stables, exiting through a side door, out into the sunny meadow where ponies grazed, a solitary figure, and gloriously alone.

***

Author's Notes:

"Fox and Hounds" is a game from my childhood, and also one I've seen in several literary places, amongst them The Railway Children by E. Nesbit.

The "Bird and Babe" (Falcon and Faunt) is a bow to the pub where the Inklings met upon a time, the Eagle and Child in Oxford, where I had the good fortune to lunch with Marigold, Llinos, Piplover and the Knitted Hobbits one amazing day.

Chapter 32. Thain: The Right Place... But the Right Time?

Bucca felt small, true, for he was no more than a child in stature when measured against those who rode with him now, a body of Men with a sprinkling of Elves among them, more than a mere scouting party, that they not be taken by surprise, but less than the great army that would ride this way in days to come.

But he felt smaller yet, shrinking into himself in dismay as they rode through the land that one day would be known as the Green Hill country, with its rolling, grassy hills—though to Bucca, they were more mountain than hill. When he’d led Berenarth’s party through the wilderland in the heart of the Shire, the hills had been clothed in luxuriant growth, part of the great forest that marched across Middle-earth from the Sea to the plains. That forest is only a memory now amongst Elves and Ents with long memories, but to Bucca it had been a living and breathing essence, and he grieved to see the blackened stubs of trees thrusting in silent agony to the sky, as they followed the fouled stream meandering between the hills.

‘But there is life,’ his saddle-companion murmured, one arm tightening around the despairing hobbit. ‘Look, see, the green of new life growing up amidst the ruin.’ And it was true; there were grasses sending questing shoots into the air, and even a few bright flowers dared to bloom in the desolation.

But Bucca thought of the End of the Wood, near Stock, where his family had gone into hiding, and he shuddered. Had all the trees been burned over their heads? Was anything left?

‘Are you ill?’

Bucca looked up and behind, seeing sorrow in the ageless face of the Elf riding with him, Cirdan’s representative, sent to the Halflings on behalf of the Elf lord and crownless King of Arnor. ‘I am well, Galdor,” he said, and tried to smile, for surely it was worse for the Fair Folk, for whom each burned-out husk was a voice forever stilled. ‘Those of Angmar may have thought to leave dark ruin, but they did not reckon with the power of seed and sunshine, rain and wind.’

He supposed it would have been just as bad, if not worse, to ride with the army following the great East-West Road, to see heaps of rubble where tidy buildings had stood, and the fields lying fallow. No signs of life anywhere; where had all the hobbits gone?

Despite the small signs of life around them, the horses walked with drooping heads, the Men talked softly or not at all, and the Elves... the sense of distress from the Elves was nearly palpable. But Bucca felt Galdor straighten behind him, and suddenly he heard the Elf’s voice, soft but defiant, breathe a song.

After so many months among the Elves of Lindon, he knew enough of their tongue to take the meaning of the song, and his heart lifted as more of the Elves joined, their voices in their caution scarcely more than the lonely breeze sighing through the hollows of the burned-out trees.

O! Wanderers in the shadowed land
despair not! For though dark they stand,
the fire-blasted trees, in death,
yet life anew doth rise on breath
of moisture brought on fresh’ning breeze
to bless these ruined lands, from Seas
far to the West. Though these woods fail
new life arising shall prevail...

The night came down and the sky above filled with stars, bright and sparkling, clean, somehow, and freshening the bowl of the heavens with their light. Song soft as dream came from the Elves riding in the company, and Bucca’s chin drooped and jerked, and finally rested on his breast as they rode along.

And when he wakened in wonder, they were riding in the shadow of trees, dim around him in the dawnlight. ‘We’ve come to the End of the Woods,’ Galdor said, having noted Bucca’s awakening. ‘And it seems that not all woods in the Shire have found an end, though the torches of Angmar wrought terrible ruin in the Hills.’

‘And Stock,’ Bucca said. ‘They burned Stock, you know.’

Galdor was silent, as if in assent.

Ciryanor reined closer, his leg bumping against Galdor’s. ‘They burned the Yale as well,’ the son of Arvedui said, raising an arm to point.

‘The Yale!’ Bucca whispered, and felt talons of dread seize his heart, seeing the ruin there that had once been a bustling community. Of a wonder the flames had not taken the surrounding wood; perhaps because of the heavy snow that had been falling at the time Angmar’s forces overran Stock and the Yale.

‘You said that your people would be found nearby,’ Galdor said, raising his hand in signal. The company halted. ‘We will make camp here, just inside the trees, and await you.’

He slipped from the horse’s back and lifted Bucca from the saddle. The hobbit was stiff from long riding, and his nether regions were rather... sore, to put it gently, but he bowed to the Elf lord and said, ‘Half a mile, and yes, it is better that you remain here, for if they have any inkling of your coming they’ll disappear and I might never find them.’

‘So the Lord Aranarth instructed us,’ Galdor said, but he laid a staying hand upon Bucca’s shoulder. ‘But you must take some sustenance before you leave us... if only a bite, and a sip, for strength and hope.’

Bucca took the proffered journey-bread, cramming it in his mouth without much appreciating the fine taste, for he was eager to be off, to find his loved ones, who must be in the wood, they must be, for if they were not, then he had no reason to continue.

He had a moment’s flash of wandering the wood, a thin, ragged creature, having lost his greatest treasure, and thrust this bleak picture from himself. No, he told himself, gathering the shreds of his courage. No, but he’d take his bow though he were the only bowman in Aranarth’s army, and he’d repay those of Angmar for the ruin they had wrought...

The sip he had from Galdor’s flask steadied him, made the earth feel more solid under his feet, as if he awakened from dark dream to dawning hope, and he recognised the strengthening drink they’d given him while he lay, sick and wounded, after the crossing of the Lune. He nodded thanks, handed back the flask, and said, ‘Tonight, then, at dusk...’

‘We’ll be watching,’ Galdor said.

Though many of the company looked after Bucca's going, only the sharpest eyes saw him for very long. In a twinkling he faded into the shadows of the trees, and was gone.

***

A/N: The Elves' song is adapted from "The Old Forest" in Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter 34. Thain: The Right Place at the Right Time, part 2

Pippin could scarcely refrain from whistling as he walked away from the stables, across the larger pony field. The ponies paid him no heed, grazing greedily as they were, tails a-switch, for he neither called to them nor held out his hand in bribery.

It felt a bit like the old days, before he’d learnt responsibility of the old shepherd, when he’d shirk his duties and wander away from the farm for a little fishing, or just lying in the meadow grass to watch the clouds sail over him, wondering about the lands they’d be crossing over, once they passed the Bounds of the Shire.

Of course, he wasn’t shirking any duties this day, if one didn’t count Baragrim’s insistence on some sort of escort, if only cousins. Glorious freedom!

He ducked through the fence at the far side of the field and made his way down into the bottomland, where a small stream flowed to join the larger Tuckborne just beyond Tuckborough. He wouldn’t be going through the town, of course, lest someone should recognise him and let slip to his pursuers which way he’d gone.

He eased a foot into the trickling water and shuddered happily. Icy cold! It would be refreshing, when he’d run a way, and it would hide his footprints, and he rather doubted his Tookish cousins, who’d not had the benefit of lazy days in and on the Brandywine with Merry to accustom them to water, would try this way. He could make his way quite a good distance before he’d have to emerge and cross a road, on his way to the finishing point.

He skirted Tuckborough proper, past a field of mildly astonished cows who were lying down to chew the cud, and quite surprised to see a hobbit at this unexpected hour, long before milking time. As he reached the Tuckborne he heard baying break out behind him, and started, but chided himself at once. It wasn’t that they’d found him, or his trail, which he hadn’t left in any event, but the exuberance of youth, excitement of the chase, and desire to flush him from cover, if he were anywhere near.

Still, he doubted that all of them would stay in the lane. Doubtless they’d be criss-crossing the fields, looking for him, or hunting in the hedgerows.

He hurried across a ploughed field, nearly turning his ankle leaping the furrows, hoping they wouldn’t see him. It would be a little faster to go along the road, and so long as they were behind him he could jog along and make up a little distance, and then dive through the hedgerow to find some cover. There were copses between here and the pub, which would also afford good hiding—but also draw searching hobbits.

What a grand game of “I hide and you seek me”! ...suitable for tweens, that is, not the simple game of faunts and youngsters, but hiding and seeking on a grand scale.

He vowed not to leave tracks for them to find, though it would make the game trickier. He’d have to stick to the road, or streambeds, or rocky ground, for the most part.

He came upon a road-mender, a Took performing his yearly stint on the roads, as the Thain and custom demanded, though Ferumbras generously paid a silver penny for each of the ten days’ required work. This custom dated from the time of the Kings, for even long after the North Kingdom fell the Thain of the Shire kept the roads in good repair, to speed the messengers of the King on their way, should the King ever return, that was.

‘Hullo!’ he said cheerily. ‘Nice day for it!’

‘Nice day for what, ah ask ye?’ the road mender said, straightening wearily from his task of shovelling small rocks into a hole that marred the roadway’s surface. His eyes were very red and bleary, perhaps from the dust of his occupation, though from the redness of his bulbous nose there might well have been another cause.

‘Why, for whatever one might be doing,’ Pippin said.

The road mender regarded him, blinking, and recognising by the cut of his clothing that Pippin was a gentlehobbit, belatedly fingered his cap. ‘Blessings on ye, young master,’ he mumbled.

‘At your service, and your family’s,’ Pippin replied promptly, with a proper bow.

The road-hobbit sighed gustily. ‘Aye, and how ah wish t’were truth,’ he said, with a protracted belch. ‘The road work would fall over the days of ma daughter’s wedding, it would, and not next month as was due... Ah made rather merry yestidday, ah did, and th’ head’s a-poundin’ ill enough to brich some o’ them rocks as ah mus’ pound to pulp, ta fill them holes as the coaches of ma betters punch i’ the road...’ He winced at the end of this long-winded speech, pulled a soiled red handkerchief from the back pocket of his dusty breeches, and wiped at the back of his neck.

At that moment the baying broke out, nearer than he might have expected. Pippin looked about himself in sudden alarm. Beyond the hedgerows lining the road, the fields were inconveniently open. He thought he could see not-so-distant figures on a nearby hillside, combing the sheep-meadow, and it wouldn’t be long before they’d worked their way across the field to the road.

There was a little smial in the hillside, not far away, but his cousins would be knocking at the door to ask if he’d been there, so that was no good. They’d look in the nearby byre, as well, so there was no use hiding in the straw.

‘Here now,’ Pippin said rapidly. ‘Is that your smial, there?’

‘Wud ah be workin’ at the road here if ah didn’t live near?’ the hobbit said, rather sullenly. ‘Ah’d ruther be weedin’, t’ tell the truth,’ he added.

‘You’re a gardener, then?’ Pippin said. ‘Ah, I see, and of course you’d not be weeding, the day after your daughter’s wedding, now, for you’re a hobbit of great sense. I can tell by looking at you.’

‘Ar,’ said the road hobbit, his tone a little more pleasant. But then his face darkened. ‘But the Thain’s fellow will be a-coomin’ along, any time now, to check on my work, and if ah’m not hard at it, ‘twill go hard with me. He’ll take ma silver pennies awa’, Himself will, and charge me a fine into the bargain. As if ah had coin to spare!’ he finished bitterly.

‘Well, then,’ Pippin said. ‘I said “at your service” and “at your service” I meant, or what would be the use of saying such? Here now, you give me your cap and your jacket, o and your gloves that I might spare my hands, and I’ll do your work for you whilst you lie yoursel’ doon for a wink or two...’

The hobbit peered at him, sodden suspicion turning to blinking bewilderment at Pippin’s earnest, good-natured expression. ‘Ya don’ mean it...’ he said thickly.

‘O but I do!’ Pippin said. ‘Please, try me! I live to be helpful to my fellow Shirefolk!’

‘Ah’m sure that yer da brought ye up to be quite a fine hobbit,’ the road-worker said, pulling off his cap and holding it out.

With a bright smile and the most helpful expression he could garner, Pippin took the cap and placed it on his head, then took off his fine deerhide jacket so that he could assume the dusty, patched garment of his benefactor. ‘Thankee,’ he said, folding his jacket over and placing it by the side of the road, hurriedly covering it with dirt and stones from the verge.

The road-hobbit looked at him in amazement. ‘What’re ye doin’?’ he said. ‘That fine jacket...’

‘Wouldn’t want it to get dirty or blow away,’ Pippin said, and happily the road-hobbit was too muddled to do more than nod his head in a bemused way as he handed over the work-roughened gloves, and, at Pippin’s further request, the large red handkerchief.

‘Thanks, awfully,’ Pippin said, turning the old fellow towards the little smial and giving him a push to send him on his way. ‘You get yourself a good lie down and when you’re feeling better, you can take up your wheelbarrow again.’

‘Ah thankee,’ the hobbit said, and stumbled away. It wasn’t long before he was inside his smial, and the door shut behind him.

