Note to the Reader:

This story is a bribe of sorts. My editor-friend, who has been very busy elsewhere, has agreed to take up her quill once more to strike at, er, improve upon stories. Truth is, she's bored but she won't admit it. She does, however, insist on payment in the form of another Ferdi-story, one she hasn't seen before.

Since we've already talked over "Farry and Ferdi Go to Gondor", that one wouldn't do, sad to say. *sigh* It is so much easier to edit a draft than to make up another tale out of nearly whole cloth and just a hint of a thread out of another story, but we must take our blessings as they come to us. 

So you may thank EF, who insists on remaining nameless (something to do with relatives laughing her to scorn for such a frivolous pursuit when she could more profitably be typing something for pay), for this story.

If notes are needed in any of the chapters, they'll be added here. If, for example, there is a complaint because there is not enough background in the first chapter to make this story understandable, I'll try to scare up some "background" and put it in the Notes.

Some are not comfortable with the Shire consequences for anti-social behaviour as put forth in stories like "Runaway". Be reassured that very little of that comes into play in this story, except perhaps in passing references to past events.

PG-13 rating is at the moment merely precautionary. Angst forecast: Likely. (ETA: PG-13 rating is well-deserved. Angst forecast: Yes. Definitively.)

Lastly, thanks for reading. Comments are always welcome.

(And I must admit, writing a "Ferdi story" is not too much of a chore.)

By the way, if you haven't read Runaway and are curious about it, you can find it here at Stories of Arda: Runaway. (Co-author: Jodancingtree)

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As the birthday lass is highly addicted to cliffhangers and stretching out suspense to the twanging point, this story turned out to be both longer and darker than what I usually write. I almost deleted it after it was finished, as a matter of fact, but for something Larner said. After going through it again, I've found it has good points that might make it worth saving. I don't have the time to edit and tame down the darker bits, though, so proceed at your own peril. I've changed the rating to R.

I have read even darker stuff in RL news accounts, so I don't consider the goings on in this story to be over-the-top or, sadly, unusual on the part of men who have given themselves over to evil. However, the men portrayed here are truly evil, whether they pursue profit at others' expense, or for twisted reasons of their own (perhaps akin to the Pilgrim's insanity in As the Gentle Rain). In any event, some of the chapters here are difficult reading. Warnings appear at the top of the most difficult, so that if you wish you can skip to the next chapter and avoid gruesome details. (That's what I'd do.)

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Addendum

Drat. This story was supposed to be that hinted at in Where the Love-light Gleams.  The story that I set out to write was this: Ferdi, as a result from a blow to the head, suffers memory loss and is catupulted (in his mind) back to the times of the Troubles, to the middle of the struggle to keep Men out of the Tookland. A comedy of sorts, astonishing as it may sound. I even told Dana that this was that story, while recounting the plot to her. But over lattes with EF the character of the story seemed to change, and I was asked to stretch myself as an author, in a manner of speaking, and so this story may be a bit darker than originally planned. Apologies to those seeking lighter fare. Sometimes stories seem to take on a life of their own, and together with the fact that A Matter of Appearances is a birthday present, and thus follows certain suggestions/requests on the part of the recipient, the comedy is going to have to wait. I suppose the "good news" would be that there will be another Ferdi story to be written, one of these days, if all goes well. Perhaps even for another birthday-present. Time will tell.

A Matter of Perspective

Chapter 1. In which a Took reflects on his present circumstances

S.R. 1441, not long after the turning of the year

The Green Hills are surely the most beautiful place in all of Middle-earth, at least the Tooks would tell you so, but this particular Took was not enjoying the sights surrounding him at the moment, for he was feeling rather grumbly, as it were.

Though a sprinkling of snow gave the hilltops a festive air, the hills themselves were as green as their name, or greener, perhaps, rising in great undulations that surrounded the travellers as their ponies picked their way. The path was slippery with mud, if not frost, here in the shadowed valley where the Sun was just beginning to cast her smiles, but the sky was blue as blue could be and not long past noontide all the frost here in the valley would be melted away.

And when shadows pooled on the valley floor once more, they’d be warm in the Great Smials, sitting at tea, young Faramir safely delivered once more to the bosom of his family, while his escort could relax again with wife and children and nearly new babe.

And Naming Day would be upon them soon, for the babe would have been in the world a month-and-a-day in a few days more, and they still hadn’t a proper name, really, for you couldn’t name a hobbit “Little Lass” no matter that her fond father had called her so from the start. And how could they choose a name, without consulting, with Pimpernel snug at the Great Smials with the children, and Ferdi here, having had to ride away before riding back again, escorting young Faramir back from a visit to Pippin’s family holdings near Whitwell, managed by his sister Pearl and her husband Isumbold.

Ferdi had argued the point with Pippin, but the Thain had stood firm. ‘Why not send Haldegrim instead?’ Ferdi had said. ‘Isenard, Hilly, or even Tolly?’

‘Tolly took him out there in the first place,’ Pippin said, ‘and now I want you to fetch him back.’

‘I’ve better things to be doing—those reports you wanted, on the wood marked out for cutting by the foresters, and the winter supplies for the widows and gaffers that were delivered at Yule, and...’

‘And they’ll still be here to be done when you get back,’ Pippin had said, implacable.

‘And we’ve not yet had our Naming Day for the little lass,’ Ferdi had given his strongest argument, saved for last. ‘You know that custom demands...’

‘Aye, and a fine excuse for you to be released from all your duties for a month-and-a-day, to get to know your new daughter better, in order to choose the proper name for her, but most parents choose in the first few moments after birth. Must you be so wedded to tradition, Ferdi? I cannot afford to lose you for so long a time...’

‘You certainly did not seem affected by that concern a little while ago!’ Ferdi had said, and though he’d made a private resolve not to speak of the happenings in the Woody End again, where he and Tolly had been falsely accused of trying to steal young Faramir Took, in league with ruffians after ransom money, he found the words coming in a rush as the blood rushed to his cheeks at the same time. ‘You were ready to send me off, and for a longer time of it – for ever, as a matter of fact.’

‘And that is just why I must send you off now,’ Pippin had said through his teeth.

‘Hardly “just” of you, cousin,’ Ferdi had retorted, watching the Thain’s hands clench into fists of frustration. But the hands had relaxed again, almost as suddenly, and Pippin had shaken his head, shaken himself, taken hold again, not to be goaded. To be angered is to lose the argument, as the old saying goes.

‘Indeed, Ferdi,’ he’d said, speaking quietly. ‘It is exactly just of me. You don’t realise why I sent Tolly with him in the first place, to bring him to the farm, and why I now choose to send you to fetch him back...? I thought your wits sharper than that, Ferdibrand.’

Ferdi’s mouth had half-opened as the realisation struck. ‘A... a...’ he’d stammered, ‘a demonstration of your trust.’

‘Exactly.’

Ferdi had felt as if the air had been sucked from the room, as if there weren’t enough for the breathing; he’d found himself taking shallow breaths, much as those that constrained Pippin, had constrained him since his near-fatal bout with the Old Gaffer’s Friend years before.

Pippin had nodded, satisfied. ‘If the accusation of child-stealing were true,’ he’d said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you and Tolly would hardly be given the opportunity to get close to Farry again. You’d’ve been kept busy with other matters, reports and such...’

There really had not been enough air in the room. Ferdi had felt his head whirling.

‘The Talk of the Tooks, Ferdi,’ Pippin had continued, relentless. ‘When you consider the events of a few weeks ago...’

‘You dispelled the Talk when all was said and done,’ Ferdi had said, trying not to gasp for air, ‘when in the end you exposed the accusation as false. Ev’ard paid restitution, and so did you, and the papers were signed by witnesses...’

‘And yet the Talk continues, ill-natured talk, made all the worse for folk being kept inside by the chilly weather,’ Pippin had said grimly. ‘I have been unable to find the source... it doesn’t matter. All it takes is a gaffer who’s had too much of an evening, or two gammers whispering before the fire, and the Talk spreads from there, and worse, it grows. I have,’ and he’d slammed his fist into his other hand in emphasis, ‘to stamp it out somehow, Ferdi, before it renders you and Tolly useless to me, to the service of Tookland.’

And that had been the telling argument. Pippin knew that Ferdi served not himself, but the Tooks and the land he’d nearly given his life to defend, in the time of the Troubles, when Saruman’s ruffians ruled.

To his credit he’d not smiled when Ferdi’s shoulders had slumped, signalling his surrender. He took no pleasure in manipulating his cousin, forcing him to his will. There was no triumph in this victory over the stubborn hobbit, only a sort of lingering sickness that such a measure was necessary at all, and all because he, the Thain, had jumped to conclusions. It didn’t matter that Everard and Reginard had been the first to take the wrong idea from circumstances. Pippin had taken the evidence as they’d presented it, and without hearing Ferdi’s side, or Tolly’s, had thought them guilty, had done nothing to protest the judgment against them – a judgment that would have led to their banishment from the Shire if not for a bit of timely interference by the supposedly stolen child, Faramir himself.

‘So,’ Ferdi had whispered, not trusting his voice, ‘just when is it you’d like me to leave, to fetch your son back to you?’

And so it was, just a few days shy of Naming Day for his yet-unnamed little lass, that Ferdibrand found himself riding through the wintry rolling landscape that under other circumstances he’d have appreciated – nay, gazed upon with awe, satisfaction and not a little delight.

Chapter 2. In which a Took has the best of intentions

‘We’ll have to dismount here,’ Ferdi said, ‘as I told you, Farry, and lead the ponies through here.’

‘When d’you suppose this rock-fall happened?’ Farry said, waiting while Ferdibrand dismounted. He was still young enough at ten years of age, that sitting atop a pony was high up in his estimation, and he welcomed the helping hand his uncle extended to help him down. Safely on the ground he was as adventurous as any other young hobbit, and he was as Tookish as any when it came to climbing trees, but ponies were perilous perches, to be sure. If they jigged when you jogged, so to speak, you might find yourself sitting on air. At least for a few seconds.

He’d been told that it takes three falls to become a real rider, and he still had two falls to go, and was not at all looking forward to them, at that. The first fall had been rather frightening, as a matter of fact. He’d been a very small child at the time, sitting on the back of his father’s stallion, being led to the stable. Unfortunately another stallion had broken free from its enclosure, and in the ensuing fight Farry had been thrown through the air, a very frightening moment for all concerned, especially his parents.

‘Well, Tolly told me about it, that you came through it on your way to Whittacres Farm last week...’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t there at the harvest celebration,’ Farry said. ‘Or Pearl or Isum would’ve mentioned it to Da, and he’d’ve sent road-workers out whilst the weather was still fine.’ He gave a shiver as his feet touched the icy mud. Hobbits go unshod, as a rule, but that doesn’t mean they take no notice at all of cold or wet.

His mare stood steady and stolid, awaiting developments. She was an older mare, a motherly sort, belonging to Ferdibrand, actually, and she was good friends with Farry. She’d come up from the pasture when she saw him standing at the fence, and he always had a treat for her. She’d been given to Ferdi when he’d come of age, ever so long before Farry was born, and yet Farry liked to pretend that Dapple belonged to him. Such a friendly, dependable creature, and when she was his mount he had the feeling that she’d never let him fall, sort of like that elven-horse his long-departed cousin Frodo had ridden in the stories his father told sometimes.

She had saved Ferdi’s life a time or two, back in the time of the Troubles, when Sharkey’s ruffians had ruled the Shire, all but the Tookland, and sometimes when Dapple came up to the fence to see him, Farry would take her by her long and shaggy forelock to turn her sideways, climb from the fence onto her back, and lie there as she wandered, cropping the grass, pretending that she was bearing him away from a ruffians’ trap.

Now Ferdi gave the mare an automatic caress, a rub under the jawbone, as he gathered her reins, to lead the two ponies through the straitened trail, and then he turned to eye the jumble of rocks. ‘Sometime after the harvest celebration, then. Perhaps the heavy rains at Yule? I know Pearl and Isum decided to take a waggon to the Great Smials, and go round the long way, through Waymoot and Bywater, rather than through the Green Hills on account of the mud being so treacherous in such weather.’ He eyed the hillside, adding, 'It's a mercy they didn't come this way, and get caught in the fall, perhaps.'

Dapple snorted and tossed her head at this, or perhaps it was because her foot slipped just then, as she was putting it down, and knocked against one of the great boulders that blocked part of the path, and Ferdi absently soothed her. ‘Steady, lass.’ He smiled then, because Farry had spoken the words at the same time, his little hand coming up to caress the old mare’s cheek as they picked their careful way.

Ferdi’s mount, Dapple’s daughter Penny as it happened, snorted in turn, twin plumes of steam on the frosty air.

‘Well, as the trail is not blocked, nor the stream,’ Ferdi said after consideration, filing away the details for the report he'd give the Thain upon arrival, ‘there’s no need to stir road-workers from their cosy smials until the weather improves a bit, I’d say. I’m sure your father would be in agreement. He’s a reasonable hobbit.’ Most of the time, he thought to himself. I’ truth, Pippin was only unreasonable when it came to the safety of his wife, and his son. Ah, but that was how Ferdi had run afoul of the hobbit, and he certainly had no intentions of repeating his mistake!

Penny planted her feet and stopped, bringing the entire party to a halt. ‘Come along, lass,’ Ferdi said with a gentle tug. ‘Stable and tea’s a-waiting ahead, don’t you know? We came through this fall as right as rain, yesterday eve, and just because the shadows are falling in the other direction this morning is no reason to take alarm.’

Dapple, however, was apparently more in agreement with her daughter than with Ferdibrand. She tossed her head once more and murmured something under her breath, so to speak.

Ferdi stood a little straighter, and he reached slowly to his back, out of force of long habit. Faramir’s eyes widened, seeing the gesture. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

‘Likely naught,’ Ferdi said, pulling his bow from its resting place and stringing it in a quick motion. ‘Ponies don’t like change, you know. Many’s the time they’ve walked this track, so many they could likely do it in their sleep (likely have, some nights when there was an urgent message to go to Whitwell), and these boulders have them feeling a bit out o’ sorts.’

Still he took an arrow from his quiver and held it, casually, so that it would be the matter of a breath to notch and loose.

The foursome stood quietly, all breathing as one, listening to the soughing of the breeze and the subdued chuckle of the stream below.

‘Likely naught,’ Ferdi said again. ‘The Bounders know their job, and with those Ranger-fellows watching the Bounds as well, we’ve had no Men in the Shire to speak of in some months. And none of those came so far as the Green Hill country, as it were.’

Farry nodded. ‘Stray dogs would be barking, or baying if they were on a trail,’ he ventured. He patted Dapple, who would likely not be standing quite so still if wild dogs were at hand.

‘And wild swine would be lying quiet, at such a time as this,’ Ferdi said, ‘all nice and snug. They wouldn’t care for such a rocky place, anyhow.’ He cast an eye up the great hillside they were skirting, just in case another rock-fall was in the making. But no, all was still.

‘Likely naught,’ Ferdi said a third time, and clucked softly and reassuringly to the ponies, after handing the reins of both ponies over to Farry. At his nod, Farry gave a tug, and Dapple took a step. Penny stamped, and then deigned to follow, and once again they began to pick their careful way around the great boulders that littered the track.

Chapter 3. In which a journey is interrupted

As they neared the end of the rock-fall, Penny planted her feet once more, resisting Farry’s tugging. Ferdi had kept walking, arrow now fitted to the bow, looking from the rocks on one side of them to the other, but at Farry’s call he turned back.

At once Ferdi’s eyes widened, he raised the bow, he shouted, ‘Away, lad! Run!’

Time slowed to a crawl. Farry could not exactly run, not holding the ponies, for there was nowhere for them to go. He dropped the reins, preparatory to dodging between two great boulders, and then Penny tossed her head up, and then she reared in alarm as shouts rose behind them, and a part of Farry that was curiously detached recognised the fact that Ferdi’d had the presence of mind not to use his name. Men in the Shire in defiance of the King’s edict were ruffians beyond a shadow of doubt. Ruffians, if they guessed that Farry was the son of the Thain... well, they’d do unspeakable things. Farry knew this because he’d heard his father speak of it to the hobbits of the escort, when they didn’t know he was there.

He’d actually been taken by a ruffian bent on mischief, once, but the Man had not got away. Farry’s father, pursuing, had cast a well-aimed stone and brought the Man down.

All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he side-stepped. A blur of motion behind Ferdi drew Farry’s attention, but before he could shout a warning of his own a club came crashing down upon his uncle’s head. Ferdi crumpled beneath the blow, falling boneless to the ground, bow still in his grasp.

Farry gasped, and tears blurred his vision further, but he wasted not a second more, putting his head down and diving between the boulders. In seconds he could find a hidey-hole, he trusted. Hobbits were ever so good at hiding...

But he bounced off a soft and yielding surface, and iron fists took hold of his arms and he looked up over a round belly to a round face that ought to have been jolly, but that the eyes were cold and hard, and then the ruffian was hauling him, kicking and struggling, into the air, and someone was scolding.

‘...Whyn’t you keep still! They’d never have seen us!’

‘Their ponies...’

‘We can use them ponies, to carry more gold...’

‘Hush!’ said the fat man, his grip numbing Farry’s arms. He gave the young hobbit a shake that rattled his senses. ‘Be still, you!’

The others hushed. Farry, hanging quiet now, blinking, counted five of them. One muscular fellow had grabbed the ponies’ reins and was jerking hard – Penny fought him, and he clubbed her between the ears with a beefy fist, making her stagger. Dapple’s ears were laid back, but she was by nature a calm beast, and recognised the authority in the ruffian’s grip.

‘I thought I told you to keep quiet and still and out of sight,’ the fat man said coldly, sweeping the band with a glare. ‘They were wary, but they’d not have seen us or known we were there, and now...’

‘This’un’s nearly done for,’ whined the scrawniest of the band, nudging Ferdi with his toe. ‘We’ll bury him and no one will be the wiser.’

‘Bury them both,’ another said, but the youngest of the ruffians had a troubled look and countered, looking at Farry, ‘Have pity! He’s but a little child...!’

‘We’ll have to bury them both,’ the fat man said, ‘and in a way that looks like it was an accident! You ruddy fools! They’ll be missed, and folk will come looking for them, and if they don’t find them they might spread out the search and find us! No, it must look like an accident. They’ll be found here along the trail, where they’re supposed to be...’ He broke off, eying the hillside, and gave a nod of grim satisfaction. ‘We’ll just bash this one’s head in as well, and push a few more rocks down on them, as if they were caught in another fall. Wouldn’t take much to pry a few more of those large ones there loose.’

‘The ponies too?’ the brawny man said. ‘That would be a pity. We could use them, and be able to move faster and bring more gold out on their backs than we could carry on our own.’

The fat man considered, then nodded. ‘It’s not unlikely that the ponies would throw their riders in a panic, if the hillside came down,’ he said. ‘It would be thought that they’d run away, and would find their way home eventually. And by the time they haven't, and someone realises, we’ll be out of the Shire and long gone.’ He surveyed the track. ‘But the bodies must be easily found. Bury that one head-down, if he’s still breathing, but leave his legs sticking out for the searchers to find. Oh! And unstring his bow and hang it where it ought to be, and put the arrow back in the quiver. The searchers will find him, and they’ll say that he never saw the danger before it swallowed him. “He died a natural death, so he did, poor unsuspecting fellow”.’

One of the ruffians guffawed, and another wiped at his nose with his sleeve, but the youngest of them looked sick at the prospect. He started to protest, as a matter of fact, but was quelled by the fat man’s stare.

The fat man went on. ‘And this one...’ His hands squeezed tighter on Farry and then set him on the ground. One hand came free and gestured to the club-wielder, who surrendered his weapon.

Farry stared upwards, into the face of death, as the fat man raised the club. ‘Stand still now, little one,’ the man said in a pleasant tone. He shifted his bruising grip to Farry’s shoulder and took aim with the club. ‘We’ll make it quick. You won’t feel a thing, if you just stand still and take it like a man.’

Chapter 4. In which a Took shows a flair for subtlety

Pippin heard the murmur of greeting beyond the door to his study, and he was up and out of his chair and halfway to the door when it opened to admit...

‘Merry! Glad Yule!’

‘And to you, Pippin,’ Merry said, laughter bubbling over to see his cousin’s face shining with joy, and exhibiting better health than the last time he’d seen him. ‘You’ve been eating well, I think!’

‘The cooks outdid themselves at the Yule Feast,’ Pippin admitted, stepping back from their embrace to pat his stomach—not even close to a paunch, and considering his health, likely never to become one, but still subtly rounded in a way that spoke of good eating. ‘Why, we ate from teatime until after the clocks struck middle night!’

‘He even roasted mushrooms-and-bacon with the tweens over the Yule log, in the wee hours,’ his steward Reginard said, rising to extend a welcoming hand to Merry. ‘Well come indeed, Master Merry. We’ve still half an hour until teatime.’

‘Half an hour!’ Pippin said in surprise. ‘It’s that late already?’

‘Aye,’ Regi said, one side of his mouth quirking. ‘The minutes take wings when one passes the time in pleasure...’

Merry looked at the piles of paperwork on the steward’s and Thain’s desks and cast a suspicious glance at the steward, who was known for his no-nonsense demeanor. ‘Was that a joke?’ he said.

Pippin laughed and slapped Regi on the back. ‘A joke!’ he said. ‘Never! Our Regi?’

‘I’ll just carry on,’ Regi said, returning to his desk. ‘If there’s anything of any urgency...’

‘You can put it on the top of tomorrow’s pile,’ Pippin said with a chuckle.

‘That’s one of the reasons we made him Thain,’ Regi said to Merry. ‘Decisive sort of chap.’

‘Very decisively done,’ Merry said, slipping an arm about Pippin’s shoulders. ‘So... what are we having for tea?’

Reginard smiled, looking down at the papers, picking up his quill and making a notation, as their voices receded from the room. It was good to hear the Thain so very cheerful, brimming over with energy. ‘Knowing you were coming today, Diamond ordered apple tart, especially...’

‘...sitting room, or great room?’ Merry was asking as the study door shut behind them.

‘Well, as Samwise is to arrive today as well...’

‘Samwise!’ Merry said. ‘He wasn’t here for the Tooks’ Yule celebration?’

‘Outbreak of spots at Bag End,’ Pippin said, ‘right along the first of last month. Rosie wanted to wait to see the last of it, and so even though there weren’t any spots showing on any of the little Gamgees, last week, she chose to err on the side of caution.’

‘Admirable of her,’ Merry said. ‘She didn’t want to spread spots to hundreds of Tooks, and possibly Faramir, when his favourite “uncle” was due to visit this week!’

‘And what did you bring him this time?’ Pippin said. ‘You’re still trying to bribe Farry to choose between yourself and Ferdibrand, I take it, in the “favourite uncle” dispute.’

‘No dispute about it,’ Merry said with his chin in the air.

The two hobbits had a friendly competition going to achieve the status of “favourite”, and young Faramir basked in the light of their attention, learning much of steadiness and planning from his Brandybuck uncle, while receiving lessons in attentiveness and hunting skills from his Took uncle.

They passed through the large sitting room and out of the Thain’s private apartments. ‘Great room,’ Pippin said belatedly. ‘There’s quite a welcoming feast, between welcoming the Mayor and the Master and the son of the Thain...’

‘Welcoming Farry?’ Merry said. ‘Why, where has he been?’

‘Out to Whittacres,’ Pippin said. ‘Since Pearl and Isum's older sons could not attend the Yule festivities here at the Smials this year, Farry was pining for his Whitwell cousins. I thought a little visit would do him a great deal of good. Ferdi’s fetching him back in time for...’

‘Ferdi,’ Merry said, stopping. ‘You sent Ferdi to fetch him? And...?’

‘And nobody,’ Pippin said. ‘You don’t think Ferdi, by himself, capable of handling a headstrong ten-year-old?’

‘But Pip,’ Merry said lowering his voice, ‘after what happened...’

‘Exactly,’ Pippin said, sounding quite as headstrong as the aforementioned ten-year-old. ‘After what happened, I thought it a good idea to send Farry out to the farm with Tolibold as escort, and have Ferdi fetch him back.’ He lowered his own voice. ‘Put a stop to those rumours, you know, that keep popping up.’

Merry flushed. ‘There ought not to be any rumours,’ he said. ‘Not after the show you put on in the courtyard, cutting their bonds and announcing to the world that they’d been falsely accused!’

Pippin’s mouth twisted, and he made to move on before someone noticed them and began listening in. ‘You know the Tooks and their Talk,’ he said, still in an undertone. He pasted on a smile and returned the greetings of several cousins, hurrying through the corridor on the way to some last minute before-tea preparations. ‘Why, for years after Lalia’s death they were still muttering over what part Pearl played in the tragedy...’

‘And so you send Farry out, alone, with two who were accused of child-stealing...’

‘Hobbits don’t steal children,’ Pippin said. ‘Hobbits don’t steal at all, as a rule,’ he added, ignoring the account of a certain Burglar in family history.

‘I’d’ve said that hobbits don’t throw in their lot with ruffians, before we met Lotho's Shirriffs...’ Merry said.

‘The matter was all cleared up, and to your satisfaction,’ Pippin said, and then he shook a finger in Merry’s face and added, ‘and a lucky thing, too, that I didn’t find myself bearing the stiffest penalty for a false accusation!’

‘Luck of the Tooks,’ Merry said lightly, nodding to a pair of curious servants as they passed.

Pippin snorted. ‘Luck had little to do with it,’ he said. ‘Here Ferdi and Tolly were trying to save me the grief of a scandal, over my son’s foolish notion to run away to Gondor, and how did I reward them? Banishment!’

‘Well, they were not banished, as it turned out, and they ended a great deal richer than they’d begun...’ Merry said.

‘Hush! If it becomes common knowledge we’ll have all sorts of treasure-seekers converging on the Shire!’

‘That’s not funny,’ Merry said, stopping again, but then he pushed Pippin on, so that they were walking at a brisk pace. He forced himself to smile, as if they were simply passing the time of day, catching up on the news from Brandy Hall. ‘I was going to wait to tell you,’ he said.

‘What?’ Pippin said. ‘Can’t be good news, if you were going to wait. Only bad news keeps...’

‘News from Bree,’ Merry said, keeping his voice low and his smile bright, for the sake of passers-by. ‘Apparently there’s been more talk than usual at the Prancing Pony of the Thain and his gold.’

‘Blasted gold,’ Pippin said. ‘I scatter it just as fast as I can, but it keeps mounting up in a most alarming manner. Why, while delving in the Green Hills not far from here Everard struck silver, and then gold...’

‘Yes, and it was all the talk in Bree,’ Merry said. ‘As if you didn’t already have more gold than was good for you...’

‘Well then, the Watchers must be ever more on their guard,’ Pippin said. ‘Have the Bounders reported any Men hovering round the Bounds of the Shire?’

‘No,’ Merry said, ‘but it’s only a matter of time. Every time Butterbur reports talk of Tookish gold, there seems to be a rash of Edict-breakers.’

‘More fruit for the Rangers to pluck from the trees,’ Pippin said grimly. Not so long ago, the corpses of men had decorated the copses outside the Bounds, hanged and left as a warning to would-be trespassers, but Pippin had put a stop to that. Now the Rangers took the bodies down after the rope did its work, and buried them.

Men still occasionally were caught entering the Shire, but word had spread of the Northern Rangers’ diligence, guarding the Shire, and so there were not so many as there had been when the Edict first went into effect. Only a handful had been taken and hanged, the previous year.

That was one of the things that had got Tolly in trouble, actually. He’d caught a pair of wanderers and, heeding their pleas for mercy, had escorted them safely out of the Shire, avoiding the Rangers. As a result, he’d found himself accused, later, when young Faramir went missing, of being in league with ruffians seeking the Thain’s gold. And working with Ferdibrand, who’d gone into hiding with Faramir until he could persuade the lad to abandon his plans for running away, had only made things worse.

Which brought Merry back to his earlier point. ‘But you sent Farry out with Tolly and Ferdi,’ he said. ‘Pip, are you sure that was the wisest...?’

‘Not together,’ Pippin said. ‘Separately. Tolly took him out there and returned safely, and brought back a nice note from Pearl, thanking me for the privilege of having Faramir for a week, and of course Diamond left the note lying about in the great room at supper, so the news was all over the Smials in no time at all...’

‘So Tolly has been established as trustworthy and above reproach,’ Merry said, ‘and now Ferdi?’

‘And now Ferdi will escort Farry into the great room at teatime, just in time to greet Mayor and Master and wish them Glad Yule,’ Pippin said.

‘Nicely staged, to take place before the greatest number of hobbits possible, Tooks and Tooklanders and servants and all,’ Merry said dryly.

‘Exactly,’ Pippin said.

‘You’re the devious one,’ Merry said, withdrawing his arm from Pippin’s shoulders and giving his cousin a whack on the back.

‘Might as well put it to good use,’ came the reply.

Chapter 5. In which a celebration is interrupted

When Merry and Pippin entered the spacious apartments set aside at the Great Smials for Brandybucks in general and the Master of Brandy Hall in particular, they found Diamond and Estella sitting down, sharing a preliminary cup of tea along with their chatter.

‘Well, my dear,’ Pippin said, hurrying over to push a footstool into place. ‘You’re to be keeping your feet up! Greeting old friends to be no exception!’

‘I’m not going to break, so there’s no need to treat me as if I were delicate porcelain,’ Diamond said, taking a sip even as her husband lifted her feet to their designated resting position.

‘Comfortable?’ Pippin said, not to be swayed.

‘Quite, my love, and thank you.’

‘And when will we be greeting this one?’ Merry asked, as it was the obvious question. Diamond’s belly was not at all subtly rounded--more like "full blown", as Estella had observed on greeting her.

‘Not until April,’ Diamond said, with a fond look at her middle, and a gentle pat for the growing occupant. ‘Though you’d never know it to look at me.’

‘She’s been eating for two, you know,’ Pippin said behind his hand, and his wife gave him a poke that nearly spilled the tea he’d just poured for Merry.

The Thain stepped away, handed the cup to Merry and poured another for himself. ‘There’s no justice,’ he said then, pouting. ‘Every time she’s hungered, I have to eat!’

‘That’s why you’re looking so well,’ Estella said with a grin. ‘Good work, Diamond! Keep it up!’

‘That’s right,’ Pippin said, patting Diamond’s feet as he moved to sit on an edge of the footstool, a ridiculous sight for a hobbit so tall as he was. ‘Keep it up indeed! Don’t let me find your feet on the floor, unless of course you’re sitting in the great room. A bit awkward, there, to hover your feet in a chair in front of all the Tooks!’

‘Just push a chair in, opposite, and don’t seat someone there,’ Estella said with a sip of her own tea. ‘Diamond can rest her feet on that chair, and so long as no one pulls out the chair to sit in it, no one’ll be the wiser.’

‘Spoken from experience, I’m sure,’ Pippin said, and Estella laughed.

‘When have I ever been conventional, cousin?’ she said gaily. ‘I just put my feet up in plain sight, whenever there’s need!’

‘And a very pretty sight, I’d say,’ Merry said, seizing his wife’s hand to lay a kiss there.

‘He spoils me terribly,’ Estella confided, letting her hand rest in his a moment before she reclaimed it.

‘I do,’ Merry agreed, ‘but then, what’s a beloved for, I ask you?’

There was a tap at the door, and at Merry’s “Come!” a servant stuck his head in. ‘Beg pardon, Sirs and Madams,’ he said, ‘But the Mayor’s party has arrived.’

‘Thank you, Sandy,’ Pippin said, rising and hastily guzzling his scalding tea, plonking the cup down on the saucer with a decisive clink. ‘No, no,’ he said to Diamond. ‘Tea is still twenty minutes or so away. You sit here, in perfect comfort, until it’s time for the festivities!’

‘I’ll be her Watcher,’ Estella said, ‘but only if you’ll send Rosie Gamgee here to us, to help me keep Diamond in check.’

‘And the children too!’ Diamond called.

Pippin turned, his hand on the knob. ‘All the children?’ he said, affecting astonishment.

‘Of course, all!’ Diamond said in surprise.

‘All hundred of them?’ Pippin pressed.

Diamond dissolved in laughter, barely managing to protest that there were hardly an hundred of the little Gamgees...

‘Are there not?’ Pippin said. ‘You’re sure of that? I could have sworn...’

And chuckling, he and Merry left the suite.

Samwise was warmly greeted, and Rose and the children duly shooed towards the Brandybuck apartments, and the three Travellers went to the Thain’s study for “half a glass of something or other, to whet your tongue for the tea to follow...” to while away the moments before the grand occasion. There was no need to come early to tea, after all, when the servants were bustling about with last-minute preparations, and the Tooks were hurrying to take their seats in order to have a good view of the notables’ arrival.

“Something or other” turned out to be some of the Hall’s finest, brought by Merry in honour of Yuletide.

‘The brandy is better every year, I think,’ Pippin said, relaxing with a sigh. Regi sipped at his own glass with one eye on the clock, that the Thain might not be late to his own banquet, not to mention Master and Mayor.

‘This is the finest I’ve ever tasted, at any rate,’ the Mayor agreed. Although Bag End received a generous quantity of brandy each year, courtesy of the Master of Brandy Hall, Sam kept only a few bottles and distributed the rest among the healers of Bywater and Hobbiton, for medicinal use. Thus Samwise’s “tastes” were memorable.

There was talk of the weather, then, and its effect on the wine, and the beer, and the brandy, not to mention the foodstuffs, and then Regi cleared his throat. Pippin put his glass down and rose. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Since the Thain insists on punctuality on the part of the Tooks...’

Sam and Merry rose, the latter murmuring with a mischievous grin, ‘Well, as they say, “When in Tuckborough, do as the Tooks do...” and seeing as I’m half-Took, that ought not to be too much of a trial. Poor Samwise, however, having to leave half his sense behind him whenever he comes to visit...’

The Mayor chuckled, and pointed out that they’d come belated at this rate, and so, nonsense aside, they made their way to the great room, where as usual a buzz of conversation could be heard, even some way down the corridor.

They met their wives at the entrance, shooing the children ahead of them into the great room. The buzz of conversation dropped to a whisper as they entered, and there was the noise of chairs being shoved back as the Tooks rose in greeting.

Pippin seated Diamond with the greatest solicitude and then, after saying a few words of welcome to Master and Mayor and in observance of this belated celebration of the newly-born year, he waved everyone else to be seated.

‘Well?’ Merry said, shaking out his serviette and placing it with a flourish on his lap. ‘Where’s Farry?’

‘Due to arrive at any moment, I’m sure,’ Pippin said, plundering a platter as it passed him, in order to heap Diamond’s plate high (and his, at her insistence). ‘Teatime’s at four, you know, and Ferdi prefers his tea hot, as is proper.’ He himself took his tea black and scalding, not quite “proper” as it were without the milk and the sugar, but then Pippin was not one to stand on tradition if it suited him to set such things aside.

‘They left Whittacres, what... just after elevenses?’ Merry said.

‘What, and miss a hot noontide meal?’ Pippin said. ‘My wife would never stand for it. No, they would have left after second breakfast, stopping at Goodweathers’ farm for elevenses and again at Greenacres for the nooning. Plenty of time to eat and rest, and a leisurely ride through the lovely Green Hills, why, practically a holiday for Ferdi and his young charge.’

‘Ferdi?’ Sam said, lowering his voice. ‘He’s escorting your son? I thought...’

‘You’d heard?’ Pippin whispered, while Merry looked chagrined. ‘I’d thought we kept the scandal well within the bounds of Tookland...’

‘The messengers,’ Merry said, and Sam nodded.

‘All those express riders, carrying quick post back and forth,’ he said. ‘It was certain to stir curiosity, and of course anything to do with the Shire Post is brought to the attention of the Mayor.’

‘Just how general is this knowledge, anyhow?’ Pippin said sourly, and then he put on a smile for the benefit of the watching Tooks, and took a calming sip of tea. ‘Has the ruin of their reputations gone all the way to the Bounds of the Shire?’

‘Perhaps you’ll have to double what you gave them in reparations,’ Diamond said, and Estella snorted softly.

‘That ought not to be a problem, from what I’ve heard about the Thain’s gold,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m hoping the events of today will go a long way towards dispelling any suspicious,’ Pippin said, ‘and restoring Ferdi’s good name, amongst the Tooks, anyhow, and you know what they say...’

‘As the Tookland goes, so goes the Shire,’ Merry recited dutifully, adding, ‘but that wasn’t the case, was it, during the time of the Troubles?’

‘Let us not mention “troubles” on such a fine day,’ Pippin said.

Unfortunately, troubles were at hand.

A hesitant hobbit hovered in the doorway, hat in hand, watching the bustle of servants, listening to the ripples of talk and laughter that washed around the room, rather like the pleasant rushing of a cool brook under the jolly summer sunshine.

‘Yes,’ one of the servers said, catching sight of the visitor and coming over to the door. ‘Were you needing somewhat? Are you invited, and come belated?’ He frowned. ‘The Thain is a stickler for punctuality, you ought to have known that.’

‘N-no,’ the visitor said, twisting his hat and then setting it right again. ‘No, I’m not invited.’

‘Well, as you can see, there’s festivities going on,’ the servant said. ‘No room left,’ ignoring the empty chair opposite the Mistress, ‘every chair is filled, I’m afraid, but we can make up a plate for you and feed you in one of the parlours, I dare say...’

‘N-no, that won’t be necessary,’ the visitor said. ‘I just need to... to speak with the Thain.’

‘He’s a bit occupied at present,’ the servant said officiously, gesturing to the Thain who was telling an animated story at the moment. ‘Not a good time for you to be coming. Tea’s at four, don’t you know? And the Thain don’t work past teatime, not as a rule. Come tomorrow.’ He started to turn away, but stopped at the look on the visitor’s face. ‘Or... come a long way, have you?’

‘Not...’ the visitor said, and gulped and began again, ‘not terribly far, mind...’

‘Well then,’ the servant said, brightening. ‘If you’d like a bite to eat before you head homeward again, I’ll be happy to show you to the parlour and bring you a plate... and when you come on the morrow, come before teatime, if you don’t mind. While you’re taking tea I could bring word to the Steward, to write you in the diary. ‘Tis better to come by appointment, you’re surer to be seen that way...’

Through this nice little helpful speech the visitor’s mouth opened and closed without much effect, but at the last he seized the servant’s arm and gave it a little shake. ‘Please!’ he said. ‘I must see the Thain, and without delay!’

The servant’s good humour evaporated at this evidence of forwardness on the visitor’s part, and he said frostily, ‘A matter of life or death, I suppose.’ He was ready to turn the visitor out without a crumb or crust.

The visitor, however, had screwed himself up to action, and loosing the servant, he strode into the great room, right up to the Thain, with the servant belatedly following, gesticulating in consternation.

‘Thain Peregrin,’ the hobbit said, plucking at Pippin’s sleeve.

The servant was right behind him, apologising and scolding in the same breath, but Pippin half turned and then rose from his chair, his face wreathed in smiles of greeting.

‘Ollie!’ he said, seizing the visitor’s hand and pumping vigorously. ‘Ollie Hammersmith of Greenacres! Did Ferdi persuade you to come along and join the feast?’

The visitor swallowed unhappily, and when the Thain released his hand, he immediately began twisting his unfortunate hat until it seemed he’d throttle the poor thing, were it a living creature.

At this, Merry half-rose, alarm quickening in him, and Sam drew a sharp breath, somehow sensing impending disaster.

Pippin kept his smile in place, however, though a puzzled look was in his eye. ‘So...’ he said. ‘Where is Ferdi? And Farry, I’d expect him to burst through the door like a whirlwind, at the prospect of greeting the Gamgees and Brandybucks!’

‘I... I’m sorry, Sir,’ the visitor said, breaking into the cheery flow. His next words dropped into the spreading silence in the great room, clearly to be heard. ‘...but Master Farry and his escort, they never arrived at Greenacres...’

Chapter 6. In which a Took considers appearances

Pippin heard a gasp close at hand, and turned to see Diamond, hand at her mouth. Catching his look, she visibly controlled herself, bringing her hand down once more to find and tightly clasp the other, below the level of the table, while she took deep breaths and tried to appear calm.

Healer Woodruff was there on the instant, jumping up from her own chair to hurry to Diamond. ‘Mistress,’ she said, her voice louder than necessary, but she was speaking for the benefit of other ears. ‘I was afraid that this festive fare would be too rich for you... let me escort you back to lie down a bit, and we’ll have something lighter brought...’

Pippin tried to smile as Diamond cast an agonised look his way. ‘I’ll join you soon, my dear,’ he said, ‘just as soon as we hammer out this evident misunderstanding.’

Merry was quick to take up the thread. ‘Misunderstanding, yes,’ he said, grasping Farmer Hammersmith by the arm and steering him towards the door. Pippin waved to the rest of the Tooks to remain seated, signalled the servants to continue their duties, and gestured to Samwise to follow them out of the great room, which after a quiet word to Rose, he did. And so the welcoming feast continued, curiously enough, without any of the honoured guests.

Once outside, Diamond withdrew her arm from Woodruff’s grasp. ‘I am well, really I am, Woodruff,’ she said, and turned to Pippin. ‘Just what is going on? I thought Farry and Ferdi...’

‘Any number of things might have happened, my dear,’ Pippin said. ‘Farry might have awakened with a fever or tummy ache this morning, or perhaps he fell ill after second breakfast, even, or if he’d fallen ill after elevenses, Ferdi would have elected to turn back to Whittacres, being much closer...’

‘Or even stayed at Goodweathers’,’ Merry put in hopefully.

‘Yes,’ Diamond said, ‘well, if perhaps Farry fell ill, would you not think Ferdi might’ve sent a message to that effect, or even come himself to convey such news?’

‘Yes,’ Pippin echoed, ‘well, any number of things...’ He brightened as Tolly came up to them. ‘That rockfall you reported,’ he said to the head of escort. ‘More might have come down, since you rode back last week...’

‘Would have had to have been after Ferdi rode to Whittacres, yesterday, then,’ Tolly said, raising an eyebrow. ‘For if the track were impassible he’d’ve been back here in the evening, and he wasn’t.’

‘So, yes, then,’ Pippin said, obviously grasping at words. ‘He rode through to Whittacres, and found the track impassible on his way back today with Farry. And now they must take the long way round...’ His voice trailed off as he noticed the tapping of Diamond’s foot, never a good sign.

‘This is about as much speculating as when you accused Ferdi of child-stealing,’ Diamond said grimly. ‘You don’t know anything, do you?’

‘We’ll have to find out,’ Pippin said.

‘Pippin accused Ferdi of child-stealing?’ Sam said. ‘I knew it was serious business, and he was in some sort of trouble, but I did not know it was that.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d never believe such a thing of Ferdi.’

‘Pity you weren’t on the spot,’ Merry muttered. ‘You might have saved us any amount of trouble.’

‘Diamond-love,’ Pippin said, turning to his wife. ‘You must go to Pimpernel at once. Good thing she wasn’t in the great room just now, but news takes wings and someone’ll be knocking on her door at any minute...’

‘And while I’m soothing Pimpernel and telling her that there’s nothing to worry about, so far as we know, I do trust that you’ll be finding out just how much there is to worry about.’

‘Indeed,’ Pippin said, turning to Farmer Hammersmith. ‘Ollie, did you send anyone back along the trail to see?’

The good farmer smacked his forehead with his hand. ‘I never thought of such,’ he said. ‘We waited and waited, and it was all I could think to do, when they hadn’t come, and it was time for someone to set out from our farm to reach the Great Smials in time for tea, and no one was there to set out, as it were, and so I saddled one of my own ponies...’

‘Yes, good thinking,’ Pippin said, breaking into the flow which seemed as if it might go on for a while. ‘Tolly, I want a hunting party, and I want them now, hobbits and ponies, ready to ride out just as soon as may be.’

‘Do you want to call a muster, Sir?’ Tolly asked quietly, poised for action.

‘A muster!’ Pippin said in shock. ‘A muster? For a tummy ache?’ He shook his head, and looking up, saw Tooks clustering in the doorway of the great room, listening, ready even, to take whatever action he  might decree. He raised his voice for Ferdi’s sake, and Pimpernel’s, though neither was there to hear. ‘Let us not jump to conclusions, now, Tolly, you of all hobbits ought to know better! No, a hunting party, say a good score of Tooks with their bows, all good shots of course, with lanterns and torches. It’ll be full dark soon...’

‘Aye,’ Tolly said, and motioning to the gathering Tooks he began to call of names of the best archers among them.

‘And,’ Pippin said, catching sight of the steward in the crowd, ‘ah, Regi, good. I want engineers. Ev’ard, and Dinny, would you fetch them? I’ll be wanting them to take a look at that hillside, to see if the track is safe or if we’ll have to put up warnings and spread the word to go another way, at least until the worst of it can be cleared away...’

Reginard nodded. So that was the way of things, as Pippin was pushing them to go, anyhow. The Talk would be spreading amongst the Tooks, and the Thain was insuring that the idea that the rock-fall had blocked the short-cut between Tookbank and Tuckborough would have at least as much weight as the idea that Ferdi was somehow at fault.

The early winter dark had settled fully before they rode out of the torch-lit courtyard, a full score of Tooks and a few more into the bargain, including the healer Regi had thought to include, seeing how the Thain was riding out into a frosty night, and without a doubt would be staying out until the dawning, or until he found his son, which ever might come first. But the moon was high in the sky, and he’d drunk his fill and was doing his best to make the frosty ground glitter. His light lent an unearthly sheen to the great hills that surrounded them, making torches and lanterns unnecessary, though the hobbits carried these along with them anyhow. They’d likely be needed, on reaching the rock-fall, if Pippin was bent on the engineers passing their opinions in the dark.

Tolly figured he’d be crawling over the fallen rocks blocking the trail—Pippin’s talk had him convinced, sight-unseen, of the reason for Ferdi’s tardiness—and then running onward, at least to the first farm, where he could borrow a pony to ride on to Tookbank, and Whitwell beyond, and then Whittacres, to reassure himself as to Faramir’s safety. He’d probably turn around and ride back in the same night, to bring the good news to the Thain. As a matter of fact, if Ferdi was taking the long way round to the Smials, through Waymoot and Bywater and then south to Tuckborough, he and Farry might well arrive before the Thain!

Farmer Hammersmith broke off from the rest as they passed the turnoff for his farm. It was barely seven of the clock; he’d fetch his younger brothers and older sons and nephews just in case the Thain decreed they’d be clearing the track that night, then and there. He knew the rock-fall; it was perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes’ ride from the eastern boundary of his fields. He’d been that relieved that it hadn’t occurred on his land, for then he’d bear most of the cost and trouble of clearing the track. He’d be happy to help the neighbour whose land was affected, however, especially as it was an older hobbit who’d lost his only son at the Battle of Bywater, and whose daughters had married and moved to smials of their own.

The Great Smials Tooks reached the rock-slide not long after the farmer left them, and reined in their ponies. Pippin gave a whistle. ‘Completely blocking the track,’ he said.

‘Much worse than when we came through last week,’ Tolly said at his side. ‘It’s no wonder that they chose not to come this way.’ Yes, Tolly was fully convinced in his mind now, that the way of things was the way the Thain had laid them out.

‘Ev’ard,’ Pippin said. ‘Can you make a determination? Is the rest fairly stable, that a path of sorts might be cleared or we might at least send a messenger over?’

Tolly snorted to himself. He knew, in all likelihood, what messenger. Himself, and some other hobbit for good measure, just in case a tinge of suspicion still clung to him. He had been cleared of wrong-doing, both by the Thain’s public pronouncements, and by his satisfactorily discharging his duty of bringing Farry safe to Whittacres. But now, in the face of Ferdi’s supposed dereliction—and appearances were everything, so far as the Talk was concerned—he could feel the bonds of suspicion tightening around him once more, and he could only imagine the Talk back at the Great Smials.

The night was young, after all. No telling what might happen between now and the dawning.

Chapter 7. In which a messenger is interrupted

The engineers surveyed the rock-fall overall by moonlight at first, while Healer Fennel set about laying and kindling a fire. ‘I’ll have something hot to drink just so soon as the water boils,’ he said to no one in particular, though his attention was on the Thain.

‘Just don’t watch the pot, then,’ Pippin said absently, rubbing his gloved hands together as he listened to the engineers’ soft talk. The breaths of the hobbits puffed out in clouds on the icy air, and frost glittered on the hills around them. At least the sky was clear, and they need endure no snow—or worse, ice—while “out in the elements”.

Everard nodded at something Dinny said, and turned to say, ‘It’s a right mess, it is, but it doesn’t appear at the moment as if any more will be coming down. We’re going to go up on the hillside now, just to have a closer look.’

‘Tolly, you and Flam,’ Pippin said, gesturing, ‘Clamber over the fall, do; ponies couldn’t manage here, but hobbits are sure-footed enough. When you get to Whittacres...’

Tolly nodded, turning his back to the healer’s fire as he catalogued the Thain’s orders. Of course it was rather like closing the barn door after the ponies had got out. Ferdi, seeing the fall blocking the track, would have turned back to Tookbank. If he'd gone back as far as Tookbank, in order to cross the stream at the ford and proceed with Farry on the north side of the water, through the trackless hills, he might as well have elected to take the Waymoot road with the lad. Lots of inns for stopping along the way, to warm up and feed a growing child, whose mother might fret otherwise.

