(Written for Marigold's Challenge #25)
AUTHOR: Dreamflower

RATING: R for violence

CATEGORY: General

SUMMARY: You reap what you sow.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This story takes place after Chapter 12 of “When the King Comes Back (Brandy Hall)” and references some events mentioned in “The Road to Edoras”

WARNING!!: Character Death (minor canon character)

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

REAPING

Ted Sandyman looked at the bottle in front of him. Empty. His pockets were empty as well, and not a coin to be had. There’d be no credit, not for ale, though he knew he’d not be allowed to starve, for all that no one had a word for him.

Things were still in a bit of confusion now. But for all that no one would speak *to* him, he’d overheard enough to know that the Thain and the Master had come to terms, and the Baggins was acting as Mayor, and soon they’d be looking out to punish those hobbits who had helped Lotho.

And he knew, as well as he knew his own name, what the result would be--banishment from the Shire. Already people were acting as though he had been sentenced: no one would speak to him, no one would use his name, no one would look him in the eye.

Except for one person.

Frodo Baggins.

Just the other day, he had gone over to the site where the hobbits of Bywater and Hobbiton were at work restoring The Green Dragon. Nobody would look at him, they all turned their backs.

But not Frodo Baggins. He’d looked him right in the eye, with so much pity on his face that it was like being punched in the gut. What right did Frodo Baggins have to feel sorry for him? That Brandybuck orphan, that misfit--everyone knew what dark rumors had followed him from Buckland. Missus Lobelia had seen to that. She made sure old Mad Baggins couldn’t keep his heir’s checkered past a secret--that upstart come to do Mr. Lotho out of what was his by right.

And now he had come back from foreign parts, after everyone thinking him dead--just like crazy old Bilbo. And giving pitying looks, that made Ted remember things he didn’t want to think on.

How had it come to this? He’d had a powerful friend in Mr. Lotho, with Big Men at his beck and call--and then them four came back from the Outlands, and started running the Big Men out of the Shire.

He’d been admiring the new mill, so much bigger, so much more powerful than the old one when here they came. He’d watched them walk up, in fine fancy clothes, even Sam Gamgee, that jumped-up gardener. He’d grinned at the look of horror on their faces at the sight of Hobbiton.

Sam had wept at the sight of that tree cut down. Ted smirked; he’d the oversight of that particular bit of mischief, and hoped to soon stoke the fires at his new mill with wood from that tree.

“Don’t ‘ee like it, Sam? But you always was soft. I thought you’d gone off in one o’ them ships you used to prattle about, sailing, sailing. What d’you want to come back for? We’ve work to do in the Shire now.” There had been a dangerous glitter in Sam’s eyes, and his fists had clenched.

“So I see,” said Sam, “No time for washing, but time for wall-propping. But see here Master Sandyman, I’ve a score to pay in this village, and don’t make it any longer with your jeering, or you’ll foot a bill too big for your purse.”

But Ted’d not backed down, as he once would have, in front of them. That Baggins weren’t the Master of Bag End no more. “Garn! You can’t touch me. I’m a friend o’ the Boss’s. But he’ll touch you all right, if I have any more of your mouth.” Ted grinned to himself at the thought of getting to pay them back, as he’d seen to the paying back of that fool Boffin, or that Bolger lad, rotting in the Lockholes. All those years of backing up the Chief had finally paid off.

And then Frodo Baggins had said “Don’t waste any more words on that fool, Sam! I hope there are not many more hobbits that have become like this. It would be a worse trouble than all the damage Men have done.”

Then the cousin from Buckland had opened his mouth, arrogance dripping from every word. “You are dirty and insolent, Sandyman,” he’d said, looking at Ted as though he were something nasty on the bottom of his foot. “And also very much out of your reckoning. We are just going up the Hill to remove your precious Boss. We have dealt with his Men.” *

And he’d gaped in shock at the hobbits coming up in a mob. Blowing the horn had done no good; the Brandybuck had blown his own--a silver horn like Ted had never seen before, and soon there was a great crowd of hobbits heading up towards Bag End.

Of course, after that everything else had gone wrong. He’d hung back, and been witness to Sharkey’s attempt to kill the Baggins, and to old Worm stabbing Sharkey, and a chill still ran through him at the memory of Sharkey’s corpse falling away into dust. It wasn’t until later that he found out why he’d not seen the poor old Chief for a few days--that Worm had murdered him, and some even said *eaten* him.