Pippin didn’t stand there watching him go; he had preparations to make. He stuck the handkerchief in his back pocket, and he took off the cap long enough to rub a handful of dust through his hair and over his face and neck. Another handful of silvery dust in his hair would age him, he hoped. A little dust rubbed into his eyes left them red and watering, suited to his station, and he made sure the fur on his feet was well-coated in dust as well. He sat down in the dust for good measure, and with a bit of work he soon had his breeches looking as rumpled, dirty and disreputable as his borrowed jacket.

Then he wheeled the barrow along to the next hole, took up the shovel and filled the hole, tamped and smoothed the surface, and stomped upon it for good measure. He nodded with satisfaction and trundled along to the next marring of the road’s surface. It was no wonder the Thain had ordered this stretch of road repaired now rather than waiting another month for the hobbit’s scheduled service. The spring rains and heavy traffic of farm waggons had done a fair amount of damage.

The first hobbit to come along was not one of Pippin’s cousins, but Elberard, one of the hobbits of the escort, apparently detailed this day to check on road repairs, for want of messages to carry or escorting duties to perform.

Pippin bent his back to his work, pushing the wheelbarrow along, and pretended not to notice that he was being scrutinised, until he was hailed. ‘Hoi, there!’

Pippin straightened painfully, a hand to his back, and growled. ‘Wha’ d’ye?’

‘I see you’re paying good attention to your duty, good fellow,’ Elberard said, looking down his nose at the commoner from his high seat in the saddle. He pointed with his riding crop. ‘Be sure not to miss that spot there, where the verge is crumbling and showing signs of washing away in a rain.’

‘Ar,’ Pippin growled, fingering his cap with proper sullen servility. ‘At yer service, sor,’ he added.

‘And at yours,’ Elberard said haughtily, though he didn’t really mean it. ‘Well, then, cheerio, my good fellow, and keep up the good work. I’ll give you a satisfactory report to the Thain, at least for this day. See that you do the whole stretch as well as you've done this first part, and I’ll ask him to reward you with an extra silver penny... or two!’

Pippin was underwhelmed. ‘Ar,’ he said noncommittally. ‘Very good, sor, ah’m thet obliged t’ye.’

Elberard smiled, gratified, touched his pony with his heel, and trotted away in the direction of Tuckborough.

Pippin’s lips tightened in a mirthless smile. Sure and it would be a pleasure to slip the escort when that one was on duty. Elberard could stand being taken down a pin or two, to his way of thinking. Too proud by half, that one was, and a day or three of water rations seemed just the thing.

He kept on working, glad for the gloves, and as the afternoon wore on he began to wonder if his cousins had kept to the fields and missed the road entirely. Still, he’d promised to keep at the task until the old hobbit returned. It wouldn’t do for Elberard to decide he wanted to check on the road-work one more time, and not find anyone working.

And so he wheeled the barrow along, stopping to fill holes, and repairing the verge where it was worn or washed away. The wheelbarrow was nearly empty, and he was wondering where he’d go to fill it up again, as he trundled along, head down, when there was a sudden tap on his shoulder.

Just in time, he remembered that he was a weary road-worker, and so he shrugged himself slowly upright and turned, shoulders slumped. As he turned, he fished the large red kerchief from his back pocket and wiped at his brow. ‘Ar?’ he said, making his voice low and husky. ‘Was there somethin’ er other tha were wantin’, young sor?’

‘I say, fine day for it!’ Hilly Took said cheerily from the front of a small group of tweens, looking not quite at Pippin but rather dismissing him as nearly beneath their notice.

‘Fine day for what, ah ask ye?’ Pippin growled, arrested in the act of wiping at his face. The cloth was something of a diversion, he thought, seeing several lips curl in disgust at its state.

‘Why, for... for what ever one might be doing on such a day,’ Hilly said, immediately adding, ‘Have you seen a tween come through here?’

Pippin wanted to invent any number of tweens, on the spot, or give an elaborate description of himself, headed in the opposite direction from the one he intended, but he caught himself in time. The more he talked, the more chance someone would recognise his voice, or his person, and so he merely ducked his head in a shy manner, plying the filthy handkerchief to the other side of his face and neck while taking care not to wipe away any grime. ‘Ar,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ Hilly said brightly. He had evidently been elected to speak for the group.

‘If thaselves dinna mind,’ Pippin growled, tucking the kerchief back in its repose and bending over to take up the wheelbarrow’s handles once more. ‘Ah’m a working hobbit, ah am, and ah’ve a fair bit o’ workin’ to be doin’ before the day’s end...’

‘Too stupid to notice if a whole pack of tweens passed by him, not to mention one Pip,’ Hilly said to the others, not caring if the road hobbit heard.

Pippin grunted, cleared his throat and turned his head to one side. He spat mightily, and that might have been his undoing, as he ranked high in the tweens’ spitting contests, but happily the lads had been taken in by his disguise and thought the spitting a fitting part of his lowborn state.

‘Come along,’ one of the younger hobbits said. ‘Perhaps he’s at the Brat already!’

‘Let’s run!’ said another, and they were off, Hilly shouting after them to stay together, and that they needed to spread out over the fields if they were to catch Pippin.

Not long after, the group of older tweens happened by. These, led by Tolly, were civil at least, for Tolly tolerated nothing less, even from cheeky Everard. In point of fact, Tolly, seeing Pippin's sweaty, grimy state, offered Pippin to drink from his own water bottle, and Pippin was grateful to accept. Road-mending was thirsty work! He managed, however, not to give himself away, though it was more difficult than with the younger tweens. He had a hard time keeping his face straight when he heard one of the tweens grumble about Ferdi's inability to find a trail to follow, but at that moment Tolly saved him, for he looked up to see Hilly's group upon a hillside, and called his hounds to order, to resume their search in the fields and hillside on the other side of the road.

It was another hour before the old hobbit came to reclaim his wheelbarrow. He looked in surprise to see how little gravel remained. ‘Tha hast been a busy one, hast tha?’ he said appreciatively.

‘That I have been,’ Pippin said, gladly surrendering cap, jacket, gloves and kerchief. ‘I trust your head is in a better state than it was?’

‘Far better,’ the old hobbit said, displaying a gap-toothed grin. ‘Here na,’ he said, tendering a battered flask. ‘A little celebratory sip, ta thankee,’ he said, and Pippin took it. He was thirsty after his long labours, but his hearty gulp of the fiery stuff in the flask turned his ears red and left him gasping.

‘Ah, thankee,’ he said when he could manage to speak again. ‘Fine stuff, it is.’

‘Ar,’ said the old hobbit. ‘Looks as if ah need to fill’p this barrow, for all the holes ye’ve filled, young hobbit! Blessings on ye, and ah’ll be happy to offer ye food an’ drink, should ye rap upon ma door in future!’

‘I’ll remember!’ Pippin promised. He had better not smoke his pipe this evening, for the fumes on his breath were enough to set him alight, he thought. But the drink was cheering, and he was ready to finish the race. He could see some of his cousins far ahead, halfway up one of the great hills where the sheep were grazing, and not likely to see him if he made his way along in the ditch on the other side of the hedgerow.

He raised his hand in farewell, trotting along the road lest the road hobbit think him peculiar, and when the road turned enough to put him out of the old fellow’s sight, he plunged through the hedgerow and into the ditch, trotting along, fatigue forgotten on the strength of the draught he’d drunk.

He was quite a sight when he reached the Falcon and Faunt, but he put his own handkerchief to good use, dipping it in the trough in the yard, where a spring ensured a continual flow of fresh water, to wash away the grime, and he slapped at his clothes to dislodge the worst of the dust. He ended by dipping each foot in turn into the trough, scrubbing at the fur, and he put his whole head under the flow of icy water, to wash the grit from his hair. At last, damp but presentable, he entered the pub and found a comfortable chair, facing the door.

When his cousins arrived not long after he did, he was sitting back in his chair, feet up, the picture of comfort.

‘Well now,’ he said, lifting his mug in greeting. ‘What’s taken you so long? I’ve been waiting so long I thought I’d grow old and grey before you happened along!’

***

A/N: The "road" incident was inspired by a scene from John Buchan's 39 Steps. Suspenseful, gripping reading material. This incident, BTW, becomes an anecdote in several of the stories set during Pippin's first days as Thain.

Chapter 35. Thorn: Right Place, Right Time, and All Wrong

Half a mile, he'd told Galdor, though upon reflection he thought perhaps his father had said a quarter. It was months ago, and his thoughts had been in turmoil, as much turmoil as the Shirefolk scurrying to escape the swords and torches of the invaders.

He remembered the rest clearly enough. A great tree it was; two, rather, twins growing from the same great stump, twining together until they separated in their quest to reach the heavens above. There the Watcher would be, waiting to take Bucca to the place where his family had found shelter, refuge from the storm breaking over the Shire.

He walked along the verge until he reached the stream that ran from the Wood through the ruined Yale. He stared at a blackened timber, thrusting up from the tall green that had grown to blanket the remains, as if to hide away the traces of habitation.

The Yale will be rebuilt, he said to himself, clenching his hands into fists. As we will bring back the farms, and the smials, the mills and the rest of the Shire. He nodded to himself. Just as soon as we take care of the rubbish...

He wasn't sure how many archers he'd be able to persuade to accompany him, or even if Comfrey would let him go. But they had to face Angmar, not just face but drive out of the land, if they were to be anything other than forest-dwellers hiding in the shadows. He smiled grimly. With a little help, of course. Gondor had come at last, and Riders with them, and the remaining army of the Northern kingdom would lead them and the Elves of Lindon sent by Cirdan against the Witch King and his forces.

Yes, together the Free Folk would cleanse the North lands of the terrible blight that had fallen with the winter snows.

And there was the matter of finding Tokka. Bucca still cherished some hope within, that his twin and the hobbits with him had found safety. He turned back, to see his larger companions still peering at the spot where he'd ducked into cover. Just so, when the battle was clearly lost, might his brother, younger cousin, and the hobbits with them have hidden themselves from the enemy and worked their way away from the battlefield.

Why, they might be here in the Wood, even now, having made their way to the Marish and then, finding their homes laid waste, to the shelter of the trees!

Spirits rising, he turned his back on what remained of the Yale and made his way along the bank of the stream, into the Wood wherein his hopes and dreams were hid.

A quarter mile, or half a mile, in any event, he'd know the tree when he saw it. Twins, he thought, and feeling a little giddy he smiled. At the sign of the Twins, just the proper sort of place to meet Tokka once more!

Perhaps his father had assigned Tokka the duty of watching at the tree for his return.

Things were looking better all the time. Bucca's spirits rose with the sun. He'd reach the Twins well before noontide, and would have plenty of time to gather news, at least, from the Watcher, set in motion the mustering of hobbit archers, and return to his escort of Elves and Men before dusk. Dusk seemed forever away as the Wood brightened around him, sunshine filtering through gently whispering leaves much as if no invaders had sullied the Shire, and all was as it had been, and should be, and—if Bucca had anything to say about it—would be once more.

He felt none of the sense of menace or dread that he thought he should feel, if Outsiders lurked. The Wood was as peaceful as it had been during the walking parties Bucca remembered, visiting relations in The Yale with his family. The trees and undergrowth grew healthy, thick and lush. Bucca had to stay very near the bank, even splash upstream in the shallows to find clear walking space. The birdsong from the canopy sounded sleepy and peaceful; no alarm calls sullied the fragrant air.

Bucca's steps moved him along in silence, but he looked all about himself, noting the occasional bird winging from tree to tree, hearing the chatter of a squirrel to herald his passing, seeing the light, filtered through green leaves, playing on the forest floor. He breathed deeply, taking in the scents around him, finding rest and comfort in his surroundings. The Fallohides, in ancient legend, had taken refuge in a Forest—not this one, but one afar off, beyond some mountains higher and wilder than the high, wild Hills he'd passed through, twice now since the turning of the year... there and back again, if he were to make it into a story.

...if there were hobbits to tell, whispered a tiny doubt in the far corner of his imagining. He cleared his throat, softly, of course—he was trying to go quietly, after all.

And then, suddenly, the Twins stood before him, a great tree, as his father had described it, or rather, two great trunks rising separately from a massive base, twining together and then separating again.

He stopped, staring upward.

'Hulloo,' he said tentatively, and then a little louder, 'Hoi!'

The wind whispered in the leaves above. He held his breath, waiting, listening.

'Hoi!' he called.

Suddenly he was struck with a terrible realisation. The invaders had caught the fleeing hobbits, caught them and slaughtered them, staining the snow red with their blood. Blood... excellent fertiliser, the voice in the back of his mind gibbered, as he turned in a circle to regard, with horror now, the luxuriant growth around him.

'Hoi,' he whispered, backing slowly until he felt the solidity of one of the Twins against his back. He slid down, numb with grief, empty, hollow, echoing, madness gnawing at the edge of thought, all his earlier cheer gone—that had been the true madness, he thought, measured against the memory of the fierce and pitiless actions of the invaders, burning Stock and The Yale in the midst of winter to deny the hobbits any shelter against the bitter snow and wind; slaughtering mothers and babes at the Bridge of Stone Bows; overrunning the defenders of the retreating army and causing the Lune to run red under the rays of the rising sun.

Wife, son, father, mother, everyone and everything gone. Perhaps he was all that was left of the Marish, of the Shire.