Tolly, by himself, could make the four-hour ride from the Great Smials to Whitwell straight through, eating in the saddle if hunger assailed him; but he’d stopped twice, riding with Farry in tow, at the farms where Pippin had arranged meals and rest for his son.

It occurred to Tolly for the first time that having farmers watching out for his arrival was a way of keeping an eye on him. Was it merely for the benefit of Farry’s health and comfort, or had this all been a test on Pippin’s part? He shook his head to dispel such fancies.

He could hear the crackle of rising warmth behind him, now, but did not turn to warm his hands. He didn’t want to spoil his eyes for the work ahead. He had a lantern hanging from his belt, true, but he’d not light it unless he had to. In the time of the Troubles, when Tooks had gone out to lay traps for the ruffians, they’d worked by the light of moon and stars, and really, Tolly would rather have a general if dim idea of his surroundings, picking his way across the massive jumble of fallen rock, than a clear view of just the next step.

‘Aye,’ he said, when the Thain stopped talking. ‘We’ll manage. Come along, Flam.’

***

As Pippin watched the engineers, their lanterns winking bright, climbing the hillside, stopping and starting and stopping once more, he felt Sam nudge his elbow. ‘A spot of tea,’ the Mayor said.

Pippin took the cup, feeling the warmth of the scalding liquid even through his gloves, and he sipped gratefully. ‘Get yourself a cup as well, Sam,’ he said.

‘Mine’s cooling a bit,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t have a dragon’s mouth, that I can drink it just off the boil, not even with a dash of milk to cool it.’

Merry chuckled, holding his own cup without drinking, not quite yet. He didn’t fancy burning his tongue.

***

The two messengers were not far into the rock-fall when Tolly stumbled and went down with a muffled exclamation. Flam stopped, to allow him space to right himself, but the head of escort went eerily still, and so his companion, who'd been making his way a little behind and to the side, called softly, ‘Tolly? What is it? Did you hurt yourself?’

Tolly’s voice came back, shaking. ‘Light your lamp, Flam!’

Flamismond fumbled a striker out of his pocket. ‘Did you hurt yourself, Tolly? Shall I call Fennel?’

But Tolly, caught in the grip of horror, returned no answer. He’d tripped on something soft, something yielding, and gone down atop it, belatedly realising that he’d stepped in something cold and sticky just before stumbling.

There was cloth beneath his hands, hobbit’s legs, he realised, and he hastened to roll to the side, feeling his way towards the head, finding more stickiness when he reached the hobbit’s neck, and cold, clammy flesh, and then sickness took him in the pit of his stomach and he turned aside once more to retch.

‘Tolly!’ Flam said, mentally cursing the uncooperative lantern. The first striker had died without having any impact on the wick. He raised his voice. ‘Fennel!’

***

Pippin’s head jerked up at the call, as the healer rose hastily from his fire. Two other fires had sprung up nearby, for the benefit of the waiting archers.

And then Tolly’s voice came, thin and shrill, so unlike his usual measured tones as to be unrecognisable. ‘Thain!’

At the same time there was a sharp call from the engineers on the hillside. ‘Thain Peregrin!’

‘It seems I must split myself in twain,’ Pippin said, draining his tea and handing the cup to Sam.

‘You go to Tolly,’ Merry said. ‘It sounds as if he’s been injured. I’ll see what Ev’ard wants.’

‘I’ll just tag along,’ Sam said, putting his and Pippin’s cups down on a convenient flat-topped rock, ‘just as I always do.’

‘Going to split yourself in half, then?’ Pippin remarked as he began to pick his way. ‘Be sure and teach me the trick one of these days, will you, Samwise?’

***

‘Here’s a lantern, sir,’ one of the Tookish archers said, following Merry as he toiled upwards.

‘Thanks, Len,’ he said. A backwards glance showed him that Fennel, the healer, had come to the same conclusion about Tolly, and was scrambling after Pippin and Sam with a lighted lantern. Just then another light sprang up where Tolly was, and Merry could see, amid the jumble, that one of the messengers was down, before the light wavered, the other messenger putting the lantern down with obvious, fumbling haste before turning away, bending double... being sick?

Merry turned back, not liking the conclusions to which his mind was leaping, only to hear a further hail from the engineers. ‘Sir! You must see this! Sir!’

Very well then, he’d let Pippin and Sam deal with Tolly’s crisis. He’d see what was so very urgent in what Ev’ard and Dinny had found. On the other hand, with Pippin and Sam picking their way into the path of the rock-fall...

‘Ev’ard!’ he cried. ‘Is the hillside stable? Is it safe?’

Everard called back, much more cautiously. ‘Don’t shout!’

Merry stepped out of the circle of lantern light as Len froze behind him, and stubbed his shins on a protruding rock. ‘Will a shout bring more of it down?’ he called, modulating his tone so that it was just enough to reach the engineers where they stood.

‘Will you stop asking stupid questions?’ Everard snapped. Tooks as a rule were shorter of temper than most Shire-folk, but Ev’ard topped most of the Tooks, in a manner of speaking.

‘It wasn’t a stupid question,’ Merry muttered to himself, and a little louder, he said to the Tookish archer behind him who shared his unease about the sureness of the ground they stood upon, ‘Come along, Len! Either hand me the lantern or step forward to light my path, but do something, fellow!’

Merry forgot his irritation, however, when he reached the engineers, who stood with the light of their lanterns directed at the ground.

There he saw clearly a sight he’d not seen for years, unless travelling outside the Shire, and certainly only rarely had he seen such within the Bounds of the Shire since Elessar had issued his Edict.

It was the mark of a boot, and not of a size that a Bucklander might leave--for there were still hobbits in Buckland who wore boots on occasion, one of the reasons the rest of the Shire-folk looked at Bucklanders askance.

No, the mark was made by a foot quite a lot larger than a hobbit’s foot, even a booted hobbit.

‘It’s clear: There were other marks that were wiped away, but they were careless and missed this one,’ Everard was saying.

Merry felt something being fumbled into his hand; he took it without thinking, looking down to see he was holding the lantern. ‘Len?’

Turning, he saw the Tookish archer had already strung his bow, and held an arrow in his hand.

Chapter 8. In which a Took at last makes an appearance

‘Blood,’ Tolly was muttering when Sam and Pippin reached him. He wiped at his face with a shaking, blood-smeared hand, which did not improve his appearance any. ‘So much blood...’

Pippin fell to his knees with a cry of grief. ‘Ferdi...!’ He reached out, impotent, seeing in the lantern-light the dark head, curls matted with drying blood, the pool of blood under Ferdi’s head, enough of the stuff that some had spilled from the pool and flowed a short distance in a small stream, with a clear hobbit footprint horridly imposed, disturbing the uneven line.

Sam controlled himself with an effort. Though he’d seen terrible sights in the past, much as Pippin had, still, the sight of a hobbit lying in his own blood, in the heart of the Shire, was enough to shake him, to roil his innards with nausea. He was glad he hadn’t taken more than a bite or two of teacake, in the bustle to get ready to ride out.

Fennel, coming up behind them, said sharply, ‘Don’t move him!’ as Pippin gave evidence of taking his cousin up. The healer added with forced confidence, ‘Head wounds are notorious for bleeding... it’s likely much worse than it looks...’ He knelt next to Pippin, reaching to rest his hand against Ferdi’s neck, sliding his fingers gently down, feeling for the throat. His breath came short and he blinked, his expression growing anxious.

‘Poor lad,’ Flam said softly. ‘Never knew what hit him...’

‘Never made it to Whitwell,’ Tolly said brokenly. He’d noticed the blood on his hands and was scrubbing them against his jacket in a frenzied effort to wipe away the sticky stuff.

‘Never made it to Whitwell?’ Pippin whispered, blinking away his grief at this thought. ‘How...?’

‘Look at the way he’s lying,’ Tolly said, and gestured in unconscious illustration of his words. ‘He was facing towards Tookbank, leading the ponies, I’d think—Farry and I had to lead ours, going through the rock-fall—and when the first of the rock-slide hit him he fell face-forward.’

‘Not got to Whitwell yet,’ Pippin said, taking hold of himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Tolly!’ he said sharply, and the head of escort jumped as if he’d cracked a whip. ‘Make all speed to Whittacres! They’ll be wondering why Farry’s escort never arrived. Take him home the long way round, by way of Waymeet and Bywater, and...’

But in that moment Merry was there, violently contradicting. ‘No!’

Pippin looked up at him in surprise, and Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Merry gave him no chance.

‘No, Tolly!’ he said, quite as if it were his place to address orders to Tooks. ‘No, you’ll go to Whittacres and tell them to keep him tight inside, safe, until the ruffians have been dealt with...!’

‘Ruffians!’ burst from Pippin, Sam and Tolly together, while Flamismond stared in consternation and Fennel continued his careful search for signs of life, with dwindling hope.

‘We found a boot-mark, twice the size of a hobbit’s foot,’ Merry said grimly, ‘and worse...’

‘Worse...’ Pippin echoed faintly, looking back to Ferdi. He took off his gloves, took the cold hand in his, and began to chafe it. ‘Ferdi,’ he said, ‘did the ruffians do this?’

‘Ev’ard and Dinny found signs of large rocks, boulders, pried loose,’ Merry said, ‘though the rogues brushed away all evidence of their footprints, and tried to hide the pry-marks as well. The first rock-fall might well have been a natural one – we’ve no reason to believe it wasn’t – but this last was brought about on purpose.’

‘They brought this down on Ferdi?’ Pippin said, his eyes flashing with anger.

‘I don’t think so,’ Fennel said quietly, not raising his eyes from his task. He went over Ferdi’s skull now, no longer seeking life, but rather the injury itself, to ascertain its origins. ‘If I were to hazard a guess, I’d think he’d be crushed by the rocks, if they’d sent the hillside down upon him. But no, he’s not been buried. Brushed away the evidence they’d been there?’

Merry nodded, though of course Fennel did not see, for he was scrutinising the work of his hands.

‘A club, I’d say,’ Fennel said. ‘We saw plenty of this sort of injury after Bywater.’ He shook his head. ‘A rock, falling from the hillside above, would have left more of an impression, I think, to be of a size of the ones we see lying nearby. There aren’t any smaller rocks at hand.’

‘And where are his ponies?’ Tolly said suddenly. ‘They ought to have run back to the Great Smials; they’re not much more than an hour from stables and home.’

‘Ruffians waylaid him,’ Merry said slowly. ‘With the boulders from the earlier fall to hide behind, it wouldn’t have been so difficult. He might have been wary, though it seems he had no warning, seeing how his bow is not even strung...’

‘Waylaid him, and took his ponies,’ Sam said, nodding. ‘Set the rock-slide to cover their tracks, but they left traces.’

‘Now who’s leaping to conclusions?’ Pippin said, looking from one to the other and then down to Ferdi once more, and bending close he said, ‘Is that how it happened, Ferdi?’

‘He doesn’t hear you,’ Fennel said woodenly, wiping his bloody hands on his breeches.

‘Yes,’ Pippin said, galvanised to action. ‘Of course! We’ve got to get him warm, and in a bed, so soon as possible. No offence to you, Fennel, but I’d like for Woodruff to have a look at that head just as soon as may be.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ Fennel said, and he had to clear his throat before he could say more. ‘Sorrier than I can say...’

‘We’ll rig a litter,’ Pippin said. ‘We can carry him in a blanket as far as Hammersmiths’ – We could even put him in a bed there, better than carrying him all the way to the Smials in his condition...’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Fennel said dully. ‘No need for a litter... just wrap him in a blanket and lay him gently over a saddle...’

Sam was the first to catch what the healer was saying, but Merry was the first to speak. ‘You’re not saying...’

‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ Fennel repeated, looking to Pippin. ‘He’s gone. He’s cold – you can feel it yourself, his hand is cold –’

‘No!’ was wrung from the Thain, his face disbelieving, even as he squeezed the cool, unresponsive flesh that rested between his hands.

Fennel forged steadily on. ‘I cannot find his heart’s beat, not a flutter,’ he said. ‘And no steam a-risin’ from his breathing...’

‘How can there be?’ Tolly demanded, ‘with him lying with his face to the ground, and all?’

Fennel’s shoulders slumped. ‘Help me to turn him over,’ he said to the Thain, and Pippin released Ferdi’s hand to aid in the gentle manoeuvre.

While the healer opened Ferdi’s coat and shirt, to lay a hand upon the silent breast, Tolly soaked his pocket-handkerchief with his water bottle and bent to wipe away the blood from the fallen hobbit’s face, that had run down from the wound. No breath puffed against his fingers as he worked, none that he could feel, even though a cloud of mist emerged at each of his own exhalations.

‘I cannot feel his heart beating,’ Fennel said. He was about to bend his ear to Ferdi’s bared breast when he was distracted by the harsh sound of the Thain’s own breathing. ‘Sir,’ he said, straightening in alarm, and Merry, catching his meaning, took Pippin’s arm.

‘Pippin, this night air isn’t good for your lungs,’ he said. ‘If anyone’s to be taken back to Hammersmiths’ it’s you.’

As the healer rose to argue with the Thain, Flam bent to button Ferdi’s shirt once more, pulling his coat closed and buttoning that for good measure, though of course the hobbit would not be bothered any further by the cold of the air.

tbc

***
Note to the Reader: No, this is not AU, and yes, it does fit into the timeline I have used to set the majority of my stories. That is all the hint I can give you, but I hope it helps somewhat.

Oh, and if you object to such hints, let me know and I will endeavour to be more circumspect in future.

Chapter 9. In which a murder is interrupted

Pippin shook off everyone’s attentions long enough to send half-a-dozen archers to Whittacres Farm. It would be slow going, to get past the rock-fall in the dark, and they’d likely not find ponies easy to borrow for a few miles beyond. This was sheep country more than anything, not much ploughed land and thus not many ponies to be found. The farms tended to cluster closer to towns and villages such as Tookbank, where there were good roads for taking produce to market.

While he was at it, he sent four riders at a gallop to the Great Smials, bearing a message to the Steward of Tookland. Regi would send messengers throughout the Shire in general and Tookland in particular, proclaiming a muster. It might take them until dawn to begin the grand sweeping out, but sweep the ruffians out they would.

Four more riders were galloping southwards, to bear messages from the King’s Counsellors to the North Kingdom, to the Watchers who enforced Elessar’s Edict banning Men from the Shire. It was a little like closing the stable door after the ponies had already run away, but the Rangers needed to know that Men were somehow evading their watch, so that they could evaluate and tighten the protective “hedge” they kept about the Bounds.

Flurry of orders over and done, the Thain allowed his shoulders to slump. He did not try to shake off Sam’s cloak, added over the top of his own, and he drank the steaming tea that Healer Fennel pressed upon him.

Tolly, as it turned out, did not go to Whittacres Farm to take charge of Faramir’s safety. It was not anything to do with a lack of trust on Pippin’s part, but as one of Ferdi’s oldest friends, since the latter had come to live at the Great Smials as a teen, the head of the Thain's escort took charge of the necessary details. Blankets were fetched from Hammersmiths’ farm, and Tolly saw to the shrouding of his old friend, though his were not the only hands to lift the blanketed figure, carry the burden over the broken ground to where the ponies waited, and to lift it to lay it across the saddle. But he was the one who made the burden fast, that it might not slip, and after the others had stepped back he lingered a moment, laying a hand on the blanket, his head bowed.

‘Sorry, Ferdi,’ he whispered. ‘Not the most comfortable ride, for it to be your last.’ He drew a shuddering breath and went on. ‘And Nell... Don’t you worry about your Nell, and the little ones.’ His jaw tightened, and he found distraction from his grief in a wave of anger. ‘We’ll make them pay for this day’s work...’

The Green Hill country was a huge expanse of territory, but the blood of the Tooks was up, and they’d be crawling over the hills like ants disturbed from their nest. There was no where for ruffians to hide, in the end. The Tooks and the rest of the Shire-folk had tossed them out of the Shire once before, had scoured the Shire of Men under the leadership of Merry and Pippin, and Pippin’s father, and there was no doubt that they could do it again.

And then the Thain’s hand was on Tolly’s shoulder. ‘They’ll pay, indeed,’ Pippin said, and he added, ‘His wife and children will want for nothing, Tolly.’

‘O they will want for something,’ Tolly said before he could stop himself, and then he drew a deep breath and apologised, but Pippin only patted his shoulder.

They rode slowly back to the Great Smials, for Pippin would not stop at Hammersmiths’ farm. ‘The Smials is an hour’s ride,’ he said. ‘There’s much to be done, until the scum’s been scoured from the pot, and there’ll be time to rest after.’

At least, he thought, Farry’s well out of it. He likely didn’t even notice that his escort hadn’t arrived on the designated day... likely doesn’t even know the date, though Isum and Pearl would have known...

They’d deal with Farry’s grief for his uncle later, when the mess had been cleared away.

***

As it was, Farry was not out of it as his father supposed, but in the thick of it, rather. At that moment he was cold and tired, wearied beyond anything he remembered, as a matter of fact, worn by grief and the late hour. It was past eight o’clock, more than an hour past his bedtime, nearly two hours, if he had but known it! Ten-year-old hobbits were usually put to bed after eventides, for they needed their sleep to grow. Young hobbits weren’t allowed to stay up for late supper until their tweens, as a rule, unless it was a very special occasion.

He could not shrug himself deeper into his jacket and enveloping cloak, for his hands were bound at the wrist, and the binding fastened to Dapple’s saddle. He’d thought at first, rather wildly, of kicking his legs against Dapple just as hard as he might, startling her into a gallop, taking him away from the ruffians, but they’d put a rope around his neck as well, forestalling such action on his part. He could break his neck on the instant, or he could hold on and hope.

Little enough hope, he well knew. The Green Hill country was so wide and trackless. Short of some wandering shepherd seeing them and taking word to the Thain, Farry didn’t know how his father would find him, reclaim him. Uncle Ferdi was the best tracker in Tookland, and he’d have been able to follow the ruffians’ trail, of that Farry had no doubt. But Uncle Ferdi was dead.

The little lad shivered, and his head nodded on his neck, jerking him into full and miserable wakefulness. Cold, yes, and weary, grief-stricken, but the worst was the hunger. He didn’t know when he’d ever been so hungered. The ruffians had taken him just before noontide, making his last meal elevenses. So, he thought, counting on fingers numbed by his bindings, he’d missed noontide and tea and eventides, three meals so far.

The ruffians had eaten as they walked, but nothing had been offered the lad. With a bitter wisdom beyond his years, he knew what that portended.

He’d been taken thrice by ruffians after his father’s gold. Once he’d been rescued before the scoundrel got clean away, that was in the North-lands on a visit to the King’s Lake; and a happy accident had saved him when he’d been stolen in Minas Tirith, that had been the first time, though he’d been too young to carry the memory into the present. The other abduction had been on the part of half-hearted ruffians, who turned into friends on acquaintance, so much so that Farry’s mum Diamond had promised them safe conduct out of the Shire when all was said and done.

The ruffians-turned-friends had fed him, had taken care of him, kept him warm, talked to him and told him stories.

But these ruffians, now... They talked to each other, and they ate their food as they walked, but they didn’t look at him, not as if he were a person, a somebody, at all. And they spoke not a word to him, so long as he was quiet—and he had no choice but to be quiet, with the gag in his mouth to keep him from shouting for help.

His mouth was dry, and the gag made a poor substitute for food, and he was weary, so very weary... His head nodded again, and he dreamed, and once more he stood in the ruffian chief’s grasp, seeing the club raised and ready to fall...

‘We’ll make it quick. You won’t feel a thing, if you just stand still and take it like a man.’

A part of Farry wanted to protest that he was not a Man, and another part of him quivered like a scared rabbit as, big-eyed, he stared at the murderous club, blood and hair already showing on its rough and jagged head. Uncle Ferdi’s blood.

‘Make ‘im beg,’ the whiner said with an unpleasant sneer. ‘Beg, you little blighter. Maybe he’ll let you go, if you beg hard enough.’

The fat man smiled unpleasantly,  lowering the club slightly. ‘None of your games, now, Red,’ he said to the whiner. ‘We’ve more serious business.’

He raised the club again, towering over the hobbit child, and Farry thought in that moment of his father, facing a troll four times his size or more, and he stood straighter. If he only had a sword in his hand, he thought, and the hobbity part of him was sick at the thought, but the part that was his father’s son stiffened his spine and made him look away from the club, his gaze boring straight into the fat man’s eyes. If I had a sword...

‘Wait,’ the brawny man said suddenly. ‘There’s something about him...’

‘We’ve no time to waste,’ the fat man said, but he lowered the club again and looked to the brawny ruffian.

‘Do you know,’ the brawny man said, ‘He’s the spitting image of their leader, you know, the Shire-rat who tossed us out of the Shire in Sharkey’s day.’

The fat man grimaced. ‘Spitting image,’ he mocked. ‘He’s a child! I’ve seen that so-called Thain, once at the Prancing Pony, and this one – of a certainty, his hair’s the same shade, but –’

‘But,’ said the brawny man, ‘I can go you one better. I saw the brat before he ever was Thain – probably when he was about this one’s age, or maybe a little older – they said he was small for his age.’

‘That long ago...’ the whiner sneered.

‘I remember,’ the brawny man began, but the fat man cut him off.

‘That’s why we brought him along, little brother,’ he said, pinning the whiner with his cold gaze. ‘He remembers what he saw, all those years ago, tagging along in the conjurer’s footsteps.’

Conjurer! Farry’s heart leapt within him at the word. He knew of two who’d wandered the Shire in his father’s youth, one a true wizard and no longer in Middle-earth, and the other... But Jack had sworn, never to cross the Bounds of the Shire again. Farry had heard him so swear, and Diamond had received the man’s oath with due solemnity, before he’d left them and made his way out of the Shire for the last time.

And Jack had helped Farry, after that, when a murderous ruffian had held the son of the Thain, and a son of the Mayor into the bargain, in his clutches, far away by the King’s Lake, and nearly half of Farry’s lifetime ago...

But Jack would not be near, now, could not help, now, for he’d sworn to stay out of the Shire for ever more.

And Farry’s lifetime seemed destined to be cut short. The brawny man had bought him a little time, and so he did not lie cold and still, with Ferdi, beneath the rocks the ruffians had pried loose and sent rumbling down the great hillside.

But he was a dead hobbit, all the same, and the ruffians had made no pretence at any promised future for the lad.

He was alive only to provide a shield of sorts, if they ran into trouble while in the Shire, or while slipping past the Watchers at the Bounds when their business was done. Once they had no need of him, they’d discard him, throwing him away as easily as they’d dispatched his Uncle Ferdi, without even a decent burial. Young as he was, he could number his remaining hours. He was but a shield, for a limited time in case the ruffians ran into trouble.

Which Farry certainly hoped, they would.

Chapter 10. In which a Took hears rather more than he wished

Though it was half-past nine when they arrived back at the Great Smials, half-way through the serving of late supper, they found the courtyard brightly lit with many torches, and a great bustle of hobbits and ponies, with the steward directing. Messengers were still going out in every direction, raising the alarm: There were murderous ruffians in the Shire!

Pippin had ridden a little ahead of the group, right up to the steward and jumping down from the saddle as a stable lad stepped up to seize the reins of his pony. Regi steadied him, and he nodded thanks, then asked, ‘Are they...?’

‘As you ordered,’ the steward said soberly. ‘The little parlour, just inside the North Door.’

‘Thank you, Reg,’ Pippin said, and was gone, long strides taking him to where his wife... and Ferdi’s... waited.

He found Pimpernel and Diamond seated together, Diamond with an arm about her husband’s sister, both of them clutching their handkerchiefs, though if Regi had done “as ordered” only Diamond knew the full truth of the matter. At Pippin’s entrance, Pimpernel jumped up. ‘Bad news, they said, Pip,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Bad news... but they wouldn’t tell us more. And then Regi... and he’s organising a muster...’

‘Ruffians?’ Diamond said. ‘Is it true? There are ruffians in the Green Hills? And Farry, and Ferdi...?’

‘Farry’s still safe in Whitwell,’ Pippin said, and Diamond nodded, her fist clenching and unclenching on her handkerchief.

‘But Ferdi,’ Pimpernel half-sobbed, her dread visibly growing.

Pippin moved to embrace her, but she stepped back. Still, he took her by the arms and held firm, looking down into her upraised face, his own countenance etched with sorrow.

‘He’s—he’s not...’ Pimpernel said, shaking her head.

Pippin gazed steadily into her eyes, and she read there her doom. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’

‘Come, Nell,’ Pippin said. ‘There is much to be done.’ He drew her to himself, embracing her gently, and then, putting an arm about her shoulders, he began to guide her from the room. She walked with him as one in a dream, nay, a nightmare, from which she could not awaken.

Diamond started up from her seat, hurried to catch them, moved to Pimpernel’s other side and slipped her arm about the grieving wife’s waist, so that between them, Pippin and Diamond were supporting her as she walked the short way to the door leading to the courtyard.

...and out into the bitter night, where the moon had slipped from his zenith and was beginning the gentle glide down the sky to his rest. The torches shone bright, but gave no warmth to the scene, even as they dimmed the cold starlight above.

The bustle in the courtyard stilled, even the nervous ponies quieting, as a group rode slowly into the yard, led by Master Merry and Mayor Sam. Tolly followed next, leading the burdened pony, and then a few archers, bows at the ready. The rest of the archers remained at the rock-fall, guarding the engineers in their work; for on the morrow, the job of clearing the blocked track must begin, ruffians or no.

Pimpernel gave a sob, but stood quietly enough between Pippin and Diamond as the sorrowing riders came to a stop. Tolly slid wearily from his pony and moved to undo the bindings that fastened the blanketed figure to the following pony. Several hobbits stepped forward, then, to help slide the burden off, turning him over to lay him briefly on the stones, to be able to get a good hold before taking him up once more.

At this point, Pimpernel broke from Pippin and Diamond, stumbling forward, throwing herself on the still figure.

‘Nell!’ Pippin said, and Regi was there as well, trying to drag her back, but she pushed them away; clinging to the blanket, she pulled the folds away from Ferdi’s face, and taking his face in her hands she kissed him desperately, calling his name over and over in between kisses.

‘Nell!’ Pippin said, and his voice broke in his grief, and he bowed himself down, and Sam and Merry moved to stand to either side.

‘Come away, Nell,’ Regi said quietly, with a gentle tug at her arm. ‘Come away.’

‘I won’t leave him!’ she cried, defiant.

‘Come away,’ Regi repeated. ‘There’s much to be done.’

‘You cannot keep me from him!’ Pimpernel raged, turning a tear-ravaged face to the steward, but seeing Regi’s grief so clear in his own face, she faltered.

‘I would not even try,’ he said softly. ‘Come along, Nell, and honour your husband.’

She allowed him to raise her, then, with a hand under her elbow, and sober-faced hobbits, Tolly among them, bent to lift the quiet figure, and Regi escorted Pimpernel after them, into the Great Smials, to their apartment, for the washing and the shrouding and the watching to follow.

‘The burial in the dawning?’ Diamond whispered, and Pippin nodded.

‘Aye,’ he said bitterly. ‘I think the muster can wait until the dawn. No use going out in the dark of night. I’m sure they won’t be building fires nor carrying torches, to guide us to them.’ Diamond’s arm tightened around him, and he gave a shuddering sigh. ‘We’ll have the burial in the dawning,’ he echoed, ‘and the memorial when all this mess has been cleared away.’

‘I’m so very sorry, my love,’ Diamond said, her voice breaking.

Pippin only shook his head, and then with great courtesy, he offered his arm to Diamond, and escorted her to their quarters, where he tucked her up, comfortable in their big bed, and sat with her while she wept herself out, until at last she slept, and then he went to join Regi in the courtyard, to hear his report, and then to the Thain’s study, where he and Sam and Merry sat long into the night, looking at maps and laying their plans.

***

Farry wakened when a cruel hand seized his curls, jerking his head back, and a voice snarled in his ear, ‘Here, you, not a peep out of you, little chicken, not a sound, you understand? Or I’ll cut your tongue out here and now. Understand?’

Farry nodded, to show his understanding, and heard the ruffian give a grunt. And then the gag was loosened, and then it was pulled away and fingers pried the wad of cloth out of his mouth, and a hand seized his hair once more, forcing his head back, and he choked back a cry. A seeming deluge of water nearly drowned him, but he gulped eagerly. They were giving him water to drink! What could it mean?

‘There,’ the ruffian said, and now he recognised the fat man’s mutter as the wad of cloth was shoved back into his mouth and the gag replaced. ‘That’ll keep him going for a while, I’d venture. Got to have a live body when we cross the Bounds, anyhow, just in case... Now, hand me the blade...’

Farry tried to pull away as the cruel hand took hold of his curls yet a third time and he saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. ‘Be still!’ the ruffian hissed. ‘Or I’ll take your ear off, you ruddy little rat’s get!’

He cried out involuntarily, feeling a sharp edge slice against his ear, and then something warm and wet trickled down and he thought for a moment that the ruffian really had taken his ear off. But no, by the light of the moon, past zenith but still high in the sky, he saw in the ruffian’s hand a wad of curly hair. Farry’s hair, from the top of his head, and he wondered. Why would they shave his head? Healer Woodruff, he knew, might shave the hair off a hobbit to stitch a head wound, but he could think of no other reason...

And then there was a dull flash of gleaming steel as the fat man handed the blade to the youngest of the band. ‘You saw? That’s the first of it, the hair. Let me see you take a goodly chunk of hair, there from the other side.’

The young ruffian’s hand was shaking, and Farry truly feared for his other ear, but the ruffian managed to shear off a handful of Farry’s head-hair without drawing blood.

‘And now?’ he whispered, while Farry wondered the same.

In the darkness, he heard the sound of Penny grazing nearby, her teeth chomping the grass, the homey sound of chewing, incongruous with the deadly fear in his gut.

‘And now, we wrap up the hair in this nice little note you’ve written,’ the fat man said, ‘and you’ll go—oh, so quietly!—and put it just outside the door of the smial, and leave a big rock on top of it so that the stupidest hobbit in the Shire could see it and wonder. He’ll take our note to the Thain, and the Thain will know we have his son, and he’ll think we’re heading to the East, for we’ve told him to leave a bag of gold at the Three-Farthing Stone if he wants to have the rest of his son back, safe.’

‘But we won’t be,’ the youth said, a question in his voice.

‘Of course we won’t be, are you as stupid as a Shire-rat?’ the fat man snapped, though he kept his voice low, and Farry gathered the mentioned “smial” was not far away. If only he’d had the courage to shout when his mouth was clear! But it was too late now.

‘And then tomorrow even, we’ll leave another little token or two for the Thain, just to show him we’re serious about this business,’ the fat man said, his hand closing on the back of Farry’s neck. The young hobbit shivered at the warm, clammy touch.

‘As if we were,’ the whiner said with a soft and high-pitched giggle.

‘As if we were,’ the fat man agreed with a chuckle. ‘The Thain’ll be falling all over himself to ransom his son, leaving his bags of gold ever southwards, never guessing that we’re escaping to the north.’

‘Poor stupid hobbits,’ the club-wielder said. ‘One might almost pity them.’

‘One might,’ said the brawny man. ‘But it’s better all around if one simply remembers what Sharkey called them.’

‘More’s the pity,’ the whiner said, stifling another eerie giggle.

Chapter 11. In which a good night's sleep is interrupted

Persimmon Heddleshaft awoke to a familiar sensation – a sharp pinch on his arm, and a hiss. ‘Percy! Percy!’

‘What is it, Bell?’ he said sleepily, turning over.

‘Hsst! There’s something outside!’

‘A fox?’ he said with a yawn, and then, ‘Go back to sleep, old pet. Likely you just dreamed it.’

But the pinch was there again, sharper this time, and Bell was saying, ‘If there’s a fox amongst the chickens, there’ll be Sharkey to pay...’

There was nothing for it but to rise from the bed, pad into the kitchen and workroom beyond, skirting the large loom with its half-finished cloth of finely spun wool, and picking up the watch-lamp from the window he turned up the flame and opened the door to peer out into the night. The moon was lowering in the Western sky, fat and bloated, looking rather sleepy and glad to seek his rest. The stars were bright above, and the icy air was still.

Percy shivered, but he listened a moment longer, to hear if the chickens might be fussing in their sheltered coop. No sound greeted him, except perhaps a rustling on the hillside. If it were a fox, it was moving away.

He stepped forward, lifting the lamp higher, and nearly went sprawling!

There was a rock there, in the doorway, rather a large rock, one that hadn’t been there as the sun was setting and Percy had closed the door for the night, after seeing to the goats, the pig, and the chickens. How in the world had it got there?

He bent to lift the rock, to heave it away, lest his Bell should stumble over it in the morning on her way to feed the chickens and milk the nanny, and was more astonished to find a piece of folded paper pressed beneath it! Curiouser and curiouser, as his old gammer used to say.

He picked up the paper and carried it to the table, setting down the lamp. It appeared to be a part torn from a map, on the one side, but folded to the inside was writing, and a fair handful of soft, curling locks.

Well he couldn’t read the writing, now, could he? And it wasn’t worth waking Bell to read it. He had a fair idea of what the writing said, anyhow. Tam Shepherd had probably left it off, after the weaver and his wife had sought their pillow. Sheepherders were queer folk, and if they counted their sheep at the end of the day and came up short, they’d go out in the night to seek the lost.

Tam had promised a sample of wool from a new breed of sheep, one known for the fineness of its wool, for the weaver’s examination. If Percy liked the feel of the stuff, he could buy several fleeces (at a stiff price, mind) when shearing time came, to mingle with the wool of commoner sheep for cloth that would be softer and finer and would command higher prices at market.

Percy fingered the soft stuff with growing satisfaction. Silky, it was, and pleasant to the touch. Yes, it would make a fine mix with the coarser wool he was used to weaving. The colour was a bit dark, but perhaps it could be bleached and then dyed.

He wrapped the sample back up in the paper and stuck the whole into a pot on the mantel. Bell could read the note to him in the morning, over breakfast.

***

Meadowsweet, Tolly’s wife, was a practical hobbit, and she had things all ready when they brought Ferdi into his and Nell's parlour. The table had been cleared and an oilcloth spread thereon, and his bearers laid him gently down and left in silence, though each had a hug for Pimpernel before leaving.

All his bearers left, that is to say, save Tolly, however; he was there to lend his strength when lifting or turning might be needed.

The parlour was not brightly lit. There was only one lamp, and it was turned low, so as not to wake the children sleeping in the rooms down the short hallway.

Meadowsweet folded the blankets back and began to undo the jacket buttons, sniffing back tears, for they were no help in the task at hand. The little kettle was steaming on the hearth, and Tolly took it up and poured the water into the waiting basin, and then he eased the blankets out from under Ferdi, folded them neatly and placed them just outside the door to the apartment, for the launderers to fetch and wash.

When the jacket buttons were undone, Meadowsweet began to undo the shirt, but pulled her hands back when Pimpernel moved close and took over the task. It was Nell's beloved, her right, and her responsibility, and she would hold herself together for long enough to do him the honour of this last token of her love.

Tolly eased the clothing from the body as they loosened it. He folded each piece, and when he had the whole of it, he put the pile of clothing outside the apartment door, atop the blankets. It was probable that Nell would not want the clothes her husband had worn when he was murdered. They'd be washed, mended if need be, and given away to some hobbit in need.

The washing had begun, from forehead down to feet and back again, as was custom, when a healer’s assistant came in, sent by the Thain. It was her task to stitch up the injuries, and to wash the blood away from the poor wounded head.

Pimpernel winced with every bite of the needle, but Ferdi of course made no sign and that more than anything was enough to dispel her wish to think her husband merely deeply asleep. She tried to concentrate on the work of her own hands, moving slowly over her husband’s skin, losing herself in memories even as she sought to memorise him over again, every inch of flesh, every mark, every scar, smooth expanse of muscles and steadiness of bone, to be taken for ever away from her sight and touch with the dawning, until her own death came and she joined him in the grave.

She lingered long over the slim, elegant fingers, washing each with flannel and tears, remembering the feel of her hand in his when they danced, or walked under the stars, the love in the tingle his caresses left on her skin; she shivered, remembering the touch of his lips on her fingertips, her neck, that certain private place behind her ear that only Ferdi knew...

They clothed him in his finest, the suit he’d worn to be wed, as a matter of fact, the colours that were Pimpernel’s favourites because they suited her Ferdi so very well. His coat was a rich, dark green as mysterious as the forest in twilight, while the pale yellow silk of his waistcoat shone clear as a last shaft of sunlight, playing upon the clean white of his linen shirt. Pimpernel buttoned the fawn-coloured breeches while Meadowsweet brushed the fur on Ferdi’s feet until they gleamed.

While Pimpernel brushed Ferdi’s dark head with care, hiding the stitched wounds, Tolly went to the door, to summon those who waited outside. They lifted the body from the table, bearing it to the bedroom, and laid it on the shroud lying atop the bedsheet, for the covers were pulled back as if airing the bed or awaiting a sleeper. Meadowsweet folded the shroud over Ferdi and sewed it closed with neat stitches, as high as his chest, and then she fastened off the thread and pulled up the coverlet over him, not quite to his shoulders. The white of the shroud wherein he lay, blended with the white of the pillow and bed linens, and he might have slept (albeit, fully clothed).

It was nearly midnight when the baby lass cried, and Meadowsweet went at once to fetch her. She changed her, wrapped her up dry and warm, and brought her to Pimpernel, who sank down on the bed next to her husband to nurse their littlest daughter.

And then Rudivar their eldest was there, blinking, his head tousled. ‘Mum?’ he said sleepily, ‘Did Da come at last...?’ and then his eyes opened wide, to see his father fully clothed abed, and he gasped as the meaning struck home, and he might have fallen had Tolly not reached him, taken him in a fierce hug, and held on tight as the sobs began, interspersed with broken words. ‘No... Da... no...’

Chapter 12. In which a Took is taken by surprise

Percy the Weaver had just managed to drop off into dream when he was interrupted once more, and not by a mere pinch over a fancied noise. No, this was a right pounding on the door of the smial, some sort of emergency he supposed, though what it might be, in the dead of winter, was beyond his imagining. Couldn’t be flood, he thought, and I doubt it’s wildfire, this time of year, and...

‘Percy!’ his wife hissed, clutching at his arm with both hands, plainly terrified. ‘What is it?’

‘Well if I knew that,’ he grumbled, disengaging his arm and arising, while Bell buried herself in the bedcovers, all a-quiver, ‘then I wouldn’t have to get out o’ the bed to answer, now would I?’

As it turned out, he would’ve. A grim-faced Took stood at the door, and more, bearing torches, sat ponies in the yard behind him.

Percy found himself echoing his wife’s question. ‘What is it?’ He rubbed his eyes. The Tooks were still there. It was no dream, then, as he’d hoped.

‘It’s a muster,’ the Took said. ‘There are ruffians, right here in the Tookland!’

‘Ruffians!’ said Bell, faintly behind him, and he turned in time to see her swoon.

‘Bell!’ he cried, running to her. The grim Took entered as well, hurrying to the bucket of water that sat by the hearth, dipping a handkerchief and draping it over Bell’s forehead, then chafing one of her hands, while Percy continued to call his wife’s name, patting her other hand.

Bell came round, looking up with wide and frightened eyes.

‘Better?’ the Took asked.

‘Is it that we’re to be murdered in our beds, then?’ Bell whispered.

‘A cup of tea’s the thing, I think,’ the Took said, avoiding the question, though he helped Bell to sit up.

Percy jumped to his feet, stirred up the banked fire, added more wood and put the kettle on. ‘Will you have tea as well, sir?’ he said.

‘No time to stop,’ the Took said. ‘There’s a muster, and we must carry the news to your neighbours.’

Another rider had dismounted and hovered in the doorway. ‘Do you want us to go on without you, Hilly?’ he said.

‘I’ll be but a moment,’ the Took answered. ‘Close the door before these good folk freeze to death!’

The hobbit in the doorway nodded and complied.

‘Hildibold Took, at your service,’ Hilly said belatedly, looking from weaver to wife. ‘I’ve come for your sons and apprentices. You may leave someone here, on guard, or we’ll send your missus to the Smials for safety, until the ruffians are cast out.’

‘At your service, and your family's,’ Percy responded without having to think much about it, but then he nodded, thinking over the rest of what Hilly'd had to say, and he rapidly came to a conclusion. ‘But I’ll stay,’ he said, for he’d not leave his fine looms to be smashed by the likes of ruffians who didn’t belong here in any event. ‘I’ve a fair hand with a bow, and Bell here can wield an axe well enough, though she’s only menaced trees, the past few years...’ He raised his voice, to call back to the other sleepers in the far bedrooms of the smial. ‘Here now, all ye lads, turn out! Turn out, I say!’

Bell rose, a little shakily, with Hilly’s help, and handed back the soaking handkerchief. ‘Silly of me,’ she said, blushing a little. ‘Let me just make a nice big pot o’ tea, ‘twon’t take but a few moments, before you must ride on.’

‘I’m sorry, missus, I can stop only long enough to collect hobbits,’ Hilly said with regret. The night was cold, and he’d welcome the hot beverage, but the Thain had called a muster and he had a way to go yet before he’d visited all the smials that were on his list.

Bell nodded and went about her business anyhow, as a number of tousle-headed hobbits came out sleepily from the other bedrooms. They were soon wide-awake with the news of the muster, diving back into their rooms to pull on clothes.

‘Need more than one pot more, I mind,’ Bell was muttering to herself as she readied the usual pots, and so she went to the mantel to fetch an extra. But... ‘What’s this?’ she said, pulling a piece of folded paper from the pot, preparatory to rinsing with warm water and filling with tea leaves.

No one heard her in the bustle; Percy and his two oldest sons were receiving details of the alarm from Hilly, and the younger sons and apprentices were stringing their hunting bows, and grabbing mufflers from the pegs by the door.

All the bustle stopped at Bell’s shriek.

Soft curls of golden-brown sifted to the floor, and the paper trembled in her nerveless fingers.

‘Bell-dear, what is it?’ Percy said.

‘She’s not going to faint again, is she?’ Hilly said, a little less tender than the husband. He really had no time to spare for such.

‘Ruf—ruffians!’ Bell said, her face white, extending the paper.

Hilly was about to snap that he knew there were ruffians, of course, for that was the reason he was here and not warm in his own bed with the clock nearing middle night, but Bell thrust the paper at him. ‘Read it!’ she quavered. ‘Read it!’

Hilly took the paper. As a Took of the Great Smials, he read well, for the Thain insisted on all the hobbits in the Smials knowing their letters, from the lowliest dairymaid to the head of his escort. He, too, lost all colour as he read, and then his face flushed with fury.

‘Where did you get this?’ he demanded, shaking the paper in Percy’s face.

‘ ‘Twere,’ Percy faltered, ‘ ‘twere left on the doorstep, so to speak, on the doorstep, with a big rock atop. Just an hour agone, it were, and I left it for the missus to read over breakfast, for letters and me, we have only a passing acquaintance.’

But Hilly did not stop to hear more. He dove to scoop up a handful of drifting curls from the floor. His jaw worked as he stared at the stuff as if comparing it in his mind to some memory; he shoved the handful into his pocket and then flung himself out of the smial, shouted something to the waiting hobbits, and jumped into his saddle. Wrenching his pony around, he dug his heels sharply into the beast’s flanks, and the pony flashed into a gallop, away, with hoofbeats that rapidly faded into the night.

***

The children had gone reluctantly to sleep after eventides, for they remembered only too well the events of a few weeks previous, when Ferdi had gone to “escort” young Faramir and had come perilously close to being banished from the Shire for something he’d never intended to do. And now, today, their father had gone to escort Farry home from a visit to Whittacres Farm, and once again, he’d not come home at the expected time.

They had slept fitfully, it seems, and perhaps their slumber, what there was of it, was disturbed by the sounds of Rudivar’s grief. In any event, one by one they came creeping from their beds, drawn like moths to destruction, to the terrible surprise that awaited them. Truly, their father had come home.

Chapter 13. In which a muster is interrupted

Caution. Chapter contains graphic details. PG-13 at the least, and perhaps R.

The dwarf-made clock in the Thain’s study had just struck one when Hilly slammed open the door. He was breathing hard, having run all the way from the courtyard where he’d left his shuddering, lathered pony.

‘Hilly!’ Pippin said, starting up. ‘What news?’

‘They’ve got him,’ Hilly gasped, pulling the note from beneath his shirt where he’d thrust it, for safekeeping on the long gallop. He’d pushed his pony to its limits, riding break-neck through the darkness, covering in a little more than an hour a distance that had taken three hours, riding away from the Great Smials, stopping only long enough at each smial or hamlet as the small body of Tooks worked their way down their list, to give the alarm.

Haldi would continue the task, Hilly had every confidence. Haldi would send two riders along the line they had taken, spreading the alarm further into the Green Hill country, while he and the rest scoured the area around the weaver’s smial for sign of the ruffians. At least they knew the rogues had been there, but an hour before the Tooks’ arrival. It was too bad none of his companions had been skilled trackers, but the Thain would soon remedy that. Pippin would send trackers out to the weavers’ and even though the moon would have set by the time they arrived, they’d work by torchlight if they had to.

And they had to. They had to find the ruffians, before...

‘Who’s got whom?’ Regi asked, rising from his desk to steady Hilly.

But Merry had a sick look on his face, and Sam was white, and whispering, ‘How...? I thought he was still safe at Whitwell...’

But Hilly pressed the note into Pippin’s hands, and then he dug in his pocket and scattered a handful of golden-brown curls upon the desktop.

Pippin read swiftly, and then his eyes closed and his hands shook; he swayed, and caught himself on the desk.

‘Farry...’ Merry said, and to Regi, ‘Fetch Woodruff!’

‘No,’ Pippin said, opening his eyes again, and had the ruffians seen his face they might have known fear of hobbits for the first time since they’d been chased from the Shire after the Battle of Bywater, and rightly so. ‘No, I need no healer.’

He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and threw the note down on the desk. Merry took it up and began to read as Pippin turned to Reginard.

‘Call the muster together, whatever hobbits have arrived,’ he said. Some of these were in the yard, saddling ponies and packing supplies, but the majority were sitting in the great room, fortifying themselves against exertions to come. ‘We won’t be waiting until the dawn. Who ever is here will be going out immediately, and we’ll arrange to send latecomers out after.’

Regi nodded and left. What ever the note contained, he was sure he’d be finding out shortly. In the meantime, there was work to be done, and done swiftly from the Thain’s icy tone.

‘Going out...’ Sam echoed. ‘Where?’

‘Where was the note left?’ Pippin demanded, swinging on Hilly.

‘Weavers’,’ came the succinct answer.

‘A bag of gold, to be left atop the Three-Farthing Stone,’ Merry read. ‘That is their destination, you think?’

‘Of course not!’ Pippin snapped, ‘though some one or two of them might go that way, to collect the gold, or they might take a hobbit family in the vicinity and force a father or son to do their dirty work for them, or suffer the poor hobbits left behind.’

‘Yes,’ Sam said bleakly, remembering an incident in Gondor. ‘That’s how they work. I’d hoped to forget.’

‘We’ll send a body to the Three-Farthing Stone,’ Pippin said, ‘with a bag of gold, of course...’

‘You’re going to pay them?’ Hilly said, hope stirring in him. ‘And they’ll give Farry back, unharmed?’

‘They think we’re stupid enough to believe that,’ Pippin snapped. He drew a shaking breath and ran a hand over his head. ‘But we’ll pay them, nonetheless, on the off chance that they are honest ruffians.’

Merry gave a snort, and though it was grim reading, his eyes went over the note again. ‘Three-Farthing Stone,’ he said. ‘That’s quite some way from where the note was found. In which direction do you think they’ll go? What are they after? They could not have come into the Shire gambling on running into the son of the Thain...’

‘The treasure-hoard?’ Pippin said, and shook his head. ‘I cannot see them coming to the Great Smials, creeping under our noses to steal the treasury.’

‘The new gold mine,’ Sam said. ‘News has gone out, as far as Bree and beyond, of the rich strike. They might have visions of attacking the mine under cover of darkness, taking the miners unawares. The hobbits would scarcely be expecting trouble, and a shovel makes a poor enough weapon against arrows and man-sized clubs.’

‘And the gold mine lies on a line between Weavers’ and the Stone,’ Merry said.

‘What’s that?’ Pippin demanded suddenly, holding out his hand for the note.

‘What’s what?’ Merry said, though he obediently surrendered the paper.

Pippin turned it over, laid it down, smoothed it out on the desk.

‘A map...’ Sam said, and on closer inspection he amended, ‘Part of a map, anyhow.’

‘Buckland,’ Merry said, ‘but it’s been torn from a larger whole. A map of the Shire... and they’ve torn Buckland away. Obviously they won’t be escaping in that direction.’

‘Well that narrows things down considerably,’ Pippin said with an ironic twist to his mouth. He was breathing shallowly, but forced himself to stay calm, for Farry’s sake, for whenever he closed his eyes the mocking words danced before his lids.

Here is a token, to show we have your son. He is whole, at the moment...

...a bag of gold, one thousand sovereigns, on top of the Three-Farthing Stone by the third hour after dawn, and no tricks...

‘Whole, at the moment,’ he whispered.