And that was when it started. The shunning. More than a body should have to take, he thought, not to have a polite word from anyone at all. Now, from what he could overhear when folk didn’t know he was around, there would be trials and there would be banishments. And though they did not say his name, “the miller” was at the top of everyone’s list.

Well, he was of no mind to wait around to be Marked and banished. He was of a mind to head for the Southfarthing. Nobody knew him there--he could give his mother’s maiden name, Clayhanger--and with none the wiser, he could start a new life…

_________________________________________

But he found he was sadly wrong--he’d only been a few days in Longbottom when one of the hands at Dago Bracegirdle’s pipeweed plantation had identified him. And the word had come that the Thain was offering a reward for his capture.

He managed to leave just in time. He made his miserable way through the less populated areas of the Shire, subsisting on the occasional squirrel, or if he were lucky enough to come across a cot-hold, theft. He dared not try to approach anyone to try and work, even under an assumed name, for news of the reward and his description had been posted far and wide.

Once, when he had been desperate, he had approached a small village--barely even a hamlet, and found several hobbits gathered to listen to their posthobbit read out the letter the Thain had circulated.

Twenty silver pennies if Ted Sandyman were captured and delivered to the Thain at Tuckborough. The list of his deeds shocked him: collaborating with enemies of the Shire--why, he’d only been helping Lotho, who wanted to bring some order to the Shire! Profiteering! As though making a profit was a bad thing!

Vandalism and wanton destruction! Why, they had just been knocking down a few old holes and cutting down a few trees to make room for something new!

Accessory to the murder of Folco Boffin.

That made his blood run cold. Why, he’d not laid a single hand on that hobbit! All he’d done was point out who he was to Lotho’s Men. And he had not known they would beat the Boffin lad to death--he thought perhaps they would just rough him up a bit, teach him a lesson--of course he had not believed they would actually kill him!

Didn’t you? said a little voice in the back of his mind.

No. Of course not! Certainly not!

But he could not get out of his memory that feeling of warm satisfaction at knowing that the one who had once mocked him would never do so again--he had watched, he had even laughed, as the battered hobbit had been kicked and brutalized. It had been his own idea to dump the injured hobbit at his friend Fatty Bolger’s doorstep. He could just imagine the dismay on the Bolger’s fat face.

Now there were the angry mutters of the crowd, and he had backed away, for all that he had his hood pulled up, for the posthobbit was reading his description. He had slowly edged himself away, and left the small settlement behind.

There was only one thing he could do: leave the Shire. If he left without being banished, he’d have no Mark on him. Maybe in a few years, after things had died down, he could slip back into the Shire then.

And if he could get out of the Shire, he had allies. Why, those Big Men of Lotho’s had done as he told them, as long as he had said the orders were from the Chief. He’d find them, and get in with them again. They wouldn’t let any of the angry hobbits lay hands on him, and even if they were greedy, they could not turn him in for the reward without being stuck full of arrows by the Tooks. He’d be safe with them. They’d remember him.

Sarn Ford. That’s where he’d head.

That was the way the Men had come in. That’s where he would go--that was possibly where he could find them. Then he’d have protection from all these angry hobbits. He’d throw in his lot with those Men--they might be big and stupid and greedy, but they’d not let him be taken. Why, now that Lotho and Sharkey were both gone, he was as good as their Boss anyway!

Of course! Why, he was much brighter than any of them! He’d soon be the leader of their group!

Feeling far more cheerful than he had for a long time, he went on his way with a bit more confidence, now he had a plan.

That night he approached an isolated farm. A well-thrown stone put a stop to the barking of the watch-dog, and moving quietly, he made off with a plump chicken. He hastened into the small nearby wooded area, and dined on roast chicken that night. He ate every last morsel, and sucked off the bones--it was the most he’d had to eat in days.

The river crossing had nearly proved too much for him. He had stood for a long time, eyeing the icy water. It was almost Yule. The water would come up to his waist, and like most hobbits, he couldn’t swim.

But this was the only way out of the Shire. He couldn’t risk the Bridge--there were too many looking for him, too many who would be more than happy to collect twenty pence for a chance to pay him out. He’d no illusions on that score. He’d been a bit too sharp, a bit too warm, in business to be liked.