'Tokka,' he whispered, scarcely hearing his own voice in his ears. He sat in silence, and now the whisper of the leaves spoke of mourning, and not far away the squirrel's chatter sounded mocking now. And then he put his hands to his face, and bitterly he wept for all that had been lost.

Chapter 36. Thain: Nasty, Disturbing, Uncomfortable Things

High tea in the Great Room was not Pippin’s favourite meal.  Oh, the food was well enough, he supposed, a bit fancy for his taste, but plentiful at least, and he could take as much as he wanted of the variety of small, cleverly cut sandwiches, the tarts and biscuits and cakes, the fruit and the vegetables carved into elaborate shapes, nothing like what his mum served at home (good plain food, it was) or, for that matter, the old shepherd or Gladdy.

No, the uncomfortable part was that the weekly formal occasion followed dancing instruction, where he and the other tweens were paired off together, a different dancing partner each week, which meant putting on his best manners and putting up with no little foolishness. The lasses whose families lived in the Great Smials, along with those from  the first families of Tuckborough, were quite different from Pippin’s sisters and daughters of the farm families around Whitwell who were, in Pippin’s opinion, at least somewhat sensible. He was a long way from marrying, but it would be difficult to tell, considering the proprietary manner of some of his dance partners, and the flirtatiousness of others. In some ways, the rotation of partners was a relief, for none could seek to claim his affections (Affections! Hah! He was but twenty, and what did they think they were playing at?), but on the other hand, he regretted the occasional (Occasional? Rare might be a more fitting term!) sensible lass who moved on to another partner the following week.

High tea might not have been such a trial, if it had meant release from his enforced etiquette. But no, he had to escort his dance partner to their places at the high table (for of course, his place was beside the Thain), pull out her chair, seat her with appropriate ceremony, and at last take his own place. Then he must preside over the arduous chore of making sure she enjoyed her tea to the best of his ability, serving her from an unending procession of trays held by hovering servants, making sure that her cup was filled when the level dropped below half, and when he did have the chance to sip at his own cup, inevitably it would have cooled from the scalding, fresh-poured temperature he preferred.

It was a sore trial.

This day, however, early in September, was to be different, for when everyone was properly seated (lads and lasses included), Thain Ferumbras entered (as always, on the stroke of four, for his mother had prized punctuality), and an honoured guest walked at his side.

‘Frodo!’ Pippin cried, half starting up from his chair, only to subside at his partner’s wide-eyed stare and the polite snickering of other lasses sitting nearby, who’d hastily covered their merriment with their snowy serviettes.

Pippin fumed. Had he been at the farm, everyone would have stood up from their chairs to swarm around Frodo, to welcome him warmly, instead of staring and whispering and covering improprieties by standing to their feet to bow to the Thain as host of the festive meal.

Of course, Pippin must seat his partner once more, after the bow was over. Frodo had been seated at Ferumbras’ other side, making conversation difficult, for to talk to Frodo he’d have to turn away from his partner (not done) as well as talk over or around the Thain (definitely not done). The best he could do was to drop an occasional inane remark on the food or the weather, while keeping his ear tuned the other way, as best as he could manage, to hear the Thain’s conversation with Frodo.

Pippin’s partner this day was Persimmon, somewhat young and anxious as her mamma had instructed her to be witty as well as sweet, wide-eyed as well as interesting, memorable (in a good way) so that the young heir would be sure to seek her out at the next formal dance and actually ask to put his name on her card for a dance, or even (imagine it!) more than one. Truth be told, she was finding the conversation as difficult as Pippin was, for there was only so much one could say about the weather, and she had much rather eaten the food than conversed about it. Her bright, forced smile belied her dismal thoughts of her mother’s interrogation, certain to take place as soon as high tea was finished and Pippin escorted her to the door of her family’s apartments (unless of course her mother could find some reason to compel the poor lad to enter, sit down in their parlour, and endure still more polite conversation, which she rather doubted).

In the middle of these sad ruminations, she was suddenly heartened. Pippin had been talking, rather disjointedly and in a careless fashion, about the state of the crops in the fields, when suddenly he grinned. She didn’t know it, but he’d just heard Frodo ask Ferumbras if he (Pippin) might have a holiday the next day, and spend some time with Frodo, and the Thain had said yes!

She returned the grin with a hopeful smile of her own, and for some reason he took this as a sign to begin a real discourse, and none of this polite nonsense. ‘Have I told you,’ he said, putting down his teacup to signal to a servant that Persimmon’s cup needed freshening, ‘how I was able to fool my cousins, all of them, the older set as well as the younger, in a rousing game of Fox and Hounds?’

Though Persimmon had heard the story, with many embellishments, while in a gaggle of giggling lasses, she leaned forward with an eager look (after thanking him for his attention to the tea, of course), to say, ‘Why, no! How clever of you! Do tell all about it…!’

(Persimmon’s mother, sitting at one of the middle tables, exchanged a look of satisfaction with her neighbour. Her daughter really was getting on well with the young heir. Things certainly looked promising…)

Teatime over, Ferumbras arrested Pippin as he jumped up to pull out Persimmon’s chair, preparatory to offering his arm for the arduous journey to her family’s apartments. (Arduous, partly, because of all the gossip that would fly on the part of those who saw them, arm in arm, walking on the way. If they were serious, that would put one light on it – they had argued, perhaps – while if they were laughing, any number of things might be said about them, their state of mind, and their relationship, if any, even if there wasn’t one.)

‘Join us in my quarters, dear boy,’ he said, and with a glance to a wondering Persimmon (who did not quite know if the invitation extended to herself, and if it did, what her mother might say) he added, ‘as soon as you’ve discharged your obligations, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Pippin said with a bow, adding a wink and grin for Frodo who was looking amused, and somehow sympathetic at the same time. ‘If you please, Miss Persimmon…’

‘Master Peregrin,’ Persimmon replied, taking the hand he held out to her and rising as gracefully as she was able, though under the eye of the rich (and, if the Talk be believed, quite peculiar) Mr Baggins, she feared she might easily stumble and fall on her face. Her mamma would certainly be impressed at the company she was keeping this day: The Thain, his Heir, and the rich and much-talked-about head of the Baggins family. She only hoped she wouldn’t say or do anything stupid.

The tweens were the last to be dismissed, of course. All the diners in the room were finished eating the moment the Thain stood up from his chair, and put down their utensils if they were still eating, and folded their serviettes, and rose to go out of the room.  Some of the mums, those whose daughters had been paired off to advantage for the afternoon lessons and tea, hurried to their homes, that they might be ready to extend hospitality to a likely lad. Others lingered to talk, or meandered on their way, or (as the day was fine) made their way outside to enjoy the last of the lingering afternoon sunshine.

At last Isum gave the nod that released his students from the polite, forced conversations they must engage in, to pass the time while they waited for the majority of diners to clear the room. Pippin tucked Persimmon’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her safely out of the room. She must have said something pleasing, though she didn’t know what, for he was animated and laughing as they walked down the corridor.

Of course Persimmon’s mum met them at the door herself, with a gracious invitation that Pippin come in and make himself at home, poor lad, for he must be missing his home, and they’d be so glad…

But Pippin demurred with the excuse that he was expected immediately by the Thain, to entertain his honoured guest, head of the Baggins family. Of course Persimmon’s mum had seen Frodo seated there at Ferumbras’ side, and could not offer more than a token protest.

‘It’s true, Mum,’ Persimmon said quickly, after the door closed behind him. ‘I heard the Thain say so, himself.’ Thus she neatly avoided any reproaches her mum might have, that she’d said or done something to chase the Heir away, that he wasn’t willing to “sit a spell” and enjoy some time with her family.

 Ah, but high tea was a trial and a bother.

Chapter 37. Thorn: Nasty, Disturbing, Uncomfortable Things

Bucca didn't know how long he'd wept there, but it was long enough to weep himself out, tears he'd kept hidden away for weeks, months, it had been, tears of loss, and fear of further loss. Memories arose unwanted: Mothers and babes slain at the Bridge of Stonebows by the relentless enemy, soldiers fighting to the death to win whatever time they could for the retreat, for the survival of their loved ones. He thought of the burning and slaughter attested by the ruins they'd passed, not only of the great forest that had covered so much of the Shire's rolling hills, but the occasional crumbling foundation, or pile of stones that had once been a chimney, silent testimony to the hobbits who'd made their homes in the woods. Freshest in his thought was the ruin that was Yale, and the ruin he'd not yet seen, that was Stock – for he remembered the flames that had painted the sky behind them, as they fled to seek uncertain safety...

In the exhaustion that followed, he might have slept, or perhaps he swooned. In any event, he came to himself once more, slumped, his back against a solid surface, the trunk of a mighty tree, and there was a hand on his shoulder, a childish voice calling.

'Da? Da? Is it you? Have you come back to us at last?'

Bucca blinked and raised his head, and the young hobbit kneeling before him engulfed him in a hug. 'Da!'

Bucca's hands rose of themselves to circle the lad in a hug. 'Tuck?' he essayed, voice catching in his throat. For surely, he had not slept the years away, as in the old folktale, enough time for his infant son to grow to a youth. Surely not.

'O, Da,' the lad said, and now he was the one weeping, his head against Bucca's chest.

Bucca sighed, even as he patted the heaving back, his hopes of Tokka's return once more dashed.

'I'm sorry, lad,' he began, but his nephew sobbed out broken reassurances.

'No, Da, but it's just so good to have you come home again! ...I mean, come back. It's not home, but we've made a home...'

Bucca cleared his throat. He could not let this go on; he could not let his nephew rejoice in his father's return. The longer he allowed the joy, he deemed, the worse the pain in the end. 'No, Tuck,' he said more strongly.

'It'll be home, now that you're here,' the lad insisted, looking up, but Bucca was shaking his head.

'It's “Uncle”, lad,' he said, and looking into the trusting face that gazed so earnestly into his, he swallowed down bitterness. 'It's “Uncle Bucca”, come back.'

Tuck blinked in bewilderment, opened his mouth to protest, and Bucca added, his voice breaking, 'I'm sorry.'

In the next breath he pulled Tuck to his breast once more, holding the lad while they both wept, though Bucca's sobs were dry – he had no more tears to weep.

***

Galdor stood just within the shelter of the trees, listening to the quiet sounds behind him, Men and Elves caring for their beasts, the jingle of a bridle chain or buckle striking another piece of harness, the soft snort of a packhorse relieved of its burden, the almost imperceptible sounds of scouts, climbing to perch in the trees about the encampment, bows at the ready though there was no sign of an enemy presence in the moment.

He drew a deep breath, scenting mainly the freshness of the woods around him, the grasses and flowers growing up in the clearing that had been the community of Yale. There was a hint of sweat and leather, and of the canvas of the tents, the cloth of the bedding. There would be no smoke, no note of fire. They'd eat cold food tonight, travel rations, for the sake of caution, in the event the enemy sent patrols through the area. There was no note of smoke in the air from anyone who might already be here.

The birds and small creatures of the wood, having quieted on their arrival, were now growing used to the company, and Galdor was aware of the resumption of birdsong, and small scurryings nearby. If not for the blackened ruins before him, he'd have thought it just another peaceful summer's day.

He was no wood elf – his ears were more attuned to wind, wave, and cries of seabirds – but he had that affinity with living, growing things, and so he laid his palms on the bole of the nearest tree, bowed his head, and listened with all his being.

Trees, it might be said, are “nowish” creatures, alive in the present moment, with long memories (as long as the march of rings at their core), and yet all times are “now” to them, with the memories they store in the rings. If you cut living wood (a terrible thought), it bleeds. In the cross-section, you'll see all the years, all the memories, as fresh as when they were laid down – broad rings to show abundant sunlight and rain, narrow rings in times of want, perhaps a fire-blackened area where some of the outer bark burned – not all, with enough left for the tree to survive, grow, and eventually cover the damage with new growth. All years are present, in the cross-section. In a manner of speaking, all years are the present.

A tree cannot imagine, and has little thought of the future, being busy with being, as it were, but it marks much of its surroundings as it soaks in air and sunshine and drinks deeply of the rain and ground water. And so, Galdor was able to feel all the years of this particular tree's being. He closed his eyes to sort out the impressions, as if he viewed a tapestry of time, following a glistening thread here, a hint of colour there... A wood elf might have read what he wished quickly and easily, sorting through the myriad threads, but Galdor was less practiced. He could listen to the sea wind, or hear from the waves breaking on the shore, what might be passing miles out to sea, but this treeish business was something he seldom had time to explore.

His nostrils flared as he detected a trace of smoke, but there was no smoke on the air, not in the present time. The tree was remembering – he perceived the fragrant smoke of cooking fires, laden with good smells, and the metallic smoke of a forge, turning out shoes for ponies, perhaps, or ironmongery of some sort or other, hinges for doors, shovels, nails perhaps. His lips tightened at the memory of the smoke of destruction: the burning of buildings, he thought, and living – or newly dead – creatures within, of wool, and metal, polished leather, crockery and varnished wood and other household items. Yes, he thought, this tree witnessed a great destruction. But when, he questioned silently. Were there cooking fires after?