‘What you told us,’ Hilly said, remembering the Thain’s talk of ruffians and child-stealing, the talk that had nearly landed his brother Tolly, and their cousin Ferdi in ruin. ‘The note is worded as the one in Gondor you saw, when the ruffians made Samwise a messenger in one of their foul plots...’

He didn’t need Pippin’s nod. The Thain had told them of child-stealing, of his fears for Diamond and Farry, after the Thain’s wealth of gold both found and gifted became common knowledge beyond the Bounds of the Shire.

‘Then, if they don’t get the bag of gold, they’ll cut off his ear,’ Hilly said, wanting to be sick. ‘They’ll cut... the ear of a little child... the filth!’

‘Aye,’ Pippin said, ‘and probably whether they have the gold or not. If they get the first bag of gold, so easily, they’ll cut off his ear to prompt us to surrender another bag, or ten.’

‘And if they don’t get the gold,’ Sam said thickly. ‘First they’ll leave an ear where it might be found, to ensure his family are listening, and then his thumbs, to show his family how helpless they are in the face of the ruffians’ determination, and next his great toes, to show how they are crippled in any effort to find...’ He was breathing in quick, sharp breaths, but he couldn’t stop himself, though Merry had taken him by the shoulders and was imploring him, with increasing urgency, to stop. ‘And then his eyes, to show... and last his tongue, to tell that this is their last chance to ransom their loved one alive... if you can call it “alive”.’

The Mayor gulped, and breaking free from Merry’s grip he barely made it to the waste bin before he was violently sick. He had picked up a packet left in the marketplace in Minas Tirith, thinking to return the lost item to its owner. But when he’d opened it to try to find identifying information, he’d found it to be containing a note and a grisly accompaniment. He would never forget the horror of it. Never. Worse than Shelob’s lair, in a way, for it had occurred after Sauron’s fall, in a city of Men who’d fought for good, where he had expected no vestiges of Shadow.

‘And now they are in the Shire,’ he whispered, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. Catching a white blur at the corner of his eye, he looked up, and nodded thanks to Merry, who was extending a handkerchief.

‘And in the Shire they have sown the seeds of their own destruction,’ Pippin said. ‘We’ll hunt them down. They’ll have no escape. And perhaps...’ he dashed an impatient sleeve across his watering eyes. ‘And perhaps we’ll find Farry before they’ve quite finished with him...’ But there was no hope in his voice, and in his helplessness he allowed the cold fury to rise within him, to engulf him in a wave that for the moment washed away his despair, replacing it with determination. The time for grief would come, he knew, but he must be cool and clear-headed if he was to avenge his sister’s husband... and his son.

Chapter 14. In which a Took is abruptly awakened

Farry woke when Dapple came to a stop. It was very dark, and there was a sound of running water. The stars shone above, bright and cold and remote, but the moon had passed behind the great hills.

He was stiff and cold and numb, and he wondered that he had slept in such an uncomfortable position at all—yet at the same time he had to fight to keep from nodding off.

The ruffians were whispering, and he strained his ears to listen.

‘There, see!’ Some of the stars were blotted out before him, and Farry realised that one of the men was pointing. He winked the sleep from his eyes and stared, trying to make sense of the moving dots of light on the far hills.

‘Our travelling friends have been missed,’ the fat man rumbled at Farry’s side, and he became aware that a warm, large hand was at his back, keeping him steady as he slept. ‘The search has started.’

‘We’re well away,’ the brawny man said.

‘But the torches are spreading out, and not just where we were gifted with ponies.’

Gifted! Farry straightened in indignation, and the fat man’s hand fell away.

‘Awake, are we?’ the rumble was tinged with amusement. ‘Go back to sleep, lad. Not good to be awake in the middle night.’

‘You need your sleep to grow!’ the whiner said with unholy glee, and gave a hissing laugh that made Farry shudder.

‘Grow, that’s a good one,’ the club-wielder snorted softly.

‘P’rhaps they don’t know exactly what route our travellers were taking,’ the fat man said.

‘Son of the Thain?’ It was hissed with scorn. ‘How could they mislay...’

‘Remember, little brother, in the southlands, when the families of the great lords travelled, it was not often noised about. Seems they thought they might avoid being waylaid if they planned several routes and did not make known which they’d choose when the time came...’

Farry wanted to shake his head, but he forced himself to hold very still, for if he gave any evidence of “knowing” then the ruffians might see fit to question him. But... Those at home knew his route! Or... he corrected himself, ...they had known his route. Why, his father had laid it out while he was in the study, the farms where they’d stop for elevenses and noontide, even the timetable for travel. So much time in the saddle, so much time resting and eating, departure and arrival times planned in such a way that they might ride at a leisurely pace, have plenty of time to rest and eat along the way, and still arrive in time for tea.

He watched the progression of the torches; not a search pattern, he divined, for they were travelling together, in more or less a straight line, as if on their way to a specific destination. Slowly he turned his head, catching sight of more torches moving along the far hills. He caught his breath. It was a muster!

The fat man was grumbling. ‘...kept tight behind the rocks, there would be no searchers now, and no chance they’d know we were even here. We could have got the gold and got out again before any rats noticed that the cats were amongst them.’

‘But with the ponies we’ll be able to carry away more gold,’ the club-wielder said. ‘And it was Red who broke cover in the first place. I only mended the situation after the damage was done. The rat might have shot your precious “little” brother; he’d fitted an arrow to his bow and was ready to shoot...!’

‘We might have left the mouse with the rat, buried under the stones,’ the whiner said, ignoring the blame. ‘Then there’d be no search needed.’ His voice came closer, and Farry jerked away as a cold hand caressed his cheek. The whiner’s voice dropped and he said, very low, ‘I’d dearly have loved to have heard him beg...’

‘In any event,’ the fat man said, ‘we’ve reached the stream. That new mine we heard of, if the map is right, is only an hour or so upstream. It’s time to get our feet wet! Should the rats stumble on our tracks and follow to where we went into the stream, they’ll think we’re for the mine. We’ll throw them off nicely.’

‘Wish we were for the mine,’ the club-wielder said. ‘Sounds lovely, all that raw gold, just sitting in piles, and the miners wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Men aren’t supposed to be in the Shire, thanks to that precious Edict.’

‘We’ve fatter fish to be frying,’ the fat man said, and Farry wondered. If not the gold from the new mine, then... what were they after?

***

Pimpernel wakened with a jolt, from nightmare into nightmare. It was true in waking as it was in dream; her Ferdi had left her, had gone ahead where, to follow, she must abandon their children to orphanhood. She sat up on the bed, withdrawing the arm she'd draped over her husband as she drowsed.

Hilly had entered as softly as might be, but his efforts had gone for naught, for now he was engaged in a three-way whispered argument with Tolly and Meadowsweet.

'Hilly?' Pimpernel said.

Hilly was not his usual animated, mischievous self, but stern, almost a stranger. He drew himself up now, pulling at Tolly. 'Come away, just for a moment,' he said, and then looked to Pimpernel with an apologetic nod.

She returned the nod, wondering, and Meadowsweet looked stricken at this departure from tradition, that her husband and Tolly's brother should dishonour their dear friend and cousin in such a manner. Pimpernel rose from the bed, careful not to waken the children, to put her arms around Meadowsweet. 'Ferdi wouldn't mind,' she whispered. 'I'm sure it's important. They wouldn't... not for a trifle.'

Meadowsweet returned her embrace, and she rested her head on her friend's shoulder. She was wrung out from weeping, and while part of her wished never to let Ferdi go, nay, more, to lie down with him to sleep forever, until they should waken at the Feast, another part of her wished the ordeal to be over and done. Her children were suffering, oh how they suffered! And she would not add to it. Nell had grown enough, by now--had heard enough of Frodo's story from her brother, had seen her brother, himself, take up a duty he did not want--to sacrifice her own desires.

When he returned, without Hilly, Tolly had obviously put away his grief. His face was hard, his jaw was set, and he did not look at Meadowsweet, at first; his attention was all for Pimpernel. 'The Thain,' he said, 'has called the muster...'

'Yes, but that was to be at dawn,' Meadowsweet broke in, indignant on Nell's behalf. And Ferdi's.

Tolly, for the first time that Nell could remember (and Meadowsweet as well, judging from her shocked expression), hushed his wife.

Meadowsweet opened her mouth, but did not speak, though her eyes were snapping with anger.

'The ruffians have attacked a family,' Tolly said, choosing his words with care. 'They've murdered, and they've taken one or more captives, among them a little child.'

A few of the children stirred at the hobbit mums' shocked exclamations, and the adults quieted just long enough for them to sleep again.

'Ferdi would be the first to say that the needs of the living come before...' Tolly went on in a whisper, and then he looked to the bed and blinked hard, gulping, and he turned away from Pimpernel towards Ferdi as if the latter could hear him. 'Forgive me, Ferdi,' he said brokenly. And then turning back to Pimpernel, he gathered his courage and went on. '...before the needs of the dead.'

'Of course,' Nell said, and when Meadowsweet would have spoken, she squeezed Sweetie's arm. 'Of course you must go,' she said, and nodded. 'Ferdi would be the first to say so.'

***

Diamond woke at a kiss. ‘What is it?’ she said, struggling up from the mists of troubled dream. ‘Is it nearly dawning?’

‘No, my love, and I hope you’ll go back to sleep and quickly,’ Pippin murmured, his arms stealing around her. ‘Sandy will waken you when the dawn approaches.’ He kissed her again, on the cheek this time, and added, ‘but something’s come up and the hobbits mustered must depart now, and not wait for the dawn.’

‘What is it?’ Diamond said again, wider awake.

Pippin held her a little tighter. ‘A message came but a little bit ago, that the ruffians have taken a child along their way. Perhaps they mean to use the little one as a shield; we’re not yet certain as to their destination or their motives for being in the Shire.’

‘Oh,’ Diamond gasped, tears flooding her eyes. ‘The poor mother! The poor father! How desperate their hearts must be, knowing...’

‘Yes,’ Pippin said, very sober. ‘So you see, my dear, why we must go out now, and not wait until after Ferdi’s decently buried. The life of a child hangs in the balance.’

‘Yes,’ Diamond said, sitting up a little straighter and pushing at her husband. ‘Do, go!’

He got up from the bed, but retained her hand. ‘I will be sorry, not to honour Ferdi properly,’ he said. ‘But I rest in the knowing that you will do all that is needed, all that I would do if I could be here.’

‘Of course I will!’ Diamond said, with a decisive nod. ‘Don’t I always, when you have to be away?’

‘My love,’ Pippin said huskily, and he bent to kiss her fingertips. Without another word, he was gone.

Chapter 15. In which a pursuit is interrupted

It was close to four o’ the clock when the babe stirred again. Meadowsweet picked her up at the first whimper, and when she was dry and wrapped warmly, she laid the little lass in her sleepy mother’s arms.

‘Oh,’ whispered Pimpernel, taking a shuddering breath. ‘Is it time... already?’

‘She’s still so little,’ Meadowsweet said, and then added, ‘It’s not yet struck four.’

Pimpernel nodded, but as the babe whimpered, she hastened to nurse. There was no need to cover herself; Meadowsweet herself had suckled a number of babes. The children were all sleeping, and no male hobbits were in the room, who might be embarrassed at the sight. Ferdi, in earlier days, took delight in watching his babes at Nell’s breasts, proclaiming his willingness to share their delights.

Nell sniffed at the memory, and a silent tear ran down her cheek. Meadowsweet wiped away the tear with a gentle finger, and then she turned away to pour a cup of sweet, fresh-drawn water. ‘You must keep drinking,’ she said, though there was a question in her eyes.

It was uncommon, nay, unheard-of, for a hobbit to marry again, and yet Ferdi was Nell’s second husband, though he’d been her first love, from their childhood, and he had never had eyes for any other. But Nell had come to love the husband her father chose for her, and she had nearly willed herself to die when he was taken from her in death. They’d had to force her to take life-sustaining food, even water, and even so, Eglantine had not been sure that they’d save her grief-stricken daughter.

But Nell had survived, and eventually she’d married again, in part through Pippin’s machinations. She had settled down to life with Ferdibrand with deep joy and thankfulness at this miraculous second chance. And now, cruel fate had crushed her heart a second time. Her friends and loved ones were anxious, once more, remembering...

‘Yes,’ Nell said, after a moment of hesitation. She took the glass and drank, and Meadowsweet suppressed a sigh of relief.

‘What are you going to name her, then?’ she asked softly, one hand going out to stroke the downy, baby-soft curls on the little head.

The babe made an especially loud smacking sound, and both mums smiled. And then Nell’s smile faded, and she wondered how she could have... and if somehow she bore Ferdi less honour than he deserved, to find comfort, even as she watched with him until the dawning.

‘Lass,’ she whispered. ‘It’s what he called her.’ And another tear trickled down.

***

It was close to four o’ the clock when the greater part of the muster reached the Weavers’ yard. I’ truth, they didn’t ride into the yard itself, but the Thain, Master of Buckland and the hunters dismounted and walked to where a circle of torches had been stuck into the ground.

Haldi rose from a crouch, where he’d huddled in his cloak against the bitter night, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. He was guarding the traces he’d found, a clear print of a boot on the far side of the yard, leading away.

The hunters, the best trackers Tuckborough had to offer, moved to scrutinise the print, muttering amongst themselves. One of them lifted his cap to scratch at his head. ‘I dunno, Sir,’ he said. ‘ ‘Twill be a right muckle of a job to try to follow such i’ th’ dark and all. ‘Twould be better to wait until the dawning, I’m thinking.’

‘Lantern light?’ Pippin suggested. ‘Would that be better than torches?’

‘Better?’ the hunter said, and turned his head to spit. ‘Ah just said, didn’t ah, that ‘twould be better to wait until the dawning. We could wear oursel’ out, tryin’ to follow such a trail in the dark o’ th’ hard ground, we could, or we could go swift and sure in the morning light...’

‘If you please, Sir,’ came the humble voice of Percy the Weaver, standing just outside the ring of torch light. ‘There’s tea, nice and hot, just off the boil when we heard you ride up, and scones smoking out of the oven. You might do worse than to warm yourselves in our smial, and rest up a bit before following after.’

‘Rest!’ Pippin said. ‘Rest! When they’ve got...!’

Merry stopped him with a hand to his shoulder and a murmuring in his ear.

Pippin turned to his older cousin, saying in a tone close to despair, ‘Do you really think so, cousin?’

‘I do,’ Merry said, forcing confidence. He was more sure of himself as he added, ‘You do him no good, to wear yourself out. It’s a long chase, perhaps, when we don’t know where they’re bound.’

‘Gold mine, or silver,’ Pippin said heavily. ‘Or if they know we’re on the trail, likely they’re on their way out of the Shire completely. But which way? North? South? West?’

‘At least we can be fairly sure they’re not headed toward Buckland,’ Merry said.

‘The map might have been a trick,’ Pippin warned.

‘They’d have to find a way to cross the Brandywine,’ Merry said, ‘and that’s not so easy. The messengers I sent will make sure the Ferry stays tied up on the Buckland side, and the Bridge is heavily guarded. No, Pippin,’ he said, and he patted the younger cousin’s shoulder. ‘They’ll not go to the East. I’d be willing to wager all of Buckland against a thimble of spittle, that they won’t.’

‘The Three-Farthing Stone is to the East,’ Pippin said.

Merry nodded. ‘I’ll grant you that,’ he said, ‘but even if they go there, they’ll turn South, then, or North, or even backtrack along to the West, thinking to throw us off the trail.’ He gave the shoulder another pat. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘No point in freezing your toes off, out here. Come in, take some tea, eat something, close your eyes and rest—I’m not saying “sleep” for I feel as if I could never sleep again, not until he’s safe once more, but rest, Pippin. Please, rest.’

Pippin stood a long time, looking down at the footprint, before he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Nothing for it, I suppose.’

He allowed Merry to lead him to the weavers’ smial, while Haldi directed the hobbits of the muster around what they’d been able to find of the ruffians’ trail. Some of them would crowd into the smial, and some into the barn, and others would kindle fires in the yard, to warm their hands and while away what was left of the night hours, until dawn—and action—should come at last.

***

It was nearly four o’ the clock when the Shirriff pulled up his pony. ‘Three-Farthing Stone’s just up ahead, sir,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Samwise said. The bag of gold was tied to his saddle, and he was eager to place it atop the Stone in the darkness and give the Shirriff and the mustered hobbits who rode with him enough time to find places of concealment before the morning light came. It would be less likely that they’d be seen by spying eyes, if anyone were watching the Stone. When the sun arose from her sleep, she’d shine on the top of the Stone, showing off the burden of gold in its plain but sturdy bag, but with any luck at all, she’d be hard put to reveal the hidden hobbits ready to spring their trap.

He dismounted. It took two of them, himself and the Shirriff, to lift the heavy bag down. They carried it between them to the top of the rise, stopping several times to rest, and two more hobbits joined them to heave the heavy burden onto the flat top of the Stone. There it would stay, as required, until the ruffians came to claim their fortune and met, instead, their doom.

He wondered if Merry and Pippin were already on the ruffians’ trail, and if they would trap the rogues between them. He was not the vengeful sort, but he fingered Sting’s hilt, even so. If the ruffians should blunder into his party, and if young Farry should come to harm...

‘We’ll bake that bread when it’s risen,’ he muttered to himself, and with that he found himself a hiding place in a patch of brambles, not far from the Stone, and settled himself to wait.

***

It was nearly four o' the clock, but young Farry didn't know that. He knew only that they'd been travelling an interminable length of time. It seemed to his young mind that they must be nearly to the Bounds of the Shire, already.

They'd left the torches behind, hidden on the far side of the last great hill they'd skirted, and it seemed as if his last spark of hope faded with the loss of the dots of light.

He must hold on, with all that was in him. He had no leaf-shaped Elven-brooch to drop, to show the way; he could not guide Dapple out of the group of Men, out of the stream, to leave a clear trail, not without pulling the noose around his neck tight, stretching him in a dreadful game of tug between his hands, bound to Dapple's saddle, and the rope in the fat man's hand.

But he must believe, he must, that his father, and Uncle Merry, were on his trail. They must find him, for the alternative, being taken by the ruffians beyond the Bounds of the Shire, did not bear thinking about.

Chapter 16. In which a Took makes an appalling discovery

Caution: Some material in this chapter may upset the Reader as well. Proceed with care. PG.

‘It’s time.’

The quiet words struck to Pimpernel’s heart, wrenching her cruelly out of her dreams, wherein she snuggled, as was her custom, head on Ferdi’s breast, listening to the reassuring sound of his heartbeat, the soft rushing of his slow breathing. She sat up with a jerk, to see Meadowsweet holding a steaming mug.

‘I thought... some tea...’ Meadowsweet said uncertainly.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Pimpernel said, though she was not very thankful, not at all, contemplating what the morning held: a final farewell to her beloved, the beginning of a separation that would last the rest of her days, for as long as there was breath left to her. Acute pain stabbed her, making it difficult to draw breath, and she bowed her head.

‘Nell?’

‘A moment, Sweetie,’ she answered, pressing her hands to her heart. She knew the feeling; her heart was breaking. She’d survived it, once before, healed even, blossoming under the light of Ferdi’s love. But now the future stretched dark and bleak before her. She loved her children, oh how she loved them. She’d chosen to lay her life down for them, rather than for her husband, but how it pained her to continue, even in the joy of her love for them, and their love and need for her.

At last she raised her head and stretched out her hands for the mug. Her hands were shaking, and she spilled a little on the fine skirt of her best frock, but it hardly seemed to matter.

‘How long?’ she said.

‘They’re waiting outside,’ Meadowsweet answered softly.

Pimpernel nodded sadly. It was time, indeed. The dawn had come quietly, as was its wont. Whether one remained wakeful, or lost in dream, the dawn would come in any event. The tide of rushing minutes could not be held back.

She sipped at the tea, feeling the warmth go down into her frozen middle, and then gulped, welcoming the burning of her tongue. At least it was some sensation, something to feel. She handed the mug, still half full, back to Meadowsweet. They were waiting.

‘Rudi,’ she said softly, putting a hand on her eldest’s shoulder. ‘Rudi, time to wake.’

He groaned himself upright; his eyes opened wide again as he realised where he was and why he must waken, and he threw his arms around Pimpernel, great lad that he was, and sobbed into her bodice. She stroked his tousled head gently and murmured soothing nonsense, for there was no real comfort. None at all.

Between them, Pimpernel and Meadowsweet managed to rouse all the little ones, save the faunt and the babe who were deep in the sleep of the littlest of hobbits. They’d be carried to the graveside in any event, so there was no need to shake them into wakefulness.

None of the children had any hunger to speak of. They all turned away from Meadowsweet’s offer of bread-and-jam to strengthen them for the coming hour. Pimpernel did not press them. There would be a feast, of sorts, when the burial was done and the grave filled in, when the last song was sung and the mourners turned back to the Great Smials.

‘It is time to take our leave,’ Pimpernel said. Her eldest two, who still remembered their father Rudivacar Bolger, gulped back tears and nodded. Pimpernel arose, looking down into her beloved’s face, and then she bent to lay a kiss. Befuddled as she was with lack of sleep common to all new mothers, as well as the restless sleep this night had held, she scarcely knew what she was doing as she brushed her lips across Ferdi’s forehead. ‘Good night, my love,’ she whispered. ‘May your dreams all be of peace, until we meet again at the Feast.’

At Rudi’s shuddering breath she forced a smile. ‘It’ll be a long time, yet,’ she said to reassure him, and wide-eyed, not quite reassured, he nodded.

‘Will Ferdi-da miss us?’ little Coreopsis said, clinging to her mother’s skirts.

‘No, lass,’ Pimpernel said, reaching to hug her. ‘For there is no time where he is, and it’ll seem like no time at all before we’re all sitting down to rejoice together.’

‘But we’ll miss him,’ Corry’s sister Mignonette sobbed, burying her face in her hands. Rudy bravely put away his grief to hug his sister, holding her close, whispering to her until her sobs died away.

And then each of the children, save the littlest in their sweet and peaceful sleep, took leave of their father.

When all was said and done, Nell looked long on Ferdi’s face, a last time, and then she drew a deep breath, steeled herself, and took up the edges of the shroud, folding them gently in place. Meadowsweet was ready to set the final stitches, and then while the children clustered about Pimpernel, stifling their sobs in her skirts, she went to the door to fetch the bearers.

Apologetic cousins entered, and quietly and quickly they folded the blankets back and took up the shrouded figure. Pimpernel and the children fell into line behind them. Tooks, most of them old or infirm or not yet tweens or mums or lasses, lined the corridor in silent witness. Hats came off as Ferdi was borne past on his final journey, and handkerchiefs were in evidence everywhere about them.

Nell’s eyes were full of tears, but she managed to nod her thanks as they made their way. Of course, all of Ferdi’s closest cousins and friends could not be there, having been called out with the Shire-muster, but the Tooks would do the best they could to honour him, even under these difficult circumstances.

***

The first thing Ferdi had been aware of, after the flash of bright pain that plunged him into silence and darkness, was a sudden and almost unbearable agony that was as quickly gone, leaving him with a floating feeling, as if he might be lighter than air.

And was it truly dark? Surely the moon shone down, and all the stars, but he could see as if it were daylight, why, there was Tolly on the ground, fallen heavily onto another hobbit who lay face down. And there was Flam just behind him, trying to light a lantern, though the first striker died before firing the wick.

And now Tolly had rolled to one side, which was probably an improvement for the hobbit under him, though he’d begun to retch, which was scarcely profitable, in Ferdi’s estimation.

And then Pippin was there, falling to his knees on the frosty ground. (Ferdi was neither warm nor chilled, and yet somehow he knew the ground was frosty.) ‘Ferdi...’ he cried.

‘I’m here, cousin,’ Ferdi said, troubled somehow, and he tried to make Pippin hear him, so that he missed the next few words that were spoken.

But when he heard them conclude that Farry was safe in Whitwell, he stiffened. ‘No! That’s not the way of it!’ he cried, wanting to shake someone, if only he could get a grip. ‘He’s not safe... the ruffians must have...’ The horror of it struck him then, that the ruffians had clubbed him down, that they must have taken Farry with them, and who knew what sort of danger the lad faced?

He’d been drifting, feeling a pull away (though just where away he could not have told), but the fear for Farry, the anguish, the fury at his own failure and the lad’s peril, served somehow as a tether, and as he watched, Healer Fennel rolled the fallen hobbit to his back, and Tolly bent to wipe away the blood that had run down over the hobbit’s face, and Fennel opened the hobbit’s jacket and shirt, laid a hand against the exposed breast, pale in the moonlight, and then took his hand away and shook his head.

And just as the healer bowed to place an ear against the fallen hobbit’s skin, a last effort to hear the heart beating, Pippin swayed, his breathing harsh in the night silence.

It’ll be the death of him if anything happens to Farry, Ferdi thought desperately, and the fault will be mine! I swore to protect...

And then things grew dark, for they were wrapping him in blankets, and he felt himself lifted, and he was heavy now, earth-bound, no longer floating, and there was a crushing pain in his head that worsened as they laid him face down, folding him over a saddle, and then he knew no more.

He came to himself once more, finding himself lying on his back, no longer face-down and draped over a saddle, and he wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but somehow he couldn’t quite catch the trick. He could hear, he could even see, a little, for his eyes were not completely closed—they were open the merest crack, but he got used to seeing through them in a short time. He could feel the warmth of the water they were using, the luxurious feeling of slow and gentle washing, someone was washing him, perhaps he was dreaming he was but a babe once more, and the gentle hands were his mother’s...?

And then someone else came into the room, another murmur, and sharp pain assailed Ferdi, as if someone were jabbing steel into his flesh, and he wanted to stir, to pull away, to voice his protest. But he could not seem to make his muscles obey him. He could hear, but not make a sound. He could feel, but movement was denied him. He could see, but no one seemed to see that he was there, attending all that was happening. They spoke about him as one who was absent, and that was not right! He was there! He was right there! Why could they not see when he lay there before them, not even a blanket to conceal his nakedness?

At last the agony was done, replaced by the sensation of cool water and gentle fingers working his hair into a lather, and then the pleasant feeling of rinsing, and careful towelling, and then a brush that moved slowly, tenderly, and he knew somehow Nell’s touch.

And then the hands—not Nell’s, for they continued to caress his hair, a most languorous feeling indeed—began to dress him. He could feel every stitch as it went on, a strange sensation to be sure, seeing as how he’d been dressing himself these many years. Nell might undress him, in a time when they were loving one another, but he had to admit she’d never pulled his under-breeches up his legs before. What a curious sensation. And then the breeches, and then they dressed his upper body, and from the feel of it these were his fancy togs. Perhaps there was a celebration about to happen. What would they be celebrating? he wondered. O yes, the safe recovery of the son of the Thain. Ferdi didn’t remember it happening; it must have been while he slept. But that was the only reasonable explanation. They surely would not be celebrating anything, if they hadn’t recovered Farry safe.

Reassured in this knowledge, he slipped again into dreamless sleep.

Several times he woke, still unable to move or speak, though he twice heard the soft fussing of the babe, and if he could have smiled, he would have, to hear the homey sound of her suckling. Ah, yes, Nell’s lush and blossoming breasts... he was glad to share them with the babes, the fruit of their, his and Nell’s, labours. He said something to that effect, or he would have, could he but move his lips, could he but form a sound.

Other times he woke to the comfort of Nell, nestled against him, and he quickly slept again, reassured by her very closeness.

They must have gone ahead and had the celebration without him, he thought, for he didn’t remember undressing and going to bed, but here he was, unmistakably in his own bed. He knew the delicate violet scent that Nell sprinkled on the bed linens and pillows. He knew the softness of the featherbed she favoured, as if he were sleeping on warm clouds. He knew the light yet warm weight of the bedcovers, pulled up as they were to his chest. There was no chance that a chill would trouble him.

He slept again, and then...

‘It’s time.’

What was Meadowsweet doing here?

Rudi was sobbing; something had hurt Ferdi’s adopted son, hurt him deeply. Indignation stirred, but really, he was almost too comfortable to move. And when he tried to move, he couldn’t, in any event. So much for comforting his son. He’d have to leave it to Nell at the moment, at least until he was able to recover his faculties.

The other children were weeping, now; distress reigned all around. Ferdi wondered what in mercy’s name could be the matter? No one had told him anything. He wanted to sigh with vexation at being the last to know.

But Nell brushed a sweet kiss across his forehead, and then there was some talk that went on, but Ferdi was hardly attending, so stunned was he by his wife’s greeting. Good night? In the dawning? And what was this talk of a feast? Ah, yes, it must be the celebration they’d been getting ready for, last night. Altogether curious, to dress for a celebration and then go to bed, and then the celebration in the morning. Convenient, perhaps, to awaken dressed and ready for a breakfast feast. Perhaps it was one of Pippin’s innovations.

And then sweet kisses rained upon him, along with drops of moisture. Absurd, to dream of rain, in his own bed, deep in the Smials. Though he’d welcome the feel of rain on his face. Perhaps it would help to clear his head, which was aching abominably. If only he could speak, he could tell Nell, and she could get one of those dratted healers to fetch a draught to ease the pain. He felt a faint sensation of annoyance. Of course, he’d have to be able to swallow a draught for it to be of any use. His mouth was so dry... he’d had no need of swallowing for some time now, and a good thing, too, since his body seemed to be paying him no heed.

But what was this? Something white was impeding his vision... Straining his eyes to their utmost, straining to see through the small crack his lids allowed him, he realised that Nell was pulling up the bed linens to cover him. No, not bed linens, this fabric felt stiffer, somehow, settling on the skin of his face, almost like the material used to shroud the dead...

He wanted to protest, to throw off the covering, but his body lay unresponsive. He was not even able to draw a deep breath—his shallow, almost imperceptible breathing continued without his willing it. He could neither stop breathing, nor could he take in enough air to clear his swirling thoughts.

I’m here! he was shouting inside. I’m here! he screamed, he shrieked with the growing panic that was in him, he whimpered.

He felt himself taken on all sides and lifted; he realised soon that he was being carried, at a slow pace, away... He heard the sounds of voices around him, broken in sorrow.

‘Bless you, Nell.’

‘Bless him, we’ll never forget him.’

‘Rest easy, Ferdi.’

‘Bless you all.’

He gathered himself for a mighty effort—or he would have, could he but move a muscle.

Help me! Why does no one hear me? I’m... HERE!

Chapter 17. Interlude: Some thoughts on practicality

Pippin drank the steaming tea that Merry poured for him; he even ate several of the flaky scones that were set before him, tender and slathered with melting butter and jam, but he took no enjoyment from these simple pleasures.

He stared at the fire on the hearth, ignoring the soft snores surrounding him from the carpet of hobbits who covered the floor, lying rolled in their cloaks, packed tight to fit as many in as possible.

The practical thing to do would be to close his eyes and rest, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ferdi, lying in his own blood, or Farry’s white and frightened countenance, staring at him with pleading eyes.

It was prudent to wait until near dawn, when the sky lightened enough to make the trail plain to the eye, that they’d not risk losing it, or covering it over with their following footprints even, and losing even more time in the long run.

Patience and prudence were not Pippin’s long suits, by any stretch of the imagination, and were it not for Merry’s steadying presence, he’d likely have been out at that moment, spoiling the trail with his impatience. Yes, it was the practical thing, to wait until the dawn, to rest and gather strength for the long chase ahead of them.

But his heart yearned for his son, and he didn’t know how he would face Diamond in the end.

***

It had been a difficult crawl over the rock-strewn fall, and a long, cold walk in the night until at last they reached a farm on the outskirts of Tookbank. And at that, the farmer had only three ponies, so the archers had to ride double, which slowed them on their way to Whitwell, and Whittacres Farm beyond, on the road to Waymoot.

But at last they reached the farm that belonged to Pippin's family, in the depths of the night, under stars that shone frostily upon them as the bloated moon set in the western sky. The smial was dark and still. Not even a dog barked.

Sigisnard, in charge of the group, thought perhaps it would be best to wait until the family and help began to stir, a few hours before the dawning. No need to disturb their sleep. All was quiet. There were no ruffians here to menace anyone, not even the son of the Thain.

On second thought, the urgency with which they’d been sent rankled. Why had they crawled over jagged, broken rocks, hiked half the night away through the bitter cold, borrowed ponies that they’d only have to return on the morrow, to come to this? It all boiled down to guard duty, likely not needed, but let the Thain take it into his head that they’d neglected their duty and it would be three days’ water rations.

Siggy sighed and set two of his hobbits where he and they could keep watch on all sides of the smial. The other three he sent to the barn, to put the ponies away and snuggle into the hay, to catch a few winks and then relieve himself and the other two on guard, part way to morning.

***

The ruffians made a steady progress, walking along the stream. They kept to the shallows, that their sturdy boots might keep their feet dry, and they were careful in their going. No one wanted to slip and fall into the icy water on such a bitter night, when no fire would be possible. A man might catch his death that way.

It was convenient that the stream would lead them nearly to their destination, curving around the base of the great hill they were seeking. They were able to keep walking after moonset, following the sound of the stream, following the water, with only the dim light of the stars.

The young hobbit was wakeful for several hours, after they went into the stream, but when he slumped at last in the saddle, the fat man was there beside him, ready to lay a steadying hand on the small back. It wouldn’t do for the lad to slip off, perhaps startle the pony into flight, and break his neck when they came to the end of the restraining rope. No, a living captive, even one that was damaged by the necessity of making ransom demands, would be better aid in leaving the Shire alive, should they have the misfortune to encounter those thrice-cursed Rangers.

The fat man wondered if there might be a way to claim the gold that would rest atop the Three-Farthing Stone, three hours after the sun rose. It was a temptation, indeed. But no, he decided with real regret. It would not do to be greedy. There was gold in plenty, where they were heading. Greed, now, that was all too often a man’s downfall. He was a temperate man, and it had kept him alive and even prospered him over the years. Yes, he was temperate, and patient, slow to anger, and ever ready to share his knowledge to the betterment of all that he watched over.

He turned his head to survey his companions. A wry twitch of his lips, good thing it was dark, so that none of them saw, when he looked to his younger brother. He’d promised their mother he’d look after the lad, back when they were orphaned. He’d tried to teach Red the trade, and Red really was gifted, at some of the tasks they must perform, and willing, even eager, when it came to some of the more distasteful duties. But Red was impulsive, and he needed to learn patience. Yes, he badly needed to learn patience.

The brawny man was steady, someone you could count on, and he had the skill of finding his way. He’d travelled the Shire as a youth in time past, before Sharkey’s time it was, had to have been, in point of fact, for he’d learned the lay of the Green Hills that long-ago summer. That was more than you could say of any man who’d been in the Shire when Sharkey ruled, for none had crossed the borders into Tookland then. The Tooks wouldn’t stand for Men in their country. The fat man had never been in the Green Hills before. He had to depend on the brawny man’s memory, and the map he’d stolen in Bree. It was a good thing the brawny man was dependable, for certain.

The club-wielder, now, he and Red didn’t get along. He seemed to take a dim view of Red tagging along, didn’t seem to understand an older brother’s obligation to look after a younger brother. He’d not stay with the band after this, the fat man decided. You wanted to labour with men who could work together in harmony, effective, working together without need for a great deal of conversation, as smoothly as a slim blade slipped between the ribs of an unwary victim and withdrawn again, efficient and economical.

And the youth, the latest addition to the band. He showed promise, though there was also a natural squeamishness that they’d have to work out of him.

The fat man nodded to himself. Yes, Red needed to learn patience, and the new lad needed experience, and opportunity to overcome his delicacy of feeling. Toughen him up, that was the thing to do. Red might be put out, but it would be an opportunity for him to practice forbearance, and it would be good for the new lad to get his hands dirty.

Yes, he thought, it would all work out to the best. Too bad about the young hobbit; he was rather an appealing little creature, but there was no point in letting one’s feelings have influence over one’s actions, or allow himself to be won over, or to form any sort of attachment. No, the leader of the ruffians was a practical man. Feelings had no part in business. Do good while you may, but don’t let it interfere with profit, that’s what the world had taught him. He’d treat the child gently, for children were frail little things, easily broken beyond remedy and he needed this one alive just a while longer. He’d treat the child as gently as he may, but only for the sake of good business.

He’d do what had to be done, because it was good business, and he’d make the best of the less pleasant necessities, to set a good example for the men. You did what you had to do, for the sake of profit, and if you could manage to enjoy it, well, that was gravy on your taters, as the hobbits were so fond of saying.

He’d break in the new lad, teach him some of the tricks of the trade, let him get his feet wet (and the fat man snorted a little at the thought, seeing as they were walking in a stream), and though Red might pout, he’d have his chance, the next time they were able to take a rich captive.

Though he hadn’t slept, he rested his mind on the thought of the gold that was waiting for them, and when that was gone, there was always a chance to earn ransom, especially now that the King had built a fine new city in the North, and divided his time between North and South. Nobles had come, and merchants. There’d be plenty of rich folk for the preying.

His mouth watered at the thought of a royal ransom. Now that was an ambition worth nurturing. The little princess... now there was a winsome creature, and the apple of her father’s eye.

But he was a practical man. It was said the King had one of those Seeing Stones. With it, he might be able to find a missing child. He might not think to use such a thing, if it were not his own child, but if the princess should go missing...? 

No, he thought to himself with a shake of his head. Too rich for his blood. This was the better plan. All the gold he could carry, and more, and better luck, two ponies to carry it all.

And perhaps, if he played his cards right, it would be just himself and Red, to share it out between themselves.

He was a practical man, after all.

Chapter 18. In which an argument is interrupted

What’s the worst that could happen?

So many times Merry had heard his mother ask it of his father, when Saradoc was gnawing over his worries like a dog with an old bone. What’s the worst? ...and Esmeralda would go on, with Tookish intensity, to spin such a web of unbelievable disaster that Buckland’s troubles would pale by comparison, until her husband would laugh at the absurdity, and throw his hands up in surrender, and take his wife and young son to picnic on the meadow.

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ It seemed a talisman, of sorts, against the horror that was slowly sinking its claws into him now. He must fight the darkness, for Pippin’s sake, and if the death of his old friend was to be paid for.

‘What’s that?’ Pippin said, raising his head, looking away from the coals on the hearth. Percy had gone out, conceivably to fetch more firewood though he’d evidently lost himself along the way or had been drawn into conversation while in the yard, and the fire, unbanked and unmended, was dying. ‘What did you say? You ought not to mutter under your breath, Merry, you know that it drives me to distraction when you do that.’

‘Nothing,’ Merry said.

‘And that’s another thing,’ Pippin said irritably, rising to stretch. ‘When I ask, you always answer that it was nothing.’

Bell and two of her daughters were moving about, bringing sides of smoked meat and rounds of cheese and baskets of breadrolls to the large table on and under which Percy and his family had slept a bare hour or two, giving up their beds to the muster. The Tooks and Tooklanders would each be able to grab a few rolls, slice off as much meat and cheese as they wanted, stuff the rolls full and tie the makeshift meal up in a pocket-handkerchief to sustain them along their way. They carried food along with them, of course; Regi had seen to that, while organising the muster. But a good breakfast would lay a sound foundation for what might be a difficult chase.

‘I think I’ll get some air,’ Merry said, rising from his own cramped position and swirling his cloak around himself. He stepped carefully over and around the slumbering Tooks around them, eased the door open just enough to slip through, and closed it firmly behind him.

Outside, he was surprised to see the sky looking much lighter than it had from his vantage in the lamp-lit room, seen out of a window.

‘Sun’s throwing her promise into the sky,’ one of the hunters said quietly at his elbow, and he jumped. ‘I was just coming to waken the Thain,’ he added apologetically.

‘He’s awake,’ Merry said.

‘It’ll be light enough to see the trail, in perhaps half an hour,’ the hunter said. ‘Enough time for a bite and a sip, and then it’s off to the races.’ He fingered his cap to Merry and melted into the shadows once more, no doubt to waken the Tooks sleeping in the barn.

There was a smell of baking bread on the air, and Merry realised that the hobbits around the fires in the yard had wrapped bread dough, stirred up in the middle night by good Bell, around sticks and were “baking” it over the fire. He hadn’t done such a thing in years...

He stuck his head back in at the door of the smial and called, ‘Time to rise!’

And then, though he wasn’t at all hungry, he walked over to the fire, accepted the bread-laden stick someone offered, and concentrated on the baking at hand.

***

‘Nearly there,’ the brawny man said, scrutinising the great hills surrounding them. ‘Just up ahead... that hill, there. The opening is part-way up on the Eastern side, but there’s a sheltered spot at the base, where we can pass the daylight hours.’ He turned his head to call back softly to the others, ‘Nearly there.’

‘Nearly dawn,’ the fat man replied, ‘so it will be good to get under cover.’ They were too close to the Great Smials for his comfort. He didn’t want to run into any wandering hobbits. Just a few hilltops to the North was a whole warren of Tooks, and he didn’t fancy running afoul of their arrows.

‘Good to get under cover,’ Red echoed at his side, rubbing his hands together more from inner glee than the chill of the frosty air. ‘And in three hours they’ll have the gold at the Three-Farthing Stone, and we’ll form another little message for them, to tell them that there’s more to pay...’

His face twisted in a nasty smile as he looked to their captive, and a shudder of delight passed through his body.

‘Yes,’ the fat man said, ‘but that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. We need...’

‘My blade is sharp,’ Red said. ‘I’ve been honing it as we walked. I wanted to be ready.’

‘You’re a gem, little brother, a treasure indeed, but...’

‘But what?’ Red said, sensing trouble.

‘This is not our usual way of doing things,’ the fat man said. ‘We’re not in our own territory, where we know all the ins and outs and can easily throw off pursuers. We’ll have to go carefully.’

‘I know how to be careful,’ Red said, the whine back in his voice. ‘I know how to do things so that we don’t leave a blood trail, and...’

‘I’m ready,’ the club-wielder said at the fat man’s elbow. ‘You said, when we got there, that you’d have Orders.’

‘That’s right,’ the fat man said, glad to break off the argument. It would come up again, he knew, but it would be better if it waited until they were under cover, when they had some leisure time to go over the details of what must yet be done.

He looked to the Northeast, toward the Three-Farthing Stone. So close they were, fifteen miles, perhaps a little less. A man could trot the distance, and be in good time to claim the gold. Not that he had any illusions about the matter. The Thain of the Shire was no fool, though your common average hobbit might appear simple, to the likes of one who’d rubbed elbows with the nobles of Gondor, or to his companions, some of who'd known and served Lotho, and listened to Sharkey's grumblings in the night watches.

“No tricks” the note had said. Were the hobbits simple enough to believe it? They were said to be a trusting folk, not given to treachery and certainly not bred to suspicion. If a man went to fetch the gold, and it was unguarded, well, that would indeed be gravy on the taters, but if a man went to fetch the gold and ran into trouble, well, that would make for fewer to share in the riches they were about to strike. And no blame could attach itself to the fat man. Luck, pure and simple, and sometimes a man’s luck ran out.

He wondered what luck he was hoping for, even as he gestured to the club-wielder and put a fatherly hand on the man’s shoulder, turning him to look to the Northeast. ‘There,’ he said, ‘you just keep the sun at your right shoulder, and head a little toward her—you don’t want to go directly North, you understand, not unless you want to be chief guest at a banquet held by the Tooks...’

‘I understand,’ the club-wielder said.

‘Cross the Stock Road, and pretty soon you’ll recognise the territory. The Three-Farthing Stone is just to the South of Bywater, do you remember?’

‘I remember,’ the club-wielder said. He’d become quite familiar with the area around Bywater, running errands for Lotho Pimple.

‘I expect they’ll leave the gold there, about the third hour or so, and take themselves off, poor trusting souls that they are. If you see any about the Stone when you get there, just wait for them to depart.’

The club-wielder grinned unpleasantly. Yes, the hobbits he’d known had been simple folk, trusting and obedient, and not inclined to counter Orders. It was those upstarts, the ones who’d spent so much time in the Outlands, who’d been spoilt by the experience, they were the ones who’d thrown out the ruffians from their comfortable arrangements. But they were hobbits too, when all was said and done. They’d probably never even heard of a ransom before. To hobbits, contracts were sacred things, to be handled with care and not to be broken, and it made sense that they’d treat the ransom demand with the same care.

‘So you’ll fetch the gold and scoot yourself back here,’ the fat man said. ‘We’ll be done with our business here when the sun seeks her bed, and that gives you plenty of time to get there and back again. But,’ he raised a warning finger, ‘we cannot wait for you, if you’re late... you’ll have to find your own way out of the Shire.’

‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ the club-wielder said, and hastened to add, ‘to get there and back again in time, I mean.’ Find his own way out of the Shire? He thought he could manage that, easily enough. He’d walked the length and breadth of the Shire, carrying messages for Lotho, and then for Sharkey, all except for the land of the Tooks, of course, but once he was near Bywater he wouldn’t have to worry about Tooks any more. Why not scoop the bag of gold from the Three-Farthing Stone and just keep going? The idea sounded better to him the more he thought about it.

What kind of luck am I hoping for? the fat man mused, but he let his face fall into a jovial smile, slapped the club-wielder’s back, and said, ‘So be off with you! And good luck!’

Chapter 19. In which a Took pauses for reflection

Most farm families rise well before the dawning, and Pearl, Pippin’s eldest sister, was no exception. She was up two hours or so before the sun, setting out bread and butter and jam, stirring up the fire to bright flame, brewing a pot of strong tea for her sons and daughters before they went out to begin the work of the day.

When Siggy saw the lights come up in the smial, he smiled to himself. A cup of tea would be welcome, after the long, cold watch, and perhaps he might be lucky enough to get hot breakfast while he was at it.

He waved to the archers at the far sides of the smial, keeping watch for all the good it might do—how would ruffians know where to find the son of the Thain, after all? They’d expect him to be in the fastness of the Great Smials, most of the time, or perhaps travelling to the wilds of Buckland to visit the Brandybucks, but in any event, he doubted that ruffians would know the way to Whittacres Farm, even if they entered the Shire with the purpose of taking Faramir Took just to spite the Thain.

Smoke was emerging from the chimney, a promise of warmth and food to come, and Siggy’s steps were jaunty as he walked to the door and knocked. Not too loud or demanding—he didn’t want to startle the hobbits. A polite knock, or polite as might be, considering the early hour.

A mug of tea, now that was the thing, and a leisurely breakfast. His orders were to keep Farry tight inside the smial, and he and his five companions would stand guard until the word came that the ruffians had been caught and killed or turned over to the Rangers outside the Bounds, to meet the King’s justice.

Pearl’s good cooking was well-known in those parts, and so Siggy certainly hoped it would take some time to scour the ruffians out of the Shire. He patted his stomach in anticipation.

The door was opened by a startled young hobbit. ‘Aye?’ he said. ‘Is one of your cows having trouble with the calving?’

‘No, none of my cows is having trouble,’ Siggy said. ‘The Thain sent me, that is to say, us, to make sure that all is well.’

The lad scratched his head. ‘All’s well,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Uncle Pip sent you to ride through the night to ask that?’

And then Pearl was there, gently scolding. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘You have a message from my brother?’

‘There’s been sign of ruffians in the Shire,’ Siggy said, ‘and so the Thain sent six of us to make sure you’re all right here.’

‘Very kind of him, I’m sure,’ Pearl said. ‘Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well join us in some tea. I cannot believe he had you ride through this bitter night!’

‘It’s all in a day’s work,’ Siggy said, ‘or a night’s, rather.’

‘Rather,’ Pearl said dryly. ‘Well, call the rest of your hobbits and come in before you freeze half to death.’

Siggy smiled at this expression of feminine concern and turned away to gather his archers.

It was a merry crowd around the table, Pearl and her husband Isum, several hired hobbits, and young hobbits of varying ages coming and going. It was rather bewildering, as a matter of fact, for the faces around the table were constantly changing as one slipped into place, gulped a mug of tea, grabbed a piece of bread-and-jam, and slipped out again to begin milking or gathering eggs or feeding ponies or making up beds or whatever his or her morning task might be.

At last the sky was brightening outside and the early chores were done. Pearl and her older daughters had made griddlecakes, stacks and platters full, and had fried dozens of eggs and rashers of bacon, and filled pitchers with foaming milk and cruets with honey and set out plates of butter and crocks of jam, and the family all gathered around the enormous kitchen table once more for hot breakfast.

Siggy and his archers rose and bowed to Isum, as host of this fine meal, and then they sat down again and fell to their meal with a will.

Siggy was half-way through his first plateful, and contemplating with great pleasure his seconds, when he realised that something was not quite right, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. He stopped to think.

He scanned the faces around the table, going around thrice in point of fact, before he realised... Clearing his throat, he dabbed at his mouth with his serviette and turned to Isum. ‘Is Farry still abed?’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect him to be arising with the rest of the family to do chores, but surely you don’t let him sleep through second breakfast?’

***

‘Mum? It’s time.’

Healer Woodruff, long-time head healer at the Great Smials, since the time of Thain Paladin, as a matter of fact, raised her head.

‘Time?’ she said stupidly.

Holly, her new daughter-in-love, hovered in the doorway. Her sons were all gone, called out in the Shire-muster. Her beloved Ted would be there, too, if he hadn’t been laid low three days ago, now.