For a long time he’d stood at the riverbank, plucking up his courage before he finally stepped into the water. It was a long way across, it seemed, and more than once, he’d feared losing his footing, being swept away.

Finally, soaked and shivering, he stood on the other side. It was cold--so cold. He had to find shelter and food somewhere. He stumbled away from the River, and then collapsed in a shivering heap.

_______________________________________

When he awakened, it was to the smell of something warm and savory. Was that rabbit stew? And he seemed to be indoors.

“Well, well, look who’s awake.”

Ted squinted. That voice was slightly familiar. “Mallo? Mallo Bracegirdle?”

The hobbit in question moved into his line of sight. “The very same, Sandyman.”

The miller looked at him as he squatted next to the pallet on which he lay. He looked about. He appeared to be in a roughly dug smial. He could see there were others. “Ruffo?”

“Yes,” said Mallo. “My brother is here, and my wife.”

“But--what are you doing here?”

The other hobbit thrust his fist beneath Ted’s nose. There, tattooed on the back of his hand: Traitor.

“You were banished?”

“What else, after Lotho’s grand plans fell apart? The question is, why aren’t *you* Marked?” In spite of the undeniable fact that Mallo Bracegirdle seemed to have taken him in, Ted could see a glitter of resentment in his eyes.

Just then the lass--Ted couldn’t remember her name--came over and gave him a mug of the stew--it was rather thin, but tasty, and the most he’d had to eat since the night he stole the chicken. He took a few cautious sips, and then replied “I didn’t want to wait to be Marked. I left when I knew which way the wind was blowing.”

“I wish we had the sense to have done that. And I wish we’d slipped out over the Bridge and headed for Bree. It’s not safe here.”

“What do you mean, not safe?” asked Ted.

“Why, because there are a lot of Lotho’s Men lurking about. The Tooks ran ‘em out of the Southfarthing, and I suppose there are a few from further afield, and they’ve not gone far.”

“Well, why are you worried about Lotho’s Men? You weren’t one as was doing the running off.”

Mallo shook his head. “You don’t understand. There’s no Chief here nor Boss, to make them leave us alone!”
He gave a look at his wife, who was now huddled on the floor next to the makeshift hearth. “I wish my Clover had not chosen to follow me when I was banished.”

But Ted’s spirits had risen at the news that some of Lotho’s Men were nearby. Almost all of them knew him--he’d been Lotho’s right hand for much of the time, and had often taken the orders from the Chief to the Men. They’d listen to him.

He began to regain his strength after a few days. Mallo’s wife Clover was a clever cook, but even the flavor she was able to add was unable to disguise the fact that there was more water in the stew than meat or vegetables, and for the last couple of days, there’d been no meat either.

Ted wasn’t ready to move on yet, but he was tired of the dark little smial, not much better than a dirt tunnel, for there were no windows, and the roughly constructed hearth smoked. He decided he’d get outdoors for a while--maybe snare a rabbit or get a squirrel with a stone, to add to the cookpot.

He went towards a marshy copse to the southwest of the little smial, following along the line of the Brandywine. Mallo had warned him against the other direction--that way led to the Old Forest--and Ted was of no mind to go in *that* dark place. Though sometimes he wondered if it could be as bad as tales had made it--obviously the Baggins and his friends had survived it. But he wasn’t about to put it to the test.

The sun was at its zenith by the time he started back, rather pleased with himself. He’d no rabbit or squirrel, but he’d brought down a plump waterfowl with a rock, and he was certain that Mallo’s wife could roast it up nice and tasty.

As he approached, he heard a scream and a yell coming from the direction of the smial. He stepped out of the copse, to see four large figures menacing the hobbits. Mallo and Ruffo were standing defiantly in front of the round door, and Clover’s frightened face was behind her husband.

At first, Ted thought he’d slip away. But then he recognized the four Men. They were some of those he had worked with, carrying out Lotho’s orders. It was what he had been looking for, and he was sure they would go away and leave the Bracegirdles alone, if he ordered them to.

What were their names? One of them was called “Harry” he remembered--came from Bree, he thought. Another had been one of the Men Sharkey had sent up from the South--he was a short and ugly fellow, with a swart face--called “Gash” or some such. He couldn’t remember the names of the other two.