He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating fiercely. The aide who'd thought to bring him a plate of food, cold travel rations in truth, but not just waybread – cold meat, cheese, and dried fruit, a loaf of bread baked days earlier but remaining marvellously fresh with the skill of the Elves, and a draught of wine – turned aside and crept away, as silently as might be, in order that he might not disturb his lord's efforts.

Chapter 38. Thain: Element of Surprise

Pippin awakened earlier than usual, not having to drag himself out of the bed to face the day, but fairly leaping into his morning routine, though he had to do it quietly, so as not to waken his minder. As a matter of fact, he was up earlier than any of the hobbitservants: the minder, the holekeeper, the body servant who would normally light the fires in his rooms, lay out a light repast, draw his bath, choose his clothing for the morning (depending on what sorts of lessons the day held), lay out his afternoon outfit after Pippin departed to breakfast with the Thain, and then tidy up the private rooms while Pippin was gone.

With Frodo for a companion, he wouldn’t need to keep the minder apprised of his whereabouts, nor suffer the attentions of the escort. The hour was early enough that it was likely no escort yet waited outside his door, to inquire of his plans for the day. It was shaping to be a wonderful holiday!

Of course, he’d not see the tutor this day, nor Isumbold, at least, not for lessons, though Frodo might want to take tea with Pearl’s family, an intimate tea, in the headmaster’s apartments, rather than the grand affair of the previous day. Pippin certainly did not have enough of his beloved oldest sister’s company!

Perhaps they’d all be able to take tea on the meadow… And thinking about all the possibilities of the day, he slipped on some randomly chosen clothes (his hobbitservant would have been fit to be tied – would be quite chagrined, as a matter of fact, when he saw his young charge later in the day). He grabbed an apple from the bowl of polished fruit (Pippin had the impression it was there for show, for it always looked perfectly arranged, even soon after he disarranged the fruit to pick a fruit for his delectation) and eased open the door to the suite. Too early for the escort. How fine!

Striding through the corridors on his way to the guest quarters, he barely refrained from whistling a cheery tune, mindful of the slumbering hobbits behind the closed doors on either side. He realised his first drawback to rising so early when he reached Frodo’s door. There was no answer to his soft tapping. He tapped again. No answer. What to do? He wasn’t going to go back to his own apartments – that way lay captivity.

He didn’t want to waken Frodo after his cousin’s long tramp across the fields from Bywater, with the addition of the previous late night’s sitting up with Thain Ferumbras until well after late supper, to discuss various family matters that were somewhat tiresome for Pippin – but the tween could at least look forward to the glorious morrow – today, actually! – with no business whatsoever, and no classes, and no social obligations. He’d see Frodo at breakfast, but what to do beforehand?

Suddenly a grin of pure mischief lit his face. He’d learnt the duty roster of the hobbits of escort, and today was Elberard’s day. He smirked at the thought of that haughty hobbit taking up his station outside Pippin’s door, well before everyone was stirring (perhaps half an hour before the hobbitservant roused himself to light the morning fires), not knowing that the quarry had already escaped the snare. Or, as Isum had put it, the hawk had broken the jesses. The hood was off, and he was free!

In that moment, he knew what he’d do… He slipped through the corridors like a ghost, keeping to the lesser-used byways, for in the early days of his stay he’d explored the entire Smials, in part from restlessness, but in other part, calculation. He’d known it would come in handy! Just like the old shepherd had taught him, know not just the paths the sheep prefer to take, but know the hills and the wild places, where a predator might lurk…

At last he came to a little-used door, opening to the outside. It opened onto a wild garden to the side of the main courtyard, and well away from the Great Door, as well as the lesser doors at ground level. Oddly enough, the hinges were well-oiled, but then, the hinges of all the doors in the Smials were well-oiled, dating from the time of old Lalia, who claimed to have sensitive nerves and couldn’t bear a creak or squeal. All to the good!

Pippin eased the door open, peering carefully from one side to the other, but he saw no one. The stars were still bright in the sky, so it was much earlier than he’d thought. The dairymaids and bakers might not yet be at their business, and the stable lads would be slumbering, even the one who had the duty of sleeping in an empty stall, that he might hear if any trouble broke out in the stables.

…which it would, if Pippin had his way. He was trouble, at least for Elberard this day, and he fully intended to break out!

He skirted the courtyard between Smials and stables, staying on the grassy verge where the lamplight didn’t quite reach, and he went into the stables by the side door, the one that opened onto the meadow. His own pony, that the Thain had selected him, was stabled near the main entrance, so that would not be a wise choice. No, if he were to go out riding for joy, he’d have to pick an unfamiliar beast near this side door, as distant as could be from the sleepy stable lad, sitting night watch nearer the main entrance.

A saddle would be a problem, as well, and a bridle, as these would be hanging in the tack rooms, and he didn’t want to venture any further into the stables than he had to. No, he’d take a pony from one of these outside stalls, an obliging beast, he hoped, and loop a lead from the head collar, around the pony’s neck and back to the chin strap, and fashion a bridle of sorts. He’d have reins, anyhow, though he’d have to use main strength to haul the pony’s head to one side or the other, rather than communicating with a bit in the beast’s mouth. He’d managed on the farm, with the plough ponies, so he wasn’t all that concerned.

The first stall was empty, but a finely bred head was sticking out of the next stall, looking at him with curious interest. He put out a hand, and the pony whuffled him. ‘Hullo,’ he whispered. ‘How would you like to go for a little outing? Shall we? We can ride to the top of one of the hills to watch the sun rise. Would you like that?’

The pony seemed to have no objections.

It was no trouble to lift the head collar from the hook beside the pony’s stall and slip it over the nose, behind the ears, fastening it properly, as he’d been taught to do from faunthood with the plough ponies on the farm. Getting the lead rope properly fixed to make reins was a bit trickier, but he managed. Then, peering towards the dim light coming from the duty hobbit’s lantern, in a stall far down the stable corridor towards the main entrance, he listened a long while, hearing nothing but the soft breathing of ponies.

As softly as he could, he undid the latch on the stall door, and slowly eased the door open, for he was not so certain of stable hinges as he was on the doors to the Smials. He doubted that old Lalia the Fat had ventured out to the stables, after all. He thought he remembered that she’d never bothered to learn to ride, considering any sort of exercise as unpleasant, and ponies themselves as smelly beasts, fit only for pulling a coach, where she could lounge in comfort.

He didn’t have to worry, as it turned out, for these hinges were in as good repair as any in the Smials, partly because the stable Master was a good one, and believed in keeping his facilities in tip-top condition. Well-oiled hinges made for a quick and efficient clearing of the stables in case of a fire. The doors were made so that, once the bolts were shot free, it would take the barest effort to swing a stall door open and drive the occupant toward the outer door.

Quietly, as quietly as may be, he led his chosen mount out of the stall, down the short way to the side door, and out of the stables. He had but a moment of trouble when his pony paused to call back to the companions they were leaving behind, and another pony or two answered, but he was already out of the stables, had pushed the door shut, and grabbed his pony’s nose and jaw between his hands, urgently soothing. Thus, when the duty hobbit, blinking sleepily, stuck his head into the corridor to look for the source of disturbance, he saw nothing. Pippin waited a few moments, holding his pony still, scarcely breathing, but no alarm was raised. At last, he turned the pony to walk along the outside wall, away from the Smials, and led the beast well away before mounting.

Ah, mounting was a problem without a saddle. He’d managed on the farm, by leading a plough pony next to a fence and climbing on. This was no placid plough beast, however, but a finely bred pony, meant for speed. It followed him quietly enough, when he led it through the far gate and out of the pasture. When he guided it to stand next to the fence, it seemed calm and patient. But when he eased himself from the fence onto the pony’s back, the beast threw up its head.

That was his first inkling of trouble.

He dismissed any unease, however, for he was young and confident, and he’d been excelling in Isum’s riding lessons. He remembered having to ride with no reins, and the stirrups crossed over the saddle before him, using only his weight to control the pony. This was no different!

He sat up properly, forcing his heels down, the key to balance, and the pony steadied under him. ‘There’s the lass,’ he said, stroking the glossy neck. ‘Now, let’s walk on, shall we?’

He turned the pony’s head in the direction of the wild Green Hills and squeezed ever so slightly with his legs. The response from the pony was breathtaking – the beast went from stand-still to full gallop in the space of a heartbeat, nearly leaving the lad behind. But Pippin had learnt his lessons well, and gripping with his legs and leaning into the wind, he soon caught the rhythm of the gallop, glorying in the sensation of speed and freedom. They were flying!

Chapter 39. Thorn: Element of Surprise

Their weeping was disturbed by a soft voice, arms that slipped around them both, hugging tight. ‘Tuck? Are you hurt? And who are…?’

Bucca looked up, to see the face of Tokka’s Primrose close at hand, and the latter gasped. ‘Bucca? Is it you? We thought…’

Prim had always been able to tell Bucca from Tokka, from their earliest days, one of the rare hobbits who had that ability. Though they never had been able to fool the Thorn, they had deceived their own mother, upon occasion, switching their clothing and parting their hair on the opposite side than the one their mother had assigned early on in their childhood, to be able to tell them apart.

But Primrose had always known which brother was which. She liked to say that she had married Tokka a-purpose, and that she could scarcely bear Bucca’s company, though she always smiled when she said such a thing. And she marvelled at how people could mistake one (identical) twin for the other.

‘Prim,’ he whispered, staggering to his feet, still holding young Tuck, for the youth still grasped him tightly, as if he’d never let go.

‘I thought… I thought…’ Tuck sobbed. ‘Da…’

‘O my lad,’ Prim said, tears coming to her own eyes. ‘O’ course you thought…’ And she gently pried the lad away from Bucca and sat herself down, rocking him in her arms as if he were a much younger child, a faunt that had fallen and scraped a knee, perhaps. ‘O my lad,’ she repeated.

Bucca blinked and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, then stared in astonishment. ‘Prim?’ he said. ‘Is it really you? I’d not have known you…’

‘You knew me at first sight,’ she said, most of her attention on her son.

‘Yes, but…’ Bucca said.

‘There you are with your “buts” and “how evers”,’ Prim answered. ‘You could talk a troll into the dawning, you could, with your “what evers”!’

‘I…’ Bucca said.

‘And always talking about yourself!’ Primrose scolded. ‘Me, myself and I, as if they’re the three most important hobbits in the land! How about a little bit of “you” for a change?’

‘You…’ Bucca said, and really, it fit well with what he was trying to say, if only Prim would give him a chance to say it. Prim wasn’t dressed in skirts and wrapped in a shawl, as he’d last seen her, but in shirt and jacket and trousers, and she bore a bow over her shoulder, and a quiver on her back, and a knife in the belt around her waist. But he was interrupted again.

‘That’s a little better,’ Prim said. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. I need to get my lad to shelter, a warm drink, a bite to eat and some rest. He’s had a terrible blow, he has, thinking his father’d come home, to find t’was only yourself.’

‘A fine welcome…’ he began, stung.

‘Welcome! Welcome!’ Prim interrupted. ‘We’ve had a Watcher here, each day, by your father’s orders, for months, looking out for your return, not to mention your brother’s, though how he should be able to find us is something that’s beyond me… and don’t tell me that you don’t bring word of him, even now! You’ve been gone long enough…!’

But the anxious, half-hopeful look in her eye belied her brisk chatter.

‘I don’t,’ Bucca said, at last breaking into the stream of words.

‘You don’t… what?’ Prim demanded, rearing back to eye him sternly, though her hand continued to pat and rub at her son’s back in a soothing manner, and then she rested her chin on Tuck’s curls, and added in a murmur, ‘There, there, my love. There, there.’

‘I don’t bring word of Tokka, sorry to say,’ Bucca said. ‘I’d hoped to find him here.’

Primrose took a shaking breath, dismay in her eyes, that she as quickly put away again. ‘There, there, Tuck,’ she said again, her voice husky with emotion, though she cleared her throat immediately after. ‘Well, he’s not,’ she said defiantly. ‘And where have you been?’

‘I…’ Bucca said, and somehow the polished explanation he’d prepared to present to his father, and whatever other elder hobbits might be with him, escaped him now.

‘You went off with that son of the King,’ Prim persisted. ‘Surely he had word of the hobbits who went to serve the King? And if he didn’t, then one of his brothers, or the King himself…!’

She spoke boldly enough here, in the privacy of the forest, with only themselves there. Bucca had a sudden memory of Primrose, clinging tightly to Tokka’s arm as they stood in a crowd of hobbits behind the Thorn, while that hobbit spoke with the Men who had come, representing the King.

And then he remembered… ‘The King is dead,’ he said bleakly.

Prim’s mouth opened and closed again without a sound, as she stared at him through wide eyes.

‘I have no news of Tokka,’ Bucca continued. ‘He was last seen on the battlefield, with Marroc and the others, in the midst of things.’

‘He would be,’ Prim said, finding her voice, belying the sudden tears she sought to blink away. ‘There, there, Tuck-lad,’ she said, looking to her son and back to Bucca.