She lifted the cloth, too quickly warm and dry, from his forehead, soaked it in the basin of cool water, wrung it out and replaced it. The way he was warming up the cloths worried her, but she’d done all she knew to do, short of plunging him into a bath of cool water, the shock of which might stop his heart.

‘Mum?’

She realised that Holly had been speaking. ‘What is it, child?’ she said. So short on sleep, she was, what with two difficult birthings before Ted had fallen ill, and she’d hardly slept at all, watching with him, watching the fever consuming her beloved.

‘It’s time. You wanted me to come for you. They’re carrying Ferdibrand to the burial ground.’

Ah, Ferdi. She bowed her head again, remembering a mischievous little lad with a gap-toothed grin, waving at her from a high tree-branch. Of course I can come down! But I don’t want to!

‘I’ll sit with Da, shall I, whilst you go and pay the family’s respects?’ Holly said.

‘Yes...’ Woodruff said, and then, seeing Ted stir, restless, she amended, ‘No... You go, Holly-love, you go and stand up for the rest of us. You and Heather...’

Holly bit her lip, but nodded. They’d not been able to pull Woodruff from Ted’s side, not for a moment. She’d eaten her meals in the chair by the bed, she’d even used the chamber pot rather than leave him. ‘We will, Mum,’ she said, and bending to leave a gentle kiss on Woodruff’s cheek, she slipped from the room.

‘Ferdi?’ Ted said suddenly, as if he’d been attending to his surroundings, and then to Woodruff’s wonder he sat up in the bed, the cloth falling from his flushed face. ‘Ferdi?’

‘Hush now,’ she said, soothing, trying to ease him back down.

‘Ferdi!’ Ted said, aggrieved. ‘They can’t bury him! He’s not dead!’

‘It’s all right,’ Woodruff soothed.

‘It’s not all right!’ Ted maintained, and he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

'Ted, love,' Woodruff remonstrated. 'You mustn't...'

‘They can’t!’ Ted shouted. ‘They mustn’t, it’s not decent!’

‘Of course, Ted-love,’ Woodruff said, catching him as he swayed.

He turned to her, blinking hard, the sweat pouring down his face. ‘It’s got to be stopped!’ he said.

‘Of course, Ted-love,’ Woodruff repeated, ‘Come now, dearest, easy now...’

He resisted, of course, but he didn’t have the strength, and soon he was lying limp against the pillow. ‘Not decent,’ he said again. ‘Not done.’

‘Of course not, my love,’ Woodruff murmured, picking up the damp cloth, wetting it again, cool and fresh, and replacing it.

‘Got to stop...’ Ted said, his voice trailing into a murmur. ‘Got to...’

***

The sky grew ever lighter, though the sun had yet to make her appearance over the Eastern hills.

Pippin turned his pony aside from the first group that followed the hunters, moving up the side of the great hill they skirted. Merry followed, wondering. Perhaps his cousin hoped to catch a glimpse of their quarry from the heights. Tolly, of course, as head of the Thain’s escort, came after them, along with his brother Hilly.

The four rode in silence until they reached a height where the sun was casting her first beams of the morning, playing “peek” over the next hill. Here Pippin stopped, turning his pony in the direction of the Great Smials.

Merry and the others waited.

‘Dawn,’ Pippin said at last. ‘Time for his spirit to fly free, to loose the bonds of earthly cares and soar to the Feast.’

‘Aye,’ Tolly said, low, and bowed his head.

‘Rest well, Ferdi,’ Pippin said, ‘and may all your dreams be peaceful ones.’

There were similar murmurs from the other hobbits, all friends of Ferdi’s, all cousins of his, and Tolly ran his sleeve across his eyes.

‘Tookland is a poorer place this day,’ Pippin said, and he sat a moment longer before pulling his pony around to descend, once more, to join the hunters.

Merry hesitated a moment, scanning the horizon in all directions. He saw smoke, but it came from the chimneys of smials. He knew their positions, from their study of the maps, last night. He saw no smoke where it shouldn’t be, but then why should he expect the ruffians to oblige them by starting a fire? They were canny enough to try to hide their tracks, at the rock-fall, and they’d nearly succeeded. Most hobbits would have missed the pry-marks on the rocks—it took the Thain’s chief engineer to discern the significance of the markings, and the boot-mark had been found in the scrutiny that followed. All too easily, it might have been missed, and they’d have thought Ferdi caught in the rock-fall, and once they’d determined that Farry was with him, they’d have thought him buried, and precious hours would have been lost.

Who could say when Bell might have read the ransom note, stuck in the extra pot on the mantel, especially if Percy forgot having found it, half-asleep as he’d been at the time?

‘Sir?’ Hilly said, for Tolly had followed Pippin.

‘Fine vantage,’ Merry said. ‘You have sharp eyes, Hilly. Do you see any sign of them?’

Hilly swept the horizon once, twice, and yet a third time. At last he shook his head.

‘Then let us hope the hunters have better luck than we do,’ Merry said, and he turned his pony’s head downhill, to follow Pippin and Tolly.

***

Sometimes a man has to make his own luck, and the fat man was no stranger to this truth. So it was he sent the brawny man after the club-wielder. ‘Don’t let him know you’re following him,’ he said.

‘Do you take me for a fool?’ the brawny man said.

The fat man laughed, a jolly sound. ‘Of course I don’t, old friend!’ he said, slapping the brawny man on the back. ‘I just want to know if he takes the gold for himself, or if he’s the loyal sort.’

‘A test,’ the brawny man said, and smiled grimly. ‘As you tested me, all those years ago.’

‘A test,’ the fat man agreed. ‘Is he an honorable thief? A thousand gold sovereigns, now, that’ll tempt a man.’

‘Wouldn’t tempt me,’ the brawny man said, ‘not with a thousand times that much in gold and silver and jewels squirrelled away in the hillside above us.’

The fat man shook his head. ‘Difficult to believe, if you haven’t seen it with your own eyes.’

‘I’ve seen it.’ The brawny man’s voice was soft with remembered wonder. ‘He took me there—it was raining as if all the buckets in the world had spilled at once, and we toiled up the hillside to the overhang, and we got out of the rain, what a relief! ...and then he winked at me, and asked me if I’d like to know a grand secret?’

The fat man nodded. He’d heard this story before, when they’d passed a bottle back and forth, their backs to a stony vertical slope, impossible to climb, and a fire burning brightly before them, while wolves howled in the darkness beyond.

They hadn’t expected to survive the night, and perhaps that’s why the secret had been told.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘and now we’re practically rolling in it. As soon as the morning light passes from the hillside, and we have some shadows to take cover in, you and I will go there in truth and not just in tale, and we’ll fill our pockets, shall we?’

‘And then some,’ the brawny man said with a grin.

‘And then some,’ the fat man agreed, with a slap for his back. ‘Now you go and see if our friend is a trustworthy man. If he’s not, I’m sure it’ll be no trouble for you to come up behind him, unawares, and slip a knife between his ribs. Pay him well for his failing.’

‘And then come back here with the thousand sovereigns,’ the brawny man said. ‘A nice little start to the day, and more where that came from, as our hobbit friends are so quaintly fond of saying.’

‘And more where that came from,’ the fat man agreed. ‘I wish I could be a fly on the wall, to see the Thain’s face... Your old master told you that the Tooks keep only about a thousand there in the Great Smials, enough to pay expenses, and the Thain goes to the treasure hoard when he runs low. I wish I could see his face, after we have his thousand sovereigns, after he gets our demand for more, and he rides out to the hoard and finds we’ve been there before him...’ He threw back his head and laughed, albeit softly, for they were, after all, in hiding.

The brawny man chuckled. ‘You take the cake, old friend,’ he said.

‘I plan to take considerably more than that!’ the fat man answered. ‘Good luck to you.’

‘And you,’ the brawny man said. ‘Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.’

The fat man chuckled and shook his head, and the brawny man melted into the underbrush and away, in the direction of the Three-Farthing Stone.

Chapter 20. In which a watch is interrupted

Ted fell into a heavy sleep, and Woodruff herself was dozing in her weariness, when she was wakened again. ‘Mum?’

‘Is the burial over already?’ she asked. Why, she hadn’t realised that she’d fallen asleep, but certainly she’d needed the rest. Her eyes felt grainy and swollen, and her very bones ached.

‘No,’ Holly said breathlessly. ‘No, I came back to tell you—the Thain ordered that Ferdi be carried through every corridor of the Smials.’

Woodruff nodded. Of course; they would have accorded this highest of honours to one of the heroes of the Troubles. Ferdibrand had been instrumental in keeping the ruffians out of Tookland, planning and setting traps, advising the Thain on the ruffians’ movements and even their very plans, for he crept, under cover of darkness, to their gatherings to listen to their talk, and he gathered information from hobbits who pretended to cooperate with the Men who had taken over the Shire.

‘They’ll be coming by our door in a few moments,’ Holly said, putting her hand on Woodruff’s arm and urging her to stand. ‘I’ll stay here, with Da, long enough for you to do him honour.’

‘Thank you, lovie,’ Woodruff said with a sigh, rising stiffly to her feet. ‘It troubled me, to slight him so, but I didn’t want to leave my Ted for such a long time as a burial.’

Holly smiled, turning immediately to refresh the cloth on her father-in-love’s forehead, and Woodruff, subtly reassured, left the room.

She found that hobbits were lining the walls of the corridor already, waiting, and she nodded soberly to her neighbours. ‘How’s Ted?’ Verbena, from across the way, mouthed. Woodruff smiled in return, projecting more her hope than the reality, but the fever really ought to have run its course already. He ought to be better. Against all reason, she clung to the thought.

And then they were coming, a group of gaffers carrying the white-shrouded figure. Pride straightened their bowed backs, for it was an honour to bear one of the heroes of Tookland to his rest. Those who carried him, in point of fact, had all ridden out against the ruffians during the Troubles, and they had been among the hundred archers who marched to the Battle at Bywater, and two of them were hobbits retired from the Thain’s escort. Ferdi had served on the Thain’s escort, had even been the head of escort for some time, before becoming Thain Peregrin’s special assistant.

Woodruff stood a little straighter at their approach. She couldn’t help looking closely at the body as it passed, looking for some sign... even the slightest rise and fall of the chest, some sort of movement where the shroud covered fingers and toes.

And then Ferdi’s bearers were beyond, and Nell was passing, her children clustered about her. She held the new babe in her arms, and Meadowsweet followed with the sleeping faunt, and then Diamond and Regi walked arm in arm; and Hilly’s Posey, and Haldi’s Laura, and more wives of the escort, followed by a long line of hobbits who’d watched the procession and then joined in at the tail as it passed. They’d be passing her daughter Heather’s door soon, and Holly’s... though Holly was here, but Holly ought to have no trouble catching them, at the slow, mournful pace they were walking.

Woodruff, of course, did not join in with her neighbours. She turned back into her apartments, hurrying to Ted’s bedside.

‘Thank you, Holly-dear,’ she said, tears in her eyes as the lass rose from her chair. She embraced her daughter-in-love and then said, ‘Go on, love, so that you can catch them.’

‘I’ll throw in a handful for you,’ Holly said softly, referring to the custom by which the grave was filled in. A hobbit with many friends did not have to have dirt shovelled over him. After the body was lowered into the grave, the mourners would shuffle by, each taking a handful of dirt from the pile beside the grave, dropping it gently atop the shroud. Why, in Ferdi’s case, the handfuls of dirt would fill the hole to the top and more, and be rounded over, and when the dirt was gone hobbits would lay flowers from the hothouses atop, and likely the pile would be heaped high when they were done.

‘You do that, child,’ Woodruff said, though she suppressed a shiver, thinking of Ted’s delirium. ‘You do that.’

***

Farry wakened suddenly, realising that he no longer sat in a saddle. No, he was lying on something hard. His hands were still bound together, and the gag was firmly tied in place, but moving cautiously, he discovered that his legs were free.

And there was light, dim it was, but raising his head, slowly and carefully, and looking around, he discovered he was in a shallow cave, and there was the brightness of daylight not far away. He heard snores on either side of him, and looking he saw the fat man, lying on his back, his mouth open wide; on Farry's other side slept the one called “Red”, and he held the rope that was around Farry’s neck. He moved and murmured in his sleep, and Farry held his breath as the rope tightened, and then relaxed again.

Penny and Dapple stood drowsing nearby. They were tied to iron rings that had been driven into the rock, for whatever purpose: perhaps this was a stable of sorts, for travellers in the Green Hill country to seek shelter in times of violent weather. Farry had heard of such places, though as he wasn’t allowed out in inclement weather, he’d never had need to stay in such a place.

It was too bad that he couldn’t take one of them with him, but the ruffians would surely rouse at the ringing of pony hoofs on the stone floor. No, he’d have to rely on his own wits and strength.

With his hands bound before him, it was no trouble to pull the noose looser, and lift it over his head. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crept towards the beckoning daylight. He crouched just inside the mouth of the cave to listen, but heard nothing. Perhaps the rest of the ruffians were sleeping?

Just outside, the wild Green Hills beckoned. Farry was one of the best hiders, in the games of “I Hide and You Seek Me” that the young hobbits of the Great Smials played almost daily. Why, he could see several tempting hiding places from where he crouched, brushy cover, heather and gorse. He could lose himself quickly, and while the ruffians were searching he could creep ever farther away. Once well away, he could scan the horizon for smoke, the clearest sign of a smial, and very common to be seen in this chilly weather!

Or perhaps before he reached the nearest smial, he’d be found by mustered hobbits, armed and ready for trouble. They’d never let the ruffians get their hands on Farry a second time!

The fat man snorted in his sleep, broken snores, and Farry started. It was no good to sit here, waiting, wondering about the other ruffians. He’d heard nothing at all, though he’d strained his ears as he’d marked the best hiding. He could almost hear his father say, Seize the moment, Farry!

He took a deep breath, and darted from the mouth of the cave.

Chapter 21. In which a Took takes breakfast

‘Farry?’ Isum echoed, looking at the archer as if he’d lost his wits.

‘Yes,’ Siggy said breezily, to put the hobbit at ease. He took another bite, saying through a full mouth, ‘Excellent jam, just like my mum used to make,’ and added after swallowing, ‘You know, the son of the Thain, small chap, about so high,’ and he measured with a nonchalant hand.

Pearl and Isum exchanged a perplexed glance and Pearl arose from the table, saying, ‘I don’t understand...’

But just then there was a sound of thundering hoofbeats outside the smial, and the clear call of a horn.

Isum pushed himself up from the table, leaning heavily on his well-muscled arms, while Perry his eldest son got up from his chair and stepped to his side to support him. ‘That’s a muster,’ he snapped. ‘Just what is going on?’

‘Ruffians in the Shire,’ Pearl said, throwing down her serviette and hurrying to throw open the kitchen door. ‘Halloo!’ The clatter of hoofs on the stones was loud, now: A number of ponies and riders could be seen through the shining windows.

‘What did you mean, about Farry just now?’ Isum said. ‘The Thain sent you here, in the night...’

‘I...’ Siggy said, at a loss. ‘Well, when I left the Thain there’d only been sign of ruffians,’ he said. ‘No indication of how many, or...’

‘What sort of sign?’ Isum said, and to himself he muttered, ‘I ought to have questioned him thoroughly, the moment I laid eyes on him.’

Siggy bristled at this, but he managed to reply in an even tone. ‘A rock-fall,’ he said, ‘with signs that the rocks had been helped along, and a boot-print, and Ferdibrand knocked cold...’

‘Struck down and dead of the blow, you mean,’ the leader of the newcomers said grimly, from the doorway. Pearl was at his side, her hands clasped tightly together, and at the sight of her face Isum knew that things were very wrong indeed.

‘Dead!’ Siggy said in consternation, and grief washed over him. ‘He died, then, Gerry, after they took him back to the Smials?’

‘He was dead on the spot,’ Gerry said, slapping his gloves restlessly against his leg, ‘but then they sent you off before they’d quite determined that, I think.’

The room fairly crackled with tension, and Pearl’s littlest began to wail, though the other children sat stiff and stunned, thinking of their laughing Uncle Ferdibrand, who’d breakfasted with them only the day before.

‘Dead on the spot,’ Siggy echoed faintly. There was a buzzing in his head, and he put a hand out, groping for the back of a chair to steady himself.

‘Aye, they’re likely burying him even now,’ Gerry said. ‘The Thain ordered full honours, but it’s well past dawn already.’

***

As the dream went on and on—Ferdi had decided that this had to be a dream, there was no other plausible explanation—and being one of those from which it was impossible to awaken, Ferdi forced himself to relax, mentally, and simply take in what sensations were allowed him.

His face was covered, but he wasn’t stifling, and light shone through the bleached cloth, and his eyes were open just enough to be reassured by that light. He’d recovered the ability to blink a little, and what a relief it was to his dry eyes, to be swept with moisture. He’d’ve sighed, except for the fact that he still had little if any control over his breathing. At least it continued, steady but shallow.

He had the sensation of being carried, a gentle swaying, rather like being on a litter, he thought, except that he could feel a number of hobbits clustered all around him. He could hear the sound of their clothes rubbing against him, and against each other, and an occasional soft comment from some distance, and he imagined the sight they must make: Ferdi, wrapped up like a moth in a cocoon, being carried along by a hodge-podge of hobbits. It was no wonder that they were garnering comments from passing Tooks and servants.

He wondered where the dream would lead him next?

***

‘Alas,’ Pearl whispered, her eyes brimming. ‘Poor Nell...’

‘But,’ little Periwinkle piped, ‘what about Farry?’

***

Farry dashed across the open space before the mouth of the cave, and was nearly to the gorse when he heard a shout, and then he was surrounded by grasping arms and carried to the ground with stunning force.

He thought for a moment he was dead, for he couldn’t draw breath, but he couldn’t be dead, could he, and still be hearing? He felt himself pinned to the ground beneath a heavy body. Had his father felt thus, under the hill troll?

‘Chief! Chief! He was getting away!’ The weight removed itself slowly from Farry, but the stars were dancing before his eyes, and he still couldn’t breathe.

‘Did you hurt him?’ came the voice of the fat man, and the answer, as Farry was picked up off the ground, and he saw the face of the youngest ruffian, was, ‘No, just got the breath knocked out, I think.’

And though it hurt to do so, Farry gasped, and then he tried to shout. ‘Help! Help me! Help...’

And Red was there in the next second, striking Farry hard upon his cheek, making the young hobbit’s head rock back on his neck, making the dancing stars shine brighter, and Farry tasted blood. ‘You little rat, I ought to...’

But the fat man pulled Red away, administering a blow of his own, but not to Farry. ‘You young fool!’ he snapped. ‘If you’ve killed him, I’ll...’ He took Farry then, from the youngest ruffian, holding him carefully in one arm, dabbing at the injury done to Farry’s cheek by the heavy ring his younger brother wore. ‘Steady, little fellow,’ he crooned. ‘Steady now.’ Gentle fingers touched Farry’s throbbing face, and the fat man sighed. ‘Bruised, but not broken, I think. You might’ve broken his skull with that blow, or his neck!’

‘But he...’ Red whined.

‘But you were supposed to be watching him,’ the fat man said coldly. ‘We sleep in turns, do you remember? If it hadn’t been for...’

The youngest ruffian grinned, but the grin faded as Red shot him a poisonous look and muttered, ‘I’ll fix him... wipe that grin right off his face...’

‘Well now,’ the fat man said, ignoring Red’s mutters. ‘You gave us quite a turn, young fellow. But there’s no use shouting. We’re deep in the Green Hills, and there’s no smial around for miles. Save your breath; you’ll be needing it eventually.’

This sounded ominous, and Farry’s eyelids fluttered as the stars faded and he tried to see his surroundings. Were they really deep in the Green Hills? If only he could have got more than a glimpse of their surroundings as he broke from the cave, he might have an idea of where he was, and which way was home. Now his vision was blocked by the bulk of the ruffians surrounding him.

He was wise enough to keep his mouth shut, seeing as he was being held by one of the ruffians, who’d have no trouble clapping a hand over his mouth, or even restoring the gag Farry’d abandoned when he’d relieved himself of the noose.

‘Come along,’ the fat man said. ‘Got to give you something to keep up your strength. We’ve a busy day ahead.’

And to Farry’s wonder, he was carried back into the cave and laid gently down, on a soft bed made up of the ruffians’ cloaks. But the noose was replaced around his neck, the rope fastened to one of the iron rings in the wall, and the fat man tied Farry’s ankles together with firm knots, “to keep you from wandering in your sleep” as he told Farry in a pleasant tone.

And while Red settled to his appointed nap, with much grumbling and glaring, and the youngest of the ruffians crouched nearby to keep watch, the fat man moved in the back of the cave, muttering softly to himself, and then he came back with two plates full of food!

‘Very nice, these Shire-folk, very thoughtful to the needs of stranded travellers,’ the fat man said. ‘Lots of provision left here, the kind that stores well in a cool cave. Dried meat and fruit, salt biscuits, even a round of cheese... with fresh water from the spring we’ll feast like the King himself.’

Farry’s mouth was watering, but he resigned himself to hungering while the ruffians stuffed themselves. Seeing his forlorn look, the fat man laughed, a jolly sound indeed, that made Farry’s heart ache for home.

‘But there’s plenty for all,’ the fat man said. ‘Yea, we can spare some for you, youngster. And a good thing. You need to keep up your strength!’

He laid a plate in Farry’s lap and a cup of water beside him, saying, ‘With that bruised jaw of yours, I took the trouble to mince everything fine. You don’t even need to chew it; just let it sit and soften in your mouth, and soak the biscuits soft in the water before you try to eat them.’ He gave the other plate to the young ruffian, whose food was not so nicely minced of course, and went back to prepare food for himself and a plate to wait for Red’s awakening.

When the fat man returned, settling heavily to the dusty ground with his plate, he frowned at Farry. ‘Eat!’ he said. ‘It’s not natural for a hobbit to have food in front of him, and not eat it!’

Farry wanted to ask him what he knew of hobbits, but his jaw and cheek hurt dreadfully, and he was afraid of what the ruffians might do, should he appear uncooperative, and besides, he really was hungry. He couldn’t remember his last meal. What had it been?

It was awkward to eat with his hands bound together, but he managed to take up some of the shredded dried meat and lift it to his lips, and then he sipped from the cup and let the meat soak, in the warmth of his mouth, until he could begin to taste that salty goodness of it as it made its own juices.

‘Good,’ the fat man said in satisfaction, and he wasn’t just talking about the food in his own mouth. He was watching Farry closely, and Farry thought, with a sinking feeling, that the ruffian would likely not take his eyes away again.

***

‘Eat, Pippin,’ Merry said again, holding out a sausage-roll. ‘You must eat something.’

‘Hey? What’s that?’ Pippin said, looking away from the hunters, who’d scattered to try to pick up a trace of the ruffians’ trail. They’d crossed a bare, rocky area and even the ponies had left no impression.

‘You have to eat,’ Merry said.

‘Why?’ Pippin answered, but Merry guessed it was merely a rhetorical question, for the younger cousin sighed, took the roll from his hand, bit into it, and chewed woodenly. When he’d swallowed, he added, ‘How can I eat, wondering if my little lad is going hungry at this moment...’

Merry had no reassurances for him. All he could do was repeat, ‘Eat, Pip. We’ll find them.’

‘We have to,’ Pippin said in agreement, but then he shoved the rest of the roll in his mouth and nudged his pony forward, and Merry, looking up, saw one of the hunters waving.

This way!

Chapter 22. In which a fever is interrupted

Sam was glad for his Elven-cloak. Not only was it soft and warm, so that he scarcely noticed the damp chill of the morning, but he knew that he blended well into the cover where he crouched. He could only hope that the other hobbits were as well concealed, to a ruffian’s eyes. He could pick out several, but of course he had directed them to their places, and knew where to look. The proof would be in the tasting of the pudding, he supposed.

Beside him the Shirriff spoke in the barest whisper. ‘Nearly three hours past the dawning.’ Jay was his name, and he was relatively new at the job, but his eye was bright and keen, and his spirit as bold as his namesake, even if he was somewhat shorter than the average hobbit.

Pippin had spoken well of him, when Sam had been considering old Dob’s replacement, saying that stature was not necessarily the best indication of greatness of heart. Seeing that Pippin had been the smallest of the hobbits on the Quest, until the Ent draught, that is, Sam was inclined to agree.

‘Do you see anything?’ Sam mouthed.

Jay swept his keen gaze all around them, and shook his head with a wry expression. The waiting was the hardest part, they’d agreed on the hurried journey here. Jay had been a tween at the Battle of Bywater, a pitchfork in his hands, and well he remembered the nerve-wracking wait there at the barricades, wondering if the Tooks or if the ruffians would come upon them first.

Sam nodded, and cocked his hand so that he could see the face of the fine pocket watch that Merry had presented him, on his election to Mayor. It was so quiet there, that he fancied the ticking of the watch could be heard for yards around, but Jay said nothing.

Sam had checked the watch twice more, when the Shirriff suddenly stiffened, though of course he didn’t move or point or even whisper, not wanting to flush their quarry.

Sam barely turned his head to follow Jay’s line of sight. Yes, the brush was moving... and then he saw a head. The ruffian was dressed in drab hunters’ colours—clothing that blended into the winter landscape, and his face and hands were smeared with dirt. He moved cautiously, and perhaps another man might not have marked his passing.

He crept from one place of concealment to another, circling ever closer to the little hill on which the Three-Farthing Stone stood, as cautious as a cat on the hunt, but at last he reached the hill and crouched behind a rock, peering upwards. Of course the concealed hobbits behind him could see him clearly. From where Sam and Jay lay hidden, they could see only his shadow.

At last, satisfied that he was alone in that place, the ruffian made his way to the top of the slope, hauling himself atop the Stone. Sam, listening intently, heard the man give a muffled exclamation. Raising himself slightly, he saw the man crouched atop the Stone, saw the gloating expression on the man’s face as he stirred the gold coins with his hand, and his own countenance hardened. Blood money, that’s what it was, paid for with the blood of a young hobbit, a child, Farry...

Jay turned slightly toward Sam, his hand on his horn, and Sam nodded.

At the sound of the horn, hobbits erupted from their hiding places, and the ruffian jumped upright, the heavy bag in his arms, teetering on his precarious perch.

The hobbits were mostly armed with clubs. A few held bows, arrows at the ready, but they had firm orders not to shoot, for the man must be taken alive. Somehow they must make him tell where Farry was to be found. Somehow...

***

The fat ruffian had filled Farry’s plate three times, somehow understanding a young hobbit’s appetite. He even patted Farry gingerly on the head, the last time, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like “good lad” though Farry could scarcely credit his ears.

When Farry finished his second plateful, the fat man untied Farry’s ankles and directed the youngest ruffian to take Farry out “behind a bush, to take care of any business that might need taken care of”, and for this Farry was doubly grateful, even as he was somewhat red-faced about having to “take care of business” under the young ruffian’s watching eye, as if he were a dog on a lead. The young ruffian was patient, and his eye did not quite stare at Farry, but rather past him somehow, and eventually Farry was able to do what was needful. The ruffian even poured water over the little hobbit’s hands, from a waterskin, to Farry’s bashful gratitude, almost as if he knew what Farry’s mum always said at such times.

And so he was almost comfortable, settling back on his soft “bed”, shyly returning the fat man’s smile as he accepted his third plate of food, and another cup of the fresh, cold water.

‘Good spring, that,’ the fat man said in a jovial tone. ‘I could almost settle down here, just to drink that water every morning.’

The young ruffian chuckled at this, and Farry smiled uncertainly. He didn’t know what had changed, why they were treating him so nicely after the rough treatment and threats of the previous night. Perhaps it was because he was cooperating. Perhaps just so long as he proved tractable, did as he was bidden, offered no trouble, they’d offer him no harm.

He’d continue to watch for a chance to escape, of course, but he’d have to be very cautious. Things were not so bad when Red was sleeping, but Farry feared what might happen if Red were the only one left awake, left to guard him, should he give Red even the slightest excuse...

Replete with food and drink, he put his plate aside at last and snuggled into the cloaks, falling asleep once more. Young hobbits need a great deal of sleep, as well as food, and Farry’s sleep the previous night, in the saddle, had been uncomfortable and interrupted. With his fear temporarily abated, and a full stomach, and warm covering, he was soon deep in slumber.

He did not even feel the fat man draw his covering aside, to bind together his ankles once more.

***

At last the procession exited the Great Smials proper, having collected most of the Tooks and servants who’d lined the corridors, a very long procession it was, indeed. As a matter of fact, the “head” reached the burial ground when the tail was still inside the Smials, and the bearers laid Ferdi gently on the rope-lined boards straddling the grave, stepped back, rubbed their aching backs, and waited for the crowd to gather.

Nell and the children, of course, stood directly at the head of the grave, huddled together. Regi, who’d say what needed saying, stood close by them with his wife, Rosamunda, who was, most conveniently, a healer. Should Nell show any signs of collapsing under the strain, well, Rosamunda was on the spot, as it were.

It took an eternity, seemingly, but at last the hobbits at the end of the procession arrived. The crowd was too large for the burial ground to contain, spilling out through the wide gateway, standing around the neat white-painted fence, and yet it was eerily silent. No one spoke a word. Regi’s murmur to the bearers was clearly heard, all the way to the back of the crowd. ‘Time,’ he said.

Nell gave a gasp and pressed her handkerchief against her mouth, while her children huddled closer, if possible. All these were weeping (all who were awake, that is, for babe and faunt still slept sweetly, well-wrapped against the chill), but their mother stood dry-eyed and wan, looking as if at any moment she might swoon. In point of fact, Laura, Haldi’s wife, felt compelled to take the babe from her, that the little lass not be accidentally dropped into the grave should Pimpernel’s senses fail her.

The bearers took up the ends of the ropes, pulling to take up the slack, lifting slightly, and the two gravediggers hastened to drag the boards out from under the shrouded figure. And then the bearers paid out their ropes slowly, ever so slowly, for it would not do to tip Ferdi such that he landed on his feet—or his head for that matter. That would not be an auspicious beginning, and would upset his mourners no end. No, they lowered him gently, slowly, until he came at last to rest, and then they drew the ropes out with great care, and stepped back.

Nell stood, staring at her Ferdi, lying in the soil of the land he loved so well, and gave a sad little hiccough.

Regi squeezed her elbow. ‘Are you ready?’ he said softly.

Something inside her screamed that never would she be ready, and what kind of daft question was that, and other such nonsense, but she pressed the handkerchief more firmly to her mouth, closed her eyes, and nodded.

***

Woodruff had dozed again, astonishing that, for she was used to being awake for long stretches. But Ted’s hand on her arm wakened her. ‘Sweetie?’

‘Um. Hum,’ she said, struggling to open her eyes. ‘Yes, herm, er... Ted?’ Joy flooded her, to see him looking at her earnestly, but obviously in his right mind. ‘Ted! My love!’

‘Sweetie,’ he said, but the urgency didn’t leave him. ‘Was it a fever dream? I have to know!’

Woodruff was grinning in relief. ‘The fever’s broken!’ she said, taking his cool hands in hers. ‘Ah, Teddie-lad, you don’t know what a relief...’

‘Was it but a fever dream, Sweetie,’ her beloved broke in, ‘or was it real?’

Woodruff was ready to assure him that whatever troubled him was just a dream, for he’d been raving in delirium for the previous two days, maybe three, she’d lost count, but he gripped her arms, pulling himself upright, fighting his exhaustion.

‘Are they truly burying Ferdi?’ His expression turned to a mix of guilt and dread. ‘Or did they bury him already?’

‘Why, Ted, dear,’ Woodruff said.

‘Is he in the grave?’ Ted insisted. ‘Or was it a mere fever fancy?’

‘I’m sorry, my love, but it’s true.’

Ted fell back on the pillows, and in his weakness he wept. ‘No,’ he whispered, while Woodruff tried to comfort him. And then he turned haunted eyes to his healer-wife, and whispered, ‘He’s not dead... or he wasn’t. They’ve buried him alive.’

Chapter 23. In which a Took dreams, or does he?

The dream had changed. Instead of being carried along, Ferdi felt himself lying on a hard surface. He was camping, he thought, sleeping on the ground. He must be dreaming of the time of the Troubles, he supposed, for nowadays when he travelled for the Thain and had to be away overnight, he invariably slept in a comfortable bed, the finest any inn had to offer, seeing as he was the Thain’s special assistant.

Or he might be dreaming of recent troubles. He had slept on the floor of his sister’s little house in the woods, during the time he’d been trying to persuade a runaway Farry to return to the Great Smials, when Pippin had come to reclaim his son, and Merry had judged Ferdi guilty of child-stealing. A hard floor it had been, too, well-swept boards, giving way to flagstones surrounding the hearth. There was something about Farry... something he couldn't quite remember... He frowned a little, not noticing that his lips were now responding, ever so slightly, to his feelings.

As if in response, the boards fell away and he was flying, floating in the air, suspended between sky and earth, feeling the beginning of panic, until the earth came up to embrace him. The cold hardness under his back was reassuringly firm, and something laughed within him, mock-scolding, sounding something like his Nell when he’d exasperated her. Make up your mind! You complain of a hard bed, you complain of floating... so a hard bed it is! Make the best of it, for it’s all you’ll get, as a consequence of all your grumbling!

I don’t care much at all for this dream, was his response, and his lips moved ever so slightly, his breath ghosting out in a whisper. But no one answered him, not even the mocker, and so despite the discomfort, he dozed once more.

***

He’s going to do it! the brawny man was thinking, bare seconds before the horn-call rang out. He’s going to get away with the gold—or at least it won’t be hobbits stopping him... and his hand caressed the handle of his knife, an old friend that had served him well on many previous occasions.

But then the horn rang out, and hobbits materialised before his eyes, as if they’d been conjured.

... he was certainly glad that he’d hung well back, and had not intruded upon the outermost ring of watchers. No. He looked behind him, to make sure, and there were no hobbits behind him. All of them were between him and the Three-Farthing Stone, and closing in on the hapless club-wielder, so very lucky a moment ago, with all the gold he could bear, and perhaps a little more.

Still, in the brawny man’s opinion, escape would be possible if the club-wielder just kept his head. The archers were holding their fire, the hobbits with clubs were advancing slowly, warily. It looked as if they aimed to take the man alive... The brawny man had better watch the outcome, just to make sure, and once all was done he’d hasten back to the cave, to warn the others that pursuit would be coming sooner rather than later.

That was assuming the hobbits were able to take his companion, not at all a sure thing. All he had to do was drop the heavy bag of gold, seize his weapon, watch for the right moment, leap from the rock and run, fending off whatever clubs were swung at him with his own as he made his escape. With his long legs and his memory of the territory, he could outrun any pursuit.

...but the gold, and his greed, were the club-wielder’s undoing. He clutched the gold to his chest, teetering on the rock, and as he turned to find a clear place to jump down, he overbalanced. Instead of flailing his arms to catch his balance, he clenched the gold ever tighter, and its weight took him over, toppling him like a tree, such that he fell, head-first, behind the Stone, out of the brawny man’s sight, and did not rise again, so far as his companion could tell.

The brawny man had been holding his breath, ready to flee, but now he sank down again as the hobbits converged on the spot. He wondered, had the other man crawled away? He could not see...

‘We want him alive!’ one of the hobbits shouted, toiling up the slope.

A head popped up over the top of the Three-Farthing Stone, and called, ‘That’ll be a little difficult to manage, I’m afraid. He’s broke his sorry neck.’

Well. That certainly made things easy. All he had to do, now, was to wait until all the hobbits had vacated the vicinity, and then he’d make his way back to the cave to report to the fat man. They would be able to go ahead with their plan, as they’d originally formed it, and with little fear of hobbits finding them.

And atop the rise, the club-wielder lay beside the Three-Farthing Stone in a daze, his senses fading, his eyes fixed on the gold that had spilled from the bag. It had all been in his grasp... it was all right there, before him. All he had to do was stretch out his hands, which for some reason were curiously unresponsive at the moment, to seize the treasure, more than he’d ever held in his life...

***

It is said by some that the blood of the fairies runs in the veins of some Tooks. (Those less charitable distribute the rumour of that heritage rather more widely, tarring all the Tooks with the same brush, so to speak.) The Tooks themselves rarely speak of such things, not even those who experience the odd dream that disturbs a night’s rest. But it is common knowledge that some among the Tooks have a way of knowing what they ought not to know. Though most conceal any special knowledge, a few have let slip, in a weak moment, enough of a hint to unsettle any other hobbit, even another Took.

And so Woodruff stared at Ted, uncertain. ‘He is dead,’ she said slowly. ‘You probably heard us talking, while you were fevered, and...’

Ted shook his head, lifting a shaking hand to wipe at his cheeks. ‘It was one of the dreams,’ he said, ‘I knew it for what it was, for it was just like Heather...’

It seemed to Woodruff that she could not draw breath, as if the suffocating grave closed in about her. Her mouth gaped as if she were a fish out of water, and she shook her head, ever so slightly. It could not be!

But Ted had closed his eyes, lying back in defeat on the pillow, as the words spilled from him in fits and starts. ‘Like Heather...’ he said. ‘It was a warning. I know that you think it daft, but...’

Woodruff found her tongue. ‘Not at all,’ she said, and it was only half a falsehood, and then she stood to her feet though her head was spinning and there was a buzzing in her ears. ‘But Teddy, it may not be too late at all! They passed our door not that long ago...’ Or she thought it had not been long ago. She had dozed... how long?

Ted struggled upright again, given new strength by his hope, and horror. ‘Then go!’ he gasped. ‘Go, and stop them! Stop them before it is too late!’

***

‘Now then,’ said the fat man. ‘It’s time for your lessons, laddie.’

The young ruffian nodded and went to fish in his pack, coming up with a stick, pointed at one end, sides smoothed from much handling. He was developing a fair hand at writing, with all the practice the fat man insisted upon. Every day he had to write a little, though last night was the first time he’d actually put pen to paper. For the most part, his writing lessons were confined to scratching in the sand or the dirt with the sharp end of the stick.

However, even with this crude method, his spelling and his letter formation had improved wondrously, such that the brawny man had joked that they might hire the lad out as a scribe, if they ever fell on hard times.

Red slept soundly in one corner, a slight if chilling smile on his face, and the young hobbit slept just as deeply a little way away, and the smile on Farry’s face was innocent, and full of peace, such that the young ruffian felt a pang. He was not yet hardened, as his companions, though the fat man would turn him into a “first rate” villain in no time, or so the ruffian chief boasted.

Patiently he wrote out each word as the fat man dictated.

‘Yes, your spelling is quite improved,’ the ruffian chief said, well satisfied. ‘Now let us try writing our little notes. The wording is important... there is a proper order, the way we do things. It makes everything go much more smoothly, when the order is observed. Now the hobbits won’t know what is to happen, but when we get back to inhabited parts, you will strike fear into the hearts of men, and they’ll take you seriously, and it’ll be because they’ll know exactly what you mean to do, if they don’t cooperate.’

‘So... if the hobbits won’t understand, what is the point...?’ the young ruffian asked, writing out the first of the ransom notes, as he’d been taught. Once the ruffian chief found it satisfactory, the apprentice would wipe the ground smooth and write the next in the series... and then the next... and so forth, until the last note, with its awful pronouncement of doom, was written.

Had little Farry known the content of the young ruffian’s writings, his dreams would have turned from comfort to nightmare—had he been able to sleep at all, that is. But he wandered, mercifully, in a happy dream, where his mum had tucked him up to sleep after a filling meal, and he was in his own little bed, warm and comfortable, and his da was spinning his favourite tale, the one where he and Merry were taken by Orcs, and Pippin dropped the brooch, and then they slept, and then they crawled away, escaped certain death by the use of their wits, and crept into the great forest of Fangorn where they would meet a new friend, and ally...

Angst warning: Some readers may find elements in this chapter disquieting, to say the least.

Chapter 24. In which disquieting thoughts are interrupted

Ferdi jerked awake, not sure what had wakened him, or where he was, or what was happening, if anything. He forced his eyes open, seeing only a shadowy blur. But what was that he was hearing...? It reminded him of something.

O yes, Regi’s voice, droning on, a familiar sound. Many’s the time Ferdi had fought to keep his eyes open, to keep his head from nodding, while the steward pontificated on this or that. For such reasons, Pippin seldom called on the steward to address a crowd, unless it suited his purposes to stun the gathered hobbits half-senseless.

And then he remembered that he was dreaming. That’s right, this was the continuation of a dream, and now Ferdi knew where he was. Though he felt as if he were lying on a hard surface, stiff and cold, he was probably sitting in the great room, at the feast to welcome Mayor and Master, having stuffed himself to somnolence and now enduring some speech or other’s of Regi’s, covering the escape of Thain, Mayor and Master to the Thain’s study for peace and quiet and fine ale or brandy. Though he didn’t quite remember arriving with Farry.

There was something he ought to remember, come to think of it, something about Farry... but his head was aching abominably, and it was a relief to relax and close his eyes again. Gradually Regi’s voice grew clearer, and he began to listen to the words...

Surely this was a dream, or else it was more of Pippin’s machinations, to clear Ferdi’s name from all the stains of that miserable misunderstanding, for Regi was talking about... Ferdi! Why, he was describing Ferdi’s “heroic actions” in support of the Thain and the Tooks during the time Sharkey’s ruffians occupied the Shire!

Ferdi snorted softly. Heroic actions, indeed! He’d only done what needed doing. He felt his face grow warm, and realised he was blushing to the tips of his ears, as the praise continued. Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you, cousin?

It was a mercy and a relief, he decided, to be sleeping through this particular speech. He could enjoy the accolades, without having to meet the admiring or ironic gazes of his cousins. He didn’t feel as if he needed to squirm, or protest that he was only one of many... why Hilly, there, had done his share of ruffian-baiting... a dangerous sport, leading the ruffians into the traps that waited for them.

Really, Regi was in fine form, Ferdi decided. Why, he’d no idea that he was held in such high esteem by the steward. Indeed, at one point Regi’s voice broke, and Ferdi heard him clear his throat, very touching. Ferdi found himself smiling as he basked in the glow of his cousin’s regard.

***

Another frustrating pause, while the hunters tried to pick up the trail. Pippin’s face was drawn with worry, and Merry stayed close by his side. Seeing Pippin’s knuckles whitening on his reins, and knowing how dark his own thoughts were, he cleared his throat.

Pippin glanced over, and then his eyes went back to the hunters, tense, watching for the first sign of the finding of the trail.

‘I was thinking,’ Merry said.

‘That’s what I admire about you, cousin,’ Pippin said lightly, his eyes not leaving the hunters. ‘Always thinking. You take after Frodo a bit, there.’ But the muscles in his jaw twitched, when he stopped talking, and his breath came shallow and jerky.

‘Do you suppose Strider felt this way, following us? The Three Hunters?’ he added, for clarification.

Pippin did not answer, and Merry pressed on.

‘They followed a trail, much as we do now...’

‘At least the Orcs trampled and slashed their way,’ Pippin said, staring straight ahead. ‘I could wish our ruffians had done us the same courtesy.’

‘They had little enough hope of finding us,’ Merry said, ‘and yet a young hobbit kept his head, there, kept his wits about him...’ He searched Pippin’s face. ‘And Farry is his father’s son, you know.’

The corner of Pippin’s mouth lifted briefly, though he made no other sign.

‘He might even let something drop, you don’t know... at least we won’t miss it in the dark...’

‘Would that we had Strider with us now,’ Pippin said. ‘Tookish hunters may be among the finest trackers in the Shire—Ferdi was the finest I knew—but that Man could track a midge across a rocky slope, at midnight of a moonless night, and tell where it had lighted and what sort of blood it had sucked.’

Merry shuddered a little at mention of blood, but turned his thoughts firmly in another direction. ‘Would that Strider were here,’ he agreed. ‘Why, he could just take out his Stone of Seeing and we wouldn’t need trackers at all.’

Pippin swallowed hard at mention of the Palantir, but at least Merry had distracted him, if only for a few seconds. ‘If only,’ he said, and took a shuddering breath. ‘O Merry, and if we even find them, what will we find?’

‘I’m sure Gimli asked himself the same, and Legolas,’ Merry said, ‘and what did they find? Why, a field of battle, and a pyre, and they thought us dead and burned amongst the others! They thought the worst, and never knew that we were walking softly amongst the trees...’

‘But there is no Fangorn to take up my little lad,’ Pippin whispered, closing his eyes briefly in grief, before forcing them open again, to watch the searching hunters.

‘They thought the worst,’ Merry said firmly, ‘as we are thinking now. Do not give up hope, Pippin. There is yet a chance... and the day is young. We’ve hours of sunlight yet, to follow them.’

‘If only Farry has hours, yet,’ Pippin said. ‘If only we knew their purpose... From that first note, I fear he has fallen among the worst sort of ruffians. If only...’

‘If only ponies had wings, then dreamers could fly,’ Merry said. ‘Take courage, Pip! Sam’s at the Three-Farthing Stone, laying a ruffian trap, and...’ he sat up a little straighter in his saddle as a hunter unbent himself from the ground and waved, ‘...and we have a trail to follow!’

***

The hobbits were gathering around the Three-Farthing Stone to gape at the club-wielder while their leaders conferred, and this was probably the best time to make his escape, the brawny man decided. He crawled backwards, under cover of brambles, and keeping low, crept away from the scene, making for a copse of graceful trees that he’d passed through on his way to his vantage point. He wanted to be well out of view when he took to his feet and began to run.

***

Regi’s speech droned to its end, extolling Ferdi’s “faithfulness to the bitter end”, giving
his life to protect the son of the Thain.

And then there was a moment of silence, where only the sighing of the breeze was heard, and then the steward nodded at Pimpernel.

Ferdi’s wife had stood through the entire elegy, handkerchief pressed to her mouth, and now she took the cloth away, stained with blood, for she had been biting her lip very hard indeed as she endured. She tucked the cloth into her sleeve, moved to the pile of dirt beside the grave, and picked up a handful.

She could not bear to drop it on Ferdi’s head, no, she could not. She crumbled it through her fingers, sprinkling it gently over Ferdi’s feet and legs, pretending that it was a blanket, to cover him, to keep him from the chill. Yes, she was drawing up the bedcovers on her sleeping husband, and that was all.

The cascading stuff stood in dark contrast against the whiteness of the shroud, and sickness hit her in the pit of her stomach, but she would not allow herself to retch. She simply stood quite still and stiff for a long moment after scattering her handful of earth, and then she nodded to the children.

Rudi reluctantly took up his handful, following his mother’s lead, avoiding Ferdi’s shrouded head, as did his younger brothers Odo and Freddy, and his sister Mignonette. But little Coreopsis stopped still, clenching her fist on her handful of dirt. And then she threw the dirt down, but not into the grave. ‘I won’t!’ she spat. ‘I won’t, I won’t, I will not!’

‘Corry,’ Regi said, firm but not unkind. ‘Honour your father.’

Unexpectedly Nell spoke up. ‘She is,’ she said, and at the ripple of surprise in the crowd, she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘In her own way, she honours him,’ she said. ‘She’s already buried her father, and I won’t force her to bury her da as well.’

Regi hesitated, stickler for propriety and tradition that he was, but then he nodded. Nell pulled Corry to herself, pressing the little one’s face against her skirts, that she might not have to watch the rest of the ritual as it resumed. Corry’s littler brother, not understanding, dropped his handful into the grave, and Nell caught her breath as it fell upon her husband’s shrouded face.

The littlest hobbits slept on, soothed to deeper sleep by Regi’s long and droning speech, and so it was time for the long line of mourners to make their way back to the Smials, to the great room where a feast had been laid in the interim. Each hobbit in the crowd would file between the pile of dirt and the grave, taking up a handful and dropping it in, old gaffers and youngsters and everyone in between, each taking a moment to honour Ferdi in his or her own mind, some dropping tears as well as earth upon the shroud.

Regi moved to stand at Nell’s elbow, for she had taken out her handkerchief once more, covering her face and shuddering with dry sobs. ‘Nearly done now, Nell,’ he whispered. ‘Hold up.’

Not much white was showing now at the bottom, and the line of hobbits was moving steadily as each cast a handful of earth into the grave.

***

The young ruffian had written out every note in turn, scratching with his stick in the dirt, and the fat man was satisfied. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll have you write the real note soon as they’re back from the Three-Farthing Stone.’

‘What if they don’t come back?’ Red said, sitting up to stretch and yawn.

‘Well, one of them will come back, at least,’ the fat man said with a smile. ‘He’s never been late, yet.’

‘Bringing the gold with him?’ the young ruffian said. ‘And then we can leave this forsaken land?’

The fat man threw back his head and laughed. ‘We’ve larger fish to fry,’ he said, and pointed up at the roof of the cave. ‘Up yon hill,’ he said, ‘is more gold than we can carry! And this afternoon, when the sun passes her zenith, we’ll creep up the shadowed side and carry it all away.’

‘If it’s more gold than we can carry...?’ the young ruffian said without thinking.

‘He’s as dull-witted as he is ugly,’ Red sneered, and he gave the young ruffian a cuff, striking as quickly as a snake, so that the youth had no time to duck away. ‘It was a jest, you half-wit!’

‘Only half a jest,’ the fat man said easily. ‘Now don’t rattle his brains, for he’s to write our ransom notes for us, you know.’

‘I could write them,’ Red said in a surly tone.