Confidently, he called out. “Hoy! Gash! Harry! Leave them be! They’re friends.”

Startled, the four turned in his direction. Mallo and Ruffo took the opportunity to shove Clover back, and to back inside the smial and slam the door.

“Garn!” Gash turned back with a curse. “Now we’ve lost our chance for sport with the little rat-wench!” He turned a menacing eye on Ted.

Suddenly Ted began to doubt the wisdom of his intervention. He drew in a deep breath, stepped backwards, and then tossing aside the duck, he turned to run. But he’d gone only a few steps when he tripped on a root, and fell flat. Terrified, he tried to get to his feet, when he felt both his arms gripped hard, and he was hauled up.

He found himself dangling in the air, in front of Gash’s ugly face, foul hot breath assaulting his senses. “Look what we have here!” the Man exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction.

Harry had turned aside, and picked up the bird. “And look what he brought us!”

Gash grinned. “Supper.” Ted had thought he was afraid before, but the look in Gash’s eyes, now made him realize that he had yet to learn just how terrified he could get.

The other two Men had been kicking at the door of the little smial in frustration.

“Leave off! I’ve an idea--” Gash called. “Bart, you and Krag--get some heavy stones and some kindling, and we’ll have a bit of sport anyway!”

The others looked at him for a moment, and then laughing raucously, turned to do as he said.

Then Gash turned his attention to Ted once more. “Well, well. If this isn’t one of the little ratlings that thought he could tell us what to do?”

Ted couldn’t help it. He squeaked, and then swallowed.

“You didn’t really think you had the right to boss us around, did you, you little maggot?”

The hobbit was too paralyzed with terror now to even squeak.

Gash laughed hatefully. “You and that ‘Chief’ of yours--you really thought we were obeying you! Well, we were--but not on your account. Sharkey’s orders was to let some of you *think* you was in charge--worked just fine, didn’t it?” He thrust Ted at Harry, who was standing nearby chuckling into his stubbly beard. “Here, tie ‘im up and we’ll have our sport with ‘im later!”

A few moments later, Ted found himself cruelly bound, lying in the dirt where he had a good view of what the Men were doing--they barricaded the door to the little burrow with heavy stones, and then, pushing kindling into the crevices, they used a torch to set light to it.

Ted heard the screams of the hobbits within mingle with his own before he fell into a swoon.

______________________________________________

He fought his way up from a dark and terrifying dream, only to find the reality was just as bad if not worse. With a choked cry, he tried to sit up, only to find that he couldn’t, for he truly was bound still.

There was a harsh laugh from the one called Krag. “Look! Our little rat’s awake! Hear him squeak!”

“Time for a little sport, lads!” Gash came over and gave him a kick in the side, and then bent over him with a knife. He cut Ted’s shirt off, and then poised the knife over the hobbit’s exposed chest. Ted scarcely noticed the freezing cold of the air, for his breath was caught in his throat. Gash brought the knife down suddenly, as if he were going to plunge it into Ted’s heart. Instead, he made a cut, shallow and painful. Ted screamed.

There was another cut--Ted writhed and screamed until he could no more, sobbing and pleading.

And all that accomplished was to bring his tormentors to laugh even louder.

They finally gave over torturing him when the one called Bart called out that the duck was ready. Ted had not even noticed the smell of it cooking.

The offered him none, and for once he was glad, for he was sure he would not have been able to keep it down. He finally fell into an exhausted sleep, haunted by a dream: it was the scene when the Men--and he knew that Gash had been one of them--had beaten Folco Boffin to death. But now he was the victim. And Folco was standing at the side, watching, the way he had watched.

Only instead of laughing and jeering, Folco was watching with his eyes filled with tears and sympathy on his face.

It was the first time he had this dream, but it was not the last.

For several days it was the same. If they were in the mood for sport they had any number of ways to torment him. He had cuts all over his upper body as well as bruises. When the cuts had failed to produce enough screams, they had spent an evening breaking his fingers one by one.

Sometimes he would faint from the pain or the terror. If they’d had enough amusement for the evening, they would leave him be, and he would fall into dark dreams, but always ending with the dream of Folco Boffin.

If they had not had enough sport, they would slap him awake, and pour a foul-tasting draught down his throat that burned like fire. It would give him energy, and wake him, and it seemed to sustain him in some horrid way--for they never offered him any food at all.