‘Marroc, that is,’ she went on. ‘And I’m sure that Tokka followed him there, into the midst of things, to keep a watch over him. If there’s any trouble to be found, to be sure, that hobbit could find it!’ (Meaning Marroc, of course.)

‘To be sure,’ Bucca echoed, with a sigh. He’d hoped, against hope, to find Tokka here. Of course, considering his earlier fright, that none of his family had survived the sweep of Angmar’s forces across the face of the Shire, he supposed he ought to be overjoyed to have Primrose fussing at him. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Others?’ Prim said in irritation. ‘Why, with Tokka, I’d assume!’

‘No,’ Bucca said, ‘not the archers. I mean, where are the rest of the hobbits of the Marish, and Stock, and the Yale? My father, and mother, and…’ he’d been about to say “my sweet Comfrey” but was forestalled by Prim’s abrupt movement, as she rose to her feet, picking up her son and setting him on his own feet before her.

‘There, my Tuck,’ she said. ‘Stand up, lad; stand proud, as your father taught you.’ She ruffled her son’s curls with her fingers, and wiped at his face with the edge of her shirtsleeve. ‘Enough of this. Go, and tell your grandfa that Bucca’s come, and we’ll follow after.’

Tuck nodded, tears still streaking his face, and threw his arms around his mother in a brief hug, before turning and dashing into the forest, quickly gone from their sight.

Something that had been clenched tight inside Bucca’s chest had let go at her words. His father, at least, had survived the journey through the winter forest, had survived the flight though they’d had time to take but minimal supplies with them, as they fled to uncertain shelter. Shelter! he thought, looking at the canopy of trees above his head. They would have been denuded of leaves in the winter months, and the snow had been falling heavily when Bucca had parted from his family. If this is shelter, then one roof beam and no walls make a house!

‘And my mother?’ he asked, ‘And…?’

‘Come along, now, and be sure you follow closely in my footsteps,’ Prim interrupted. ‘You don’t want to get caught in the traps we’ve laid, for unwary intruders.’ She turned away from him and began to move quickly, her feet so light she might have been dancing.

‘But…’ Bucca said to her retreating back, as he hurried to catch up. He was hard-pressed to keep up with her. He hadn’t done much in the way of running any distance, in recent weeks, and the past few days he’d been riding, and his nether regions were somewhat tender from that exercise.

‘Keep your voice down!’ she whisper-shouted over her shoulder. ‘And keep up! And no more “buts” will I allow this day, Bucca of the Marish!’ Somehow in that brief backward glance she divined his difficulty, and adjusted her pace to accommodate him, though they still went swiftly.

She turned her face forward again, and there was nothing for it but to jog along behind, at the best pace he could manage, keeping as close as he could, that he might avoid whatever mysterious “traps” she’d mentioned.

And as he ran, he wondered…

Chapter 40. Thain: Missing and Presumed...

Frodo awakened early, as he usually did, blinking the sleep from his eyes – he’d talked late into the night with Thain Ferumbras, late enough that even Pippin, that rascal who never seemed ready to be put to bed when he was a youngster, was stifling yawns behind his hand. He thought he understood all the legalities behind the succession, now, beyond Ferumbras’ brief explanation at the interrupted birthday party.

Alas, poor Paladin!

It seemed that the farmer could renounce the succession, even now, but it would bring shame and disgrace upon his family – it was his duty, and to refuse to serve the Tooks and the Shire would be seen as shirking. Mardibold and his branch of the family were safe, as their ancestor had removed his line from the succession when it seemed there was little likelihood of the Thainship affecting them. But now, with Paladin next in line, and Pippin to follow…

For Paladin to shame his family for the rest of his days, for him to doom his son to whispers and nudges – he already had some of that, with poor Pearl and the rumours about her part in old Lalia’s death – no, he would not see Pippin’s life so marred, his reputation muddied, as well as the lives of Pippin's children after him. He would do his duty, though it took him from all he loved, from the fields and meadows, from the farm.

Frodo sighed. It was a bad business all around, but he would do all that he could to be a prop to Paladin and young Pip. And speaking of Pip…

He arose from the bed, washed quickly and dressed, and made his way to Pip’s apartments. Apartments! For a tween! He shook his head in bemusement at the thought. Heady stuff, and he wondered how Pippin was coping. They hadn’t had much chance for talking, just the two of them together last night, but today he’d take Pip off on a long walk and a picnic, no minder or escort or other tweens to distract them, and find a quiet place to talk.

Speaking of escorts… A stern-faced Took stood outside the door to Pip’s apartments, refusing entry to the visitor. ‘Still sleeping,’ he said. ‘Not to be disturbed, by orders of the Thain, until his minder awakens him for breakfast.’ And he gave Frodo a severe look. ‘He said you kept the lad awake late into the night.’

Frodo smiled. The two of them, himself and Ferumbras, had kept Pip awake with their long discussion, but of course it wouldn’t do to say so, not to the Thain’s own hobbit. ‘We’re to breakfast together,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d walk with him to the Thain’s quarters…’

Just then the door was jerked open by a frowning hobbit, pale with consternation, whose face cleared to see Frodo. ‘Ah!’ he said brightly. ‘Is he with you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Frodo said.

‘What are you on about, Filibert?’ the escort said in annoyance. Elberard was his name, Frodo remembered, from a previous visit Ferumbras had made to Bag End, attended by his escort. He’d given the impression of rather a proud and pretentious hobbit.

‘He’s not here,’ Filibert said, breathless. ‘I mean, he’s not in his bed…’

‘Who…?’ Elberard began. He was a no-nonsense fellow, rather lacking in imagination, unless, of course, you were talking about his own inflated opinion of himself.

‘Did he come early to you?’ Filibert said. ‘Is that why you’re here, to let us know that he’s already at breakfast with the Thain?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Elberard snapped. ‘Ferumbras would hardly send The Baggins as an errand-lad…’ The implications of what he was saying began to dawn, and he turned on the minder. ‘What do you mean, “he’s not in his bed”?’ I’ve been here at my post for the past hour, and no body came by me!’

‘He’s gone!’ Filibert said, paling again, and he took his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away a trickle of sweat.

‘Well that’s just fine!’ Elberard said, folding his arms and glaring at the minder, his tone implying the opposite of his words. ‘You’ve managed to misplace the Heir, first thing in the morning…’

‘You’re his escort!’ Filibert shot back. ‘If he’s left his apartments it’s your duty to be his shadow, not mine!’

Frodo raised placating hands to interrupt the incipient argument. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but it’s not going to get us anywhere. You—‘ he indicated the minder, ‘run along to Pearl and Isum’s, and see if he stopped there for a cup of tea before joining the Thain and myself for breakfast, and you—‘ he indicated the escort, ‘go on to the Thain’s study and see if he’s already there. I’m sure he’d like to get any business of the day out of the way, that we might have our holiday together.’

Though his tone was mild, his manner unremarkable, there was something about the way he looked and spoke that the hobbits he addressed did not question him, simply scattered to do his bidding.

***

It was already established that Pippin was not in his own apartments, nor Frodo’s guest quarters. It soon became evident that he was not stopping over to visit his sister Pearl and her family. He also was not in the kitchens, nor one of the pantries, nor the Great Room, nor visiting any of the other tweens of his acquaintance; he was not in the stables, feeding a carrot to his pony. Discreet inquiries (managing not to disturb the Thain – not yet, anyhow, though when breakfast time came and went with no sign of Pippin, he rather worked things out for himself) revealed that Pippin was not in the Thain’s study. The search was spreading, and so was the Talk.

‘No, I am certain he has not run away to Whittacres,’ Frodo was saying to a worried Reginard when the Thain came stalking up to them in the courtyard before the Smials. The sun was fully up now, and it was promising to be a beautiful day. ‘He was quite cheerful when we parted last night, and looking forward to our holiday! In point of fact, I’d persuaded the Thain to let him come to me next week, and stay at Bag End until my birthday. I’d be happy to remain here a week, and escort him there, that there should be no need of…’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Ferumbras said at Frodo’s elbow, and the Baggins jumped, but turned round with a pleasant enough expression. ‘Ferumbras!’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon!’

‘You have it,’ Ferumbras rumbled, ‘but I’m not so certain about that young scalawag. I’m seriously reconsidering allowing him to come to Bag End, what with…’

‘What sort of trick has he pulled?’ Frodo said, a little anxiously. ‘Why, has he been caught switching the labels on the spice jars, or…?’

‘I wish it were something so simple,’ the Thain said, with a rueful expression.

‘I don’t quite take your meaning,’ Frodo said.

The Thain mystified him by answering, ‘I don’t quite take it, either.’

Baragrim came panting up at that moment – Frodo stared, for he could not recall ever seeing that competent hobbit out of breath before – to report that the entire Smials had been gone over, from parlours to cellars, and no trace of the lad had been found.

‘You had better fortify yourself, you and the rest of the escort,’ Ferumbras said grimly. ‘For you’ll next be organising a search of the countryside, and as soon as the lad is safely found, you’ll all be on water rations for neglecting your duty!’

Baragrim gulped, then stood straight to answer, ‘Yes, Sir.’ As he turned away, Ferumbras stopped him.

‘Who had the duty this day?’

‘Eberard, Sir.’

Ferumbras nodded. ‘Three days’ water rations for him, one for the rest of you – and he’s lucky if he doesn’t get the sack at the end of them!’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Baragrim said. Now was not the time to defend the erring escort. ‘Will that be all, Sir?’

‘No, but it’ll do for a start,’ Ferumbras said, and then made a shooing motion at his head of escort. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Go! Grab up a bag of travel rations from the kitchens, and get cracking!’ He turned back to Frodo.

‘What--?’ Frodo said. ‘Where--?’ He wasn’t quite sure what to ask.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing, young fellow,’ Ferumbras said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have taken himself off to?’

Frodo took a deep breath, knowing that any answer of his might get Pippin into deeper trouble than the tween already was, or it might help. He fervently hoped it would help. ‘The old shepherd,’ he said. ‘That would be my first thought. He wasn’t allowed a proper goodbye, and yet…’

But Ferumbras was calling a hobbit to him, and giving orders to saddle a pony and ride off to the old shepherd’s smial, and if Pippin (or old Brockbank, for that matter) were not to be found there, then to make the round of the shepherd’s shelters.

‘Brandy Hall,’ Frodo said next, when the Thain turned back to him. ‘He’d seek out Merry, if he were in some sort of trouble, or myself…’ He laughed without humour. ‘But you don’t have to check for him at Bag End,’ he said, ‘for there’s no one at home.’

‘I’ll send someone there anyhow,’ Ferumbras said. ‘He might go there, knowing that you’d come home eventually. Though what the lad might have done, that he felt the need to hide himself… or run away…’ He shook his head. ‘I’d’ve sworn he was in perfectly high spirits last night when we parted.’

Too high, perhaps, Frodo thought, and meeting the Thain’s glance he could see that Ferumbras shared the same idea.

Just then old Tom, the stable master, came jogging up. ‘I told you that his own pony is still in its stall,’ he said, ‘but we hadn’t checked all the stalls, until now…’

‘What is it?’ Thain Ferumbras demanded. ‘What do you mean?’

Old Tom gulped. ‘I— I—‘ he stammered. Dread was in his eyes; he was obviously reluctant to impart his news. ‘Storm Wind…’

‘Storm Wind!’ Ferumbras said sharply. ‘What about Storm Wind!’

Reginard, still standing at Frodo’s side, gasped in dismay.

The Thain turned away from Frodo and Regi, to confront the stable master full on, and Frodo took advantage of the moment to whisper to Regi. ‘Storm wind? What do they mean?’

Regi had turned an odd shade of green. ‘She’s only the most valuable piece of ponyflesh in the Thain’s stables,’ he said sickly. ‘The fastest pony in the Tookland, maybe all of the Shire. If Pip is missing, and Storm Wind is missing, and the two have any thing to do with one another…’

Frodo’s heart dropped to the soles of his feet, and he knew his face must have gone as green as Regi’s. ‘O Pip,’ he said. ‘What have you done this time?’

Chapter 41. Thorn: Missing and Presumed…

Primrose stopped so suddenly that Bucca ran into her, nearly knocking her down, but of a wonder she merely glared at him without scolding. In the next few moments he realised why she was sparing him the rough side of her tongue; with her lips set in a firm line, she “spoke” with her hands, first a finger to her lips to demand silence, and then pointing to various trees surrounding them, and then upward.

Following with his eyes, Bucca lifted his head to stare at the branches of one of the indicated trees, seeing only a squirrel leaping from one branch to another…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Prim wave at nothing, and immediately following, he saw movement in the tree he scrutinized – and then he saw the Watcher, pressed against a thick branch, ferns and bark seeming to grow from the hobbit’s back as if the Watcher were a part of the tree itself. Indeed, as he looked, the Watcher stilled again, blending into the tree once more, becoming a part of the branch and nearly impossible to see, even when he knew where to look.

He could only assume that more Watchers were in the branches of the other indicated trees.

Prim plucked at his sleeve, and he followed her, now low to the ground, creeping along – in fear of discovery?