‘Of course you could, but how is he to learn if you do all the work for him?’ the fat man said, his eyes on the work of his hands. He was mixing water from the spring with powder from a tight-sealing tin box he carried, and at the sight Red stood straighter, and a fell light came into his eyes.

‘Here now,’ the fat man said. ‘You joined us when we’d just finished our last job, in Gondor, and the Kingsmen were making things a little too hot for us to stay there...’

The young ruffian nodded. They’d taken him on as a house-breaker, for he’d been small enough, a year ago, to crawl through a high open window in the dead of night, and then sneak down through the house to unbar the door, that his master and associates might enter to rob the dwelling. They’d worked their way northwards from Minas Tirith in this way, and he’d been taught about child-stealing though never had the chance to practice the art, for the pickings along the way were not rich enough to suit the fat man, or to make the risk worth taking.

But there would be nobles and rich merchants living in the North Kingdom, and when the King was safely away in Gondor, him and his cursed Seeing Stone, well, they’d cut a swath through the local area, until the fat man deemed it the proper time to take themselves to the Southlands once more.

‘Well now,’ the fat man said, ‘here’s your chance to put theory into practice. We’ve only talked, before...’

‘It’s been so very long,’ Red whined. ‘I could demonstrate, show him the proper way to do things...’ He drew his knife, caressed the shining blade. ‘You mark off the cutting lines,’ he said, nodding at the pot of ink, ‘and I’ll show him how the cutting is done...’

‘How will he learn by looking?’ the fat man said, quelling Red with a cold look before turning a smiling eye on the youngest ruffian. The lad was pale and beginning to sweat, he noticed. Yes, he needed toughening, and there was no time like the present.

He thrust the cup of new-made ink at the youth. ‘Here, hold this,’ he said, ‘whilst I fetch our young guest from his slumbers.’

Note to the Reader: We now enter the territory of true horror, and sad to say, this chapter split itself in half. The next chapter is, if anything, worse. If you are sensitive, please skip this chapter, and chapter 26. Firmly PG-13.

Chapter 25. In which a Took is outraged by happenings

‘Nearly done now, Nell,’ Regi whispered. ‘Hold up.’

And in seeming echo, a breathless voice was heard calling. ‘Hold up! Hold up!’

There was a ripple in the slow-marching line of departing hobbits; the line itself hesitated, stopped, seemed to be swelling back on itself, as if those who’d already taken their leave were returning for second helpings. There was reason for their curiosity, as it turned out.

‘What in the name of...?’ Rosamunda gasped, from behind Regi and Pimpernel. ‘Mistress...’ For the head healer was forcing her way through the crowd, swimming against the current, if one could use such an unhobbity turn of phrase, and she was a sight to see. Hair wild, face flushed, eyes popping, clothes dishevelled as if she’d slept in them (as a matter of fact she had, for three nights now), she pushed and pinched and shoved, all the while calling desperately.

Regi nodded to the two retired hobbits of the Thain’s escort, and they moved quickly to intercept Woodruff, to bring her to the graveside, where the line of mourners had stopped, uncertain, the nearest still clutching their handful of earth.

‘If only I’m not too late,’ Woodruff panted, brought to a swaying stop before the steward. ‘If only...’

‘What is the meaning of this, Healer Woodruff,’ Regi asked, nay, demanded. Certainly the hobbit had been head healer at the Great Smials since Paladin’s time, but that did not give her licence to disrupt a solemn leave-taking!

‘I must know,’ the healer said, ignoring Regi’s pending anger, paying no heed to the shock and dismay surrounding them. ‘I must know, I must be certain...’

‘Certain of what?’ Regi said coldly. ‘Really, Woodruff, I think...’

But what he thought was evidently of no import, at least not to Woodruff. She turned to the two gravediggers, standing aghast in the background, and summoned them with the imperious gesture of a healer who is used to being obeyed, however reluctantly.

These stepped forward, and while Regi was still spluttering, and Nell was staring, wide-eyed, along with the children and the rest, she took a hand of each and directed them to lower her into the grave!

Regi fell silent at this, stunned to silence, actually, and before he could think of anything to say, the healer was crouching over the body, sweeping away the accumulating earth, tearing at the shroud such that the stitches gave way.

Nell gave a gasp and swayed as Ferdi’s face was revealed, peaceful, smiling even, looking as if he slept.

Regi opened his mouth to snap orders to the retired hobbits of escort, to the gravediggers, to anyone with wit and muscle enough, to haul Woodruff—who’d evidently taken leave of her senses—out again, when he felt Pimpernel sway against him. He was just in time to stop her toppling into the grave, atop Woodruff (and Ferdibrand). He eased her gently to the ground, and Rosamunda took over, chafing the stricken hobbit’s wrists, calling Nell’s name softly, turning her head to call someone to bring a litter, and at once!

Meanwhile, in the grave, Woodruff was muttering to herself, loosening Ferdi’s collar, sliding her fingers down his neck. He was so very cold, she thought with a shudder, cold and clammy to her touch. He was dead, and Ted’s dream had betrayed them all: Woodruff, who would surely be stripped of her position, and Nell and the children, who would never forget this horror, and Ferdi himself, whose rest was thus disturbed, dishonoured by this disruption.

‘I must be sure,’ she muttered, and steeling herself, she opened his jacket, and then undid the waistcoat buttons, and then his shirt, while murmurs of outrage and distress sounded from the crowd above and all around the grave. She took a shuddering breath, and laid her head down upon Ferdi’s chest... and was still.

Regi had watched this extraordinary performance with amazement and dread. Had Ferdi somehow been living, when they’d lowered him into the grave? But... a competent healer had pronounced him dead. His own wife had washed the body and dressed it for burial. An assistant healer had stitched up Ferdi’s head wounds. Surely she would have detected signs of life, had there been any to be found. No, he decided. Woodruffs’ long and anxious vigil at her husband’s side, on top of a string of emergencies that had left the healer dangerously short of sleep, had taken a terrible toll on the head healer. It was understandable, he supposed, especially as she hadn’t seen Ferdi herself.

But a niggling doubt remained, as he stared down into the grave, at Woodruff, listening at Ferdi’s breast. ‘Healer Woodruff...’ he called uncertainly.

The healer did not move.

‘Woodruff?’ Regi called again, a little louder. The murmuring of the crowd increased.

Rosamunda had seen to Nell’s removal by litter, with several other wives of the escort herding the children away from this unseemly sight, and now she joined her husband, staring down. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said, and then, leaning over so that Regi caught at her, held her, fearful she might fall in, she called, ‘Mistress?’

Woodruff did not move. ‘Something’s wrong,’ Rosamunda said, louder, and one of the gravediggers took her meaning, nudging the other, who lowered him into the grave, which was getting somewhat crowded now, with three hobbits in a space meant for one.

He bent over the healer, calling her name, reaching out a tentative hand, and then he looked up. ‘Fainted!’ he said, ‘and what’s more, she’s burning up with fever!’

Regi rolled his eyes and suppressed a sigh. What else could happen? And yet, it all made a terrible sense; Ferdi had the luck of the Tooks, after all, and while it could be a very good thing, it could also be monstrously bad, when it turned.

They lowered one of the ropes into the grave, and the digger tied it around Woodruff, under her arms, and they hauled her up as gently as they could, and laid her on a litter (the crowd falling back, in case the fever might be catching), and she was borne gently away, Rosamunda at her side, holding her hand.

And then the gravedigger gently folded the shroud about Ferdi again, though he didn’t restore the dead hobbit’s clothing—not for him to touch a corpse, he was only a digger of graves, and that was all they paid him for, and he didn’t feel like volunteering to do anything more, not at this moment, at least. His companion hauled him out of the grave again, and he wiped at his face with his handkerchief. He’d put in his night’s work, and then some! He looked forward to the burial feast, and then he’d fall into his bed with a thankful heart.

Regi nodded to the next hobbit, still waiting with a fistful of dirt, and the interrupted ceremony resumed.

***

Jay stifled a whoop of triumph when they picked up the ruffian’s back trail. He might have died, the wretch, the light might have left his eyes as he stared greedily at the gold that had cost his life, but there was still a story to be read from his body, from the hobnailed boots he wore, that had left their mark in a soft patch of dirt. He hadn’t bothered to disguise his trail, perhaps because he hadn’t meant to go back that way again. In any event, it was a trail, and they could follow it, and follow it they did, silent, grim, and intent.

The ruffian had not cleaned his club, and there was still dried blood, fairly fresh, and hair stuck to the gory end, from Ferdi’s head, Sam thought upon examination. Too dark to be Farry’s, and that might be a mercy, or it might not.

***

Farry didn’t rouse when the fat man lifted him from the pile of cloaks. His parents found it difficult to waken him when he was deeply asleep, and they often were heard to say, with some pride, that their young son could sleep through a dragon’s roar, when he was in the middle of “growing sleep”. And so the fat man bore him to the mouth of the cave, where the greatest light was to be found, and sat himself down against one side of the entrance, with the hobbit child, limp and trusting as a sleeping kitten, cradled in his lap.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘as you’ve been taught, all things must be done in decent order.’

The young ruffian nodded, as did Red. There was a reason for everything they did, as he’d learned, and Red would tolerate the tiresome bits for the sake of the compensation. How his heart quickened, how it thrilled him, when they “got down to business”. It was worth the waiting, and powerful as a drug to a man enslaved; he craved the feeling and revelled in the swelling anticipation that filled him now.

‘We grant our guests a final meal, and the opportunity to rest, if they’ll take it,’ the fat man said, ‘for it’s the decent thing to do. Why, they’re no better off in the dungeons of the King—every condemned man has a right to a hearty last meal, and a last night to sleep, almost all the way through, before the guards come before the dawning to take him away.’

‘But we don’t do our work in the dawning,’ the young ruffian said. He reflected, privately, that they ought to do their work in the dark—darkness seemed appropriate for dark deeds.

‘Bless you, lad, I like my sleep too much for that!’ the fat man cried. The hobbit child stirred slightly, smiling in his sleep at the jovial tone, sighed and settled again to softly snoring. ‘No,’ the fat man went on. ‘One of the beauties of working for ourselves is we can set our own hours. No man is master over us; we are our own masters.’

The young ruffian nodded. It was such talk that had caught his fancy, lured him away from the tedious business of chimney-sweeping that he’d been apprenticed to, by an uncle with no room in his home for another mouth to feed.

‘Now to start,’ the fat man said, putting on his best lecturing tone, ‘we cut off the hair, as you’ve already seen.’

The young ruffian nodded again, settling himself to listen closely, for the fat man would set him a test when the lecture was done, and he didn’t fancy the punishment he’d have should he prove ill-prepared. Red enjoyed administering such.

‘There’s no proper and prescribed way to do it,’ the fat man said. ‘You have a lot of room for adding your own personal touch. All that you really need, of course, is a fistful—enough to fold inside a note, to prove the identity of the guest who is enjoying your hospitality. However, if you have an uncooperative guest, or if you should be offered insult...’

Red laughed wickedly. ‘Remember that old lord of Gondor?’ he said, slapping his knee. ‘How indignant he was, that we spoilt his looks!’ He slid a sly look at the young ruffian and added, ‘He didn’t have long to worry about that, however...’

‘Hair will grow back, and no permanent harm done,’ the fat man said placidly. ‘If the family cooperates, and the guest is pleasant and engaging, then perhaps that is all we might do.’

‘If...’ Red said, laying a finger aside his nose. The young ruffian took the impression that such cases were few and far between. If a family paid the demand too quickly and easily, the ruffians were as likely to double the amount demanded, sending a “token” to insure quick obedience.

‘And then,’ the fat man said, gesturing to the glistening ink, ‘and then of course, there is a certain order in which these things are done. Every “token” bears a message, you see...’

‘Although if our guest tries to leave before the formalities are concluded, we’ll cut his toes off first, before anything else,’ Red said. ‘Sort of persuades them to stay put, it does.’

The fat man made a face at such crude talk. ‘Decent order,’ he repeated with a quelling look. ‘First an ear,’ he said. He took a pen from his pocket and fished out a wide-tongued nib, fixing it in place, and then he dipped the pen into the ink. ‘Permanent ink,’ he said, ‘so you want to be sure you don’t mark yourself with it, or you won’t be able to show your face in a town until it wears away.’

‘Just tell them you’re a scribe,’ Red said practically. ‘That’s what I did that one time, and no one was the wiser.’

‘You took an awful chance, little brother,’ the fat man said, glowering at Red from under his brows, but Red only laughed. Still, the young ruffian understood the warning, and he nodded again.

‘First an ear,’ the fat man said, returning to the lesson, and he inked a wide black line on the young hobbit’s skin. ‘When you’ve had enough practice, you won’t need a guide line for any of your cutting,’ he said, ‘though we draw all the lines we’ll need early on, soon after we’ve reached our hidey-hole, as a matter of fact. It’s a reminder to our guests that they are dependent upon our good will for their continued... comfort.’

The young ruffian blinked a little at this, forced himself to take a deep breath, and restrained his imagination as best he could. The reality would be just as bad, he thought, but he’d take things one moment at a time. He did not want to displease his master, and be turned over to face Red’s tender mercies.

‘Good will,’ he echoed.

The fat man smiled, dipping the pen once more, and inking a line first on one of the small hands, and then the other. ‘You cannot just chop a thumb off,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Messy, it is, and inelegant. No, it’s rather like jointing a fowl—you must know the anatomical structure...’ He really ought to have been a tutor, teaching the rich young nobles, but really, in such a situation, comfortable as it might be, his hours would not be his own. He’d be dancing to another man’s tune, and young lords could be insufferable brats, he’d found. No, this was the much better way. He could live like one of the nobles themselves, and call his soul his own.

He went on to discuss the efficient removal of thumbs, and fingers for good measure, though these were not always called for, and then toes. He laid down his pen and borrowed Red’s finely-honed knife to shave away the tiny curls on the hobbit child’s feet, before laying the knife aside—ready, the young ruffian thought, swallowing down his sick feeling, ready to be taken up, and put to use. The little toes curled a bit, at the tickle of the pen laying down its doom-laden stroke, and Farry moved in his sleep and murmured, chuckling a little, as the fat man marked the second foot to match the first.

‘And then the part that Red, here, likes best,’ the fat man said, shooting a grin at his younger brother.

The young ruffian glanced over at Red, to see an answering grin, and then the latter licked his lips, eyes glistening in anticipation.

‘Save the best for last,’ Red hissed. ‘That’s one of the fine things about our line of work. So much to look forward to. It’s almost a pity, when they pay us twice what we ask and faster than demanded, and we have to send our guests home again with nothing to remember us by.’ His grin widened as he saw that the young hobbit was wakening, the bright little eyes—ah, so bright, so enticingly bright and clear—winking sleep away, the small, heart-shaped face split by a wide yawn, giving a glimpse of the small pink tongue within. Ah, yes, this was the best part, telling the victim exactly what would happen to him, that he might know the dreadful anticipation, the trembling, the horror... and then the exquisite pleasure of the actual doing...

The little hobbit's eyes met his, and Red gave a nod of welcome, even as his eyes hungrily devoured his prize. Not long, now, not long... The lines were drawn, and soon the knife's edge would follow, and more.

Note to the Reader: Still horror, but the tide is beginning to turn by the end. If you are sensitive, please skip this chapter. Firmly PG-13. There will be a short summary at the beginning of Chapter 27, so you won't miss any plot points if you choose to skip the horror. And thank you for your patience. 

Chapter 26. In which a lecture is interrupted

‘And so, Red, if you’ll do the honours,’ the fat man said, and the youngest of the ruffians held his breath, dreading what he was about to see.

But Red merely leaned forward to undo the young hobbit’s shirt-buttons, baring the small chest, where gooseflesh sprang to life at the chill, and sat back once more, though he ran his tongue around his lips as if he hungered mightily.

‘Beg pardon, little master,’ the fat man said, dipping the pen again and inking a precise circle over Farry’s heart.

Farry withdrew from the tickling sensation, frightened, he knew not why.

‘Don’t move, now,’ the fat man said, and the hobbit child froze, not wanting to anger his captor. His hands and feet had been unbound, but he sat in the man’s lap, and the fat man had a good hold on Farry, with his free hand, and Red and the young ruffian sat in the mouth of the cave, between Farry and freedom. ‘We want to give our artistry a moment or two to dry. Shame to smear it.’

And when he deemed the ink dry, he put down the pen and buttoned Farry’s shirt himself, fumbling a little with the tiny buttons, no larger than those on baby clothes, in the world of Men. So he had done up Red’s clothes for him, long ago and in another world, it seemed. ‘Wouldn’t want you to take a chill, now, would we?’

Everything that was in Farry screamed at him to jump down, to try to run, but the fat man had a good grip on his shirt, and Farry knew that should he try to slide out of his clothing his captor would know it, before he won free. There’d be no point. No, he must watch for a better opportunity... If one came along. He thought desperately of his father and Uncle Merry. Please come! he begged within himself. Please hurry!

‘And now,’ the fat man said, pulling the coiled-up binding ropes from his pocket, ‘we’ve finished our artwork, and we can restore these...’ and he quickly and efficiently bound Farry’s wrists once more, and the young hobbit’s ankles, and Farry noticed for the first time the ink on his hands, and on his shorn feet, and it gave him a dreadful feeling though he did not know what it meant.

He did not remain in ignorance for long, for once the binding was done, the fat man sat him up again, his lap for a chair and his belly for a cushion, and resumed his lecture. ‘The next part,’ he said, ‘needs no cutting lines. Indeed, it would be awkward to try to mark...’

‘You just gouge them out,’ Red said, leaning forward with an eager look. ‘You can use your thumb to press them out, or a spoon, perhaps... You want them to come out whole, of course, so that they are recognisably eyes.’

Farry shrank back against the fat man’s stomach, a questionable refuge at best.

‘I like to take them slowly,’ Red went on, looking to the young ruffian to see if he was listening with proper attention, ‘slowly, mind, and one at a time. How they stare! You have to have someone holding him down, still, for he’ll fight and try to turn his head away, but it’s better when he’s awake and aware and knowing...’ He circled his lips with his tongue again. ‘Especially after you’ve taken the first eye, and he knows exactly what is about to happen, and then,’ his voice cracked with glee, ‘he knows exactly what is happening, as you take the second.’

Farry’s mouth had opened in silent horror, and Red grinned at the sight.

‘And then after,’ he went on inexorably, ‘after that, of course, you take his tongue. Cut it right out, you do, and listen to him gurgle as his mouth fills with blood...’

‘Enough,’ the fat man said. ‘He has the picture.’ And he might have been talking about the young ruffian, but Farry had the awful picture as well, clear in his mind.

‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please, have pity...’

Red’s grin grew, and he positively salivated. ‘Good lad,’ he whispered. ‘Nice lad. I knew you’d be a fine beggar, if we only gave you the opportunity.’

But fear had taken all of Farry’s pride and resolve. His eyes filled with tears, and he looked from the fat man’s calm and pitiless gaze to the white-faced young ruffian. ‘Please,’ he begged, ‘Please, no,’ and then he lifted his voice and began to shriek as loud as he could, ‘Help! Help me! Please! Help!’

He struggled against the gag, but the fat man soon had it tied in place, for one could scarcely lecture with such a disturbance going on.

‘Now, if the family are slow to pay,’ he continued, ‘we’ll do things decently and in order, just one token a day, to hurry them along in gathering the gold,’ he said, touching the appropriate places on Farry’s body as he spoke. ‘Ear first, and then thumbs, and then toes...’

‘That’s three days,’ Red informed the young ruffian. ‘And if you be sure to do your carving at the same hour each day, they come to know when it’s approaching, and it is diverting to watch their dread increase as the sun climbs in the sky.’

‘Very diverting,’ the fat man said dismissively, ‘and if three days is not sufficient, well, perhaps the eyes will hurry them along. You may take one eye a day, if you think they’ll require more time, or both at once.’

The young ruffian nodded again, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat. Perhaps chimney-sweeping was not such a dirty business after all. Cleaner than this, anyhow. But he’d made his bed... he knew that they’d never let him get away with his life, should he try to escape them.

‘And then the tongue,’ the fat man said, ‘and then, if the guest has been pleasant and cooperative, eager to please and not to offend, you might do him the kindness of cutting out his heart before you leave him for his penny-pinching relatives to find. Assuming, of course, that they’ve neglected to pay your wages for your time and trouble.’

‘Wages,’ Red chuckled. He loved a good jest.

Farry wanted to vomit, but the gag in his mouth made that a dismal prospect. He had no doubt that these cruel ruffians would allow him to choke on the unpleasant result, and the cloth in his mouth would end up tasting unbearably foul, and they’d leave it there to torment him further, at least until the moment came for them to take it out, to take his tongue.

‘Of course,’ the fat man went on, ‘if there’s treachery—if they should set a trap, to try to catch the one who goes to collect the gold—why, then it’s simple butchery. No need to spread the work over a week of days; you just take it all, and leave the wretch for his deceitful relatives to find.’

‘Deceitful is right,’ panted a new voice. Farry had squeezed his eyes shut, but now he opened them, to see the brawny man standing in the mouth of the cave. ‘They set a trap, by the Three-Farthing Stone.’

‘And...’ the fat man said delicately.

‘He’s dead,’ the brawny man said.

‘Well, then,’ Red said, reaching for his knife. ‘Let’s get started.’

***

Jay held up his hand, bringing his hobbits to a stop, and then he bent over, hands on his knees, panting for breath.

Mayor Samwise was not far behind, and he seemed in much better physical condition even than his Shirriff.

‘What is it?’ he said, puffing a bit, but not so out of breath that he couldn’t speak.

Jay took a few more gasping breaths and straightened. ‘Two of them,’ he said succinctly. ‘Look!’

Sam looked. ‘Two, coming towards the Stone,’ he confirmed. The footprints were different. ‘And one, going back.’

‘The paths cross here,’ the Shirriff said, regaining his breath. ‘But they weren’t travelling together, not if I’m reading the signs aright.’

‘Which do we follow?’ Sam said.

Jay took a moment to scratch his head. The decision was critical; a young hobbit’s life might hang in the balance. ‘It could be a trick. The second could be leading us away...’ he said.

‘Or the ruffians have moved,’ Sam said. ‘Or there are two groups of ruffians.’ He looked troubled. ‘But that would be a greater failing on the part of the Northern Rangers than I’d like to imagine.’

‘What do we do, then?’ Jay asked. The Mayor'd had more dealings with Men than the Shirriff had, even with the Battle of Bywater in Jay's experience.

‘We’ll split the group,’ Sam decided. He motioned the others to gather around, quickly dividing them evenly according to weapons and ability. He’d lead one group, and Jay would lead the other, and perhaps they’d meet somewhere beyond.

‘Good hunting,’ Sam said in parting.

Jay raised a hand. ‘And you,’ he said, and then he let his hand fall, and he was off at a slow run, just slow enough to keep the footprints in view, and his followers on his heels watching ahead, wary of traps.

Sam waved his own hobbits into motion, and nose nearly to the ground, with those behind him looking ahead of them, to watch for ruffians’ tricks, he ran.

***

‘No,’ the fat man countered, unexpectedly, and he took up Red’s knife before the younger brother could. ‘We have to keep this one alive, long enough to cross over the Bounds.’

‘But,’ Red said, ‘they have to be punished! They’re not playing the game as it ought to be played!’

‘They’re hobbits,’ the fat man said. ‘They most like don’t even know the rules. No, there’s a reason for what we do here, and ransom is not what we’re after.’

‘It’s not?’ Red and the youngest ruffian said together, in matching surprise.

‘No,’ the fat man said. ‘No, what we need from this young son of the Thain is protection, and diversion.’

‘Diversion,’ Red said slowly.

‘Not as you mean, little brother,’ the fat man said. ‘We’re not talking about your whiling away the hours with a little pleasant knife-work. No, we’re talking about diverting the Thain from his purpose, distracting the hobbits with rage and grief, from thinking clearly, from realising where we are, and where we’re bound.’

He spat. ‘We don’t want to risk a blood trail. There’ll be no cutting of ears or toes, or thumbs, for that matter.’

‘But there will be knife-work,’ Red said, a little anxiously.

Farry too was anxious, for related reasons, and he held his breath to listen.

The fat man smiled and held the knife out—to the young ruffian. ‘You’ll take out his eyes, and his tongue, as you’ve been instructed,’ he said. ‘Take the eyes first, and if he doesn’t faint from it, you’ll have to give him a rap with the hilt of the knife, right about here,’ he indicated the place on Farry’s head with the knife’s hilt, ‘stun him just long enough to relax his jaw, not hard enough to crack his skull, of course.’

‘Why him?’ Red cried in frustration.

‘Because, little brother, you and I will be preparing to fetch our fortune,’ the fat man said, ‘for we need to make torches—there are none in this little cave, for some reason. We’ll have to cut some saplings in the copse there, and rub oil into cloths and wrap the heads.’  Then he turned to the young ruffian, to say, ‘Write out the last note you learned, the one to be sent when there’s been treachery, and then take our young guest, find a secluded spot not far away to do the deed.’

‘Why not in the cave?’ the young ruffian said, trying to keep his mind occupied with practical matters, details other than the terrible thing he was about to do.

‘Don’t want to risk spooking the ponies,’ the fat man said. ‘They’ll be carrying heavy loads soon; we don’t want a panic at the smell of blood, perhaps have one of them injure herself. That young one is enough of a fighter already. Here, now,’ he went on, digging out a large and not-very-clean handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Wrap up the parts in this...’ The young ruffian took the cloth, bundling it quickly into his own pocket without thinking, listening to the fat man’s continued instructions. ‘Bring it all back to our well-muscled friend, here,’ and the brawny man grunted, from where he sprawled on the piled cloaks, resting from his labours, ‘and he’ll take it and leave it where it can be found and brought to the Thain. While he’s dithering over it, we’ll be making our way out of the Shire...’

The fat man carefully tore another section from the Shire-map he carried and handed it to the young ruffian, then busied himself among the packs. The note was quick to write, easy enough, save for the horrified eyes that silently watched each letter as he formed it. The young ruffian sighed and rubbed the cramp from his hand after he laid down the pen, not looking at Farry. The fat man read the note over, nodded in satisfaction, and set the note down, with a rock over it in the event the breeze might come up. Wouldn't want to take any chances, have the note blow away, have to tear another section from the dwindling map to replace it. The young ruffian took up Red's knife and tested the edge of the blade. It was as sharp as any edge he'd ever known.

The hobbit child struggled and protested as well as he could, bound hand and foot and gagged, but the young ruffian slid the knife into his boot, to free both his hands, and lifted Farry without much trouble, bearing him away.

The young ruffian moved around the base of the great hill, finding at last a sheltered place, a grassy dip, with thornbushes screening three sides, and he laid the young hobbit down, and then he took himself off behind the brambles, for some reason, perhaps a call of nature.

There was no way of escape for Farry, of course, bound hand and foot as he was. He might worm himself a short distance before the ruffian returned, but he wouldn’t get far.

Farry was breathing rapidly, dizzy with fear, but as he looked up at the bulk of the hill looming above them, hoping against hope to see hobbits coming for him, his eyes widened in recognition. He knew this place! “Hoard Hill” it was, where previous Thains had kept their treasure, of old, until Ferumbras (perhaps on Lalia’s urging, or perhaps with the increase in strangers in the Shire in his last years as Thain) had removed all to the fastness of the Great Smials.

But the old storehole had not gone unused, in later years. Farry’s father had found it an excellent place to keep the Tookland’s supplies of black powder, the secret of which Gandalf had given King Elessar, before he departed over the Sea, that the beauty of fireworks might not be lost for ever from Middle-earth. And the King, after giving a great deal of thought to the matter, had entrusted his friends and Counsellors to the North Kingdom with the secret, for their love of wonder, and their delving. The Shire engineers had learned, after initial suspicion, to use the stuff, and now large dwellings and storeholes could be delved in a fraction of the time needed previously.

If the ruffians were to enter the upper storehole, a little more than halfway up the great hill, with torches...

Farry’s head cleared and suddenly he felt steady, cold and steady. They were going to do this terrible thing, the ruffians were, and their life or death was in his hands. He could speak, and spare them, or he could remain silent.

They were going to cut out his tongue anyhow, he argued with himself. They were going to put out his eyes, and torment his father with the results.

But if he did not speak, when the young ruffian removed the gag, would he be any better than the ruffians? Would he not be a murderer, by omission?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He must think. He was about to die, he was sure of it, and what did he want on his conscience, when he died? Would they welcome a murderer at the Feast?

...but his Uncle Ferdi had killed a ruffian, in the Troubles, he argued with himself. And hobbits had killed Men in the Battle of Bywater. But Frodo Baggins had stopped hobbits from killing unarmed men.

These Men were pitiless, Farry thought to himself. They were evil. It would be fitting for them to be blotted out in their greed. They would be the agents of their own destruction.

Farry, himself, would be destroyed with them, no doubt. But if he spoke, to warn them, they would destroy him anyhow.

With difficulty, he decided to remain silent.

As it turned out, he had no chance to speak. The young ruffian returned, wiping his mouth, having evidently been sick at what he’d been asked to do, and crouching down before Farry, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, lad. I... I don’t want to do this. I wish...’

Then don’t! Farry willed, staring into the eyes that gazed so earnestly into his.

The young ruffian seemed to read the words in Farry’s eyes, for he dropped his gaze and then raised it again, to stare steadfastly into the eyes he was about to plunder. ‘I must,’ he said, ‘for you see, if I were to let you go, they’d take my eyes and tongue, and wrap them in a cloth, and send them in a note to your father, saying they were yours...’

He took a shuddering breath and raised the knife, and Farry, despite his resolve, flinched away. But the young ruffian reversed the knife, holding the blade between his fingers, hefting the knife as if feeling its weight. ‘You won’t feel anything,’ he said thinly. ‘Not a thing. I promise you that, at least. It’s all I can do...’

He put a restraining knee on Farry’s chest, took hold of Farry’s chin with a firm hand, and took aim. Farry could not help closing his eyes as the knife came down... and then darkness took him.

***

The young hobbit lay limp before him, but still the young ruffian hesitated. The sun shone down on him, accusing, flooding the hollow with light. The birds had ceased their singing as if horrified by what was about to happen. ‘I must,’ he whispered. Swallowing hard, setting his jaw, steeling himself, he moved to begin... and froze.

There was a thrashing noise in the thornbushes, not far away. He hadn’t noticed it before, but in the silence it intruded on his concentration.

He sat back, and then leaned forward to try again, but his hand was shaking. ‘I cannot,’ he whispered, and sudden tears came to his eyes. Perhaps he could take the young hobbit, get away somehow... but Red would come after them. He’d find them, and extract a terrible revenge. And the young hobbit would suffer worse, much worse.

The thrashing noise came again, and he pushed himself to his feet, telling himself that he needed to look into the matter. Perhaps there were hobbits closing in, and he must run back to the cave to warn the others. It was as good an excuse as any. He’d be running out of time soon, and if Red came looking and found the job not yet done...

There was a lamb, of all things, in the thornbushes. A mute lamb, it seemed, for the poor thing thrashed pitifully, staring at him with pleading eyes, opening its little mouth in a silent b-a-a-a-a-a.

‘Poor little fellow,’ the young ruffian said. He moved to free the lamb, though what it would do without its mam was beyond him. Perhaps they could carry it with them, roast it after they passed the Bounds of the Shire, once it was safe once more to kindle fire.

And then the thought struck him, and he sucked in his breath. Could he do it? Could he make it work? Would the fat man believe the deception?

Chapter 27. In which a Took takes a hint

This chapter is milder than the previous two, but still PG.

Summary, as promised: In Chapter 25, Woodruff, having come down with a high fever, interrupted Ferdi’s burial, insisting that she be lowered into the grave to check for a heartbeat. While in the middle of this endeavour, she fainted and was borne away, and the burial resumed. Meanwhile, Sam’s part of the muster found the club-wielder’s back trail and began to follow it in hopes of finding the rest of the ruffians, and Farry. Eventually they found that there were two ruffians at the Three-Farthing Stone, and so they split up to pursue both trails. At the same time, Farry was being used as a visual aid in a lecture on how to cut up kidnap victims (lecture only, demonstration to follow).

The lecture continued in Chapter 26, and upon its conclusion the youngest ruffian was ordered to take certain “tokens” from Farry, to be left where hobbits would find them and bring them to Farry’s father. The plan was to distract the Thain with grief and horror, affecting his ability to lead a muster, allowing the ruffians to make their escape. However, the young ruffian, finding a stray lamb stranded in some thorn bushes, was at the chapter’s end considering a substitute for the requisite items...

Just when Regi thought things were going smoothly, the line moving and the white of the shroud once more disappearing beneath a steady fall of earth, he saw a ripple in the crowd. Once more someone was moving against the flow, thrusting through the bodies with more determination than politeness. Once again the flow of mourners paused, swelled outside the gate to the burial ground as curious hobbits on their way to the feast turned around, curious. This had to be the most unusual leave-taking since the death of old Gerontius! (Not counting Lalia, of course. No one wanted to speak ill of the dead, after all.)

He was mortified to see that the interruption came, this time, by the hand of his own wife.

‘Rosa!’ he said. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘I have to know,’ she gasped, in eerie echo of the head healer. ‘I was thinking, walking back to the Smials... She’s out of her head, certainly, but she revived and begged to know if it were true. “If what were true?” I asked her, but she kept begging. I asked her what put the thought into her head. She never did say... but what if...?’

She paled and swallowed hard at the awfulness of the unspoken thought, and then she swayed, lifting a hand to her forehead.

‘You’re not about to faint, are you?’ Regi asked, somewhat acidly. It was all he needed; his own wife disrupting Ferdi’s laying to rest.

‘No,’ Rosamunda said uncertainly, but then she straightened, and in the next moment, before Regi could stop her, she’d seized the rope that one of the gravediggers still held, told the astounded hobbit to hold firm, and began to lower herself into the grave, calling Ferdi’s name!

The curious mourners crowded closer, the ones at the edge of the grave in danger of being pushed over, as a matter of fact. Regi bawled for order, told everyone to take a step back, and such was his tone that they did, pushing back those others who crowded behind them... but they still craned to see.

Rosamunda straddled the body, and was sweeping away the earth from Ferdi’s upper regions. ‘Ferdi!’ she cried again. ‘Ferdi! Do you hear me?’

And from within the shroud, the partly-buried hobbit answered clearly, sounding quite put out for some reason. ‘I’ve ears, haven’t I?’

Fully a score of hobbit mums and lasses swooned, then, some of them barely restrained from falling into the grave, and pandemonium reigned.

Rosamunda brushed away the last of the dirt from Ferdi’s head and pulled the shroud away from his face, but his eyes were closed and she wondered if it had been a trick of some sort. Perhaps some wit, above, had made it sound as if Ferdi had spoken. She pulled the edges of the shroud further apart, and laid her head upon Ferdi’s bared breast, and silence fell once more.

Regi found he was holding his breath as his wife lay unmoving. Was everyone who touched the body bewitched?

But then Rosamunda raised her head, her cheek streaked with dirt that had found its way through undone shroud and loosened clothing. ‘His heart, it’s beating,’ she said in an awed voice. ‘He’s breathing, oh, ever so slightly, but he’s breathing... I think he’s fainted.’

Him, too, someone muttered. Seems to be a lot of it about.

Regi restrained himself from jumping into the grave; he contented himself with organising Ferdi’s removal. It was rather complicated by the fact that his healer-wife would not let them merely fasten a rope around Ferdi under his arms, to haul him up rather like a sack of taters, as they had Woodruff, but insisted that he be brought up lying flat and well-supported.

It was quick work to commandeer a number of cloaks and coats from the surrounding hobbits, a soft bed of sorts to lay him on, to keep him from the further chill of the ground, and more to cover him, while yet another litter was sent for.

***

Farry awakened to the sickening taste of fresh blood. The gag was in place, and the beginning of his ruin was accomplished. He was surprised, at first, to open his eyes and see, for the ruffian chief had been very clear as to the proper order of doings. He blinked his eyes, dreading the sight he’d see—perhaps the young ruffian’s thumb, hovering above him, ready to press out one of his eyes.

But the young ruffian’s back was turned to him, and he seemed to be just about finished burying something. Farry flinched away as the young Man turned around, and then his eye fell upon a grisly sight beside him... a blood-soaked pocket-handkerchief, bearing a severed tongue, dark and bloody, and...

Farry’s surroundings spun about him, and he thought he would faint. His tongue, it was, and that was the taste of blood in his mouth, and yet there was no pain. He didn’t know why there’d be no pain. He’d bitten his tongue, a time or two, and he had been expecting to waken blind and in agony.

But beside the tongue were, horribly, two eyeballs, one turned as if it were staring at him in silent reproach.

Farry blinked, hard. Yes. He was seeing. He had his eyes. But how?

‘There,’ the young ruffian said, scrubbing his hands on his not-at-all-clean trousers. ‘The scavengers will probably dig him up again, poor lamb, but at least the carrion birds won’t be circling round anytime soon to give us away.’

Farry stared, sick and uncomprehending. Who was dead and buried? Whose eyes...?

He cringed as the young ruffian crouched beside him, laying a gentle palm on his shoulder before turning away to clean the bloody knife with a corner of the handkerchief. ‘There,’ the Man said, slipping the knife into his boot to free his hands, and then he tied up the horrible “tokens” so that the eye no longer stared at Farry. And yet the blood, soaking through... and the blood, in his mouth... Unconsciously he pushed at the gag with his tongue, and realised for the first time that he still had a tongue, apparently intact.
 
Seeing the young hobbit’s grimace, the ruffian said, ‘Lamb’s blood. I had to make it look as if it was yours, don’t you see? And now I must cover your eyes, or they’ll know...’

Farry stared at him in confusion, scarcely daring to hope. Could this ruffian have turned against the others? Was he taking Farry’s part? And what did he mean, “lamb’s blood”?

‘I’m sorry,’ the ruffian said, and he brought a torn and dirty cloth to Farry’s face, blotting out the world, and Farry felt it drawn tight behind his head, and a knot tied. The ruffian whispered, as his fingers completed their work, ‘You keep this on, and don’t weep—the tears will give you away; and if you make any sound at all, make it a moan, a tongue-less noise, do you understand? And don’t push at the gag...’

Farry managed to nod. He felt his shoulder squeezed, and then the ruffian was saying, loud enough to make him jump, ‘Here it is... take it.’

‘So fine and fancy we are,’ the brawny man was heard to say, with heavy irony. ‘It’s not customary to bandage them when you’re done...’

‘No blood trail, he said,’ the young ruffian said in a sullen tone. ‘And I couldn’t bear the sight, nothing looking out where those bright eyes had been, and I the one to have blown out the lights!’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ the brawny man said.

‘I hope I never do,’ the young ruffian muttered under his breath, and only Farry heard the words, evidently, for the brawny man said, ‘What was that?’

‘How long did it take you to get used to it?’

The brawny man laughed. ‘I’ve lost count, laddie. Too many ago, it was. They all begin to look the same, when you’ve done enough of them. Our friend likes to put a polish on it all, call them “guests”, make them as comfortable as may be, to put them at their ease, at first—makes them offer much less trouble, I’ll admit. But I could never look at them as men, or women, or little children, and still do my part! I had to learn to see them for the gold they could bring, and naught else. My advice to you is to look on them as a butcher looks upon his next task. Why, if he had feelings for little lambies he’d lose his livelihood!’

‘You can say that again,’ the young ruffian said, his tone less grudging. It had been difficult to slaughter the young lamb, weak as it was; to dip the gag-cloth in the blood, to stuff it in the hobbit child’s mouth, and then to take the still-warm tongue from the carcase, and then to gouge out the glazing eyes.

‘Here, give me Red’s knife,’ the brawny man said. ‘He was that put out, you know, having honed it to such a lovely finish, and then not have the chance to use it himself. I’ll save you the trouble of returning it to him.’

‘Thanks,’ the young ruffian said.

Farry then heard footsteps, moving away, and then he was lifted. ‘Remember!’ the young ruffian hissed in his ear, and he nodded to show his understanding.

Chapter 28. In which a private grief is interrupted

And so they bore the nearly departed hobbit back to the Great Smials, accompanied by all the erstwhile mourners—who’d been quite overcome by events. Ferdi they brought back to his bed, where his wife was recovering—she was so overcome that she fainted again, but her joy was so great upon being revived that it didn’t seem to matter. The rest of the hobbits, or most of them anyhow, retired to the great room, to stuff themselves with funereal food and revive themselves with gossip and speculation.

Rosamunda sent for her father, Mardibold—who’d been Woodruff’s first apprentice, and thus had a great deal of healing experience and wisdom. He had not been feeling well. It was the anniversary of his beloved wife’s death, ten years and a day earlier, and he’d not had the heart for feasting, or burying, either.

He went over Ferdibrand’s head with delicacy and care, humming softly to himself all the while, watched breathlessly by Nell and all the children, who would not be shooed from the room, and Regi and Rosamunda, while others hovered in the doorway and trailed down the hall, all the way to the doors of the great room where the unburial feast was being served.

Mardi peeled back Ferdi’s eyelids and looked deeply, he tested Ferdi’s reflexes, he went over the hobbit’s head again, he spoke to Ferdi, but received no answer.

‘He spoke to you, Rosa?’ he said.

‘He did!’ Rosamunda said, remembering how startled she’d been. She’d felt, for a moment, as if she were going to faint—but that wouldn’t have helped matters any, and so she’d taken a firm grip and given herself a stern talking-to.

‘What did he say?’ Mardi asked.

‘He said he had ears,’ Rosa replied, feeling rather stupid.

Mardi nodded, sitting back. ‘He does,’ he agreed.

‘Well?’ Regi said. He had an arm around Pimpernel, and she was quivering with joy, and dread, all in one.

‘Well, he’s had such a knock on his noggin as to send him to the Feast,’ Mardi said, ‘especially considering all the previous abuse his head has taken, what with the Battle of Bywater, and that pony race where he was nearly trampled to death, and...’

‘So he’s going to die anyhow?’ young Rudi said in horror.

‘Well,’ Mardi said slowly, ‘that’s rather up to him. It seems he wasn’t too accommodating when his invitation arrived.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s a wonder to me that he’s alive, considering the circumstances...’

‘He was already booked up,’ Rosa said, looking to Pimpernel. ‘He has a Naming Day on the morrow, in the diary.’

‘And from what I’ve heard, the little lass hasn’t a name at all, is that right?’ Mardi said. ‘He couldn’t take his leave, and let her go through the rest of her life, nameless!’

Pimpernel gave a sobbing laugh, and fell to her knees beside the bed, seizing Ferdi’s near hand and pressing it to her cheek.

Ferdi stirred slightly, to Mardi’s great surprise. ‘Nell?’ he whispered. ‘My... Nell?’

They had to restrain the children from throwing themselves on the bed, but Nell fervently kissed Ferdi’s hand and quavered, ‘I’m here, my love.’

The injured hobbit smiled briefly, and then he said, ‘Tired, Nell-my-own. So very tired. Think I’ll sleep a bit.’

‘You do that,’ Mardi said, patting Ferdi on the shoulder.

‘Nell?’ Ferdi said. ‘Do you have a cold? You don’t sound like yourself.’

Caught between laughter and tears, Pimpernel rose, placed her hands lightly on either side of Ferdi’s face, and kissed him thoroughly.

When she rose from the kiss, Ferdi slept, it seemed, but there was a smile on his face, indeed.

***

The brawny man hadn’t been expecting to run into a muster of hobbits this far to the South. The ruffians had miscalculated, and badly, that the hobbits would be seeking some way to the North, from where the first note was left, all the way to the Three-Farthing Stone. He was to have terrorised the hobbits of an isolated smial, some way to the South of where the first note was left, to indicate to the Thain and his captains that the ruffians were making their way to the southern bounds of the Shire. Yes, he was to have frightened the hobbits, given them a clear message along with the tokens and the note, and made his escape.

But he hadn’t even reached the smial they’d chosen from the map, when there had been shouts, and galloping ponies, and though he’d flung the packet away and tried to run...

An unlucky arrow had caught him in the calf of the leg, bringing him down. And now he stood before the Thain and a gathering number of grim-faced followers. And for the first time, facing hobbits, he truly knew fear.

He hadn’t been that afraid, at the Battle of Bywater. The hobbits’d had the advantage, there, of numbers, and of surprise, and of tactical position, firing down upon the ruffians. And one cowardly fellow among them, for some reason a leader though the brawny man couldn’t imagine why, had gone about spoiling the aim of those who were shooting the ruffians who’d laid down their weapons to surrender. Since the brawny man had seen early on which way the wind was blowing, he’d not gone mad like those who climbed the walls, murder in their hearts. He’d sat down, when he saw the battle going against them, and the cowardly hobbit had saved him from being skewered.

He’d slunk out of the Shire, tail between his legs, with the rest of them, but not because he feared hobbits.

But now...

And then a hunter came to the Thain. ‘This is what he threw away,’ he said, proffering a rough-sewn sack of goatskin.

‘Thank you, Raolf,’ the leader said, taking the sack, undoing the knot with cold precision.

The brawny man wanted to protest; he wanted to sink into the earth, let it cover him, he wanted to slink away, but they’d bound him with ropes as the hunters had searched his back trail for what some of the sharp-eyed among the hobbits had seen, as he fled them.

The hobbit leader opened the bag, and was stopped by his closest companion, a hobbit of equal stature. ‘Pip, no. Let me.’

‘He’s my son, Merry.’

And the brawny man realised in that moment that he faced the heroes of Bywater, the hobbits who’d thrown him and his ilk out of the Shire.

The hobbit leader lifted the blood-stained handkerchief out of the bag, and cradling it against his chest, he handed the bag to Merry. ‘There’s a note,’ he said. And then he turned to the cloth he held, undoing the knots that the brawny man had done up only an hour, perhaps less than an hour, earlier.

‘Don’t,’ the brawny man whispered involuntarily, starting forward in his captors’ grip.

The hobbit leader looked up, and the brawny man’s death was in his eyes. ‘You know what this is?’ he grated, and then he shook his head. ‘Of course you do.’

He turned his attention back to the knots, but when he pulled back one of the corners, when he saw the contents, he gave a wail, an eerie, keening sound, flinging the handkerchief and its grisly burden down.

The brawny man had never seen this side of it before. He’d never seen a father receive word of his son. He’d left off plenty of tokens in his day, true, but he’d never waited to see the result.

Merry, having held the bag without looking at the note, bent to pick up the horrid “message”, but Pippin thrust him aside, to snatch it up as quickly as he’d thrown it down.

‘No,’ he said brokenly, and taking the bag from Merry, he gently laid the grisly bundle to rest once more, pulling the drawstring tight, tying a knot, thrusting the whole under his jacket, to rest beside his heart. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll collect all that’s to be found, and bury him, as much of him, as they’ve left us... and may his dreams be peaceful ones. I can only hope...’

And then he straightened his shoulders, recalled to the present moment, and lifted his head.

And the brawny man had never known such fear, ever before, in all his life.

***

They entered a cave, Farry thought. With his eyes covered he had to use all his other senses, and strained to exhaustion, it was difficult to concentrate, or even to care. He hadn’t been paying all that much attention as the young ruffian carried him. But he thought they’d entered a cave, for the bright warmth of the sun on his skin was taken away, and he smelled the cool clamminess of earth and stone.

Was he about to die in bright flame and shocking violence? He stiffened in anticipation of the explosion that must come about when the ruffians opened the first cask and bent to see the contents, bringing their torches closer.

And then he smelled pony-smell, and he knew which cave he was in. But wait... perhaps they’d brought the ponies up the hill to the storehole?

He heard Red’s snarl and the fat man’s rumbling answer, but not the brawny man’s voice. That one was gone, already, then.

And then the fat man said, ‘You stay here and watch him. Keep him bound... we don’t want him crawling away, little worm, not, at least, until we’ve crossed the bounds.’

‘Not even then,’ Red whined. ‘You promised to tell me when we don’t need him any more.’

‘I promised, little brother,’ the fat man said, sounding amused, and relaxed, as if he already had his heart’s desire, safe beyond the guardsmen’s reach, and could laugh at his former troubles.

‘After all, things must be done in decent order,’ Red said, imitating the fat man’s ponderous lecturing, and Farry’s hairs stood up on the back of his neck. ‘You said, “no blood trail” and so weren’t able to treat him proper, as he was due, but I intend to make up for all that was lacking, once we’re free...’

The young ruffian’s hand squeezed Farry’s arm in reassurance, and the young hobbit remembered the whispered promises, after the brawny man left them. ‘...and when Red’s on watch, I’ll give you a pinch to let you know, and you’ll creep away, and lose yourself as a hobbit can, for he always falls asleep on watch and he’ll have no one to blame but himself...’

But what good would such plans be, if they were all blown to pieces?

Yet he could not risk telling the young ruffian, not when he could not see... What if Red had come up to them, suddenly and silently, as Farry was being borne along?

But now, Farry had a glimmer of hope. He and the young ruffian were to stay here, in the shelter of the travellers’ rest, while the others took their torches up to the storage hole, where the Thain’s hoard of black powder waited.

And the ponies, too! With growing excitement, Farry heard the fat man order Red to “leave the ponies, until we see what we’re dealing with...”

He reached to grasp the young ruffian’s arm, holding tight.