He had no idea of how long his ordeal had lasted. But there had been a day of respite--freezing cold and rainy weather had led them to find an abandoned cot to lie up in. The torment that night had been severe, but the next day, the weather had dried up, and leaving him alone and tied up, the four of them had gone out to forage for food.

Ted lay there falling in and out of a hazy drowse, roused from time to time by pain, and thinking the same anguished thoughts over and over again. The look of pity on Frodo Baggins’ face kept coming to his mind. Why should Frodo have felt sorry for him? Obviously he must have known what was coming to him. He was feverish, and finally he dropped off into a profound, yet uncomfortable sleep.

He was wakened once more by a slap, and some of the horrible draught was poured down his throat. He was too weak to struggle against it as he had been, and merely gagged as the burning liquid scalded its way down his throat.

Gash took out his knife, and Ted watched dully as the ruffian played with it in front of his eyes. Then he flinched as the knife was repeatedly prodded in his upper arm. A few days earlier, this would have brought him to screams; now he barely whimpered.

“Looks like our little rat is not so much sport as he was,” said Gash with a sneer. “Maybe we should do something a little different.” He approached the fire they had built in the hearth, and lay the end of his knife in the fire. Ted watched apprehensively, a knot of fear as he wondered what new deviltry his tormentor had come up with. He could hear the other three chuckling in anticipation.

Gash turned and picked Ted up by the ropes which were wound about his torso, and then quite deliberately lay the hot knife against the hobbit’s cheek. Ted’s shriek of pain seemed quite satisfying.

He held him very close to his face, and brought the knife up again. “Maybe an eye, this time,” he chuckled.

Ted’s terror was suddenly rekindled. In a panic, and with an energy he thought had long abandoned him, he began to struggle as he had not since the beginning. The knife drew closer. With a move borne more out of instinct than anything else, Ted threw his own face forward, and clamped his teeth on Gash’s nose, biting so hard that he drew blood.

Two things happened.

Gash with a horrible yowl, threw Ted from him. Ted flew across the room, landing so hard against the wall of the decaying house that he actually broke through it. Ted spat--the hot acid taste in his mouth nothing like the salty taste of blood. He looked up in surprise at Gash’s face staring down, and noticed with a shock that the blood was black.

The second thing was his realization that he no longer felt any pain. He couldn’t move at all, but the pain was gone. His eyes widened in surprise.

Gash grabbed his left arm and snapped it like a twig. Ted looked at it in wonder.

The brute looked surprised at his lack of reaction.

Krag came over, and stepped on his other arm. Ted didn’t feel that either. Harry looked for a moment, and then dispassionately lifted one of his legs and let go. It landed like a log.

“You’ve gone and broken its back, Gash,” he said. “It’s not going to be feeling any more pain. Won’t be anymore sport from that one.”

Gash rubbed his nose, and looked at the black blood on his hand. He reached down and cleaned it off on Ted’s breeches.

“Oh well,” he said, “it was fun while it lasted.”

The four turned away, and began to prepare their meal, ignoring Ted.

Ted lay like a broken doll, tears rolling down his cheeks. He tried to swallow, but couldn‘t, and then he looked up.

Folco Boffin stood there, smiling at him sweetly. “ ‘M sorry,” Ted mumbled, “ ‘m sorry.”

Folco reached a hand down, and Ted reached up and grasped it, found himself standing next to the hobbit he had watched being murdered. And yet he saw, there was a hobbit lying there, battered and worn, who looked remarkably like himself.

“Come along,” said Folco. “It’s all over now.”

_______________________________________________

“That’s not a very deep hole, Bart,” said Harry.

“Who cares?” replied the Man. “Gash said bury him. He didn’t say how deep.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s dead. I’m not so much for the kind of sport that Gash and Krag like, and he was slowing us down.”

Bart nodded, and they tipped the little body in, and scraped a shallow covering of dirt over it.

“Well, I hope we get out of here soon. Krag said he spotted one of them Rangers this morning. And where there’s one there’s more.”

“Aye,” replied Harry. “I think we should move on now.” He kicked a bit more dirt over the grave, and they walked off.
______________________________________________

*Quotations in italics from The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter VIII, “The Scouring of the Shire”