A ladder had been let down, made of rope and sticks – he might’ve sworn that it had not been there a moment ago. Prim grabbed the bottom of the ladder and nodded to Bucca to ascend as she held it steady. Having little head for heights, he was glad of her aid. He climbed, not knowing what to expect, to the fork between two great branches – and to his astonishment, his father was there at the top, waiting!

He nearly cried out, but remembered just in time Prim’s insistence on silence. Indeed, his father threw welcoming arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace, silent tears streaming down his weathered cheeks, but speaking no word, making no sound. Bucca clung to his father in turn, reveling in the embrace. His father was thinner, less substantial than he remembered, but not weaker. No, but the Thorn seemed to have been reduced to sinew and muscle, wiry but strong, as if he’d passed through many trials that had worn away all superfluous fat and flesh and left the essence of the hobbit.

At last, Thorn released his son with a final pat to the back, pointed to a relatively flat spot on one of the great branches, and indicated that Bucca should rest there a moment. Bucca obeyed, wondering. Thorn drew up the rope ladder then, winding it neatly, and secreted it in a hollow in the branch above them, that looked as if it had begun as a squirrels’ nest. He then placed a hand on Bucca’s arm, Stay! …and reached into the joining of the two great branches, lifting at what seemed to be a piece of bark – but was really a cleverly concealed handle, for a door built into the fork, and covered with bark to seem a natural part of the tree.

Bucca looked down a long, dark tunnel, a ladder fastened to one side, and then to his father, who nodded and gestured downward. He was to climb down into the heart of this great tree!

There was nothing for it but to comply. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to contemplate the drop, should he miss his hold, eased his feet into the space and felt for the ladder, drawing a shaking breath as his feet finally found their hold. He looked to his father, who was smiling a sympathetic smile, and nodding encouragement, and began the descent.

Down, down he went, into darkness, the circle of light that was the sky above him growing smaller as he went, and then the light was gone altogether as his father moved to the ladder, began the descent, and pulled the door closed over his head.

Down, down now in complete darkness, suspended in space that went on forever, only his breathing and the beating of his heart, and the regular ladder rungs to anchor him to reality. It seemed an eternity before he saw light again, and a moment later, the ladder ended and his feet were on a solid surface once more.

He was in another tunnel, this one reassuringly horizontal, running under ground level he thought, reinforced at intervals with wood. He thought of the work that must have been involved, to dig and brace this tunnel, and however many more tunnels and rooms might be found here. Lamps burned at intervals, though the nearest were some way down the way -- nothing flying overhead, when the hatch was open at the top of the entrance, would see any vestige of light.

He moved out of the way just in time as his father descended the last part of the ladder, and then Thorn was embracing him again, and speaking soft words of welcome. ‘My son! My son!’ he said. ‘Back from the dead! We feared the worst, though I never gave up hope, not completely. I left a watcher for you, and each day when the watch was changed, and no word of you, I died a little death…’ And the old hobbit was weeping again, and Bucca hastened to comfort him.

‘I’m here now, Dad,’ he said. ‘I’m here now.’

‘That you are,’ Thorn said, laughing through his tears. ‘And now, hidden away, we can safely talk… We’re extra careful, in this part of the Wood, lest we betray our hidden fastness to those who would hunt and kill us, for sport and for worse things…’

Hidden fastness, Bucca thought to himself. The numerous Watchers, the workmanship of the entrance -- the cleverly constructed entryway, the well-braced tunnel walls that would be cramped for a Man but of a good size for hobbits... He wondered just how large this refuge might be.

‘I can see there are more tales for the telling, besides mine,’ Bucca said.

Thorn nodded. ‘And now there’s report of a large body of Big People in the direction of The Yale,’ he said. ‘More danger, I deem – though I hope they haven’t come to burn the forest over our heads. The army that swept over our land, last winter, tried that, but the Lady snuffed the worst of the flames with her heavy snows. But this time of year, well, She’d have to send heavy rains – unseasonal rains, and yet, I have every faith in Her watch-care…’

Bucca thought privately that his father had more faith than he did, himself. And yet, he had to admit -- as they entered a large, underground great room, filled with the smells of food cooking, where many hobbits sat at rough-hewn tables, slurping up a thick and meaty stew -- the hobbits of the Marish and End of the Wood seemed to have survived the invading army, to have made the most of things here in the Wood.

Belatedly recalled to the conversation, he put a comforting hand on his father’s arm. ‘No,’ he said, hastily adding, ‘I mean no disrespect to the Lady, I’m not speaking of her watching over us, but of the Big People who are encamped – they are travelling with me, and escorted me in safety to my meeting here with you today.’

‘Escorted you!’ his father said in astonishment. ‘Escorted you! Quite as if you were King, or Prince, or his Esquire…!’

‘Not quite,’ Bucca said, ‘though it is by the order of the Prince that I am come here, and themselves with me.’

‘By order of the Prince,’ Thorn said. ‘Berenarth made it through with your guidance, then, or at least one of his brothers? Or,’ he added eagerly, ‘the King himself? And is Tokka with him?’

‘No, no,’ Bucca said, shaking his head, lifting a staying hand. ‘The King is dead.’

Thorn’s eager inquiries halted suddenly, and the old hobbit drew a deep breath, staring at his son. ‘I thought perhaps, that all sad things would come undone,’ he said quietly, ‘though of course, they couldn’t. I know that very well.’

And drawing another deep breath, he turned to the room and raised a hand. The quiet murmur that filled the space with a homely sound, stilled, and the diners turned toward them. ‘Here is my son Bucca, returned from long journey!’ Thorn said.

There was a muted cheer, and Bucca bowed in response, but when some arose and would have come to them, perhaps to ask questions and demand news, the Thorn waved them back to their seats.

Thorn slapped his son gently on the back and said, ‘I might’ve said returned from the dead -- there are many who tried to convince me that you were gone, and for ever, for you did not return, not for months…’

‘I’m sorry, Dad, I tried, but…’

‘No need to apologise,’ Thorn said. ‘It’s been difficult and dangerous times, and no way to know if you were caught by the invaders, or by those who’ve made their home here since, nasty creatures… but first, I deem, a meal before we discuss any further business…’

He threw his arms about Bucca once more, for another fervent hug, murmuring in his son’s ear, ‘But I’m so glad to have you back, safe back, after all that’s happened…’

‘More tales for the telling,’ Bucca said quietly, when his father had put him away once more, and the both of them had to wipe tears from their cheeks. He looked about the room, dimly lit by candles, recognising a few of the faces near him. ‘But what about Mum? And my son? And…’ Here he hesitated, for Prim’s reaction to his questions had given him pause. ‘My sweet Comfrey…?’

‘First, I would have you eat a full meal,’ Thorn said, seeming to sense his son's weariness. ‘Your loved ones are not here – our family eats at the earlier sitting, and they are off and busy about their work, or minding the sleeping little ones, who nap after the daymeal…’

Bucca drew a deep breath of his own. His father was evading him, he thought, but he must obey. Someone – his mother, his wife, his son – something was amiss with at least one of the loved ones he’d named. But he’d get no further information until he’d eaten, or so he gathered from his father’s firm manner. In his exhaustion -- he had pressed so hard to get to this point, pressed Cirdan and the Princes of Gondor and Arnor to be allowed to return, pressed his escort to ride steadily onward once they'd started, pressed himself to reach the appointed meeting place, and been pressed by Primrose to follow at top speed to this place -- he seemed to be drifting on the tide of events, but nothing seemed to matter at the moment.

And so, he’d eat, and he’d eat well – from the fine smell of the stew, venison, he deemed – and then he was determined to ask his fill of questions, to find what was what in this underground community that seemed to be prospering despite difficulty.

And then he’d greet his loved ones, those who were here to be greeted, and then – and only then – would he broach the King’s business to his father and the other leaders amongst the hobbits inhabiting this fastness under the forest floor.

Chapter 42. Thain: To See a Well-Beloved Face

Messengers had gone off in all directions; the Thain’s hobbits of escort had organised various search parties to go out along all the roadways and paths and byways, Thain Ferumbras had returned to his study after issuing orders that he was to be kept informed of all developments, and Frodo…

Well, Frodo was something at a loss. He felt completely superfluous. Ferumbras had invited him to await news in the study, but he’d told his host as graciously as he could manage, that he felt too restless to settle in a chair, and the old hobbit had simply nodded his understanding. He’d placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder in parting. ‘I’m as worried as you are, lad – and he will be due some sort of punishment or other for pulling this stunt, whatever it might be. But I am not an unjust hobbit, and I will listen to his explanation and take his account into consideration…’

‘I doubt our holiday will survive the consequences,’ Frodo had said ruefully, and the old hobbit had shook his head in regret.

‘I expect you’re right. Well, my door is open to you, so if you grow weary of restlessness, there’s a comfortable chair there before the fire, and a glass with your name on it, waiting to be filled and emptied again.’

Frodo had thanked him and watched him walk off, into one of the lesser entrances to the Smials.

He pivoted slowly, his gaze sweeping around from the Smials, to the yard and outbuildings, and back to the Smials again. He’d thought of going to Pearl’s, but dismissed the thought, not relishing the idea of perching on a chair in her apartments, waiting anxiously, any more than a chair in the Thain’s study. Worse, perhaps, as Pearl would be beside herself in anxiety over her little brother’s whereabouts and the whys and wherefores and consequences of his actions. Isum would be no help – Frodo had seen him ride out with one of the small groups of searchers.

There was something… Something or someone he’d seen in the controlled frenzy that had filled the wide courtyard before the Smials, before the bulk of searchers had departed in all directions… He swept his surroundings again, his eyes squinted in concentration… There! A lone figure, head down, walked slowly away from a lesser entrance to the stables.

Frodo had gathered, from snatches of overheard conversation, that Storm Wind had been stabled there, in one of the quieter stalls on the periphery of that wing of the stables. He nodded to himself and began to walk purposefully in the direction of the questing hobbit. No one stopped him or called to him; as an honoured guest, he had not been tasked with any role in the search, though at the start he’d been consulted, of course, for the benefit of his knowledge and understanding of his young cousin’s thoughts and habit of thinking.

‘Didn’t think, rather!’ Frodo said wryly to himself. He lengthened his stride, not quite breaking into a jog, for he didn’t want to call attention to himself and his quarry. That was the last thing he needed, more interference! No, but he wanted quiet, to think his thoughts, to ponder, to consider, to play the old game Bilbo had employed, whenever the old hobbit had misplaced something. Where would I go, if I were a... ‘Pippin,’ he said aloud.

The problem was, he really hadn’t an inkling.

He’d nearly caught up to the other hobbit – young Ferdibrand, he saw now, apprentice to one of the Thain’s hunters, he thought, but not attached to one of the search parties. There was some sort of problem with the hobbit, he thought, and was reminded when he tapped the fellow on the shoulder.

Ferdi jumped in alarm, swinging around, startled nearly out of his wits, for he said naught. ‘Do you have something?’ Frodo asked him, and the fellow simply stared at him as if half-witted. He was not the bright, voluble hobbit Frodo remembered from Bilbo’s last Birthday party in the Shire.

‘A trail,’ he said patiently, pointing to the ground. ‘Did he leave a trail to follow?’

Ferdi drew a deep, steadying breath, followed Frodo’s pointing finger, looked back to Frodo’s face, and shrugged.

Frodo pursed his lips, remembering something of the tragedy that had reduced Ferdi to his current circumstances, and reached slowly to place a hand on Ferdi’s shoulders, turning him back in the direction he’d been facing before Frodo had hailed him. ‘A trail?’ he said, striving for utmost patience, and speaking as if it really didn’t matter to him one way or another. He was just a visitor, lost in the exigencies of the emergency, seeking to relieve his boredom. ‘What do you see there, on the ground?’

No pressure. No expectation. No scorn for the “poor half-wit” as he’d heard one of the tweens in Pippin’s set say. Just a simple, offhanded question.

As he’d hoped, the fellow bent his head once more to study the ground, and though Frodo could not see anything, they began walking once more, Ferdi leading, scrutinising the ground ahead of them, and Frodo following silently, hand still on the fellow’s shoulder. They walked to the fence and stopped, while Ferdi looked long at the ground, then nodded to himself, silently mouthing a few words.

Frodo did not dare ask a question, for fear of putting the fellow off. When Ferdi began to move away from the Smials, away from Tuckborough, away from any established path or track and into the wild Green Hills, he followed, though he wasn’t really prepared for any sort of long hike. He hadn’t a water bottle, or even a cloak! Still, his companion seemed to know something, to be on the trail, and he didn’t want to lose the opportunity.

He smiled at the thought that, at least, having learnt from Bilbo’s example, he had a clean pocket handkerchief on his person, and then shook his head at himself. Concentrate, lad! he almost heard Bilbo’s gentle urging. Use your eyes! Look for what you don’t expect to see!

He looked, and looked some more, looked hard, and began to see a faint trail in the grass. Something had passed this way, and as they passed through a muddy spot where they crossed a trickle of a stream, he saw hoofmarks.

Ferdi nodded and turned to Frodo for the first time. ‘G-g-galloping,’ he said. Frodo recalled that this was a hobbit of very few words, these days. Pippin was one of the few who sought him out, who talked to him, who defended him to others when they made caustic comments at Ferdi’s expense.