He heard Red laugh, and realised the terrible ruffian had been watching him, for the man said, ‘That’s right, you cling to your minder, little one! He’ll keep you safe... at least a little longer. And when we win free, perhaps we’ll have him cut off your thumbs, as a reward.’

Farry shrank away from the soft warmth that was the young ruffian, pressing himself against the cold rock of the cave, and heard Red’s derisive laughter.

Laugh, you, he thought coldly, much too coldly for one of his tender years. We’ll see who has the last laugh.

Chapter 29. In which a Took contemplates the unthinkable

Meadowsweet was finally able to pry the children from Ferdi’s side, for it was clear to her mother’s eye that these young ones were all but hollow inside, and yet it would hardly be meet to force Nell from her husband's side. Nell urged them to go, though she retained the babe, and sat down upon the bed to nurse the little lass.

Ferdi woke briefly, stirred perhaps by an especially loud smack, for he smiled and murmured, ‘How I love that sound...’ and then fell silent once more. Nell watched, a little anxiously, until she saw his breast rise and fall. Yes. Her Ferdi was breathing, though the breaths were so shallow they were difficult to perceive, even in the now well-lighted bedroom.

When Little Lass was satisfied, Rosamunda bore her away, to have her nappie changed and to be laid down in a borrowed cradle—recently vacated by Meadowsweet’s youngest—for there was some work to be done at hand in Ferdi and Nell’s bedroom. Rosamunda returned shortly, Mardi with her, and between the two healers and Ferdi’s wife, they managed to strip Ferdi’s “fancy togs” away without disturbing his rest, and they wiped away the traces of earth that clung to him, that might itch or otherwise irritate him, and they clad him in a night-shirt and eased the bedcovers over him.

Nell ate the meal that Meadowsweet brought her, sitting next to Ferdi once more. ‘Do you think he ought to eat something?’ she said, rather anxiously, to Mardi, who was giving Rosamunda a series of instructions in a low voice.

‘He needs his rest, more,’ Mardi said. ‘Such a blow to the head... if he tried to eat, likely he’d just bring it up again. No, we’ll let his brains settle back into place for a few hours. If he wakens, complaining of head ache, give him a dose of willow-bark tea, and call for me in the morning, if not before. I’ll be stopping the night with Regi and Rosa, so I won’t be far off if I’m needed.’

Nell nodded, not quite reassured, but when she finished her meal, Rosamunda took her plate away and persuaded her to stretch out beside her husband for a little rest of her own. Nell snuggled close to Ferdi, and put her arms around him, and laid her head against him, for the first time wondering about the muster, and whether Pippin had yet tracked down the ruffians who had nearly taken her Ferdi for ever away.

‘Farry...’ Ferdi murmured, and looked as if he were trying to raise himself up, and failing.

‘He’s well, and safe,’ Nell said, raising her head to look into her beloved’s face, and soothing his brow with a gentle hand. ‘Sleep, now, my love.’

Ferdi seemed to settle lower in the pillows, and after watching him a few moments more, Nell laid her head down again and gave herself up to sleep.

***

‘Sir,’ Tolly said at Pippin’s elbow. ‘Do we follow his back trail, then, or...?’

‘From what he carried, we know that he was recently in Farry’s company,’ Pippin said between his teeth. ‘The blood was still red, and fresh. It must have been within the last hour or two, that...’

‘What shall we do with him?’ Merry said, his hand on his sword.

‘I’d like to tear out his tongue with my own hands,’ Pippin said, staring into the eyes of the kneeling ruffian. ‘And put out those eyes, slowly, ever so slowly, just as they most likely tormented my little lad... but I won’t.’

And seeing the brawny man relax, slightly, a wintry smile played across the Thain’s features. ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘not yet, anyhow.’

‘Not yet?’ Merry said, looking from the ruffian to Pippin.

‘I know how you work,’ Pippin said, his gaze boring straight into the ruffian’s eyes. ‘I know that dread and horrid anticipation are some of the coin your type deals in, and so I intend to pay you some of your due with your own wergeld.’

I don’t understand, thought the brawny man, but the hobbit’s smile chilled him to the bone.

‘You will,’ the Thain said, as if he’d heard the unspoken thought. ‘Your eyes we’ll leave to the last, that you may stand witness to your punishment, and your tongue, that you may cry your remorse, if you’re even capable of it... but all that can wait until we’ve reclaimed what’s left of my son. And on the way my kinfolk and I will discuss just what parts a man may live without... and when we’re finished with you, you’ll be no more than a husk, a shell, suited, perhaps, to beg at the King’s gate, living—if you can call it that—on the scraps that soft-hearted travellers fling in your direction.’

‘My lord,’ the brawny man whispered, stricken with horror at this picture that he could see in his mind’s eye, all too clearly. Pippin, who had started to turn away, turned back, and the brawny man gathered his shreds of nerve. ‘It wasn’t I,’ he whispered.

‘You didn’t do this thing? ...but you were a part of it,’ Pippin said.

‘I—’ the brawny man said, but the Thain shook his head, threw his cloak over his shoulder, and turned away.

‘Pippin?’ Merry said, falling into step as his cousin stalked to where the ponies waited. ‘Would you—truly—do this thing?’ He was horrified, and yet...

‘If it were your son, Merry?’ Pippin said, not looking at him.

‘But... what it will do to your soul,’ Merry said, ‘to those who ride with us, who should witness such...’ He was breathing shallowly, and gulping down his nausea. ‘Frodo...’

‘Don’t you dare to speak of Frodo to me,’ Pippin flared, ‘for I fear only too well what he would say, what he’d do...’

‘That he’d let this ruffian go on, to cause more misery?’ Merry said.

‘As he did Saruman,’ Pippin said. ‘And those ruffians at Bywater, he let them go, and this man among them...’

Merry stopped, thunderstruck. ‘You recognise him?’ he said. ‘You know him, after all these years?’

Pippin lifted his head to the sky, rolling his shoulders back and taking a deep breath. ‘I remember him, among others,’ he said. ‘There is a brand on his hand, a mark of Gondor’s justice. I was on duty; I saw the man branded, a day or two after the Coronation—his was one of the first cases Strider judged. It made a great impression on me, and I remembered him, in the aftermath of the battle. Tolly was about to shoot him, though he was weaponless, and I shouted, but he didn’t hear me, and then Frodo was there, spoiling Tolly’s aim. And if I had not shouted, if Frodo had not acted as he did, I might still have a son...’

‘O Pip, no...’ Merry breathed. ‘Vengeance will destroy you along with your enemies; don’t you remember what Strider said, when he pardoned the Easterlings and the Haradrim? Seek after justice, certainly, but do not pursue vengeance... Frodo mulled over his words long after, and talked the matter over with me, when I came to him, to ask him what it meant. I think he truly did understand, for Saruman called him wise... but he also called him cruel...’

He gazed at Pippin, who stared stonily at the ground, and added, 'and justice came to Saruman, in any event. Frodo might have let him go, but he'd already laid the foundation for his death, in the things he goaded his follower, poor dreadful Grima, to do.'

‘What would you have me then do, Merry?’ Pippin hissed, frustrated.

‘If you insist upon this, then let mine be the hand to do the deed,’ Merry said. ‘I won’t stand by and watch you sow the seeds of your own destruction, cousin.’

Pippin stared at him, perplexed, but before he could answer several of the hunters were pointing, and looking, Merry and Pippin saw the top of one of the great hills shuddering, dissolving into a great black rolling cloud that climbed rapidly towards the heavens, and in the next seconds a mighty rushing wind blasted them from their feet, and their ears were deafened by a roar.

And then all was silence.

***

‘What was that?’ Jay gasped, raising his head from where he’d cast himself, full-length, on the ground. ‘A dragon?’

‘A thousand dragons, maybe,’ someone else said, awed.

‘I think perhaps the Thain’s engineers won’t be doing much delving at all, in the near future,’ Sam said. His group had rejoined Jay’s, not long ago, when the two trails had converged once more. ‘It appears that their entire store of black powder has just gone up in smoke.’

He shook his head as he got to his feet. They didn’t need to follow the ruffians’ tracks any longer, he thought. The trail led directly to the tortured mountain ahead of them, its top blown away by the violence of the blast, smoke still roiling upwards.

If Farry had been in the ruffians’ grasp, when all that powder went up, well, there probably wouldn’t be enough left of the lad to fill his mother’s thimble.

A/N: One last cliffhanger, for the Birthday Person, but this *is* the last of those things in this story, I promise.

Chapter 30. In which a private vengeance is interrupted

The very earth had shaken beneath them, and Farry and the young ruffian had clung to one another, and Farry had listened to the ponies shrieking their fear as the shallow cave of the “travellers’ rest” danced about them.

He’d expected to be deafened, for he’d heard black powder set off, in the past, when his father had taken him to watch the engineers at their diggings. But there was no boom, no sound* of a blast at all, and he wondered... perhaps this was one of those earth-shakes that Gimli had told about, at tea in the great room, on an earlier visit. Perhaps the fat man and his horrible brother had not yet reached the upper storehole. Perhaps the explosion was yet to come!

The thoughts kept tumbling over in Farry’s head, and he couldn’t stop them, nor could he seem to control his body, which kept on shaking after the ground stopped. Perhaps the earth-shake had brought down the hillside, and they were trapped in this little shallow cave, with limited air, and they’d suffocate, he and the man and the ponies. Or worse, perhaps the upper storehole was buried, and the frustrated ruffians would return here, to take out their disappointment on Farry...

There was a pattering as of rain, and the young ruffian got up from Farry’s side and left him. Farry kept the blindfold in place, and did not try to push the gag out of his mouth, to call a question, for fear of the fat man’s returning—or worse, Red’s. And so he did not see what the young ruffian saw: little pebbles, pieces of the hilltop, falling outside the mouth of the travellers’ rest, falling as a rain of rock and debris, a dark and deadly hailstorm.

It seemed an hour or more to the blind-folded hobbit, but at last the patter of “rain” tapered off, and then stopped, and the young ruffian returned from the cave mouth; Farry heard him soothing the ponies. And then he was at Farry’s side once more, and Farry felt himself lifted, cradled against the man’s chest, and carried.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ the young ruffian said. ‘An earth-shake, perhaps? But I think it’s time for us to take the ponies and make our escape, before the others return. It would be too much to hope that the earth-shake had caught them in the storehole and sealed them in...!’

Farry nodded against the ruffian’s chest, for he’d been thinking the same thoughts.

He grabbed at the man’s arm as he felt himself laid down. ‘Hush,’ the man said. ‘Steady. I’m just going to fetch the ponies. I just wanted to have you safely out of the way, in case they decide to run. They’re pretty frightened.’

...which was an understatement, to say the least. The young ruffian would much have preferred to wait until the ponies settled down, for he feared the younger mare, especially, might explode once he got her untied; but time pressed upon him, and he knew an unreasoning fear. He must escape, with the young hobbit. They must get away from this dark place, and quickly. Something awful was about to happen; he could feel it in his bones, in the cold chill that traced its way down his spine.

Farry held tight; he too felt a sense of impending dread. The young ruffian gently and patiently worked the hobbit child’s fingers free of his shirt. ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘This is not helping us to get away. Steady, and I’ll come back for you. You’ll sit one pony, and I’ll sit the other, though my legs hang down halfway to the ground...’

Farry did not smile at this proposed vision. He was trembling, and as the young ruffian loosed his hold, he’d grab for another.

But at last the man was able to break free and step away. ‘Steady,’ he said, his cautious, low tones receding. ‘I’ll be back before you know...’

***

It had taken precious time to sort out the ponies, who’d been badly frightened at the wave of violent wind, that had thrown them along with the mustered hobbits to the ground. At last they laid the brawny man, bound and helpless, over the back of one of the pack-ponies, and the Thain, hunters and select archers were mounted—some of these having to borrow ponies of their fellows, their own having been lamed in the disaster—and riding at speed towards the previous “Hoard Hill” while the rest followed more slowly.

It was all too plain, now, what the ruffians’ objective had been. Not the gold mine, nor the silver, nor even ransom... the ransom demand had been a distraction, to lead the hobbits away. Had it not been for the acute skill of the hunters, they’d have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

...Farry had likely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, Pippin thought grimly. Tears stung at his eyes, and not just from the haze of dust in the air. He was glad of the cloth he wore, over nose and mouth, that kept the worst of the dust from his lungs.

A part of him felt dull, and dead, knowing that if Farry had yet lived, horrible as it was to contemplate, maimed as he was, now there was not even the thinnest shred of hope for the lad.

But the will to vengeance drove him on, made him take the precaution at the healer’s—and Merry’s—insistence. He would survive, bad lungs and all, if only to see for himself that all the ruffians were dead along with his son.

***

‘Not long, now,’ Sam said. He was relieved when the dreadful hail stopped, small stones, and larger. They’d paused in a copse, cowering in the shelter of the trees, until the worst of it was past.

Of course the trail was covered under a “snowfall” of dust, dirt, and rock, but there was no doubt in their mind as to their destination.

Just what they’d do when they got there, that was where their doubts now lay. The ruffian whose boot prints they’d followed was undoubtedly no more in this world. Sam wondered if they’d even find a trace of the man, and any companions he might have had.

He didn’t want to think of Farry, of Pippin’s grief, and Diamond’s.

His thoughts went to the Lady, to that dark time in Mordor, when all he’d wished for was a little water, and a little light. And they’d got it!

He wondered if there were any chance She might be listening to him, all these years later, and on a far different quest, not one on which the future of Middle-earth hung, not exactly. But one very close to Samwise’s heart.

Please, he whispered, deep within himself. Not for my sake, mind, but for Farry’s. For Pippin’s. Yes, and for Master Merry’s as well...

***

Farry lay tense and shivering, feeling the roughness of the pebbled ground under him, listening with all that was in him. He was afraid to pull away the gag, to call out, and he could not bring himself to peek from under the blindfold. And the young ruffian had not even thought to unbind him; he was completely helpless.

The helpless feeling grew a thousand-fold as he heard a fearsome hiss, worse than a snake.

‘You...’

He gasped in horror, and then, paralysed with fear, stopped breathing altogether.

How? he wanted to beg. How did you survive? I thought that WE would not even survive...

But they had, somehow, and so, to his frozen panic and dismay, had Red.

***

Pimpernel woke abruptly at a murmur, her arms tightening on her Ferdibrand, yes, he was here beside her, he had not been taken away. She sat up, then, blinking, looking to where the sound had broken off.

Mardi stood in the doorway, with Rosamunda, who’d stayed to watch over Ferdi while Pimpernel slept.

‘Beg pardon, Nell,’ the old healer said, ‘but I’ve been called away. Seems as if something set off the Thain’s powder hoard—the explosion was heard all the way here, in the yard of the Great Smials, and there’s a dragonload of smoke in the sky.’

‘Pippin?’ Pimpernel said.

‘Now, lass, he wasn’t anywhere near the place, from what we know,’ Mardi said, though what they knew was very little. ‘The muster set out in an entirely different direction.’

Nell nodded, hardly reassured. She was no fool, even if she did tend towards fainting when events were more than she could bear.

‘Anyhow, in the event some wandering shepherd stumbled onto the storehole, somehow managed to get the door open, and decided to satisfy his curiosity, I’m going to ride out with a party of hobbits, to see if there’s anything to be done,’ Mardi said.

At Nell’s look of surprise, he laughed. ‘Yes, Nell,’ he said. ‘It’s the Ride of the Gaffers! But as we’re all that’s left in the Great Smials, with all the others mustered, well, we have to make do.’ He hugged Rosamunda, his daughter, sketched a bow towards the bed, and took his leave.

‘Muster?’ Ferdi whispered, and Nell turned instantly, and soothed his brow with cool fingers.

‘Shh, love, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

Ferdi murmured something incomprehensible, and Nell hushed him with another kiss.

When she sat up again, he slept, though a line of puzzlement, perhaps even worry, furrowed his brow.

***

It was uncomfortable, riding folded over a pony’s back, and watching the ground go by not far from his face was dizzying. The brawny man found himself retching as his stomach was jolted in the rough going.

He heard a pony come alongside, riding close, and then both his pony and the other stopped, and a hobbit was bending to address him. It was difficult to tell, with the cloth over the hobbit’s mouth and nose, but the brawny man thought it might be the one the Thain had called “Tolly”, who’d been given charge of keeping the ruffian from escaping.

Fat chance of that, the man thought. Trussed like a chicken, and tossed over the back of a pack-pony... Still, escape was a thought worth chewing over. He didn’t fancy waiting around for the Thain’s vengeance.

But he’d seen the look on the followers’ faces, when Pippin made his terrible pronouncement. Furious, the Tooks were, but some had paled, even so. He might work with that.

‘You still with us?’ the hobbit said. ‘Healer told us to stop and drink, before we cover the last stretch.’

Tolly and another hobbit lifted the brawny man’s upper torso, while another hobbit plied a waterskin, and the ruffian drank, thirstily and with gratitude.

If the hobbits were weak enough to offer him water, perhaps they might be persuaded to employ their much-vaunted mercy. They needed only to loosen his bonds and look away...

‘Thanks,’ he whispered. ‘Thanks, much.’

The water-hobbit nodded, replacing the stopper, and the other two laid the ruffian gently down again. The brawny man could hear the order given, to mount up again, but Tolly lingered by his side.

‘Tolly, was it?’ he ventured.

‘You know my name?’ the hobbit said in surprise, adding wryly, ‘I thought we all looked the same to your sort.’

‘Please, Tolly,’ the brawny man said. ‘Please, I wasn’t a part of it. I was only their messenger. They forced me to... They’d’ve murdered me, had I tried to leave them, to make my own way...’

‘Is that a fact,’ the hobbit said, seeming interested.

The brawny man’s heart leapt within him. ‘Yes!’ he hissed. ‘It is! That’s the way they work! Ah, if only I’d known, when I stumbled on their campfire, hungry and afraid and alone, if only I’d  known what sort they were! I’d’ve remained hungry and cold, and never thrown in my lot with them!’

The muster was moving out; seemingly it was just himself and Tolly, being left in their wake. He coughed a little as the ponies’ feet stirred up the fine dust again.

‘More water?’ Tolly asked.

The brawny man shook his head. ‘No, but please, if you could help me...?’

‘What would you have me do?’ Tolly asked, and the brawny man almost smiled. His freedom, it seemed, was nearly within his grasp.

***

A/N: The idea of “no sound” at the base of the hill that exploded comes from accounts of survivors of Mount Saint Helens’ eruption in May 1980. The sound wave passed high over their heads, and they knew nothing of the eruption until the heat blast overtook them. (Some who were camping in a sheltered valley didn’t even experience the heat blast, but for them, the sky turned black, and fine grey ash fell like snow, and when they tried to hike out, after they reached the edge of their protected pocket, they found the forest ripped apart and nearly impossible to traverse. This blast is obviously not so immense as that, but the principles of physics still apply. The sound wave did not reach the bottom of the hill, but passed outwards and away.)

Chapter 31. In which a rescue is interrupted (Warning: PG, at the least)

Farry was seized by cruel, ragged talons, with bruising force that felt as if the very bones of his arms were penetrated, and foul breath ghosted in his face, hot and reeking of blood.

‘You,’ Red said again, shaking the hobbit fiercely, but Farry bit down hard on the awful-tasting gag and made not a sound. ‘You... it’s all your doing. You knew!’

And Farry wondered how the ruffian knew that he knew, though it didn’t much matter in the long run. He was for it now, and his demise would be the thing of nightmares... though no nightmares would remain to him. He could only hope, when it was all over, that all his dreams would be peaceful ones, for he knew that the pain would be unbearable, and would go on for as long as Red could manage, and Farry could not even conceive what would happen to him, but what the fat man had described would be only the beginning of his sufferings.

The mad ruffian was babbling, his fingers opening and closing on Farry’s arms as he held the hobbit child suspended. ‘...make you pay,’ he gurgled, and Farry felt something wet and nasty spraying his face. It was Red’s blood, though he didn’t know it. The ruffian was burned and battered; the fat man had sent him out to fetch the ponies, after seeing the barrels and barrels lined up in the cavern, and the blast had rolled down over him, yet not with killing force.

He’d clawed his way back towards the cave, only to find the hillside blasted beyond recognition, and no sign of his brother. Gone. All gone in a flash of heat and light and smoke. The gold was gone, the fat man was gone, all was in ruin.

‘I’ll cut you to pieces,’ Red snarled, through teeth broken and bloody. ‘Slowly,’ he added. ‘O so slowly—had you a tongue you’d beg beautifully, not that it matters now...’

A detached part of Farry, standing off somehow from the terror, wondered how long it would take the ruffian to discover that he still—for the moment at least—retained tongue and eyes.

‘...and pull out your bowels, lovely ropes they make, you won’t need these bindings any more, for I’ll bind you hand and foot with your innards, and cut off your privates and stuff them down your throat, and...’

But suddenly Farry was flying through the air, and he landed hard and awkwardly, because of his bound hands and feet, shaking with reaction, hurting, confused.

There was a snarling sound nearby, and he thought of a dog-fight he’d seen, once, but hope had died in him, and he imagined, if wild dogs had attacked Red, either the dogs would win, and turn to tear Farry next, or Red would win... and Farry knew what would happen, then.

He couldn’t see it, to know that the youngest ruffian had returned from the cave, dropping the ponies' reins when he saw Red, and he’d run forward in a silent rush, grabbing at Farry, jerking him out of Red’s grasp, but the maddened Red was on him, sending Farry spinning to the ground as the two ruffians gripped each other like angry bears, striving for the advantage.

The young ruffian was able to bear Red to the ground, and he had his hands on Red’s throat, choking the life out of him, when suddenly Red’s hands fell away from the choking wrists and a red-hot agony lanced through the young ruffian, causing him to shriek out all the air his lungs held, to gasp for more air, despite the pain it cost him, and he instinctively pulled his hands from Red’s throat to grasp at his middle, where he felt a great gash, a wetness, the terrible feeling that he’d been sliced in twain.

Red wheezed with laughter, rolling away, regaining his feet, to totter towards the young hobbit, bloody knife still in his hand, but the young ruffian twisted, caught his leg with a foot aimed more by luck than skill, and brought him heavily to the ground where he lay stunned. The young ruffian, one arm desperately pressed against his midsection as tight as he could manage, took up a fair-sized rock with his free hand, bringing it down upon Red’s head once, twice, and again, with all the waning strength he could muster, while Red’s legs spasmed... and then the mad ruffian went suddenly limp, and still.

The young ruffian pried Red’s knife from his hand and turned to Farry, for he must cut the hobbit child’s bonds; Farry must not be left bound and helpless in the wild Green Hills, not with the dark coming on. Strange, he thought, wiping at his face with a bloody hand. He’d not thought it so late in the day, for the light to be fading so very rapidly. He fell to his knees at Farry’s side, brought the knife in close to the young hobbit’s body, to cut the ropes binding his wrists...

And gave a grunt of surprise as the first Tookish arrow thudded home.

Pippin ran to scoop up his son while the young ruffian was still twitching, chanting Farry’s name. He sat down upon the ground, cradling the lad, rocking him as if Farry were a very small hobbit, while the tears poured down his face.

Merry kicked the knife away from the ruffian’s hand. ‘This one’s done,’ he said, for to his experienced eye, while the man still fought for each gasp, his last would not be long in coming.

Sam looked up from the red-headed ruffian’s side. ‘This one’s not,’ he said.

‘Then bind him,’ Merry said.

The Mayor nodded.  He had a slim coil of rope in his pocket, thin but strong, for he never left home without rope, and it was quick work to bind the ruffian’s hands behind him.

Healer Fennel knelt beside the Thain. ‘Please, Sir,’ he said, trying to ease Pippin’s hands away. ‘Please. Let me see...’ It took no little coaxing, but at last he was able to slip the blindfold away... and stared... for the Talk had gone through the ranks, of what the Thain carried close to his heart.

‘Farry!’ he gasped, and then he grabbed Pippin’s arm, to shake him. ‘Look, Sir! Look at his face!’

And Pippin opened his eyes and looked, to see his son’s bright eyes, blinking, filled with wonder, as if the lad did not quite credit what he saw.

‘Farry,’ he whispered, scarcely breathing.

‘Da!’ Farry breathed, though it was muffled by the gag, and then he buried his head against his father’s coat, trembling.

Pippin worked the knots of the gag loose, gently pulled Farry’s head away and pulled the awful bloody cloth from his little son’s mouth before Farry could even spit the thing out. ‘Farry?’ he said.

‘O Da,’ Farry said again. ‘You came for me! You came!’

‘Of course I did,’ Pippin said, hugging the little one close. ‘Of course.’

‘Let’s get these bindings off,’ practical Fennel said, and finding the knots resisting him, he warned Farry to keep quite still, just for a moment. He took out his knife, and began to saw at the bindings, but his knife had little effect. ‘What in the—?’ he said.

‘What is it?’ Pippin said, worried all over again.

‘Some sort of metal, twisted in with the hemp. Steel, perhaps,’ Fennel said. ‘It’s tough and strong. I’ll need a sharper blade.’

‘Here,’ Merry said, extending the ruffian’s knife to the healer. ‘This one’s got a good edge on it.’

And so Fennel sawed away at the stubborn bindings, parting them strand by strand, until Farry’s hands were free and the little lad could throw his arms about his father’s neck, holding tight as if he’d never let go.

‘Water,’ the young ruffian gasped. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘...pity...’

‘As much pity as you showed the lad?’ Sam said grimly, but he’d finished binding the battered, red-haired ruffian, and now he took out his water bottle and held it to the younger ruffian’s lips. He knew the torment of a dry mouth, himself, and at least the fellow would die with what little comfort Sam could offer.

But Farry had heard the exchange, and he looked over, to see the young ruffian, a gaping wound in his middle, and feathered with Tookish arrows, and he drew a shuddering breath, and tears spilled from his eyes. ‘He saved me, Da,’ he sobbed. ‘He saved me, when the other’s would’ve...’

His gaze met the young ruffian’s, and of a wonder the Man smiled. The lad was safe, and in the arms of his father, and all was well. All would be well. He didn’t know how he knew this fact, but he did. The world was dimming around him, but he’d accomplished his aim, and that was more than a great many others might be able to say, his erstwhile companions among them. The struggle for air seemed far too much trouble now, and a gentle Presence hovered, whispering to him, and he smiled, and his spirit broke free of its bonds, of fear and doubt and pain, and winged its way, swift and sure, to the place that had been prepared for him.

And Sam saw the light leave the staring eyes, and he corked his water bottle and put it away, and then reached to close the eyes, now that the light had left them, while Farry sobbed, staring at the body, from his father’s lap. I never even knew his name! the young hobbit gulped. I never even thanked him!

Then Farry’s eyes widened, and he choked off his sobs as Red moved, and hissed at the pain of his many abrasions and battered head, and he looked down, to see Red’s knife in the healer’s hand, as Fennel grimly worked at the bindings at Farry’s ankles. And he buried his head once more in Pippin’s coat, and stayed there, in that place of refuge, though his father coaxed and soothed.

Sam knew immediately what troubled the young hobbit, and he got to his feet, saying to Merry, ‘Well, I suppose the next order of business is to dispose of the rubbish.’

The brawny man, draped over a nearby pony, stiffened in dread.

Pippin looked up. ‘O yes,’ he said, with a vague wave. ‘Take care of it, will you Samwise?’

Sam chuckled, a dry sound. ‘That’s just what my Rosie always says,’ he said, and he garnered some help from the hovering hobbits. It was not long before Red was slung over a pony’s back, and Sam and Tolly and an adequate guard, after consulting with Merry (and a half-listening Pippin), began the journey to the bounds, to “toss the refuse out of the Shire” as it were, to give the border-watching Rangers something to do, that they might not find time falling too heavy on their hands.

Chapter 32. In which a Took remembers past troubles

Pimpernel awakened to a plucking sensation, and opening her eyes, she saw that Ferdibrand was fumbling at her sleeve, mute and—though if he had all his faculties intact, he’d never admit to such—frightened.

‘My love,’ she said, turning over to embrace him. ‘All is well.’

He shook his head, wincing at the pain that movement engendered, gesturing feebly.

And then motion from the corner of the room distracted them both, and Rosamunda, who’d stayed to watch over Ferdi while Nell slept, was there.

‘Here, now,’ the healer said smoothly, easing the injured hobbit against the pillows. ‘Let me see what the trouble seems to be.’

I cannot talk, that’s the trouble—are ye blind? Both Nell and Rosa could read the sentiment in Ferdi’s expression, so plainly that Rosamunda smiled faintly.

‘Yes,’ she said, answering the look. ‘Well, Ferdi, you’ve been through this sort of thing before—sad to say—and so you know, already, that coming a cropper is not all there is to it. There’s the swelling inside your head to deal with, and that may take some time to resolve.’

Ferdi closed his eyes in irritation at this healer-talk, and Rosa and Nell shared a look, over his prostrate form. Rosa still smiled, encouragingly, but was that a hint of warning in her eyes?

And then the healer’s fingers were gently going over Ferdi’s head once more, though what might have changed since Mardi’s examination was beyond Nell’s ken. And Rosa ordered Ferdi to open his eyes—he did so with marked reluctance—and Nell brought the lamp close and moved it away again, several times at Rosa’s direction. Then the healer pulled the coverlet back to test Ferdi’s reflexes, and sat back with a sigh.

‘Everything’s working pretty much as it ought,’ she said.

From Ferdi’s expression, he was thinking, As it ought? Are ye daft?

Rosa patted Ferdi on the shoulder. ‘No, Ferdi, I’m not daft,’ she answered the unspoken thought. ‘And if this is the worst of it, then you won’t be packing off to the Feast, as Mardi feared,’ she shook a finger in his face, ‘though it was a close thing, and you owe your Nell a great many nosegays and sweets for giving her such a fright!’

Pimpernel soothed Ferdi’s hand as he turned a stricken face toward her. Rosamunda continued, after a pause, ‘We can hope with time—a few days, even—that this will pass off. You’ve rattled your brains but thoroughly, and they’ll need some time to settle back into place and begin working once more—that is to say, if they ever worked in the first place!’

And at this subtle piece of cousinly abuse, Ferdi relaxed, and some of the fear left his eyes.

‘There now,’ Rosamunda said with another pat. ‘That’s better. And we’ll have something to eat, and to drink, and things will look brighter, yet.’

Ferdi rolled his eyes at the healers’ “we” and Nell almost laughed. It seemed that, muteness aside, her husband was on the mend.

‘Well,’ Rosmunda said briskly, turning to the door, to summon the promised meal, ‘I guess we’ll have some peace and quiet around here, for a change! Enjoy it while it lasts, Nell! You’ll have your husband talking your ear off again before you know it!’

Pimpernel leaned close, to murmur in Ferdi’s ear, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ And then she added, ‘but there’s much we can do without needing words at all...’ and she kissed her beloved deeply, and then snuggled against him, and felt him sigh as his arms went around her, and some of the tension went out of him. ‘My love,’ she said happily, and the responding squeeze said, quite simply, My Nell.

***

‘They have child-stealing in the Southlands, you know,’ Sam said conversationally, as they walked along, between the laden ponies, as if to give the captive ruffians company on the journey to the Bounds.

They might as well be riding, Tolly thought, and get all this over with as quickly as possible, but the Mayor seemed to be in no hurry.

‘Do they?’ he said, when it seemed that a response was expected. Mayor Sam was not a Took, but the Thain held him in high regard, and he had, after all, been involved in throwing the ruffians out of the Shire, back during the time of the Troubles. He’d been a far-traveller, as well, to outlandish places and back again with Thain and Master and that Baggins cousin, but that sort of thing counted against him in Tolly’s opinion.

‘They do,’ Sam said, ‘as you well know, Tolly, for I know that your master has told you of such things. Child-stealing is one of the things that still gives him nightmares, I think.’

‘How would you know?’ Tolly blurted, and then he turned red. He was not much good at chit-chat.

Sam chuckled. ‘Believe it or not, Tolly,’ he said, ‘He visits Bag End, or I come to the Great Smials, and we talk of such things, as well as of the business of the Shire. Tooks and talk go together like tea and cakes, you know.’

Tolly gave a soft snort, but the Mayor was going on.

‘I know,’ Sam said, ‘because I picked up one of their “tokens”, that had been dropped in the marketplace in Minas Tirith.’

Tolly shuddered.

‘Exactly,’ Sam said, looking from one ruffian to the other. He’d arranged Red’s disposition over his pony so that the ruffians’ heads could practically conk each other, if the ponies walked too closely.

Tolly had wondered at that; giving the ruffians a chance to scheme, to plot an escape? But of course, with two hobbits walking between them, the red-headed ruffian and the brawny man hadn’t had a chance to say a word. Tolly was relieved, frankly, that he was spared any further hints on the brawny ruffian’s part. He had no intention of letting the Man go free.

‘I opened it up,’ Sam said, ‘thinking someone had dropped some of their shopping. I hoped, you see, to take it back to the merchant who’d sold it, in the event he or she might remember the buyer. I read the note, but it made no sense to me, and so I pulled out the contents of the bag—a goatskin bag, they seem to favour those for some reason, perhaps because they’re dark in colour and don’t let liquid seep through. Imagine my surprise...’

‘I can imagine,’ Tolly said hastily.

Sam’s lips tightened in a mirthless grin. He’d been more than surprised; he’d shoved the contents back into the bag, closed his fist around the bag’s throat, and instantly lost his first and second breakfasts in reaction, while Pippin bent over him, sick with concern. And Bergil, who’d been walking the market with himself and Pippin, had run, shouting, and then the guardsmen had come, and then the King.

‘I learnt more of child-stealing than perhaps even our Thain,’ Sam said, measuring his words. ‘You see, I had a little talk with the King, after things calmed down. I wanted to understand what sort of Men would do such a thing, and how they could even be, if you take my meaning, after the Ring went into the Fire and Shadow was banished. I wanted to know if it had all been for naught—our walking across Mordor, that is, and crawling up the ash-covered slopes of Mount Doom—a thousand thousand times worse than the destruction you saw after Hoard Hill blew, and no mistake.’

The brawny man, hearing this, broke in. ‘Sir? My lord?’

‘No need to “my lord” me, or Tolly here, either,’ Sam said in reply. ‘We’re just plain folk.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Tolly said before he thought, but the Mayor only laughed.

‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘You’re a Took, and Tooks are hardly “plain folk”.’ And then to the ruffian. ‘So, you wanted something? Did you need a drink of water, perhaps?’

‘My mouth is dry,’ the brawny man admitted in a rasp, and cleared his throat. The red-headed ruffian’s mouth was dry as well, but he remained stubbornly silent. ‘But that’s not what I wanted to ask.’

‘Well if you wanted to ask if you could stretch your legs, I’m afraid that’s not something we can manage,’ Sam said. ‘You’ll be tied to that pony from here to the Bounds, and if Nature happens to knock upon your door, so to speak, it’ll just be too bad. So I wouldn’t drink too much if I were you, if you take my meaning.’

The brawny man shook his head, difficult as it was for a man in his position. ‘I just wanted to know,’ he said, and hesitated. This humble-speaking hobbit, walking beside him... how could it be? But if he were ever to satisfy his curiosity to know, now was better than later, it seemed. And perhaps the knowledge he’d gain could yet be used to his advantage. ‘You said you walked across Mordor? And crawled up the slopes of Mount Doom?’

‘Not one of my fondest memories,’ Sam said. ‘But so my master and I did, once upon a time.’

‘Then,’ the brawny man said in awe, ‘You’re the Ring-bearer! My lord!’

‘I’m not your lord, or anybody’s,’ Sam said.

‘But you’re the Ring-bearer!’ the brawny man insisted.

Tolly looked at Sam in surprise. He knew a little bit of what had transpired in the outlands, but that this Man knew surprised him, and more astonishing was the reverent tone the ruffian had adopted...

‘Only for a little while,’ Sam said. ‘Because there was no other choice. But it was only for the littlest while. I’m not really the Ring-bearer, if you take my meaning.’

‘But...’ the brawny man said, ‘then you understand about mercy. They say it was mercy that brought the Ring to the Fire. Please...’ he said. ‘Have mercy! I had nothing to do with it! They forced me...’

He was thankful that Red said nothing to the contrary. Perhaps the fat man’s brother hoped that the brawny man, once he won free, would rescue him as well. Fat chance of that. The brawny man’s loyalty had been to the fat man, and he’d barely tolerated Red, and only because it was a necessary part of the partnership.

‘Seems to me you’ve had your portion of mercy from the Ring-bearer already,’ Tolly said unexpectedly.

‘I did?’ the brawny man said.

‘He did?’ Sam said at the same time.

‘My cousin, Frodo,’ Tolly said to the ruffian. ‘I had you, dead to rights, my arrow ready to skewer your heart, and Frodo jerked at my arm to spoil my aim.’ To Sam he said, ‘At the Battle of Bywater, it was.’

‘Ah,’ Sam nodded, understanding, and then said, ‘You know this Man?’

‘See the mark on his hand,’ Tolly said, and, ‘I saw that, when I lowered my bow, and I made a study of his face, I did, that if he should ever show his face in the Shire again... I’m not quite so forgiving as my cousin Frodo was.’

The brawny man shivered, remembering the hobbit archer’s stony regard, even though it had been years ago, now. But he’d remembered. If looks could kill...

Chapter 33. In which a well-earned rest is interrupted

About the same time Ferdibrand was wakening wordless, and Mayor Sam and Tolly were well on their way, slowly escorting the ruffians out of the Bounds, another laden pony was arriving at the Great Smials with full escort.

‘What’s this?’ Old Tom said, emerging from the stables. ‘Ruffians?’

‘Just one,’ Hilly said, dismounting, giving his reins to one of the excited stable boys who were gathering to see this “event” as flies gather to honey. He patted the pack pony’s neck and reiterated, ‘Just the one.’

‘Is that what this whole muster was about? One ruffian?’ Old Tom said, incredulous. ‘He’s the one who put Ferdibrand in the grave?’

Hilly, having met Healer Mardibold and his party of gaffers coming towards Hoard Hill, knew that Ferdi was out of the grave, having heard the full tale from the healer, and he snorted at Old Tom’s choice of words.

‘What happened—was he the one who set off the powder?’ Old Tom said.

‘Do you think he’d be whole as he is, if he had?’ Mardi said, easing himself out of the saddle. ‘Hilly said they looked about for that one, but haven't yet found so much as a hair, or a button off his clothing.’

‘Vanished in a puff of smoke!’ one of the stable lads said in awe.

‘Blew himself right out of the world, more like,’ a gaffer said, sliding down from his pony and rubbing his stiffened back. ‘I’m for a bath, I am.’

Reginard, apprised of the arrival, hurried out of the Great Smials. ‘You got them?’ he said, and looked to the laden pack pony. ‘One ruffian? Why isn’t he on his way to the Bounds?’

‘Thain’s orders,’ Mardi said. He hadn’t talked to Pippin, himself, but the mustered hobbits had told him all of what the Thain had said. Remarkable orders they were, too, and soon the Talk would be going all around the Great Smials.

‘Where is the Thain?’ Regi said, looking past the body of hobbits, as if he expected to see more entering the yard. ‘Did he go to fetch his son?’

Mardi exchanged glances with his younger brother, Hilly, who’d sent his mustered hobbits back to Hoard Hill, on meeting Mardi and the muster of gaffers, and spoken privily with Mardi as they escorted the young ruffian to the Great Smials. Soon enough Farry’s peril would be common knowledge, but only Mardi and Hilly had the facts, of the hobbits gathered there in the yard, and no one at the Great Smials yet knew of the terrible ordeal the young hobbit had suffered, and Pippin had determined that he would be the one to tell Diamond, if at all possible, and no one else. It seemed that events were supporting the Thain’s plan.

‘Something like that,’ Mardi said, cautiously.

The steward stiffened at the evasion, like a hunting dog coming to the point, and Hilly added hastily, ‘There were more than just the one ruffian to deal with.’

‘So he’s dealing with the others, and then fetching his son back to the Smials,’ Regi said.

‘Aye,’ Mardi said. ‘But he sent orders, as to what he wanted, and as we don’t know just when he’ll be back we had better set his plans in motion.’

‘Doesn’t do much good to stand around on the stones, talking about it,’ Hilly agreed.

Regi gave the two another suspicious glance. He’d find out what was what, when Pippin arrived, but he could smell a conspiracy when one was staring him in the face. ‘Very well,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Just what did the Thain want us to do with a dead ruffian?’

***

‘You want me to do what?’ Glen, senior grave digger said in astonishment, called from his sleep to the Thain’s study.

‘Dig a grave twice as long as you usually do,’ Regi said. ‘We don’t want to bury the fellow sitting up. Doesn’t seem proper, somehow.’ The dead ruffian had been bent over the pony, but Mardi had assured the steward that the stiffness would pass off, and they’d be able to lay the fellow out in the established manner.

‘We’re going to bury a filthy Man in the Tooks’ burial ground?’ Glen said.

‘He won’t be filthy, once the healers get through with him,’ Regi said. They’d laid oilcloths on one of the long tables in the great room, and the body would be washed, the many wounds stitched, the whole decently shrouded before being carried from the Smials, across the flagstone yard and out to the burying ground.

He still didn’t understand what it was all about. The young ruffian would be buried, with all decency, and the Thain when he returned would speak over the grave, and supposedly he’d explain to the Tooks why this Man was violating the Tooks’ burial ground.

What Regi did understand was orders. He’d been following Thain’s orders for a long time now, much longer than Pippin had been Thain as a matter of fact. He didn’t have to understand them, to carry them out efficiently. And the Thain, any Thain, in Regi’s experience, usually had a good reason for what he ordered.

For his part, Glen was growing more alert, the last mists of sleep clearing away. ‘A grave long enough for a Man,’ he said. ‘I think we can manage.’ He had a hobbit-sized grave already dug, after all, empty and waiting, since Ferdibrand didn’t seem likely to need it at the moment.

‘Good,’ Regi said. ‘You have until the dawning. We’ll have the burial then, whether or not the Thain has returned. He’ll speak the words when he gets back.’

He wondered when that would be, and what Pippin was doing at this moment...

***

‘Change ponies here,’ Merry shouted, and Pippin waved, gathering Farry’s limp body a little closer in his arms, to spare the lad the jolting gallop as his pony tired. Merry would carry Farry on the next stretch, and they’d trade when they changed ponies again.

He was grateful for the whim they’d shared, placing swift ponies at intervals on the Stock Road between Tuckborough and the Ferry, that messages might pass at speed between Brandy Hall and the Great Smials. They’d paid for themselves on more than one occasion, no more than now, when young Faramir’s future hung in the balance.

He’d thought it all over and done with, when he’d opened the goatskin bag with its dreadful burden. He’d thought it finished, once more, when Hoard Hill had gone up in smoke and destruction. And then, seeing Farry bound, gagged and blindfolded, with the ruffians fighting over him, and the victorious ruffian taking a knife to the lad... The rescuers had misunderstood, of course, thinking that the ruffian meant to take a last, terrible revenge, and they’d pierced him with many arrows in a desperate attempt to save the lad—it was a wonder that none had hit Faramir, Thain’s finest archers or no.

The joy that had pierced Pippin, sharp as any arrow, to hear his son speak! ...to see Farry’s eyes, bright with wonder, blinking at him... The joy had been fleeting. Farry had been distressed at the young ruffian’s death, surely, and Pippin had understood, not long after, when Merry demanded the pouch he still carried—he’d forgotten, in recovering his son. He’d dug it out without disturbing his clinging son, and then he’d put his arms back around Farry, holding him tight, his gratitude renewed along with the horror of what might have been.

Opening the pouch, examining the contents closely, Merry had said slowly, ‘Sheep’s, or goat’s, I think...’

‘Farry?’ Pippin said, looking down to the tousled hair, all he could see of his son, who still buried his head in his father’s chest. ‘Is that what happened? He saved you, by tricking the other ruffians? Where did he find a goat?’

But Faramir neither moved nor spoke.

‘Farry?’ Pippin said, trying to put the child away, enough to look into his face. But Faramir clung all the tighter. He raised his voice. ‘Fennel?’

The healer looked up from treating the worst of the red-headed ruffian’s wounds—they wanted him to survive, at least long enough to reach the Bounds. It was the least they could do. No easy passing for that one, not if the hobbits could help it, though they wouldn’t go out of their way to torment him, either. They would simply let him suffer the natural consequences of his actions. ‘I think you can take him now,’ he said to the Mayor. ‘I’ve stopped the worst of the bleeding. You might give him some water along the way, if he wants a drink, but I don’t think you ought to be feeding him.’

‘Weren’t planning to be feeding him, or the other one, either,’ Tolly said. ‘A little water,’ he added. ‘I can see that. Thirst can be a terrible torture. But they won’t have all that long to hunger.’

Fennel suppressed a shiver. ‘I don’t want to know about it,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me I patched him just so the Rangers can take his life.’

‘What did you think the Rangers did with ruffians?’ Tolly muttered, but then the Thain repeated his call, and Fennel hurried to comply.

Sam made quick farewells to Pippin and Merry, assuring the latter that he knew just what needed to be done, and then he and Tolly, the ruffians and their guard, began the slow march to the Bounds.

Fennel had turned away from the red-haired ruffian with relief—a relief that was to be short-lived, for when he pulled the son of the Thain free of his death grip on his father, neither he nor Pippin nor Merry, nor any other hobbit, could get the little lad to respond to anything said or done to him.

Farry’s face was pale, his breathing shallow, his eyes closed, and he lay limp, almost as if he were dead... or dying. Though a fire blazed before them, kindled for warmth while they tied up the loose ends and made sure Faramir was fit to travel, the lad’s skin was cold to the touch. Pippin felt fear renew its grip upon him.

‘There’s not a mark on him!’ Fennel said, after making his examination. ‘I can’t explain it, sir. There’s not even bruising on his abdomen, from the fall we saw.’

‘Farry,’ Pippin said again, touching his son’s cheek, to no avail. He stroked the lad’s curls back, and took a shaking breath at seeing the black line inked around the base of Faramir’s ear. ‘Farry? All’s well, lad, all’s well again. You’re safe, and we’re going home.’

But how could he bring Faramir back to Diamond, like this?

And then, astonishingly, there was a rapid drumbeat of hoofs approaching. The archers stiffened, raising their bows to readiness, and the hunters, who’d been going over the ruined ground for sign of the ruffians’ doings, straightened their backs and looked up.

‘Halloo!’ came a shout, and then, ‘Thain Peregrin! Master Merry! Mayor Sam!’

‘Here we are!’ Merry shouted, waving, and a lone rider broke from the copse, pulling his pony to a stop, steaming in the cold sunshine.

‘Master Merry!’ the rider said, ‘I’m that glad to find you!’

‘How did you know where to find us, Ilberic?’ Merry said.

‘The King sent me, right to this spot!’ Ilberic said.

‘The King!’ Merry said, in shock.

‘He’s at the Bridge! He rode down from Fornost like the wind itself, they say, sent to the Hall, said to find you. He said to bring the lad to him—Faramir, he said—that it’s a matter of life and death! I don’t know how he knew, but he is King, after all...’ Ilberic said. He had a very good opinion of King Elessar, having heard a great deal of him from Merry and Pippin, while sitting near the hearth sipping at brandy.

‘How does he know?’ Merry demanded once more, but Ilberic could only shake his head.

Merry turned to Pippin, all indecision gone. ‘Pip,’ he said. ‘We’ll ride with all speed to the Bridge...’

‘The post ponies,’ Pippin said, fighting down the growing fear for his son. He gained his feet as Merry spun on his heel and ran to where the ponies waited. He threw down the cup of tea, untasted, that had been pressed upon him, and whipped off his cloak, wrapping it around his son.

‘Fennel,’ he said, ‘you stay here with the search party. I want to be sure that last ruffian is gone, blown into little pieces. I want to see the pieces! Keep the Smials Tooks here searching; the rest of the mustered hobbits may return to their homes.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Fennel said. Part of it, he knew, was Pippin’s effort to keep Diamond from finding out the news until her husband could tell her himself. He wondered just how successful the scheme would be. ‘Good luck, and safe journey!’

‘And quick return, I hope,’ Pippin said, turning away to mount the pony Merry had brought to him. ‘How do you suppose Strider knew...?’

Caution: PG-13. This chapter comprises a conversation between Sam and Tolly, in the hearing of the doomed ruffians, where the hobbits consider a bloody, painful and prolonged death, as practiced by the Easterlings in dealing with child-stealers. And if you are sensitive, that's all you need to know.

Chapter 34. In which a Took considers justice

‘But getting back to child-stealing in the Southlands,’ Sam said, and Tolly blinked, remembering the start of this conversation.

‘Aye?’ he said politely. He really did not want to hear more, but the Mayor was in a talkative mood, it seemed, and in charge of this walking party in any event.

‘After I’d talked things over with the King, I talked with quite a few Men, there in the City, trying to understand. Mr. Frodo was a-working away at his writing, and I was something at loose ends, for I’m no good with words...’

Tolly thought privately that the Mayor was selling himself short, there. He’d heard a few of Sam’s speeches, and stories.

‘Anyhow, I learnt a great deal more about child-stealing than any other hobbit, I’ll warrant, than even the Thain, most likely, for I haven’t shared with him all that I harvested.’

‘You haven’t?’ Tolly said. ‘Not even with the threat to his son?’

‘Do you think I want him to lock Farry in the Smials and never let him out again?’ Sam said.