Frodo nodded in return. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Please, do carry on.’

Ferdi raised an eyebrow at his politeness, but turned back to the trail once more, all business.

They walked for hours, winding ever deeper into the wild country, great hills rearing to either side. They stopped only once, where a spring trickled from the hillside where they walked, and Frodo was very glad to refresh himself, for the day was warming. It would have been a beautiful day for a long walk and picnic, he thought to himself ruefully. Ah, Pip, he said under his breath, shaking his head.

Ferdi simply ploughed on.

Frodo half-hoped that they followed the trail of a wandering Storm Wind, that somehow the pony had won free of her stall without any involvement on Pippin’s part, which would lessen Pippin’s troubles – or would it? What reason would the lad have to hide himself, or run away? Even if it had been a prank, surely he’d have returned at some time after breakfast, to begin his promised holiday?

No, he supposed he rather hoped that the trail involved both Storm Wind and Pippin. At least this way they’d find the lad when they found the pony.

The Sun had reached her zenith and was halfway down the sky – and they’d walked all that time, slowly, Ferdi concentrating on the trail and Frodo trying to see the signs that led them, with no food and no water except for that brief rest at the spring – when Frodo saw an ominous sign ahead of them – a wheeling of carrion birds above the hillside they were approaching.

‘O no!’ he said, and Ferdi stopped to look at him. He had merely to point, and the other hobbit gasped in dismay, and began to run forward, abandoning the trail.

Frodo told himself that they could always come back to this point and resume their efforts later, once they found the dead rabbit or sheep or whatever might be drawing the attention of the birds. He jogged determinedly after Ferdi, with every confidence the Took, familiar with this country, hunter that he was, would be able to find their way back without too much trouble.

…but it wasn’t a rabbit or sheep, as things turned out, when they reached the spot.

Pippin lay sprawled on the ground, his face reddening in the afternoon Sun, beating down on him. His skin wouldn’t burn if he were dead! Frodo thought desperately, but he wasn’t sure. Would it?

There was no sign of the pony, but it appeared the lad had taken a bad fall, for he made no response to Frodo’s shouted repetition of his name as the searching hobbits came panting up to him.

Ferdi reached him first and fell to his knees, hands held out helplessly in front of him, afraid to touch the prone figure.

Frodo arrived a few seconds after and knelt down. ‘Pip?’ he said anxiously, and reached out to brush a wayward lock from his cousin’s forehead. The flesh was warm to the touch – sunburn, he decided, for when he took up the limp hand, it was cold in his grasp. ‘Pip? Speak to me, lad. Can you hear me? Pip!’

He looked to Ferdi. ‘Run!’ he said. ‘Run for help! I’ll stay with him.’

Ferdi jumped to his feet and pelted off, zig-zagging down the hillside rather than risking a direct descent, leaping over some of the larger rocks in his way. It was not long before he was lost to sight; he had several miles to go, though, before reaching the Smials (less, if he happened upon any of the other search parties, and Frodo could only hope), and Frodo doubted he’d be able to keep up such a pace for more than the first mile.

Frodo unbuttoned the top button of Pippin’s shirt, and several more, and loosened his cousin’s clothing, reassured to see the regular, if rapid, rise and fall of the chest. He kept talking to his cousin, repeating his name in hopes of some response, as he began to feel gently of the limbs, first arms, from shoulder to hand – the left arm was broken, he thought, though no pain crossed his young cousin’s face as he worked his way from elbow to hand a second time – and then legs.

Next he felt gently of Pippin’s neck, easing his fingers around. ‘I’d like to throttle you, for this stunt, cousin,’ he said, only half-joking, ‘but I’m just checking to see if you saved the Thain the trouble of breaking your neck for you! …Pip! Do you hear me?’

He felt Pippin’s skull next, and found the back of his cousin’s head wet. He brought away a hand red with blood, and his stomach turned, just for a moment, before he steeled himself, wiping his hand on his breeches and wishing he’d had the forethought to bring water, cloak, any number of supplies for this unforeseen result.

At least he had his pocket handkerchief. He tore this into strips, left his young cousin just long enough to find two relatively straight sticks not far away, where a small copse grew in the valley below – keeping his eye on the still figure the whole time, and stumbling over rocks as a result. He used the strips of cloth to bind the sticks to Pippin’s arm, to support the break until a healer could see to it.

Pippin moaned as Frodo worked on the arm.

‘Pippin? You’ve hit your head, it seems. Do you hear me, cousin? Pip?’

To his joy, a faint groan answered his latest query. ‘Pip! Pippin!’

‘You don’t have to shout,’ his cousin muttered. ‘I can hear you just fine. Five more minutes, I beg of you, just five more minutes…’

‘Pippin,’ Frodo said, less loud but still urgent. ‘I’m here, Pip.’

‘That’s a comfort. I think,’ Pippin responded, though he did not move, nor did he open his eyes. ‘Merry?’

‘No. Frodo.’

Pippin’s eyes squinched as if Frodo’s name were a problem for him to solve.

‘Frodo,’ he said. ‘No, Frodo’s not here.’

‘I am, rather!’ Frodo said, feeling absurd.

Pippin’s eyes blinked open, and he stared upward, or appeared to.

‘That’s right,’ Frodo said, well pleased at this evidence that Pippin was coming to himself once more. ‘There’s the lad. Don’t try and move. Help is on its way.’

Pippin just blinked in surprise, or perhaps astonishment. ‘Where am I?’ he said. ‘What is the time?’

Frodo glanced at the angle of the Sun. ‘Nearly teatime, I’d guess,’ he said. ‘I don’t have our picnic with me, however. I expect it’s sitting on some table or other, back at the Smials, packed and ready to go.’

‘How short-sighted of you,’ Pippin murmured, his eyes closing once more, but then he added, ‘Teatime? Have you lost your senses?’

Frodo wanted to argue the point, that it appeared more likely that Pippin was the one to have lost his senses, to ride off on the Thain’s most valuable pony as he had. However, it didn’t seem quite the right time.

‘Yes, it’s teatime,’ he merely reasserted. ‘At least, I think it is.’

‘Who in his right mind would wait until dark to take tea, I ask you?’ Pippin said, and winced.

‘Dark?’ Frodo said, not sure of his young cousin’s meaning, but feeling the stirrings of unease.

‘What happened? Where am I?’ Pippin said. ‘Where are we, rather?’

‘We’re some miles from the Smials,’ Frodo said.

‘How did we get here?’ Pippin asked, opening his eyes again to peer in Frodo’s direction, though he seemed unable to focus his gaze.

‘I walked, on my own two little feet,’ Frodo said. ‘As for you…’

‘Yes, but what happened?’ Pippin demanded, trying feebly to sit himself up. Before Frodo could move to prevent him, he sank back again with a groan.

‘I was hoping you would be able to tell me that,’ Frodo said. ‘What do you remember?’

But Pippin was staring at him – or appeared to be staring at him – with a frown of puzzlement, and his next words sent a shock of alarm through his older cousin, from Frodo’s head to his toes. ‘Who are you?’ Pippin said. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s Frodo!’ the older cousin repeated urgently, laying his hand on Pippin’s shoulder, but managing to refrain from giving that shoulder the shaking he wanted to administer. ‘Frodo’s here, lad, don’t you know me?’

Pippin shook his head, or started to, and then groaned and half-lifted his right hand, as if he wished to rub at an ache in his head, but was too weak. ‘Of course I know you,’ he said. ‘I always know you! I don’t know what you’re doing here, of course, or why we’re out in the middle of the wild part of the Green Hills in the middle of the night – though I suspect it’s your fault somehow, that we’re off on a jaunt and have come wrong somehow – have you lost us, as you did summer before last, when we accidentally used the map for kindling?’

Frodo did not point out that it was Pippin who’d used the map to start a fire when the wood was slow to catch – the heedless tween had grabbed at the first bit of paper he’d found in Frodo’s pack, not the paper he’d included for starting a fire, but by mistake, the map they’d been following on an earlier holiday jaunt.

No, for he was busy staring at his younger cousin in consternation. After a moment of thought, he slowly raised his hand and waved it in front of Pippin’s face, to no effect.

‘Pip…?’ he began, and then thought the better of it, and said instead, ‘Where does it hurt, lad?’

‘Everywhere,’ Pippin breathed. ‘But my head… my arm…’

Frodo lowered his hand again, letting it come to rest on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘Steady on, lad,’ he said. ‘Just stay as still as you can. Help is on its way.’

Chapter 43. Thorn: To See a Well-Beloved Face

The stew was venison, as Bucca had guessed, flavoured with wild onion and mushroom, resembling an old recipe he remembered from the Golden Perch. The Perch was the inn at Stock (was being the operative word), whose foundations were said to have been laid not long after the first settlers followed Marcho and Blanco from Bree to settle the Shire. At the Perch, and also the Tipsy Thrush in The Yale, venison and wild mushroom stew had been a delicacy in days of plenty, when beef or poultry or pork were common, and so the stew, made from game and forest-gathered ingredients, commanded a luxury price. Bucca had tasted it once in his life, as a matter of fact, when his father had been confirmed Thorn by the clan chieftains of the Fallohides. The sprawling inn’s common room was the one place in the Marish large enough to hold them all in solemn convocation. The proprietor had served Thorn and his family his finest in the celebration that followed, in deference and congratulation.

Bucca had never forgotten that meal. Though they had a field of mushrooms at the farm (had had, he reminded himself), he’d never tasted anything the like before, or since. The Perch was known for the quality of its table, as well as its beer, said to be the finest in the area. Had been known, anyhow. Crops must be sown and harvested, if there was ever to be beer found in the Shire again. The inn was undoubtedly no more, reduced to rubble and perhaps a few burnt timbers. But crops could be re-sown, and ruins could be rebuilt…

As he ate, Bucca kept waiting for his Comfrey to come, to throw her arms about him… He thought of any number of explanations for the delay. She had been ill, and was resting, and they wanted to lessen the shock of seeing him again after all this time. Or perhaps this was not the only hiding place in the Woody End, and someone had been sent to fetch her; or after his father had seen him fed, he’d be led to the refuge where his wife and child waited. Or…

But she did not come, and when he opened his mouth to talk, his father would gesture at the bowl and quietly insist, “Eat.”

Others came and went, gathering for brief moments near their table and then moving away again, as if the Thorn had ordered whatever privacy might be possible in such a public place. And yet curiosity and wonder drew them, before politeness took them away once more.

There were no second-helpings, it seemed, unlike that earlier occasion. Bucca scraped the last spoonful of his rather scanty portion and rubbed the carven bowl with the last bite of his bread, sopping up the last of the savoury juices to help disguise the bitter aftertaste of the acorn flour. His father sat opposite, watching him eat. I’d already eaten, had been the Thorn’s excuse, but you go ahead -- which had never been an excuse in the past… and meant, to Bucca’s understanding, that the hobbits sheltering here were on short commons. It stood to reason, if the Wood were as dangerous as he’d been led to believe, by Prim’s caution, the Watchers, the disguised entrance to the hidden tunnels. Hunting for food would be as difficult as cultivating farmland – moreso, perhaps, if those who menaced the hobbits, also had hunted the local game animals to scarcity.

Laying down his spoon, he faced his father squarely. ‘Now,’ he said.

The Thorn nodded, his expression unreadable. ‘Your son lives and thrives,’ he said. ‘He’s asleep, and I’ve given orders for him to be brought when he wakens, that you might hold him once more in your arms, and behold his face.’

‘Comfrey,’ Bucca pressed. And he waited, while the silence stretched out. His heart sank, and his eyes dimmed, and his chest was tight, though he wondered if he might ever draw breath again. ‘Comfrey,’ he gasped, one hand going to his heart.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Thorn said, his voice barely audible. ‘There’s no good way to tell this…’

Bucca drew a shuddering breath and lifted his hands to cover his face. ‘How?’ he whispered.

‘We were in hiding in the Wood,’ Thorn said, his words slow and full of pain. ‘While the ground was still frozen, it was all we could do to find shelter in hollow trees and logs, hidden thickets, dens of wild creatures we were able to drive out or slay. Oh, the soldiers of the Enemy passed through quickly enough, pursuing the Men of Fornost, and we were able to hide from them. Loud they were, crashing through the Wood as they did. We could hear them, and hide, but those caught out in the open…’

‘Caught in the open,’ Bucca echoed, and suddenly he knew. ‘Angmar…’ He looked to his father with pain-filled eyes. ‘I must know.’

‘Stragglers,’ the Thorn said. ‘The main body had passed, and the Wood had been quiet for nearly a week. The snow that had been our salvation, keeping the trees from catching fire as the armies fired the towns and dwellings in passing, the snow that covered our tracks as we fled our farms and towns… well, it was our undoing.’

‘Tracks,’ Bucca said faintly.

Thorn gazed down at his clasped hands on the table for long moments. At last he raised his eyes to Bucca once more. ‘You’d have been so proud of her,’ he said at last.

Bucca took a shaking breath that ended in a sob. ‘I was,’ he said brokenly. ‘I always was.’

Thorn nodded. ‘Another group of Men, for the stragglers came in smaller groups, following after the first flood of pursuers, happened upon the tracks of hobbits in the Wood.’

Bucca nodded, not wanting to know, yet having to know.

‘Prim was ill…’ Thorn said. ‘She’d… she lost the babe she was carrying, likely from the rigours of fleeing the invaders. She had lost too much blood, was nearly too weak to move. Comfrey had been helping her along, bringing Prim and her family to a warmer shelter, and then she intended to leave young Tuck on watch while she fetched me to tend to Primrose. Prim, and Tokka’s children, and Comfrey and the babe, they had crowded into the hollow of a tree at our sentries’ alarm, but the Men, they turned aside from their march to follow hobbit tracks in the snow.’

Bucca listened, numb.

‘They huddled in their shelter, hearing the Men coming closer, ever closer, and then your Comfrey…’ Thorn took a deep breath. ‘As a bird will run across the path of the hunter, dragging a wing, to draw danger away from the nest…’

Bucca closed his eyes, turned his face away, put up a shaking hand. He needed to hear no more.

At last the Thorn continued. ‘It was difficult to keep the People safe,’ he said. ‘We learnt, from bitter experience, how to conceal our movements despite the snow, and the mud that followed after the melting; and when the ground thawed, we began our excavations beneath the forest floor, with the roots of trees for roofs, and hidden entrances. For even after the passing of the armies, there was great danger. It was those who came after…’

‘Came after,’ Bucca repeated. He didn’t want to hear, he did not, and yet he must know.

‘Evil creatures,’ Thorn said low, and lower he added, ‘sent to infest the Wood, to hunt – to hunt not just the forest animals, but hobbits as well. Creatures as those out of the old tales of the Fallohides, as before they left the Darkening Wood to cross the great Mountains, in the Time Before.’

‘Gobble-uns…’ Bucca whispered, his insides congealing in horror. ‘The Men who came with me, and the Fair Folk…’

‘I doubt the foul creatures will attack a force that comes in such strength,’ Thorn said, drawing a deep breath. ‘The reports I’ve had…’

‘Reports,’ Bucca said hoarsely. ‘You knew we were coming?’

‘I knew someone was coming,’ Thorn said. ‘We were hopeful, seeing the Fair Folk among them, and Men whose description sounded more as the Men of Fornost than the Men of Angmar. And a hobbit, said to be riding with them… I could only hope it was one of those who marched to support the King, for when you did not return, I thought…’

‘And yet you set a Watcher by the Twins,’ Bucca said.

‘Hope is a difficult thing to leave hold of,’ Thorn said. The old hobbit swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps Tokka and Marroc and the rest will yet return as well…’

‘Perhaps,’ Bucca said.

But he would never hold his beloved Comfrey in his arms again.

Chapter 44. Thain: Not All Those Who Wander…

‘Pippin,’ Frodo said for perhaps the thousandth time. ‘Are you with me?’ To his worry, his young cousin was growing increasingly harder to rouse. Frodo looked anxiously at the lengthening shadows creeping over the valley floor. He had waited for what seemed like hours (though it couldn’t have been such a long time, considering the Sun had been halfway to kissing the horizon when they’d found Pippin, and now although She’d dipped behind the hills to the West, the hilltops and sky still shone with Her light). Rather less than two hours, he thought. He and Ferdi had walked for… how long? They’d started after second breakfast, but well before elevenses, and they’d found Pip about teatime, or so Frodo’s stomach had told him. Perhaps six hours of slow walking, following a faint trail, just one of many parties of searchers. 

Frodo might have been astounded that none of the other search parties had crossed their path, but for the fact he knew, from various tramps with Bilbo and on his own after Bilbo’s departure, how wide and wild the Green Hill country spread. Still, he kept listening for the ring of ponies’ hoofs against a stony hillside, for the sound of voices shouting Pippin’s name… But the two cousins might have been alone in a desolate country far from civilised parts, with only the sounds of birds and the occasional rustle of a breeze. There was not even the trickling of water, a nearby spring or stream, though Frodo only realised he was listening for such when he tried to swallow on a dry mouth. If he were feeling so parched, how must it be for Pippin, who had been lying here, much of the time under the Sun’s rays on this warm autumnal day, most likely since early morning! 

‘Pip?’ he said again, squeezing the unresponsive shoulder. At least the lad was breathing. While there’s breath, there’s life, Bilbo whispered in his memory. ‘That’s right, cousin,’ he said, though he rather doubted his cousin heard him, or if Pippin heard, if he had the slightest inkling of what Frodo was talking about. His repeated questions, the times Frodo had been able to rouse him enough for a response, had showed that he was catching and holding on to nothing Frodo told him: the time, where they were, how they’d got here… 

 ‘Nearly half past five, I should think,’ he muttered to himself, taking another anxious look at the sky. The warmth of the day was fading as the shadows grew, and he shivered at a sudden breeze and then reproached himself yet again for coming away on this search completely unprepared – no water, no food, not even a jacket to roll up and put under Pippin’s head, or cloak to keep him warm! 

 ‘Ah, Bilbo, you’d be so disappointed in me,’ he said aloud, standing up to look for perhaps the hundredth time, for any sign of approaching rescuers.

‘Bilbo?’ Pippin murmured, turning his head to the side. And then, ‘Finally! I thought…’ his voice trailed off.

But Frodo stayed on his feet, straining, for he thought he’d heard the sound of a pony. ‘Halloo!’ he shouted, waving his arms. ‘Halloo!’

He was overjoyed to hear an answering shout in the distance, and yes, that was the sound of a pony, approaching, for the beat changed from a steady clip clop of trotting feet to the rapid three-quarter time of a gallop. He stared in the direction of the sound, craning for a view, and was rewarded with the sight of a pony bearing two riders coming around the side of the hill to his east, swiftly approaching. ‘We’re here! Here we are!’ He continued to wave his arms in wild invitation, though it was obvious they were headed straight towards him, with only slight deviations from their path to avoid large rocks or brambles or uneven ground.

It was not long before the pony pulled up before him, dancing, and he lunged forward to grab at the bridle. Pippin’s brother in love Isumbold sat in the saddle, and Ferdi sat behind him, clinging to his waist.

‘Hoi!’ Isum said in response, his keen glance sweeping from Frodo to the prostrate figure beyond. Ferdi slid from the pony’s back and immediately turned to the saddlebags as Isum eased himself from the saddle. The pony planted its feet and stood, rocklike, as Isum gained his balance, hanging on to the saddle to support himself. ‘Water, lad,’ he said now, gesturing to the three water bottles hanging from the saddle. ‘You must be parched. Ferdi said you’d set out without water of your own.’ As Frodo moved to take one of the bottles, Isum said, ‘Take them all.’

The headmaster drew a deep breath, let go his grip on the saddle, and staggered over to Pippin, sinking down beside the tween. Ferdi was close behind, a wad of rolled-up cloaks under one arm and bearing the saddlebags over his other shoulder, all of which he laid beside Isum before turning back to the pony.

‘Go, then, lad,’ Isum said. ‘Meet the rescue party and guide them here.’

Frodo hastily unhooked the straps of the water bottles from the saddle, and Ferdi lightly vaulted onto the pony’s back and took up the reins. As Frodo stepped back, the young hunter reined the pony around and leaned into a ground-eating trot in the direction of Tuckborough and the Great Smials.

Isum was bent over Pippin, running his hands lightly over the tween’s limbs, murmuring to himself, his careful, formal-sounding ‘Smials’ diction forgotten for the moment as he reverted to the speech of the wild hill country, revealing the depth of his perturbation. ‘Ach noo, lad, wha’ hast tha done to thasel’?’

‘Broken arm,’ Frodo said, crouching down on Pippin’s other side. He put the bottles down, retaining one of them in his hand, shaking it to ascertain its contents. About half full, he judged. He uncapped it and moved to hold it to Pippin’s lips, but Isum forestalled him.

‘Nae,’ the headmaster said. ‘He’s no’ awake enough to drink withou’ choking.’

Frodo nodded and took a sip for himself. He might have guzzled the whole, he was that thirsty, but prudence held him to small sips so he wouldn’t make himself sick and immediately lose it all again.

‘Ferdi found us by the copse of old oaks in the Winterfrost valley,’ Isum said, as if Frodo might be familiar with the territory he was talking about. ‘I took the others’ water bottles and cloaks and sent them back to the Smials for help.’ He nodded at the small pile of cloaks. ‘Wrap yourself up, lad. You’re shivering.’ He took up a cloak and spread it over Pippin as he spoke the next words. ‘Now, tell me what’s what with the lad.’

Frodo repeated his earlier words. ‘Broken arm,’ Isum nodded – he’d seen the makeshift splint, ‘and broken crown,’ Frodo said as he pulled the folds of another cloak around himself, good Tookish wool, soft and finely spun, implying that Isum’s companions had been Smials Tooks, and not of the servant class, either.

‘Crown!’ Isum said under his breath, and he eased a hand behind Pippin’s head. At least his fingers did not come back stained with fresh blood, which meant the wound was drying, or so Frodo hoped. Frodo saw the headmaster nod to himself at what he found, and then Isum sat back and gave Pippin’s shoulder a pat as he looked again to Frodo.

‘We’re well out of the searchers’ paths,’ he said as if answering an unspoken question. ‘Closer to Waymoot than Tuckborough, actually.’ He’d resumed the cultured tones of the Great Smials.

‘Waymeet!’ Frodo said, startled, though on second thought, he shouldn’t have been. He and Ferdi had walked half the day, slow though their pace might have been.

‘Aye,’ Isum said with a wry look as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Much farther than any “nice” hobbits might venture into trackless territory,’ he said. ‘Why, only hunters and shepherds… and messengers, and p’rhaps Mad Bagginses are to be found out here in the Wild, this far from civilisation.’ As a former messenger and hobbit of Thain Ferumbras’s escort, he knew these hills like the fur on his feet, having been required to memorise maps that covered the entire Shire, for the sake of being able to take the Thain’s messages to any point in the Tookland, and beyond, at a moment’s notice.

‘And a Baggins only at great need,’ Frodo agreed.

Isum shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine any “great need” that would be great enough to bring a gentlehobbit into the Wilds,’ he said, uncapping one of the remaining water bottles and wetting the handkerchief. 

‘Nor can I,’ Frodo admitted.

‘In any event,’ Isum said, laying the wet cloth gently on Pippin’s forehead, ‘there’ll be a healer coming, if I don’t miss my guess, and stretcher bearers, in case t’lad is not fit to sit a saddle…’ he looked down at Pippin’s pale, still face and muttered, ‘…as he is not.’

Frodo swallowed hard and nodded.

Isum sighed and looked up to meet Frodo’s watching eye. ‘Probably best to bear him to Waymoot, rather than the Smials,’ he said. ‘Shorter. Sooner out of the night air. Quicker to get him into a bed.’

Frodo shivered again and shrugged deeper into his borrowed cloak. The valley floor and the lower slope where they sat were fully in shadow now, and the autumnal air was cooling quickly. ‘I’m all for that,’ was all he said.

Author's Notes

Chapter 17:
Edited to reflect the fact that of course they would not yet be assuming that Berenarth's son was the only surivor in the line of succession. People were fleeing from Angmar both to the north and the south of the Lake, and the King's other sons were not yet accounted for.

Chapter 22:
Paladin getting on Mistress Lalia's "wrong side", and also the incident where Ferumbras nearly married, is elucidated in "Pearl of Great Price", also here on SoA. http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=1060

Note to the Reader, 3/21/05:
Thank you for your patience. This story was completely outlined and written in draft, for the most part. There were a few chapters needing to be written, but they were all "middle" or "connecting" chapters, not too difficult a task. The final chapters and all the most important middle chapters were written.

Sad to say, the outline and draft chapters went missing some time ago. We have been trying to re-create the work, but it has been discouraging and arduous, going over ground that was already covered, trying to remember what had gone before. I know they say you can come up with something even better in the re-writing... I hope so.

In any event, we have hammered out the next chapter, and are trying to re-create the outline that linked the two stories together in such a delightful and intriguing way. (At least in my eyes, and those of my editor-friend.) Think good thoughts.

Chapter 25:
JRRT's description of the Lossoth is found in Appendix A. The idea that "Cirdan saw further and deeper than any other in Middle-earth" is found in Appendix B. Though it is implied that he gave his ring to Mithrandir upon the latter's arrival in Middle-earth, it is not stated outright, and so I have chosen to interpret "he welcomed Mithrandir at the Grey Havens" and the giving of the ring to mean, not necessarily as the grey wizard debarked from the ship in the first place, but a subsequent visit.

Chapter 28:
Not completely happy with this chapter, but it'll have to do until something better comes along. Still trying to recreate what was lost. Hilly is a very unpleasant fellow at this point in his life, spoilt and indulged and too clever for his own good. Like a fine wine that may be undrinkable when it goes into the bottle, he grows better with age.

Chapter 43:
"Time Before" refers to the time the Fallohides lived in Greenwood the Great, or Mirkwood, before they were led to cross the Misty Mountains, to settle on the Western side, hundreds of years before the founding of the Shire. See Shire: Beginnings for more.