Tolly walked along in silence for a time, considering. ‘As bad as all that,’ he said, but he was thinking of recent events. ‘And worse...?’ he said slowly, looking from one ruffian to the other.

‘They have—or had, though they’ve been trying to stamp it out, from what I know—child-stealing in the Far East, and the Far South,’ Sam said, as if changing the subject, though the talk was the same. ‘The lords there are quite serious in their dealings, or they were. I don’t know if the King has got them to change their ways in that matter, at least.’

‘Change their ways?’ Tolly said, confused.

‘Do you know what the punishment is for child-stealing, in Far Harad?’ Sam said.

‘How would I know such a thing?’

Sam nodded, conceding the point. ‘The King believes in swift and sure justice,’ he said. ‘You know about hanging.’

‘I do,’ Tolly said, feeling a little queasy.

But Mayor Sam went on, his gaze going from one ruffian to the other as he talked. ‘Quick snap of the neck, and they don’t feel much.’

The red-headed ruffian twitched at this, but remained silent. The brawny man fought nausea at the image that rose before his eyes. But surely things couldn’t get any worse than they were.

‘Well, in Far Harad, they have quite savage punishments,’ Sam said. ‘Do you know, they cut off the right hand of a thief, the first time he’s caught?’

Tolly made a noise somewhere between dismay and disgust. ‘Barbaric!’ he said. ‘Why, and here I thought shunning for a year and a day to be a heavy penalty to bear—nearly unbearable, as a matter of fact! I never once was tempted to steal, after hearing...’

‘And in the land of the Easterlings,’ Sam said, ‘why, they cut a hand and both feet off and reduce the thief to begging.’

‘It’s supposed to make it more difficult for him to steal something and escape,’ the brawny man said. He might as well keep his mind off his troubles by joining the conversation.

‘King Elessar is much more practical,’ Sam agreed. ‘A brand on the hand, and if the thief is caught again, then the hand is cut off. But the thief has a chance to choose to do honest work, to change his life for the better.’

‘Do you really think so?’ the brawny man said bitterly. ‘Do you really think that a man who’s been branded as a thief can find honest work?’

‘He can,’ Sam said, ‘if he’s persistent, and if he’s determined to change his life. It is difficult, but I met a few Men in Minas Tirith who’d changed their lives, after marching to the Black Gate with other Men of the City.’

‘And so what do the Easterlings do to child-stealers?’ Tolly asked, playing right into Sam’s designs. ‘Cut off a hand, and both feet, like any other thief?’

‘No,’ Sam said. ‘It’s quite horrible, what they do, and yet after today I can almost understand.’

‘You can almost understand what?’ Tolly said.

‘I’m not sure I ought to tell you,’ Sam said. ‘Even the Thain doesn’t know. At least, I don’t think he does. I learnt it, you see, while sounding out Men in Minas Tirith. Some of them thought that child-stealers in the City got off much too soft, with a quick and easy hanging.’

‘Easy!’ the red-headed ruffian snorted, but then he pressed his lips together over his broken teeth and resumed his silence.

‘What do they do?’ Tolly said. ‘You cannot bake the cake, wave it under my nose, and expect me not to take a bite!’

‘It’s quite horrible,’ Sam repeated. ‘You see, they hang them up.’

‘Like the Men of Minas Tirith,’ Tolly said.

‘No, not quite,’ Sam said. ‘They strip them naked, first, and they tie their arms behind them, and they put a rope around their chests and haul them into the air.’

‘Sounds uncomfortable,’ Tolly said, ‘but I don’t see...’

‘...and they leave them there, Tolibold,’ Sam said. ‘They leave them.’

‘What?’ Tolly said, confused. ‘For how long?’

‘They leave them,’ Sam said again, and then the Tookish archer understood, and paled, and swore under his breath.

‘That’s right,’ Sam said. ‘It takes a Man three days or more to die, without drinking, but the thirst is hardly any torment, compared...’

‘What?’ Tolly asked, breathless. It sounded awful enough to him, already, stripped naked and hung up and left until one died, days later.

‘The carrion crows,’ Sam said regretfully. He could see that both ruffians were tense and listening. ‘They’re intelligent birds, you know, and cruel. Why, if a little lamb is left alone and defenceless, they’ll swoop down and pluck out its eyes, with no mam or shepherd to drive them away.’

Tolly shuddered, and so did the ruffians draped over the pack ponies.

‘And so, seeing Men hanging helpless, of course...’ Sam said, trailing off to let the awful image sink into his listeners’ minds.

Tolly made a noise of distress, choking, bending, and Sam stopped to steady him. The pack-ponies stopped, too, and the hobbits escorting them called questions and concerns, which Tolly waved away. ‘I’m sorry,’ the Mayor said, thinking twice about his strategy, which seemed to be working too well. ‘I shouldn’t have...’

‘Nay,’ the Tookish archer gasped, white-faced. He retched, but soon controlled himself. ‘It’s just that... I was trapped, upon a time, in a slide, and the crows were coming after me... if the Mistress hadn’t driven them away, they’d’ve had my eyes...’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said again, but Tolly straightened in his grasp, looking from one ruffian to the other, understanding somehow, that this was a part of a plan, to punish the ruffians for their evil doings, not just with young Farry but on behalf of all the others they’d maimed and murdered.

‘No, don’t be ridiculous,’ Tolly said. ‘It was but a momentary weakness. It’s passed now, and really, you cannot leave the tale half-told.’

‘Half told?’ Sam said.

‘Aye,’ Tolly said stoutly. ‘Half-told! I imagine the first thing the ruffians lose is their eyes...’

‘Yes,’ Sam said, returning to his course as they began to walk once more. He waved the other hobbits to their posts again, riding before and after them. He didn’t want anyone else to overhear this conversation, after all. Tolly, who knew about child-stealing, and who’d let two Men, trespassers, go free before this, was enough of a witness, and Sam was sure the archer would tell Pippin what the ruffians had suffered, in their last journey.

‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘the birds delight in going after the eyes. And any other soft parts—they have a banquet to choose from, after all, and all the time in the world to dine.’

‘Aye,’ Tolly said softly.

‘It’s fitting, I suppose,’ Sam said.

‘Fitting?’ Tolly asked.

‘The birds delight in eyes, of course, but as the condemned Men grow thirsty, their tongues swell, and protrude, and that too is a great delicacy in the birds’ opinion, or so it appears.’

‘Eyes and tongues,’ Tolly said, suppressing a shudder. ‘Very apt.’

‘Although if the Easterling lord who has condemned the child-stealers is very cruel, he will have the condemned Men given water, to sustain them,’ Sam said. ‘They might live a week or more, providing sustenance to the birds.’

‘Horrible,’ Tolly said. ‘But apt.’

‘And so, I thought to ask your advice,’ Sam said.

‘Mine?’

‘Yes,’ Sam said. ‘I thought to tell the Rangers about the Easterlings’ treatment of child-stealers. Do you think they’d be interested?’

‘They might be,’ Tolly said. ‘They might well know all about it, already.’

‘Do you suppose that they might try out the Easterlings’ methods on these ruffians, in accordance with the wishes of the Thain of the Shire, and the other Counsellors of the North-kingdom?’ Sam said.

He knew, of course, that the Rangers were too honourable to inflict such torture on any Man, no matter what his crime might be. No, they’d hang these ruffians. At best they’d hope for a bungled hanging, where the ruffians’ necks did not snap at reaching the rope’s end, allowing for a slow and painful strangling. But they wouldn’t necessarily go out of their way to arrange such a death.

‘Have mercy!’ the brawny man exclaimed, driven to speak out.

‘Our carrion crows are just as hungry as those in the South-lands, after all,’ Sam said, as if the Man hadn’t spoken.

Tolly took the hint. ‘Do you think they’d give them water, to stretch out the dying?’ he said.

‘They might,’ Sam said, as if truly pondering the idea. ‘But of course, it might be more just if they were to grow thirsty, allowing their tongues to protrude...’

The ruffians were the ones choking, now. Tolly, while still queasy, had hardened his heart, thinking of young Farry’s terror, remembering the bold black lines inked on the child’s skin, the dreadful “tokens” that, but for a young ruffian’s change of heart, would have been torn from Pippin’s son. ‘I think that would be just right,’ he said. ‘Justice, indeed.’

Chapter 35. Eventide

The early winter darkness was coming on, softened by a sifting of snow, when Sam decided that the ruffians had enough food for thought to chew upon. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘this slow pace isn’t getting us to the Bounds any faster.’

Tolly repressed a snort at this obvious statement, but declined to dignify the statement by agreeing with it.

‘Let us mount our ponies,’ the Mayor said, and so the two of them stopped, letting the pack-ponies, led by hobbits of the escort, move ahead, waiting for their own ponies to come up to them. They mounted, and then Sam nudged his pony into a trot, moving to the head of the procession. ‘Light your torches,’ he ordered, and the word was passed through the line, to where Tolly had dropped back, to the end.

The brawny man’s hopes sank further. It appeared that the hobbits were determined to ride through the night, rather than stopping to camp or to seek the shelter of some farmer’s barn or byre. He’d been working steadily and surreptitiously—difficult as it had been, with the hobbits walking in such close proximity—on the bindings around his wrists, and he fancied that they were looser. Whether they left him draped over the pony, or they slung him into a haypile to spend the night, he thought he’d be able to work his way free in the dark hours.

He’d just have to keep working, slowed though the effort might be, on a walking pony. But once his hands were free, it should be quick work to extricate himself from the ropes tying him to the pack-pony’s back. The flickering light of the torches made things a little trickier... but he remembered a place, before they’d cross the Bounds, where they’d have to ford rather a deep stream. If he could slide from the pony’s back at that point, into the water, he could duck under, let the current carry him away. Hobbits distrusted water, and he doubted any would follow him, especially as there were no Bucklanders among them.

***

The early winter darkness was just coming down as Glen shifted his grip on his shovel. Chilly, it was, and with this cold weather they’d had to loosen the ground with a pickaxe. Still, he anticipated finishing well before the middle night, and a good thing, too. He wondered if the gently drifting snowflakes would turn into anything of substance.

Burying a Man—a ruffian at that!—in the Great Smials burial ground! What were things coming to?

He’d have to attend the burial, in any event, to shovel the earth over the body, to fill in the grave. He rather doubted that any Tooks would bother to grace the ruffian with a fistful of Tookish soil.

There would likely be no funeral feast for the fellow, but if Glen decided not to seek his bed, he could look forward to the Naming Day feast for Ferdi and Nell’s little lass. He wondered what they’d name her? Especially with her father mute, according to the Talk, and unable to speak a name...?

***

The early winter darkness was just coming down when Merry and Pippin reached the Crowing Cockerel, halfway to Stock. Merry saw to the readying of fresh ponies, while Pippin tried to get a hot drink into his son. All to no avail. Farry’s lips were pressed tight together, almost as if he feared to open his mouth, and his eyes were squeezed shut. He did not seem to hear his father’s reassurances, but huddled into a smaller bundle of misery when Pippin pressed him.

‘They’ll be ready in a few moments,’ Merry said, blowing on his fingers as he entered the inn. He thanked the proprietor for the cup of hot grog that awaited him.

‘They’re supposed to be ready at a moment’s notice,’ Pippin replied, looking down at his son in his arms. ‘Come, Farry, just a sip, lad...?’

‘The muster has rather thrown everyone out of order,’ Merry said. ‘The Cockerel’s ostler was mustered, along with his sons, and so his older daughters are doing the saddling, along with his younger sons.’

‘And you let the lasses do the saddling?’ Pippin said in surprise.

Merry shrugged. ‘They insisted! Pushed me away, told me to “get out and get a hot drink while you may” and that they wanted to do their part in the general emergency. Seems it rankled, somewhat, that they were not allowed to ride out on the muster with their brothers.’

‘Real spitfires, they are,’ the proprietor said apologetically. ‘Hid away in the Tookland, dressed as lads, during the Troubles, to keep them safe from ruffians’ attentions, and now I cannot do a thing with ‘em.’

‘Marry them off to Bucklanders,’ Pippin said easily. ‘Or to Tooks in the wild Green Hills. A spirited wife is a treasure and not a disgrace, if she has a sensible husband.’

Merry smiled at this piece of advice. Truth be told, both he and Pippin had married spirited lasses, and he wouldn’t trade his Estella for all the world.

One of the “spitfires” appeared in the doorway. ‘Haven’t you finished your drink, then?’ she demanded. ‘The ponies are waiting in the cold and snow!’

‘Snow!’ Pippin said, starting up. He took up his cloak to wrap around Farry, but the innkeeper stopped him.

‘Best you wear that yourself,’ he said, ‘we’ve blankets to spare.’

And in a twinkling Farry was warmly cocooned, and not long after they were galloping out of the yard, galloping into the darkness, their lanterns throwing light ahead of them—not far enough ahead, considering their reckless pace—galloping to where the King waited.

***

‘It’s snowing!’ Rudi said, bursting into the bedroom, though he quieted instantly to a half-whisper, seeing Ferdi sleeping. ‘Snowing, Mum! May we go out and dance in it?’

‘At this time of night?’ Pimpernel said, with a glance at the little clock on the mantel. ‘Why, they’ll be serving eventides in half an hour!’

‘May we take eventides in the great room, Mum?’ Rudi said, not one to be quelled. With his worry for his father abated, and good food and rest over the course of the day, he had quite as much energy as any young hobbit his age ought to have.

‘Yes, my love, you may,’ Pimpernel said. ‘I’ll have my eventides here, of course, just in case your da should waken and want something. Watch over the younger ones, will you, dearling, and come right back after eventides, that they may be tucked up in good time for bed?’

‘I will, Mum!’ Rudi said, bending to drop a kiss atop Pimpernel’s head. He stopped, then, a moment, to stare into Ferdi’s sleeping face, as if to reassure himself, blinked, swallowed hard, smiled and threw his arms around his mother in a heart-felt hug, and then was out the door before Pimpernel could draw breath.

Feasting her eyes on the sight of her sleeping husband, as Ferdi sighed and turned over on his side, his cheek pillowed on his hand, Pimpernel knew just how Rudi felt.

***

‘It’s darkening outside, and starting to snow,’ Sandy, the Thain’s personal hobbitservant said, extending a tea tray to Diamond.

‘Snow!’ Diamond said, and shivered. ‘I do hope my husband is well bundled up!’

‘He’s with Master Meriadoc,’ Sandy said obliquely, and Diamond nodded, reassured. Merry would look after Pippin, where Pippin would not always look after himself.

‘Well,’ Diamond said, picking up the cup of steaming tea and giving it a stir, though Sandy had already (as he always did) fixed it to her preference. ‘I’m certainly glad that Farry is safe and warm, tucked away at Whittacres. I don’t like to think of him, riding in the snow!’

‘No, Mistress,’ Sandy said, though he privately thought that Diamond pampered the lad a little too much. It was a good thing she was expecting the new babe, who’d take some of her tender attentions away from Faramir, allow the lad to grow and mature a bit. He wondered what it would be—a little brother, to play rough-and-tumble with Farry, or a little sister, to be watched over and cozened? In any event, Farry as “big brother” would be loosed from his mother’s apron strings, not that Diamond had tied him all that tightly, but a good thing all the same. Wouldn’t want him to turn into another Ferumbras, after all.

‘I hope they clean up the refuse quickly, and toss those ruffians out of the Shire without delay,’ Diamond said. ‘We’ve had quite enough of ruffians!’

‘That we have, Mistress,’ Sandy said. ‘That we have. Would you care for some of this dried-apple tart?’

Chapter 36. Late Supper

They changed ponies in Stock, for the last time, and turned to the north, to gallop towards the Bridge. Ten miles it was, an hour or a little more, perhaps, at a steady gallop, into the swirling snow blowing down from the Northlands. Soft as feathers, it fell, caressing their cheeks with brief, cold kisses. The ground was hard, near-frozen, and so the snow did not make for heavier going, though as the ponies tired, Pippin’s slipped and he thought for a breath-stopping moment that they’d go down, pony, Pippin and Farry.

But the lights of the Bridge were ahead. The Brandybucks had the gates up, what with the alarm over ruffians in the Shire, and at Merry’s hail a Shirriff came out, bundled up against the weather and with a lantern in his hand. ‘Who is it?’

‘Thain, and Master,’ Merry shouted.

The Shirriff threw open the gate on the Western side of the bridge without another word, and swung his lantern back and forth in signal. As they thundered across the Bridge, Merry and Pippin saw an answering signal flare up on the other side, and before they reached the Eastern bank that gate too had been pulled aside, to allow them passage, and when they pulled up before the North Gate of Buckland, just beyond the Bridge, tall figures waited to greet them.

‘Strider!’ Pippin gasped, as one of the tall Men stepped forward, arms outstretched to take Farry from his father’s cramping arms. Another of the Men steadied him as he slid from his saddle. ‘Bergil!’

‘At your service,’ Bergil said, turning Pippin towards the gatehouse. ‘Come, all is in readiness.’

And Merry was by Pippin’s other side, offering greetings to Bergil as they hurried to keep up with the King’s long strides.

Elessar carried the hobbit child into the gatehouse, ducking through the door, though it was oversized by hobbit standards, and he laid Farry upon the table in a little room just off the common room, made soft with many blankets.

There was a smell of good cooking on the air, and Pippin’s stomach rumbled, though he took no notice. His eyes were only for his son, and the Man hovering over him.

Elessar knelt upon the rush-strewn flagstones, bending close to Farry’s huddled figure. He drew the sheltering blankets away, and Farry shivered and hugged himself into as small a ball as he could manage, though his eyes remained squeezed shut and he made no sound.

The King’s lips tightened as he stroked back the lad’s golden-brown curls, seeing the deadly promise inked there, and his eyes fell to take in the markings on hands and shorn feet.

And then a serving-lass brought a basin, and a steaming teakettle. ‘Just come to a boil, Sir-my-lord,’ she said with a nervous bob, splashing a little water that narrowly missed her feet.

The King arose, bowed with grave courtesy, and took the kettle and basin with a word of thanks.

‘Strider?’

‘A moment, Peregrin.’ And at the formal address, Pippin fell silent, but he grasped the hand that Merry held out to him, as if he were a drowning hobbit in search of a saving hold.

Elessar laid the basin and kettle down, at a safe distance from the little lad, and then he placed a large, warm hand upon the little forehead, bending close as if to listen, although Farry remained silent, curled tightly in his defensive ball.

‘Faramir,’ the King called at last, and he called the lad’s name several times more, each time a little fainter, as if he were receding into a great distance, and Pippin was taken back in time to the Houses of Healing, to another Faramir, to the day when the healing hands of her King were made known to the White City.

Pippin waited, and Merry, scarcely breathing as they watched. And then the King took up the kettle, pouring the still-steaming water into the basin, and then he took up two leaves, wrapped in a cloth laid nearby, and breathed upon them, and crushed them in his hands, and cast them into the water. Immediately a fresh and living scent rose into the air, driving darkness, fear, even despair from Pippin’s thoughts, and a shadow seemed to lift from Merry’s soul, and Faramir breathed more deeply, and stirred.

‘Waken, Faramir Took,’ said Elessar. ‘Walk no more in blind and silent terror, but open your eyes to love and to light.’

Faramir took another deep breath, and uncurling, he sat up a little, and fisted his eyes as if rubbing sleep, even nightmare, away.

‘Farry?’ Pippin said, starting forward, and Faramir’s eyes popped open, almost as if beyond his control.

‘Da?’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a dream, then? Da?’

And Pippin stumbled forward, to envelop his son in his arms, and Merry laughed aloud, even as the tears poured down his cheeks, after all he had watched his beloved cousin suffer, and all he’d imagined during the long and anxious hours of following Farry’s abductors.

‘Farry,’ Pippin whispered, hugging his recovered son close, and then putting him away to feast on the sight of Farry's face, the wide, clear eyes, the unsullied little mouth opening in a yawn.

‘But,’ the lad said, blinking in confusion. ‘What is the King doing here, in the Shire?’

‘We are not quite in the Shire, lad,’ Elessar said.

Farry stiffened then. ‘We are...’ he said, ‘beyond the Bounds?’ He looked about the room, as if searching.

‘The ruffians are gone, Farry, taken by the muster,’ Pippin said, divining the source of his son’s renewed fear.

‘Red...’ Farry whispered. ‘He said...’

‘Taken,’ Elessar said, ‘firmly bound, and on his way to meet his doom.’ And he lifted the basin, and held it before the young hobbit’s face, urging Farry to breathe deeply of the steam.

And as the young hobbit breathed, his fear fell away, and he relaxed, and at last the cleansing tears came, and he held tightly to his father and sobbed until, limp and spent, he lay in Pippin’s arms, his head on his father’s breast, his breathing deep and even.

‘I saw, in the Palantir,’ Elessar said then. ‘I heard the fat man’s plans, I saw what he said to your son, what he did... when I saw what sort of Men they were, who struck down Ferdibrand and bound your son...’

‘How?’ Pippin said. ‘How is it, that you looked, when you did?’

Elessar smiled, though the smile was brief and did not reach his eyes. ‘It is nearly time for us to leave the North-kingdom, to ride to Minas Tirith,’ he said. ‘If we are to arrive in time for the New Year celebration. Unless something arises to prevent us,’ and by this, he referred to the sort of event that had kept him overlong in the South, in the past, when a minor lordling of Far Harad had thought to throw off Gondor’s benevolent yoke, ‘we’ll return after a year, as is our custom.’

‘But,’ Pippin said, and Merry smiled, remembering Gandalf’s oft-repeated, “Only one ‘but’ will I allow this evening...”

‘I looked into the Stone to see my friends,’ Elessar said, ‘to see if the time might be right, and I might send an invitation to my Counsellors to the North-kingdom, to meet our party at the Bridge, to raise a cup in farewell and feast together and sing songs until the dawning, that our journey might start off on the right foot.’

‘Safe journey, and swift return,’ Pippin murmured.

‘A royal send-off,’ Merry said, ‘fit for a King.’

Elessar smiled again, briefly, and then sobered. ‘And as I looked, I saw Faramir and Ferdibrand, walking amongst the rocks, and Men hiding in the shadows... and I knew at once that something was amiss, and called out my guard...’

Bergil, standing nearby, nodded. The King had bellowed from the high tower, and then his hasty step had been heard on the stairs as he hurled himself downward, and before his bodyguard quite knew what was happening they were mounted and riding as if Sauron himself were after them, at a killing pace, southwards, to the Shire.

And even as he rode, Elessar kept bending his head, to look down into that which he carried, which sometimes flared bright in the darkness, lighting the road before them as they galloped on their way, stopping only to change horses when they came to one of the guardposts of the Kingsmen who guarded the roads by order of the King.

‘I’m sorry about Ferdibrand,’ Elessar said then. ‘I saw his burial, or the start of it, at least, and then I turned my attention to Farry. I wanted to keep track of where he was, and not lose sight of his location; I was ready to gallop right over the Bounds with my guardsmen to confront the evil Men who had him. But then, when I saw that the young ruffian had taken Farry’s part, and that you and Samwise were on their trail, and would arrive long before I could, I stopped at the Bridge, obeying my own Edict with difficulty, I’ll admit, and sent a swift messenger to meet you.

‘And I hoped, with all that was in me, that you’d come in time...’

‘And we did,’ Merry said, embracing both Pippin and Faramir together. ‘And we did come in time, and by some good chance Farry was not in the storehole with the ruffians when they touched off the powder...’

‘But Red escaped the blast,’ Farry said, swimming again to the surface, returning once more to his fear, just as Red had kept coming back into Farry’s sphere, over and over again. As Farry feared he would return again, he’d come back and find Farry, and finish him as he’d promised, in fearful and prolonged torment.

‘No, Farry,’ the King said now, drawing Faramir from his father’s arms and hugging him close. ‘I promise you, I’ve seen the remaining ruffians, bound hand and foot and tied to pack-ponies, and being led to their doom. I’ve sent swift messengers onward, at speed, to the Rangers guarding the Bounds, and they are waiting, even now, to greet them.’

‘But,’ Farry said.

‘Only one “but” will I allow this night,’ Elessar said, in fair imitation of Gandalf, and Pippin laughed through his tears.

‘And he’s already answered that one,’ he said, taking Farry’s hand in his own.

Elessar, looking down at the gesture, frowned and took up the cloth that had wrapped the athelas leaves. ‘A moment, Faramir,’ he said. ‘Stay quite still, if you can. This won’t hurt at all, but it might tickle.’

He dipped the cloth in the warm athelas water and wiped gently at the ink that stained the small hand. And Farry sucked in his breath, as the marking faded, rubbed away with the King’s gentle ministrations.

‘They said it was permanent ink!’ he said in wonder.

‘It might well be,’ Elessar said, and he even chuckled a bit. ‘But this is athelas, and what’s more, it is athelas in the hands of the King.’

‘Strider, you’re a wonder,’ Pippin said, marvelling as ink on hands and feet and head, and last, with Farry's shirt pulled open to show the awful mark over his heart, last of all the deadly mark on the lad's breast was wiped away, leaving his skin fresh and cleansed of evil. ‘I begin to think you could cure even a rainy day.’

‘Well, we cannot send the lad back to his mother with ink all over him,’ Elessar said.

‘Will it grow his foot-hair back, as well?’ Pippin wanted to know.

‘No, I’m afraid that will have to take its course, in the natural way,’ the King said. ‘It might grow a little faster than usual, even a little thicker and curlier, but Ent-draught would do better.’

‘I’m not sure that it would,’ Merry said slowly. He swayed a little, and Bergil stepped forward to steady him.

‘But the hobbits are perishing of hunger,’ he said.

‘When did you last eat?’ Elessar wanted to know.

‘Well if you were watching us all that time, I’d expect you to know such a thing!’ Pippin countered, but he drew his hand across his eyes and admitted he could not remember his last meal.

‘Late supper is standing ready,’ Elessar said.

‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ Pippin demanded.

‘I beg your pardon, but I did say so, just now!’ the King said, sounding much like the Ranger of old.

‘So you did,’ Pippin said. ‘Well, Farry? What are we waiting for? You’re always begging to stay up to late supper, and now you have your wish.’

This is the last of the horror, and makes for unpleasant reading, as it details the ruffians' end. Be assured, they do end, if you don't care to read this chapter, and choose to skip to the next. PG-13.

Chapter 37. Midnight supper

Part of the Bounds of the Shire still run along the Brandywine River, but there was at that time another stream, emptying out of the Green Hills, that ran southwards for a long way before turning East, to join with the Brandywine. It dried up in the great three-year drought when Peregrin I was Thain, becoming a mere trickle, no more than ankle-deep, when the rains returned to the Shire, and so does not appear on maps in these modern times, but in the early days of Thain Peregrin it ran strong and cold, nearly to a pony’s belly at the ford where the ruffians’ escort meant to cross.

It was this crossing that the brawny man fixed his thoughts upon, this, his hope of escape, or if not that, a quick and relatively easy death, for drowning in a cold stream is much like falling asleep. He’d nearly died of the cold, during an untimely spring snowstorm early in his life, and had found it not unpleasant; why, he’d even begun to feel warm, as he was freezing to death, and nearly resented the attentions of the travelling conjurer who rescued him.

Yes, better to drown, or freeze to death, than to suffer the death the Halflings discussed. As for Red... well, he rather deserved all the torment they cared to mete out to him. Even the brawny man’s strong stomach had turned, when Red sought after his twisted pleasures. He’d been relieved when the fat man had assigned the youngster, instead of Red, to wrest the “tokens” from the hobbit-child, for the young ruffian would take no delight in pain and horror, and though he might hesitate at first, he’d get--had got--the unpleasant job over with as quickly as possible.

He was sick from the shaking he’d had, for the hobbits after Sam and Tolly mounted had alternated between the trot and the canter, as if determined to cross the distance to the Bounds as quickly as possible. He retched, hanging there, fearing that the journey would go on for hours yet... fearing that the journey would end at any moment. He hung suspended in misery, and his prospects were bleak. But he’d made his own luck before, and he hoped to, once again.

But his hopes were dashed when they reached the stream. The party stopped, short of the water, and stood, the torchlight flickering on the black water, breath rising in steam from the ponies and riders and living baggage, and consulted.

There was not long to wait. The brawny man, lifting his head to crane into the darkness, setting his will to slip into the frigid water when they reached the middle of the stream, saw a sudden bright flare as a lantern was unshielded on the other side of the water.

There was a muttering among the hobbits. They had not expected to be met, thus. The brawny man gathered, from their comments, that they were in the habit of sending one or two hobbits ahead, once they’d crossed the ford, to let the Rangers know they were coming. However, the lantern revealed tall men, on tall horses, and one of these started across the stream as they watched.

There was a stirring all about him, and the brawny man realised that the Tooks were fitting arrows to their bows, ready to shoot. They were suspicious, thinking that these might be more ruffians, waiting to greet their gold-bearing comrades... and how wonderful it would have been, the brawny man thought, had that only been the truth. But no. He and Red were the last of the band, and soon there’d be just Red, if only he could carry out his plan and disappear into the soft-chuckling waters.

But the Man called out in a clear voice from midstream, and Tolly returned the greeting, evidently recognising the Ranger from previous meetings. The Tooks relaxed, though they did not put away their bows.

When the Ranger reached them, he dismounted, bowing to the hobbits, offering them and their families his service, and then he said he’d had a message from the King, and were these the ruffians taken by Thain, Master and Mayor in the heart of Tookland?

Tolly allowed as they were, and the Man said that he would take the ruffians from there, and the Tooks were welcome to make camp—the Rangers would set a watch, if that would be agreeable, and if the hobbits required food or blankets or canvas to stretch above their heads...?

Tolly declined, and at his next words the hobbits regrouped, jammed several of their torches into the sandy bank, turned their ponies homeward, and with a salute to the Ranger, and without a backwards glance for the doomed ruffians, they trotted away. Tolly explained that they’d carried food with them, and they had orders to return to the Great Smials, and he, too, had his orders. The rest would ride back, and he’d stay, as the Thain’s representative, to be a witness...

‘And I’m staying with him,’ Mayor Sam spoke up.

Tolly started, tried to brush away the Mayor’s company, but Samwise would not be moved. ‘I heard the orders, as clear as you did, and I think the Thain would be right glad if I’m there to keep an eye on you, Tolly. The cruelties of Men are worse, when you first see them, than anything a hobbit can imagine.’

The Ranger did not protest, but merely bowed gravely. The King’s message, specific as it had been, had caused no little consternation to his Watchers. But the writing was Elessar’s own hand, sealed with his ring, and carried by his own bird... and what imposter would care to send such a message, bearing such horror?

‘So the King sent,’ he said. ‘Child-stealers, to bear what ever penalty the Thain might decree.’

Tolly swallowed hard, and stammered, ‘The Easterlings...’

The Ranger breathed shallowly for several breaths, and nodded. ‘I’ve often thought a quick, clean hanging too light a penalty,’ he said. ‘But we are Men of the West, and not given to torment and dark deeds.’

He turned to the ruffians then, taking ropes from his bag, forming nooses that he placed over the doomed Men’s heads, tying the ends of these to his saddle, and then undoing the bindings that held the ruffians on their ponies, letting them slide to the ground, though their legs would not hold them, and they ended sitting, their heads bowed.

Tolly had his bow out, an arrow at the ready, while the Ranger undid the hobbits’ bindings, one ruffian at a time, bringing the rogues’ hands behind their backs and binding them securely.

And then... he told the hobbits to mount their ponies, if they insisted on coming along to view the unpleasanter part of the business, and he mounted his horse and turned in the saddle. ‘Get up,’ he said to the ruffians. ‘Get yourselves up, or be dragged by your necks, if you’d like to end it now.’

And the brawny man lost his nerve, even with the threat of the Easterlings hovering over him, and he struggled to his feet, as Red staggered to stand, and then they were moving, the ropes around their necks tugging them along like reluctant dogs on the lead. Into the stream, the first steps not so cold, but soon it was pouring over the tops of their boots, rising up their legs nearly to their waists, and the brawny man was tempted to throw himself down, but he’d only be dragged through the water and out again, behind the Ranger’s horse, slowly strangling... and he couldn’t bring himself to it.

Up the bank, step by reluctant step, and he mustn’t stumble, he mustn’t fall, he must hold tight to every moment, every breath, every moment left to him before the torment began. They had several hours of darkness left, before the carrion birds would waken and be about their grim business...

There was a copse ahead, a darker mass of trees against the midnight sky. No stars shone above, no moon looked down in cold pity; the clouds did not even shed tears of snow or ice, they just covered the face of the sky from the horror unfolding.

The Rangers’ lanterns simply made the surrounding shadows darker, inky and frightening, as if nameless monsters crouched just beyond the reach of the light.

At last they came under the canopy of the trees, the Rangers surrounding them, Tolly and Sam riding to either side of the wretched ruffians, and they stopped under a tree with a fine, sturdy branch perhaps a dozen feet from the ground.

The ruffians were shivering in their wet clothing, but worse was to come, for a cold wind sprang up, and snowflakes began to drift down again, falling past the naked branches to the ground below.

Strip them, one of the Rangers said, and if the brawny man had thought that wet trousers were miserable, well, things were worse when he was relieved of his dry upper clothing, his skin a mass of gooseflesh in the freezing air, the sifting snowflakes landing on him in teasing tickles of ice that chilled him further as they alighted and then melted away.

They threw the hanging ropes over the high branch, and the brawny man knew a moment of desperate, if despairing, hope. Whether they hauled him into the air, to strangle slowly, or told him to step up onto a slender log, a precarious perch at best, difficult to keep one’s balance, but easy to kick away from under him, that he might drop with a neck-snapping jerk--please, he thought within himself, closing his eyes. Please.

But then he heard Red gasp, and begin to plead, to beg, to grovel... something he’d heard often, in Red’s company, from the guests the fat man allowed his younger brother to “entertain”, but never before from the red-headed ruffian himself. ‘Please, no! Mercy! Have pity! Please!’

The whining voice rose to a scream as the brawny man felt warm hands fumbling about his chest—the warmth felt good, against his chilled skin, even as he opened his eyes to see what he dreaded—they were tying a rope around him, under his arms, and in the next moment he was hauled into the air with a jerk, swinging, hanging helpless, his hands bound behind him but the rest of him free to move, his tongue free to beg, and he saw the hobbits standing in the midst of the flock of Rangers by the light of the torches surrounding the clearing, grim but determined. The ruffians hung from the ropes tied under their arms, and though the nooses remained around their necks, these hung loose and useless, mocking even, with a generous amount of slack in their ropes.

And his own protest was wrung from him. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘no, please...’

‘It’ll be some hours until the dawning,’ he heard a Ranger say. ‘Will you take some food with us? I doubt you’ll have any stomach for it, once the sun rises and the birds begin their feasting.’

‘A good idea,’ Sam said bravely, turning away and pulling the other hobbit after him.

Most of the Watchers moved to where a fire was burning nearby, leaving a small guard to oversee the doomed men, as if there were some chance they might make an escape, hah. There was a smell of roasting meat on the air, goodly smells that the brawny man remembered from his travels, but the terror in his belly would not let him feel hunger, though he’d not eaten since the early morning.

And when early morning came again...

He could scarcely breathe for the fear that was in him. Perhaps, with any mercy, he’d freeze to death before the dawn. But though he was shivering vigorously, chilled to the bone, he felt not a whit of the warm, sleepy feeling that portended death by freezing. No, he felt quite energised.

He could hear them talking, over there by the fire. An owl hooted in the darkness, and he cringed as something large and feathered coasted slowly by him—that selfsame owl, he thought, and wondered if an owl would take the same pleasure in him as the carrion crows would.

Red was still whining, his voice growing hoarse as he continued his begging, his hopeless pleading, but the brawny man was saving his breath, for whatever reason, he didn’t know, but there was no point in begging. They’d earned this death, Red perhaps more so, but the brawny man was every bit as guilty, his hands as bloody as the other man’s, whether or not he’d done the deed. He hadn’t walked away, and he hadn’t helped anyone but himself.

And so, though horror crept ever closer, with each passing moment, he steeled himself as best he could, and turned his thoughts to brighter days and better companions.

And then a Ranger got up from the fire, and walked back to the hanging tree, and spoke to the Watchers, and one of them walked around, behind the doomed men. The brawny man tried to turn his head to mark the Watcher’s passage, but the noose impeded him.

Red’s begging stopped abruptly, replaced by a strange, gurgling, straining noise, and the brawny man turned his eyes that way and saw the other ruffian dangling at the end of the noose, several feet below him, slowly strangling, for the Watcher had released the rope that held him up, under his arms, letting the noose take his weight... though the drop had failed to break Red’s neck, and so his death would be somewhat prolonged, though not the torment of the birds’ leisurely feasting.

The brawny man knew a moment of wild hope as he felt himself begin to fall... yes! To be hanged, and with any luck, his neck would be broken, and all would be done. He’d never envisioned anything beyond his own death, besides darkness and silence and not-being, and he craved that now, more than ever, the peace he envisioned, in those last seconds, as he fell.

Only to find, reaching bottom, that he’d been wrong about the not-being. His last thought, as his body faded from his consciousness, was that he’d fallen from the frying pan, into the fire...

Chapter 38. In the wee hours

Berendil, the captain of this particular outpost of Northern Rangers, had placed the hobbits with their backs to the hanging tree, though the Took had resisted—not to the point of protest, for he was constrained by the law of hospitality, not to offend his host, and the Rangers took full advantage of Shire custom, especially this night, when it seemed the Took did not know what he was asking, in the name of his Thain, though the Ring-bearer undoubtedly did.

Berendil had been one of the Rangers who rode to the South, with Halbarad, and in a public house in Minas Tirith, before they rode back to the Northlands again, he’d overheard Samwise discussing child-stealing, sitting at a table full of strangers, outlanders, who’d come to the City to deal with the King and his officers. His attention had been drawn, seeing one of the Ring-bearers without escort or any of the other hobbits, as if he’d slipped away for that very purpose. He’d shadowed the hobbit for the rest of the evening, making sure that Sam returned safely to the guesthouse, before seeking his own rest.

In any event, he was sure that the Mayor had known exactly what the Took was asking for, and yet Sam had not tried to stop matters from proceding, nor had he interefered at all, though he had sat himself solidly down with his back to the hanging tree and pulled the Took down to sit beside him, had taken the well-filled plate Berendil extended to him and shoved it into the Tookish archer’s lap, hissed to him to eat up before their hosts noticed that somewhat was amiss and took offence.

And the archer ate, and the Mayor ate as well, forcing himself, Berendil thought, but eating, nonetheless, clearing his plate and asking for more, for himself and for the archer as well.

And all the while Berendil sat and talked of old times, of the Coronation and the feasting that followed, cheerful topics, though perhaps the Paths of the Dead might have been more appropriate, considering. His ear was attuned to the wretches behind them, and no doubt the hobbits could hear the pleading of the scrawny ruffian, though his voice had grown hoarse over the hour or two he’d hung there, thus far. And dawn was still some hours away.

The Tookish archer was chewing slowly, looking as if the food had turned to sawdust in his mouth. ‘Enough?’ the Mayor said.

Tolly looked at him, misery in his eyes. ‘The Thain’s orders,’ he said, with a shuddering breath.

‘His orders were that the ruffians be suitably punished for the sufferings they’d inflicted,’ Sam said. ‘Wouldn’t you say they’ve suffered? Wouldn’t you say that the terrors they’re imagining, that they’ve been anticipating all the long ride, and into the night, would be enough?’

He bent close, to whisper in Tolly’s ear. ‘Would you stain the noble souls of these Watchers with the horror that will come in the dawning? Such blood on their hands, that will never wash away...’

Tolly looked at him, wide-eyed.

‘They’re to die anyhow,’ Sam said aloud. ‘It’s no kindness to prolong their lives this way. Let the King’s justice be done, and done quickly.’

‘Kindness!’ Tolly said. ‘It’s not kindness, prolonging their lives this way! If only...’

‘What are you waiting for, then?’ Sam said, for Tolly’s shoulders were stiff, and he could tell the archer had been listening to the near-constant begging of the red-headed one.

‘He’s never yet said he was sorry for what he’s done,’ Tolly said incongruously. ‘Nor has the other.’

‘You expect them to apologise?’ Sam said, and it was Berendil’s turn to stare. ‘And would you let them off, then? Would you believe them?’

‘Why ever not?’ Tolly said. ‘They wouldn’t say it, if they didn’t mean it!’

And Sam’s lips tightened in a mirthless smile, and he bowed his head, taking a deep breath, before looking up again to meet the Ranger captain’s eyes. Tolly might have been affected by rogue Men, but he’d not yet been tainted by his exposure to them. He still thought as a hobbit did, and though he struggled to carry out his Thain’s orders, he did not understand, completely, and perhaps he never would, the evil to be found in the hearts of some Men.

‘It’s too late, Tolly,’ Sam said now, very quietly. ‘They’ve had their chances.’

Tolly breathed shallowly, and then he nodded. ‘Aye,’ he whispered.

Sam nodded to Berendil, and the Ranger arose and left the fire, while the hobbits sat unmoving. Another Ranger stirred up the fire and added several more split logs, and the crackle and roar of the flames drowned out other noises. They could barely hear the ruffian’s pleas... and then, suddenly, his voice was stilled.

‘Some beer?’ the fire-tending Ranger said, pulling earthen bottles from a bag that sat among a pile of supplies.

‘Yes, Bargalad, I think so,’ Sam said, and he took the bottle, cold it was, icy cold and better suited to a hot summer day, but he upended the bottle and let the beer pour down his throat, and from the corner of his eye he saw Tolly follow suit. The drink steadied his nerves, and he picked up his fork once more. ‘Eat,’ he said to Tolly. ‘Your food’s gone cold, and it would be an insult to waste any.’

Tolly ate.

***

Pippin had been ready to ride back to Tuckborough as soon as they’d finished their meal, but Elessar persuaded him to take a few hours’ rest.

‘Just so long as we leave in time,’ Pippin said. ‘We must arrive before the dawning; it’s most important.’

Elessar agreed, for over late supper Farry had told how the young ruffian had risked his own life to save him from Red’s knife, by taking the eyes and tongue of a strayed lamb and bandaging Farry to disguise the trick. ‘He saved you from Red more than once,’ Pippin had said, when his son fell silent. ‘In point of fact, he took his death-wound, trying to take you away from that madman.’

‘But I thought...’ Farry had said, and Merry had broken in.

‘The arrows of the Tooks merely hastened his passing. It was a mercy, really, considering the wound the madman dealt. He’d’ve died in agonies, with the best we could do for him, and as it was he passed quickly and in relative peace, before the pain could seize him.’

‘Uncle Merry,’ Farry had whispered, and then he’d knuckled away his tears.

‘In any event, we must be there for his burial, to see that things are done properly,’ Pippin had said, and all there at the table had agreed.

Farry was himself again, and though tired for being up hours past his usual bedtime, he was excited at the prospect of riding the post ponies at a gallop all the way home. His eyes sparkled at the brave sight they’d make, clattering through the streets of Tuckborough and into the yard of the Great Smials.

Still, his father was able to tuck him into one of the guest beds, and lay down beside him, and both were quickly asleep. Merry crawled into a bed of his own, lying awake only a few moments more, before succumbing to exhaustion. Bergil dozed in one corner, his long legs stretched out along the floor; the rest of the King’s guards were bedded down in the hay of the stables attached to the gatehouse, and only Elessar remained awake, smoking his pipe and staring into the fire.

***

Nell wakened from her doze, feeling her husband stir. ‘Ferdi, my own?’ she whispered, but there was no answer. She turned over on the bed, to see him gazing at her by the light of the watch-lamp, a puzzled look on his face. ‘What is it, my love?’ she asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, and she felt a moment’s hope, but no words came, and he blinked in frustration. ‘It is well, love,’ she hastened to reassure him, resting a hand on his cheek. ‘It will be, anyhow. You’ve hurt your head, and the healers say you’ll heal, you’ll talk again.’

How do they know? Ferdi’s eyes said, and his face was troubled.

‘Is your head hurting you, my love?’ Pimpernel said. ‘I’m sure it must be aching abominably.’

‘How...?’ Ferdi whispered, almost without thinking, and he and Pimpernel gasped at the same instant, but then no more words came, and he slumped back on the pillows in defeat.

‘I told you,’ Pimpernel said, stroking his face gently. ‘I told you... it’ll come back to you. I know it will. You’ve not lost the use of your tongue, after all...’ and she bent close, laying her lips against his, and they shared a long and tender kiss. Ferdi’s hand rose from his side, to cup her head, pulling her closer, and his other hand touched her cheek, moving ever downwards, slowly traversing the curve of her neck, pushing aside the folds of her dressing gown to caress her shoulder with his long and sensitive fingers, and then...

And then there was the sound of a babe making hunger hiccoughs, and Meadowsweet was clearing her throat in the doorway, saying unnecessarily, ‘She’s awake, and hungry,’ and Pimpernel was rising from her husband’s embrace, a flush on her cheeks but her eyes bright, to take the little lass. She returned to sit beside Ferdi on the bed, and he pulled the babe’s covering aside, the better to see the tiny sweet face as Nell opened her wrapper to allow the little one to latch on.

Meadowsweet smiled at the picture they presented, the parents embracing the tiny babe between them, Ferdi stroking the downy curls on the little head, Nell looking from one to the other, the babe whimpering in her eagerness and then settling down to suckle, her little fist opening and closing against her mother’s breast.

When Pimpernel looked up, Meadowsweet mouthed, ‘I’ll be back later!’ and Pimpernel nodded, looking down again, the image of contentment.

A/N: A little bit of housekeeping here, tying up a loose end or two, and since EF did the research for me I have gone ahead and written the details into the start of this chapter.

There is a bit of uncomfortable detail in the first half of this chapter, where Sam and Tolly finish their vigil just outside the Bounds, preparing to take the word back to Tookland that the last of the ruffians have been dealt with. If you do not wish to read the details, please skip to the second half, which begins immediately after the three-asterisk (***) break.

Take heart. The celebrations are about to begin. With the conclusion of this chapter we leave death and horror behind.

Chapter 39. Halfway to the dawning

A hanged man does not die at once, or at least his body may linger for a time after his spirit flies free—the heart keeps beating for a time, sometimes half an hour or more even if he broke his neck on the fall, thus the custom in Minas Tirith (and in the cities of the North-kingdom, now that they are once more inhabited) to hang a man at the dawning the day after the hearing, and not cut him down until the sun sets again. In this way he serves as a warning to others, and the authorities are very sure he will not trouble anyone again.

There are certain instances where a condemned man need not wait for the dawn, especially if circumstances allow him to be hanged without a hearing. Ruffians found in the Shire, for example, in violation of the King’s edict, need no trial to be found guilty, since in a manner of speaking they’ve already been “found”.

Thus Berendil did not have to leave his charges hanging through the dawning and on through the day until the sun sought her rest. He would cut the wretches down well before the carrion birds awakened. No need to remind the hobbit witnesses of what they’d nearly set in motion, with the Took’s fumbling request.

He was used to the birds and their unpleasant ways, of course, but then he’d never hanged up a living man before, and left him living, that is. He was glad for the Mayor’s good sense in the matter, and he wondered if the Took would’ve had the stomach for what he’d asked. No matter, now.

He stood and watched, by the light of the flickering torches. The scrawny one, for all he’d dropped first, struggled much longer than his strapping companion. Berendil began to wonder if perhaps this one might actually last until the dawning, but eventually, inevitably the scrawny man stilled. He twitched his last, and the captain stepped forward, removing his gloves to check for a heartbeat on each, finding none.

He went back to the fireside, where the hobbits after three platefuls of food and a bottle or two of beer, he saw, were growing sleepy despite their best efforts. ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘And your Thain ordered some time ago that men taken in the Shire be cut down and buried without delay, for he thinks that hanging is enough, in itself.’

‘And he has the right of it,’ the Mayor said stoutly, slapping the Tookish archer on the back.

‘But I must be sure they are dead,’ Tolly said, setting his plate aside, his food sitting uneasily. Truth be told, he hadn’t felt like eating at all, and had only taken three servings out of politeness, and because of the Mayor’s urgings. ‘I must be absolutely certain. So the Thain charged me...’

‘Then come,’ Berendil said, holding out his hands to the hobbits, helping them to gain their feet, and walking them to the hanging tree with its dreadful burden.

In the flickering light of the torches, the ruffians more resembled pitiful plucked chickens than fearsome dealers in terror and death, hanging a few handspans above the ground.

‘Shall I cut them down, Captain?’ one of the Watchers said, from the shadows.

‘No,’ Berendil said. ‘Not quite yet.' And turning to the hobbits, he added, 'You see, Master Took, that dead men hang before you. It is likely that they would have died of the cold in a matter of hours, if not... other things, had we not let the rope do its work. There is no warmth in them now, no rush of blood, no heartbeat.’

The Took hesitated, staring; reached out a tentative hand, stopping just short of touching the red-headed ruffian. He’d tended Ferdi’s body, true, and that had held no terror for him, only sorrow and grief. But this was a horror, hanging before him, and it was more than he had in him, to touch the pallid flesh.

Berendil drew his sword. ‘Stand back,’ he said, and Mayor Sam pulled the Tookish archer back a step or two. The captain thrust to the heart, first the one ruffian, and then the other, and pulling his sword free from the second, letting the blade hang by his side, he turned to the hobbits. ‘Now do you believe they are dead?’ he said. He really did not want to behead the bodies, but if that’s what the hobbits needed, to carry away reassurance, then...

‘That pierced the heart, on each,’ the Mayor said, and the archer shook his head impatiently.

‘I know it,’ he growled. ‘I’ve put an arrow through the heart of a ruffian a time or two.’ And he shuddered, and it might not have been merely the cold fingers of the winter wind, plucking at his collar.

‘Are you satisfied, Tolibold?’ Sam pressed.

Berendil found himself holding his breath for a long moment as the Took considered, staring from one body to the other. At last Tolly nodded, a sharp gesture that reminded the captain of Pippin. ‘You may cut them down,’ he said. ‘Bury them deep, if you can, with the weather so bitter.’

Berendil wanted to ask if the Took feared the ruffians would awaken and claw their way out of the grave, but he didn’t. Evidently the hobbits had been badly shaken by this encounter, and the captain cursed the slip in the Watchers’ measures that had allowed these evil ones to penetrate the Bounds of the Shire. They ought to have questioned these men before dispatching them. He’d shown poor judgment in the matter, so taken aback had he been at the Took’s request.

Still, they’d tighten their Watch, all around the Shire, and questions would be asked, discreetly, by unkempt Kingsmen in ragged clothing, in shadowy corners of the inns in the Breeland and near Sarn and in other places where men of questionable motives might gather.

‘They’ll sleep,’ he said, ‘and you may be assured there will be no wakening on this side of the world.’ He’d see to that, distasteful as the thought was. There would be no chance that one of them had merely swooned and would be able to creep away. Berendil owed the Ring-bearer and the Thain that much, and more.

***

Pippin wakened instantly at a touch on his arm, seeing Elessar hovering above him when he opened his eyes. Faramir, too, was awake, staring at the King with wide eyes.

‘Come,’ Elessar said, gesturing to the corner. ‘There is something you must see for yourselves, and then it will be time to waken Merry, have a bite to eat, mount your ponies and begin your journey home again.’

Father and son arose from the bed, walking together to where Elessar’s saddlebags lay, half hidden under his Elven-cloak. Bergil snored, still sitting in the opposite corner. The King knelt, bent to his bags, removed a cloth-wrapped ball that seemed weighty, from his handling of the thing.

Pippin started. ‘Is that...?’ he said, his eye going over the shape, and then he shook his head impatiently and said, ‘but of course it is! Do you think this wise, Strider, knowing how...?’

‘You must not touch it,’ the King said gravely, ‘but only look, as I tell you. It cannot harm you, for it is my servant now, and under my control.’

‘But Farry,’ Pippin protested. ‘He’s so young!’

‘Not too young to have survived worse than might have broken a young lord of Gondor,’ Elessar said gravely.

Farry stared from father to King, only half-understanding.

‘Sit down on the chair there, Pippin, and take Farry into your lap,’ the King directed, and moving as if in a dream, the hobbits obeyed.

The King moved to kneel before them, bringing up his hands until he held the ball at Farry’s eye-level. ‘It’s dark, the vision within,’ he said softly, ‘but no darker than aught you’ve seen or heard, these past two days, lad.’

Farry nodded, his eyes on the King’s hands. Elessar slowly drew the cloth from the Seeing Stone, whispering a word or two that the hobbits did not understand, but evidently the Stone did, for its dull surface flared suddenly bright, casting a light into the watching faces that died into a flickering campfire, and torches around the edges of a clearing.

And then Farry gasped, and he turned to bury his face in his father’s arm, and Pippin tightened his hold on his son as he stared into the Palantir, unable to drag his eyes from the awful scene.

‘Is it...?’ he whispered. ‘Is it... they?’

‘It is,’ Elessar said solemnly.

Pippin stared a long moment, beyond emotion, and then Farry stirred, uncovering his eyes, turning to look once more, gazing in silence for a long moment before saying, ‘They’re dead, then.’

‘Truly dead, Faramir,’ Elessar said.

‘Red cannot...’ Farry said.

‘No,’ the King said. ‘He cannot. He has gone from Middle-earth, to the Halls of Mandos, from there to go to reap what he sowed in life.’

Farry nodded, and in a voice that was much too old for such a little lad, he said, ‘Good.’

And Pippin buried his face in his son’s shoulder, and breathed the living scent of his son, and felt Farry’s breaths filling his small torso, and relaxing again, one breath after another, steady breaths, and Farry’s hands came together to grasp his father’s hands, holding him, and they were warm and strong in their grip.

Elessar covered the Palantir once again, and Faramir nodded, as if in thanks, meeting the eyes of the King, and the King inclined his head, a gesture full of grace, before he turned away to conceal the Stone once more in the pile of baggage.

The last of the child-stealing ruffians were dead, and Farry was alive, and well.

Chapter 40. Not long before dawn

The fresh snowy fields took on a ghostly glow as the Sun thought about throwing off the bedcovers and the sky began to brighten. 

The hour before sunrise found Tolly and Samwise well away from the Bounds, and on their way back to the Great Smials, though it would be after nooning when they arrived, even if they pushed their ponies and ate their meals in the saddle.

Tolly was just as happy at the need for haste. He did not look forward to sleeping, at least not in the near future. He could understand something of Ferdi’s troubles, a few years ago, when that hobbit had not been able to find rest, after seeing ruffians hanging in the trees outside the Bounds. He’d been awake for days, damaging his judgment in an emergency, and pulling down his constitution until he nearly died of lung fever.

He looked forward to talking the matter over with Ferdi, to finding out how his cousin had finally been able to achieve enough peace of mind to sleep once more... and then it hit him with a pang. Ferdi was no more. Of course. Tolly had been away with the muster, by yesterday’s dawning, and though he hadn’t thrown a fistful of earth onto the shroud, Meadowsweet would have dropped his portion along with her own, and likely a few tears on Tolly’s behalf as well.

And at this moment, they were preparing to honour the last of the ruffians at the burial ground of the Great Smials. The thought rankled, though assuredly the Thain had his reasons.

Bitterly he counted the losses. Ferdi, dead. Farry, unimaginably injured. While the lad had seemed intact, in body at least, Tolly’s sight of the child huddled in his father’s arms, unresponsive, haunted the head of escort. He was sworn to the protection of the Thain and the Thain's family, but things had gone terribly wrong. 

Sam, too, was unusually taciturn. As it turned out, he too was remembering Ferdibrand. He was sorry to have missed the burial. His children had, at the time Pippin became Thain, adopted Ferdibrand as a sort of honorary uncle, and a great deal of affection had grown between Ferdibrand and the Gamgees. Sam’s family would be subdued for some time, prone to tears, no doubt, and not in the mood for celebrations. He’d have to travel to various festivals by himself, the next few weeks, he’d wager. A lonely time stretched ahead, and it wasn’t made any easier by his grief on Pippin’s behalf, for the harm done his little son.

Though it seemed the sensible thing to rest, to travel at a reasonable pace, returning late that evening or even the next day, both hobbits by unspoken agreement were pushing the pace. At teatime this day, the Great Smials Tooks would celebrate... no, “celebrate” was too festive a word... they’d observe the Naming Day for Ferdi and Nell’s little lass.

Both planned to be there, for Pimpernel’s sake. And for Ferdi’s.

***

‘It’s time,’ Meadowsweet said, and Pimpernel jerked awake, seized by a terrible feeling of half-remembered loss.

She drew a shuddering breath, and immediately had the comfort of her husband’s arms encircling her, Ferdi’s breath on the back of her neck, his lips brushing a butterfly kiss on the sensitive place behind her ear.

‘Ferdi, my love?’ she said, turning in his arms, and then she threw her arms about his neck, clinging to him, weeping in relief.

‘What...?’ he whispered, patting her back, stroking and soothing. ‘N-n-n...’ He could not quite form her name. ‘M-m-m...’ My Nell.

But Pimpernel knew very well what he meant. ‘O Ferdi, my love,’ she repeated. ‘You’re here. You’re here.’

Ferdi looked helplessly to Meadowsweet, standing stricken in the doorway. Where else would I be?

Meadowsweet avoided the obvious answer. Ferdi, Rosa had told her, might well have no memory of ruffians or near-burial, and in his precarious state it would be unwise to upset him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to waken...’

Then why did you? Ferdi’s upraised eyebrow inquired.

‘Thain’s orders,’ Meadowsweet said, looking uncomfortable. ‘Of course, Ferdi, I didn’t mean to waken you, but I wanted to tell Nell that I’d be gone for a time... Her brother ordered out all the Tooks, to attend the burial.’

Ferdi sat straight upright. ‘What...?’ he demanded. Whose burial? It came back to him in a rush, that nagging concern for Faramir, and he had a sudden, terrible conviction that something had happened to the lad, and with it the pain struck his head as if a wall of bricks had fallen upon him.

‘The ruffian’s,’ Meadowsweet said hurriedly.

Not that it helped much, though it was a distraction. Ferdi’s worry about Faramir turned instantly to indignation. A ruffian? We’re burying a ruffian?

‘They’re about to carry him from the great room to the burial ground,’ Meadowsweet said, once Pimpernel had calmed her husband somewhat with soft-spoken entreaties. ‘I thought you ought to know, even if you could not leave your husband...’

Ferdi, however, was going to get to the bottom of this. He could not ask questions, obviously, and besides, if the procession was already starting, no one would have time for patient explanations, and in the meantime a ruffian would be disturbing the peace of those Tooks already laid to rest. He thought of the families, whose sons or husbands or fathers had fallen at Bywater, at the hands of ruffians, and what a slap in the face this must be.

Obviously Pippin was still away on the muster... (And a part of his mind blinked a bit, and stuttered. Muster? There had been something about a muster. He could not quite remember...) Someone had to do something about this. He wondered where Reginard was. Surely the steward wouldn’t let such a travesty take place, on some garbled order reputedly from an absent Pippin. Perhaps Regi had been called away as well, in the emergency. In that case, who was running things?

Ferdi sat up, fighting the nausea that arose as he did, and ignoring the rush of pain in his head he threw back the bedcoverings.

‘Ferdi-love, what are you doing?’ Nell said in alarm, and Meadowsweet hurried to his other side.

Clothes. He wanted clothes, but he could not for the life of him form the word.

‘Ferdi?’

Ah! He could see his fancy togs hung carelessly on a peg, as if hastily put by. He remembered tumbling into bed after a feast and dance, tossing the clothing over the back of a chair... was that last night? How did the clothes get hung up on the peg?

Had he had too much to drink, then? Sometimes the Tooks got carried away in their toasting, and though he tried to sip water instead when he felt the drink going to his head, there were times when he couldn’t get away with the substitution, such as when a great many Brandybucks were amongst the guests, and the Hall’s finest was served—a rare treat, and sweet and heady, and Ferdi could not quite pace himself as well as he could with the local ale and beer.

He remembered, rather fuzzily, getting fancied up for a feast, but it was mixed up with odd and scattered dreams of going fully-clad to bed.

That was, perhaps, the solution. He’d been dressed to the teeth for some feast or other, and had drunk too much brandy and been helped to his bed, cast upon it still fully dressed, and he or Nell had arisen in the night to hang up their clothes.

He stood up, scarcely heeding the protests around him, staggering drunkenly the few steps to the wall. He threw off his nightshirt and took down the clothes, though he nearly fell, trying to lift one foot enough to get the breeches on. All the while Nell’s and Sweetie’s voices were swirling in the air around him, flocks of pigeons too restless to roost.

Eventually he felt their hands begin to help rather than hinder, as if they’d sensed his outrage and resolve, and getting dressed became a matter of time instead of opinion.

***

‘Sun’ll be rising soon,’ Merry said, sipping at the hot drink steaming in his hands. It would be only a few moments before the fresh ponies were saddled, and they’d be off on the last stretch of road to Tuckborough. Another hour, perhaps, before their arrival.

‘We cannot come late!’ Farry said. ‘What if the Tooks won’t...?’

‘Regi knows how to follow orders,’ Pippin soothed his son. His eyes looked on some far-away scene. ‘We won’t come late, not this time.’

‘This time?’ Farry wanted to know, but “Uncle” Merry was also looking preoccupied, and he rubbed at the brown scar on his forehead with his gloved hand, as if it bothered him.

And then it came to Faramir, for he suddenly remembered the murmured words he’d overheard between King and Thain and Master, on their leave-taking, about Boromir...

‘You couldn’t be there to honour one ruffian-turned-to-the-good, so you’re determined to make good with this one!’ he blurted.

‘Eh?’ Pippin said. ‘What’s that?’

‘You couldn’t help to lay Boromir to his rest...’ Farry said, only to see his father’s brow clouding with anger.

But Merry stepped in before Pippin could speak. ‘Boromir was no ruffian,’ he said, his eyes glinting though he maintained a calm and even tone.

‘But...’ Farry said, confused. Perhaps he’d misunderstood?

Sorrow had replaced Pippin’s anger, and he gathered his little son closer. ‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ he said. ‘Yes, he sounded like a ruffian, to Frodo, there at the end, for he was overcome. But Boromir was a proud and noble man, Farry, don’t ever forget that...’

‘And he gave his life to try and save you and Uncle Merry,’ Farry recited. How many times he’d heard the story... though he’d not heard the part about Boromir and Frodo until a few hours ago, while his father and Uncle Merry were taking their leave of the King.

This rush to the young ruffian’s burial had something to do with his father’s memories of Boromir. He wanted Farry to have some sort of peace that he himself had never found, in regard to the Man of Gondor.

‘Just as the young one gave his life to try and save you, Farry,’ Pippin agreed gravely. ‘It is meet and right for you to honour him, and though you might find times to grieve him, in future, you’ll know you at least did right by him in the end.’

Farry took his father’s hand, looking up into his face with an earnest expression. ‘I want to do right, Da.’

Pippin smiled, tousling his son’s head such that the lad’s hood fell back. Pippin quickly restored the hood, taking the muffler from his own neck to wrap it round Farry’s hood, head and neck for good measure. ‘Don’t want you to take a chill on the last leg!’

‘Mum’ll be so surprised,’ Farry said with a blush.

‘Well,’ Merry said, trying for a light tone. ‘You could always try and keep your hood on until it grows out again.’

‘The voice of experience,’ Pippin said with a chuckle. ‘Your mum didn’t let you do that, the time I gave you a haircut...’

‘No,’ Merry said with a chuckle of his own, and then the call came, that the ponies were ready, and he gulped down the rest of his hot drink, urged Pippin and Farry to finish theirs, and with thanks to the innkeeper at the Pleasant Pheasant they were off again at a gallop, racing to arrive before the sun.

Chapter 41. Dawning

It took nearly twice as many hobbits to bear the young ruffian to the burial ground as it had Ferdi, even though many of the mustered hobbits had returned in the dawning and a number of these had been tapped for the duty. For one thing he was nearly twice as long as many a full-grown hobbit, though not much heavier, being young, short of stature as Men go, and relatively slight.

The murmuring Tooks following the shrouded body ought to have been either walking in silence or singing. Exchanging gossip was not the politest of occupations on the way to a burial.

It was a good thing that Diamond was at the head of the procession, taking Pippin’s place, Reginard at her side ready to put out a steadying hand should she slip on the light dusting of snow after they left the swept stones of the yard. She heard nothing of the gossip going on behind her back, as the returning archers filled in their stay-at-home relatives on recent events, and the expressions of shock in general, and pity directed at herself, were lost on her back.

Young Farry taken by ruffians! went the Talk. Borne away, senseless, by his father—by order of the King, no less! The King had sent a message direct to Hoard Hill, as if he had some way of seeing where the ruffians had been taken, where Farry had been rescued!

And worse news, spoken in an undertone, by some who’d been well back in the group that had hastened to Hoard Hill after the explosion. One of the ruffians had been bearing “tokens” and a note to the Thain when he’d been taken, wrapped in a bloody cloth—they’d seen with their own eyes—and Farry’s eyes had been bandaged when the archers had come upon the ruffians, his mouth bound up with a bloody cloth. What could it mean?

Had the lad been maimed? And though the Thain had carried him away to the healing hands of the King... was there anything to be done? It was enough to bring tears to the eyes of many of the Tooks and servants in that solemn procession as the news slowly spread through the crowd.

Diamond reached the grave, walking to the head with Regi, turning to stand there as the shrouded figure was brought, laid down on the boards, and the bearers took up the ropes to lower him down. She noted a number of weeping hobbits, and thought how soft-hearted some of them were, to weep for this homeless fellow, not much more than a boy, who’d fallen among evil companions.

The young ruffian was lowered gently into the grave and the ropes taken up again, and Reginard cleared his throat. He was rather at a loss, actually. The Man had been cared for as if he were one of the family, and Pippin had ordered that he be buried among the Tooks, though his message hadn’t said much more than that, only that the Man had done the Tooks a great service and thus deserved to rest in peace, with honour and respect.

‘We are gathered here together,’ Diamond said, as the quiet moment stretched out, raising her voice to be heard above the crowd, ‘to honour one who performed a great service for the Tooks, and for the Tookland. He stood alone, against his fellows, and in so doing he gave up his life...’ for that terrible wound, that the healers had stitched in their final ministrations, had come from no hobbit, but most likely from the hand of another Man. Diamond was rather grasping at something to say, as she knew no more than Regi did.

There was a murmuring in the crowd, and then the Tooks stilled and stared at her in silence.

It was time for the chief mourner to step forward, to pick up the first fistful of earth and cast it into the grave. The only trouble was, there was no chief mourner.

But then there was a ripple in the crowd, the silence broken by murmurs of surprise, and then the crowd parted, and Ferdibrand was there, looking ghastly, pale as the linen shrouding the corpse at the bottom of Ferdi’s former grave, staggering forward like a drunken hobbit. Pimpernel walked on one side of him and Meadowsweet on the other, hovering, hands outstretched, though they did not grasp at him. He’d already shaken them off, and more than once, using too much of his dwindling strength such that they feared they’d cause his collapse if they kept fighting him. So they resigned themselves to escort, at least until he faltered.

But he didn’t falter. He moved right to the head of the crowd, to confront Diamond and Regi, to point a shaking hand down at the shrouded figure in silent demand.

‘Ferdi, I...’ Diamond said, at a loss, but Regi was put out.

‘What are you doing out of bed?’ he demanded. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’

Ferdi lifted an upraised hand to the sky, as if to ask if all the Tooks had done the same. Had they all lost their wits, to be burying a ruffian here?

Rosamunda, at Regi's other side, was trying to take charge of Ferdi, but he wasn’t having any. He shook her off and stood swaying, his gaze going from Diamond, to Regi, and then he turned to sweep the crowd with a scathing glance, and he stiffened.

Diamond, following Ferdi’s glance, stood up on her tiptoes and gave a glad cry. ‘Pippin!’

The crowd turned, the shorter ones craning for a view. Yes, two riders were approaching, on lathered ponies... and those closest to the outside edge of the crowd could see that, yes, the Thain bore his son, well wrapped in a cloak, before him on the saddle.

Ferdi swayed, blinking, and might have fallen, even into the grave, had not Pimpernel and Meadowsweet been ready to catch him and pull him back. Regi lent his support, and Ferdi slumped in their combined grasp, momentarily senseless.

Diamond looked anxiously from Ferdi to the new arrivals, but Regi reassured her. ‘I’ve got him,’ he said, ‘and we’ll send for a litter, and soon have him back in his bed where he belongs.’

Thain and Master pulled up their ponies, and a hobbit stepped up to take the reins as they dismounted. Pippin lifted Farry down and the travellers made their way to the graveside.

‘Farry!’ Diamond said, and her lad ran ahead to catch her in a tight hug. ‘How I missed you, my love,’ and laughing, she added, ‘and it seems that you missed me, just a little?’

‘O Mum,’ Farry said, his voice muffled against Diamond’s cloak. He was well-bundled-up, his mother was glad to see, cloaked and hooded and muffled against the winter chill, but when she put him back from herself his bright eyes glimmered at her from the depths of the hood, and she was touched to see him so close to tears. He was still her little lad...

In the meantime, the nearest hobbits had heard the lad speak, and he had run, full of youthful health and vigor, and he hadn’t had to be led, his eyes bandaged, so what was all this grim talk the archers had brought back with them...?

Not a few quiet tongue lashings began, there in the crowd, and were broken off, considering the circumstances, to be taken up at a later time.

‘My dearest,’ Pippin said, reaching Diamond and taking her and Farry into a fervent hug. ‘Forgive me for not sending news ahead of us, but we travelled on the wings of the dawning, and outsped any messengers we might have sent.’

‘What news?’

‘Forgive me,’ Pippin said again, and ‘Are you and the babe well? Or ought I to send you back to our apartments, and I’ll fill up your corners with all the details just as soon as we’ve done this fellow justice.’

Diamond stood a little stiffer. ‘I’m well,’ she said, wondering, but her eyes flashed and Pippin knew he was in for severe questioning, and soon, perhaps even scolding if his wife was unsatisfied with the answers to her questions.

‘I will bear a clean breast, I promise,’ he said, holding up his hand in pledge.

Diamond nodded, hugging Farry again, and then pulled the lad to her side, under her wing once more. Pippin moved to Farry’s other side, and raised his hand again for silence.

A light breeze played over the burial ground, chilling the hobbits there, but none thought of seeking the warmth of the Great Smials. The breeze was reviving to Ferdi, blinking in Regi’s arms, and he sat up a little, looking up at the Thain, who hadn’t noticed him and Reginard yet, and he saw to his relief that Farry was well and whole, nestled between his parents. That gnawing feeling of something amiss was set at rest, and some of Ferdi’s head pain abated in his relief.

‘Tooks and Tooklanders,’ Pippin said, pitching his voice to reach the edge of the crowd. ‘We come together to honour an hero of Tookland.’

Ferdi blinked. He’d have stood to his feet and demanded an explanation, but for the weakness of his body that denied him aught but to lie there, supported by Regi, and the reluctance of his traitor tongue, which seemed tied in his mouth. Hero?

‘On their way to the Great Smials from my family’s farm,’ Pippin went on, ‘Ferdibrand and my son, Faramir, were waylaid by a group of ruffians, Men in the Shire in violation of the King’s Edict, and up to no good.’

He stopped, overcome by a wave of sorrow that washed suddenly over him. He’d not had time, in the press of events, truly to grieve Ferdibrand until now. He’d even missed Ferdi’s burial, having to settle for a short remembrance on a hillside as the sun rose, the previous morning.

Fighting to keep his voice from breaking, he continued. ‘Ferdibrand offered his life, in defence of my son, but the ruffians clubbed him to the ground, leaving him to die in his blood in the cold of night...’

Ferdi blinked again, astonished at the news. They had? Why had no one told him about this? Wouldn’t you think he’d be the first to know?

‘And the ruffians would have taken Farry's life as well, leaving no witnesses to their intrusion—to their attempt to steal the gold of the Tooks—but by chance they discovered that they held the son of the Thain...’

Diamond gasped, pulling Farry more tightly against her.

‘All’s well, Mum,’ Farry said earnestly, and his piping voice was loud enough for most of the Tooks gathered there to hear, and the last of their grief and anxiety for the lad trickled away though consternation remained.

‘And this youth,’ Pippin said, gesturing toward the grave, ‘this youth stopped them, he defied the others, scheming to keep my son safe and whole, when they would have done unspeakable things in order to move the Tooks to their will.’

A murmur as of distant thunder passed through the crowd, as they put together the archers’ rumours with the Thain’s words, and any lurking ruffian would have taken to his heels at the doom-filled sound, and run all the way to the Bounds to escape the wrath of the Tooks.

‘At great risk to his own life,’ Pippin said, his voice threatening to break once more, for of course he thought of Ferdi, ‘nay, at cost of his life, he defended my son against the others, and so we honour him this day, with our poor best.’

As the Tooks stood, considering these astonishing facts in silence, Ferdi pushed against Regi’s hold, indicating that he wished to stand, and Regi, dumbfounded and taken aback at Pippin’s speech, at the deadly peril that Farry had survived, helped him.

Pippin’s eye was drawn by the movement, and at once his eyes opened wide, and he gave a glad cry and stumbled forward. ‘Ferdi! How can it be! Fennel said...!’

Farry gave an exclamation of joy and would have moved to embrace Ferdi, but for his mother’s fierce grip, for Diamond stood transfixed by all that might have been lost... but was not.

Ferdibrand met Pippin’s hug with a feebler embrace of his own. Indeed, he slumped in Pippin’s grasp, and Regi hastily stepped forward to help support the injured hobbit.

‘He’s not well,’ Regi said. ‘Ought to be in his bed, even now, for some days yet, and...’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Pippin said, torn between laughter and joyful tears. ‘Come, Ferdi, we’ll bear you to your bed, and I’ll tuck you up with mine own hands, and send the choicest bits of the feast to you and Nell, as she sits by your bedside...’

But Ferdi pushed at the supporting hands, his gaze so fierce that Pippin and Regi let him go in surprise.

Standing without support, though unsteady, he reached down to take up a handful of wet, snowy earth, stopping while still stooped, requiring aid to stand upright again, though he shook off the helping hands just as soon as he was able to stand.

He looked to Farry, then swept the crowd of Tooks, though his eyes were beginning to glaze; he was obviously hanging on by the slightest of threads of determination. He held the handful of dirt out, over the grave, took a deep breath, and dropped it, blessing the shrouded figure below with Tookish soil.

And he stood, looking down at the grave, while Farry stepped forward to add his handful, and then Diamond, and Pippin, and Ferdi’s Nell, and Regi, and Rosa... and the line of Tooks began to shuffle by, adding handfuls from the two large piles of earth standing by the grave.

Regi moved to take Ferdi’s arm. ‘Don’t watch this,’ he said. He did not know what Ferdi remembered of the previous day, but it gave him a chill to see the hobbit stand there, staring at the clods of falling dirt. Already the shroud was well-spotted, and it would not be long before the white of the shroud no longer shone at the bottom of the hole.

Rosa came to pluck at Nell’s cloak. ‘Litter’s here,’ she said. ‘Let us not stand out in the cold; you’ll catch your death.’ She meant Ferdi, in his weakened state, more than Pimpernel, but there’s more than one way to skim cream from the milking.

As she’d hoped, Ferdi heard, and understood much more than he was capable of speaking at the moment, and turned to Nell, concern plain on his countenance.

And Nell allowed herself to be fussed over, if it would get Ferdi out of this place and back into bed where he could rest and heal.

Ferdi seemed to think that the litter was for Pimpernel, but Pippin took a hand, and it was not long before Ferdi was being borne along, with his beloved Nell holding his hand, away from the grave, for the second time in as many days.

‘Will he be at the Naming, do you think?’ Hilly muttered to his wife as they awaited their turn.

‘You jest! It’s his Little Lass who’s to have a name this day!’ Posey hissed back at him. ‘Why, if he cannot walk, he’ll likely have them carry the bed to the great room!’

‘But how’s he going to name her, if he cannot talk?’ Hilly said.

He felt Posey’s shoulders shake with silent laughter under his arm (for who would be so coarse as to laugh at a burying?), but she only shook her head. ‘Wives have ways,’ she said. ‘We do, indeed.’

***

And miles away, in the gatehouse on the border of Buckland, the King sat back with a sigh, drawing a cloth over the round stone he held in his hand, and easing the whole into a sturdy leather bag. He pulled the drawstring tight and fastened the Palantir securely within his saddle bag.

Getting up, he crossed the little room, silent as a cat, and nudged the sleeping guardsman. 'Up,' he said. 'We've miles to go, to return to Fornost in time for packing up! My wife will not want to do all the work herself.'

Bergil scrambled to his feet. 'I'll waken the detail, my Lord,' he said.

'Make sure they have a good breakfast before we set out,' Elessar ordered, with a hint of a smile playing about his lips. When in Buckland, do as the hobbits do...

A Buckland breakfast is something to write home about, and it was a good hour before the guardsmen and King were ready to mount their horses. But there was no need for haste, now, and they could make a pleasant journey, riding to the north through the fresh-fallen snow. The landscape looked pure to the eye, fresh and innocent as if new-created, and the icy air was a blessing on the lungs.

At the King's nod, Bergil raised his hand high, and let it fall, and the tall horses moved out, while the hobbits, clustered at the Gate in response to news of the coming of the King, raised a journey-song to sing them on their way. 

A/N: Apologies. This was supposed to be *all* of the final chapter, but have reached the 3,000 word limit, beyond which uploading and editing assume nightmarish proportions, and so, I regret to say that this will not *quite* be the ending to the story. Look for another chapter, entitled "Teatime", sometime soon. (I hope. Think good thoughts.)

Chapter 42. After noon

Ferdi was settled back in his bed, and not clad in his fancy togs, either, but suitably attired in a fresh nightshirt, when Merry entered bearing a laden tray.

‘Merry! It’s enough to feed a muster!’ Pimpernel said, rising quickly to her feet.

‘Exactly, all the choicest bits from the feast, as ordered!’ Merry replied, laying the tray down upon the dressing table and turning to the bed to help prop Ferdi into a sitting position. He was gentle and deft, jarring the aching head remarkably little. ‘There we are.’

As he turned away to fetch one of the loaded plates, he wiped a little suspicious moisture from his eyes. He’d been half-tempted to repeat Sam’s question to Gandalf, on awakening at Cormallen. Could everything sad be coming untrue? Of course, the young ruffian remained still and cold in the grave, so not quite everything sad had been undone. Just as in the past, for Boromir had never returned, and Frodo had been for ever altered, so changed that he could no longer stay in the Shire he’d sacrificed so much to save.

But Ferdi, whom they’d mourned as dead, and Farry, as they thought had been cut to pieces, were alive and well and whole. Relatively whole, anyhow. Ferdi, Merry had been told, had lost his speech, and the healers were cautious about his recovery. He ought to regain his faculties, over the next weeks, as the swelling inside his head went down.

(Merry wondered how healers knew, without seeing, that there was swelling inside one’s head. One of those questions he’d never quite had the stomach to ask. He remembered, however, an incident in Minas Tirith, before they returned home, when Strider had told him that he had swelling inside his head, and that he’d be himself again, given time. And Strider’s words had come true. He could only hope that Ferdi would be so blessed as himself.)

 ‘Almost as good as a Buckland breakfast,’ Merry said, laying a cloth in Ferdi’s lap, and the plate atop. ‘Rashers of bacon, and eggs fried in the fat, and fried tomato preserves, and beans, and good farm-fresh sausage that you fetched down from the North-farthing for the Thain’s table not long ago, so you know it’s the finest to be had in the Shire, and...’

‘Almost as good!’ Pimpernel said, laughing. ‘I cannot see how a Buckland breakfast could be any better!’

‘It’s in Buckland, for starters,’ Merry said, bringing Pimpernel’s plate. ‘Now you eat this, Nell, whilst I take care of your dear husband. Eh, Ferdi?’ And he scooped beans onto a piece of fried bread, cut off a piece and forked the whole into the air, floating the morsel in front of Ferdi’s face. ‘Here’s the Old Owl,’ he said cheerily, ‘bringing a fat mouse to his hole in the Old Oak tree.’

Ferdi half-raised one hand to intercept the fork, but really, it was too much trouble, and much easier just to open his mouth to accept the bite. He closed his eyes in appreciation at the taste, now that was what was wanted! ...and quickly popped his mouth open again when he felt the fork touch his lower lip, loaded again with a bite of egg-and-bacon.

Nell, seeing Ferdi so well cared for, applied herself to her own meal with a will. ‘O but it’s good!’ she said with her mouth full, chewing quickly and swallowing, accepting the cup of tea that Rosamunda held out to her, and drinking with a sigh.

Rosa smiled, glad to see Nell eating heartily. She needed to, in order to keep up her milk supply for the babe. Speaking of which...

‘What are you going to name her?’ she said without thinking.

‘Name her?’ Pimpernel said, her blank look echoing her husband’s.

‘You mean, you don’t have a name for the babe yet?’ Merry said in astonishment. ‘But her Naming’s today!’

Don't I know it! said Ferdi’s rueful expression.

‘It’ll be a wonder if she has a name at all, by the end of the day,’ Meadowsweet said from the doorway. She stifled a yawn. Though it was barely time for second breakfast, she was exhausted from her long vigil, for the last two nights and a day in-between, watching over Pimpernel and the babe. It was more draining than having a newborn of her own! ...although, Little Lass was so very sweet, that Tolly’s wife was feeling more amenable to adding another to their family, as her husband had been hinting lately.

‘It has been a day of wonders,’ Pimpernel said softly, laying down her fork to take Ferdi’s hand. He returned the squeeze in a meaningful way.

‘It has indeed,’ Rosamunda said. ‘It’s a wonder that your husband is here, eating and drinking, enjoying a funeral feast, after...’ She swallowed hard and rushed on, changing what she’d been about to say. ‘...after all that’s happened, these past two days.’

‘And a wonder that Farry is whole and sound in body and mind,’ Meadowsweet said with a shudder. ‘And that the ruffians, what’s left of them, are surely dead by now, and Tolly will be back by teatime.’

And several times during these observations, Ferdi squeezed Pimpernel’s hand, until she looked to him, understanding dawning in her eyes. ‘You mean...?’ she said, with a little gasp.

He smiled and nodded.

‘What is it?’ Merry said, curious. ‘Come now, Ferdi, finish these tomatoes. They’re fat, crimson and lovely, and altogether delicious, and I’m looking forward to my own plateful once you’ve finished.’

‘But it’s... it’s so... unusual,’ Pimpernel said, seeming to find talking nearly so difficult as her husband did at the moment. ‘Not that I’ve ever heard such a name in the Shire before...’

Ferdi’s mouth crooked in a smile, before opening to accept more of the “lovely tomatoes”, and a bit of his old mischief shone from his eye.

Rosamunda and Meadowsweet exchanged glances. Ferdi and Nell were so well-suited that for years they’d finished each other’s sentences, even seemed to think each other’s thoughts at times.

‘So you do in fact have a name for the babe?’ Merry said.

Pimpernel absently picked up her fork in her left hand, since the right was occupied, and forked up the last of her egg. ‘It appears that we do.’

‘Well,’ Meadowsweet said briskly, washing her hands together in the air. ‘If it’s an unusual name you’re worried about, you can always call her by a love-name, you know, when you’re out and among people. A jewel, or any number of flowers...’

‘That’s what started this whole trouble in the first place,’ Pimpernel said. ‘We couldn’t quite decide “which” flower.’

‘Then name her “Flora” for all of them!’ Merry said in his brightest tone. He was fairly sure that this little one wouldn’t be saddled with a Gondorian name, as young Faramir had. The hobbits had adapted by shortening his name to a more pronounceable  “Farry”, but really...

‘Flora,’ Pimpernel said, turning hopefully to her husband. ‘It’s a pretty name...’

Ferdi smiled in a way that made her heart sink, and he squeezed her hand gently.

She swallowed hard. ‘It is what you really want?’ she said. Privately she was thinking that if, perhaps, Ferdi was in that moment not in his right mind, he (traditionalist that he was) might be horrified, later, at what he’d done. She’d talk to Pippin, ask him not to write the name in the Book just yet, not until Ferdi was recovered, just to make sure.

‘It’s a pretty name...’ she repeated, then in a complete change of mood she sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Really, Ferdi, it’s a wonder that I put up with you at all!’

He grinned and squeezed her hand again.

‘Go on with you!’ Pimpernel mock-scolded. ‘None of your sweet talk, now!’

Meadowsweet rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘I think I’ll be taking myself off for a nap,’ she said.

‘You do that,’ Pimpernel said. ‘You wouldn’t want to fall asleep and miss the Naming.’

‘Not for the world!’ Meadowsweet agreed. She had no idea, yet, what her friends were about to name the child, but it promised to be an interesting novelty.
 
‘So tell me, cousin, what’s the name to be?’ Merry said, chasing the last of the beans around Ferdi’s plate.

‘Really, Merry, I thought you were quicker than that,’ Pimpernel said. ‘Why, if you don’t know after all the words that were flying about, then there’s no use in telling you.’

Merry scooped the last of the beans into Ferdi’s smirk and gathered up the plate. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘If that’s the case, I’m going to take myself off for a nap! I do seem to be a bit slow in my uptake, at that.’

‘What about your Buckland breakfast?’ Pimpernel wanted to know, and Ferdi raised an enquiring eyebrow, while Rosamunda stifled a grin.

‘Well, that goes without saying, of course,’ Merry shot back. ‘You of all people ought to know that.’

***

‘The ruffians’ escort is in,’ Regi said from the doorway.

Pippin looked up, half-rose from where he sat with Diamond, Farry nestled between them. Diamond had a handkerchief clenched in one fist, but the “filling up the corners” seemed otherwise to be proceeding well. At least the Mistress was calm, neither weeping nor scolding. ‘Send Tolly to the study. I want to hear his report.’

‘Not Tolly,’ Regi said, ‘that is, I ought to have said, most of the escort have returned. It seems that Tolly remained to see that your orders were carried out, and Mayor Samwise remained to keep Tolly company on the journey home again.’

Pippin pinned his steward with a keen glance. Sam seldom did anything without a reason. ‘Keep him company...’ he said slowly. ‘What, exactly, did the returning hobbits say?’

‘They said,’ Regi reported in his wryest tone, ‘that a Ranger met them at the stream, before they crossed, even, and Tolly sent them all homewards, and he would’ve sent the Mayor as well, but that they Mayor wasn’t having any.’

‘Sam was expecting the worst, then,’ Pippin said. ‘I wonder what put it into his head? I gave Tolly only the vaguest of orders...’

‘The worst?’ Regi echoed. ‘What do you mean, cousin?’

Diamond was looking a little green, and it might have been her expectant state, which upset the digestion at times (“Why do they call it morning sickness?” she’d often been heard to moan. “It ought to be all-day sickness, at the least!”), or it might have been something she’d learned on an earlier visit to the Southlands.

In any event, Pippin did not elaborate. ‘I’m not going to tell you, for your own good, Regi,’ he said, and seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment, tapping his finger on the side of his brow. ‘Very well,’ he said, coming to a decision. ‘I don’t want to hear Tolly’s report, when they return—and it ought not to be long, for the Rangers are usually very quick and efficient in dispatching their duty.’

Diamond shuddered, pulling Farry a little closer, and the little lad worked his arm around behind his mother and hugged her tight. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘It was needful.’

‘I know, lovie,’ she whispered into his close-cropped curls—for they’d nearly shaved his head, to achieve an even appearance, but better that than the obvious lacking of two fistfuls. ‘I know.’

‘Something like shooting a sheep-worrying dog,’ Regi said, and Pippin nodded.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘In any event, I’ll talk to Tolly later. Send him at once to his wife, when he returns, and tell him he may take the rest of the day. I won’t call for him until the morrow.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Regi said.

‘But I’d like to see the Mayor, just so soon as he arrives, so when he’s finished greeting his wife and family, if you’d extend my warmest regards and request that he come at his earliest convenience, to share a pitcher of ale in my study?’

Pippin never ordered the Mayor to do anything, Regi mused, as he acknowledged this and withdrew from the sitting room, and yet he was sure that Samwise would not delay overlong after his return, but would give his wife and children a quick embrace and hasten to the Thain’s study, to fill Pippin in on happenings. And he’d give every evidence of being happy to do so.

But it was several hours before Samwise showed himself into the study, where Pippin was catching up on the work that had been neglected, the past two days. ‘Sam!’ he said, rising. ‘You just got here?’

As if the Mayor had dallied along the way, or perhaps languished in the bath, or sat down to a many-course meal with his family upon arrival, instead of having a hasty wash and change into fresh clothing... but Sam simply said, ‘Yes, we’ve just arrived, and Tolly was told to go immediately to his quarters, where his wife was waiting for him. He wasn’t sure if he was in trouble with the Thain, or with his wife, but...’

‘Ah,’ Pippin said, ‘Regi, did you not make it clear that Tolly was to be released from his duty for the rest of the day, in gratitude for his devotion to his duty, serving where I was by necessity lacking? By no means was he to take the inference that he was under discipline for some lack of his own!’

‘He was beyond wearied,’ Regi said quietly. ‘If the message went awry it was in his own mind that it strayed from the track.’

‘Beyond wearied,’ Sam agreed with a sigh.

‘Just what were the two of you up to, out there?’ Pippin demanded, eyeing Sam narrowly. ‘You ought to have been back shortly after the others. A simple hanging takes very little time.’ Just throw the rope over the limb, tell the ruffian to step up unless he wants to be hauled into the air, not at all pleasant for anyone involved; make the rope fast and kick the prop out from under... he thought, a little sick at his stomach from memory of seeing just that thing, on an earlier visit to the Rangers outside of the Bounds.

‘Perhaps it wasn’t a simple hanging,’ Sam said.

‘Perhaps...’ Pippin echoed, nonplussed. He blinked at Sam, and then suddenly took a gasping breath. ‘You... you didn’t consider letting the wretches go free! After what they’d done! I know that Tolly let two wanderers off earlier, even led them safely past where the Rangers were watching, but...’

‘Did he?’ Sam said, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Do the Rangers know this? Those Men might have told others, how to avoid the Watchers, coming into the Shire, and out again...’

Pippin’s face turned white, and he seemed to have trouble breathing for a moment. Regi stood for a frozen second as if turned to stone, and then he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, ‘I’ll find out which way Tolly took those others, and send a messenger to the Rangers at once!’ He hurried from the study.

Sam poured out a glass of water and pressed it on Pippin, watching to see that he drank it, relaxing only when he saw a little colour return to the latter’s countenance.

‘Perhaps Tolly ought to be under discipline,’ Pippin said slowly.

‘You’d punish him for being merciful?’ Sam said.

‘If his mercy nearly led to my son’s slaughter...’ Pippin said.

‘Just as Mr. Bilbo’s mercy led to Gollum’s wandering free,’ Sam said, measuring each word. ‘Just think. Gollum would never have gone to Mordor, where the name of “Baggins” was first heard from his lips. He would never have followed us through Moria, down the Anduin, into Shelob’s lair...’

‘Sam, I...’ Pippin said.

‘He’d not have been there, at the Crack of Doom,’ Sam went on inexorably. ‘And where would we all be now, I ask you?’

Pippin threw up his hands, and then brought them down flat on the desk. ‘Are you saying that Tolly doesn’t deserve to be punished for his lapse in judgment?’

‘He’s been punished a-plenty already, Pippin,’ Sam said, ‘and the fault is partly mine. I thought to give the ruffians some bad moments, as we travelled to their doom, some bitter food for thought to chew upon, impossible to swallow, and Tolly took things a step further and nearly had them hung up for the carrion birds’ feasting.’

‘Certainly the birds feast upon the hanged men,’ Pippin said. ‘But the Rangers take them down to bury them, by sun’s set at the latest.’

‘He mentioned the Easterlings to the Rangers who greeted us,’ Sam said. ‘And they’d had word from the King that they were to obey your every wish, and since Tolly was representing you...’

Pippin had paled again. ‘And you let it go on?’

Sam spread his hands helplessly. ‘You’re Thain, Pippin, and I’m only Mayor. How could I gainsay Tolibold?’

‘Did you not even try?’ Pippin said. ‘The Rangers, they hung those men up, living, to await the dawning?’ He shook his head to dispel the vision that arose before his eyes, and passed a shaking hand over his face. ‘But,’ he said, lowering his hand once more and looking up. ‘But... I saw it in the Palantir. They were dead, stone dead, hanging by their necks, and as I watched a Ranger thrust a sword into one heart, and then the other.’

‘They passed two... or was it three? ...bad hours,’ Sam said, too tired to be much astonished at mention of the Seeing Stone. ‘Less than they deserved, perhaps, after all they’d done, to Farry, and to others. But in the end they had Strider’s justice, and not the Easterlings’.’

A/N: Some of Meadowsweet's character, and her eldest son's name, are courtesy of Jodancingtree, who first wrote them in Runaway. Thanks, Jo!

Chapter 43. Teatime, and a little before 

Meadowsweet became slowly aware that her husband was lying beside her, holding her tightly. He smelt of soap, and when she turned to embrace him, to run her fingers through his hair, the curls were still damp, as if he’d come fresh from the bath.

‘Tolly-love!’ she said, half-sitting up in surprise, but he pulled her closer, burying his face in her bosom, shaking with... with fear? With grief?

‘Tolly,’ she said gently, stroking the damp head. ‘Tolly, what is it?’

‘I cannot...’ he sobbed. ‘I cannot wash it away. I’ve scrubbed, and scrubbed...’ And truly, his skin was reddened from scrubbing, she saw, though he shook as if with a chill. His skin was cold to the touch, she felt, and so she pulled the coverlet up over them both, and twined her arms and legs around him, to share her warmth, fresh from sleeping.

‘What is it that you cannot scrub away, my love?’ she said, her voice very soft. ‘How can I help?’

He shook his head, and very hopelessness filled his tone as he answered, ‘Naught. There’s naught you can do, my love. It is my own burden to bear.’

‘But it seems to be something that cannot be borne,’ she pressed, and when he did not answer, she sharpened her tone, just a bit. ‘Tolly, I begin to lose patience with you! Certainly, you’re a very sober hobbit in the winter months, when the sun hardly shows her face, but this is more than just that!’

‘I let them go,’ he whispered.

Meadowsweet sat up and froze, stock still. ‘You let the ruffians go?’ she hissed, and looked to see that the bedroom door was well-shut. ‘You let them go?’ she said in growing outrage, ‘after what they did—they nearly did—to young Farry?’

‘No, not those,’ Tolly said. ‘I am well and truly mortified, Sweetie, for watching them die, and horrible deaths. Nay—some time ago, when the leaves were turning... in autumn last, before Farry ran away and Ferdi meant to fetch him back and we both were accused of child-stealing—I found some wanderers in the Shire, and led them out again, past the Rangers. I let them go, and it’s likely they told the others, how to sneak into the Shire... I never thought, at the time... I only meant to spare them a terrible death... and then these ruffians, mine was the hand, mine the tongue that pronounced sentence upon them, and such a terrible judgment it was, I can scarce draw breath for the horror of it.’

‘It was the Thain’s judgment,’ Meadowsweet urged. ‘The Thain’s...’

Tolly shook his head. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘The Thain never said... he said only... and I was the one, told the Rangers...’

‘You’re not making sense, my love,’ Meadowsweet said, pulling him to her breast and caressing him once more.

‘I almost feel I brought them to it,’ he whispered.

‘But you did bring them to it,’ Meadowsweet said, desperately trying to understand. ‘You and the Mayor and the rest of the escort...’

‘Nay!’ Tolly said again, brokenly. ‘I showed those other Men a safe way past the Rangers... These ruffians were evil Men,’ and under his breath he repeated, ‘evil Men, but had they not found their way into the Shire, unmolested...’ He stopped, buried his head once more, and lay shuddering with silent sobs of horror.

‘And so,’ Meadowsweet said, feeling her way, ‘and so you are the one to blame, both for what happened to Ferdi, and for Farry, and even, for the ruffians themselves...?’

And Tolly lay very still in her embrace, while she wracked her brains. What to say? She’d heard how the King’s healing hands had opened young Farry’s eyes to life again, and wiped away the horrors he’d beheld, but what was to be done for Tolibold?

‘My love,’ she said at last, working her hand under his chin, raising his head by main force when he did not seem able to look her in the face. ‘My own love,’ she said again, and kissed him, tasting the salt of his tears on his cheeks, even on his lips, and then she pressed herself against him, mouth to mouth, eye to eye, stretching her body over his, breathing her love into him, breath by breath, kiss by kiss, until he began to respond to her life and warmth.

And yes, a thought of hers, very deep and private, murmured in the back of her head. She’d cast her lot, sealed her fate, for it was the time for quickening, or so her body told her. Likely some time, some months hence, in the time of falling leaves Tolly would have his wish.

***

When they wakened, still entwined, it was to a gentle rapping at the bedroom door, and the voice of their eldest, calling. ‘Mum? Dad? It’s time—the Naming is about to begin... and you’re supposed to begin it!’

Meadowsweet sat up with a gasp, pulling the bed linens around herself just in case he should open the door. ‘All right, Gorbi!’ she called. ‘We’ll come, just as quick as we can!’

‘I’ll tell them,’ Gorbibold answered through the door. ‘Shall we meet you in the great room?’

‘That’s right,’ Meadowsweet said, hastily arising and seeking out her best gown, that she’d left ready, draped over a chair, when she’d sought her pillow. ‘That’s right, lovie—take the rest of the childer with you, will you, dear? And your father and I will be right there!’

Tolly groaned himself upright, dark circles still visible under his eyes, and he blinked as if having trouble awakening.

‘Come, my love,’ Meadowsweet said. ‘It’s time for the Naming, and you promised to be first...’

Tolly squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head, grieving. Yes, before all this mess, Ferdi'd wrung a promise from him, in jest, that he’d be the first to bring a gift to the new lass, a bottle of wine “for joy, and make sure it’s a good one, finest that money can buy! After all, the Thain gave you quite a bonus, last month...!”

‘Aye,’ he whispered voicelessly. ‘Aye.’ And he arose abruptly from the bed, grabbing at his “fancy togs” that Meadowsweet had left hanging on a convenient hook, for just this occasion.

He pulled the clothes on, while Meadowsweet silently worried. This was worse than any winter-sadness she’d seen in her husband before. Usually, after... he’d waken refreshed, stretching like a cat, and give her a wink and a nuzzle before tossing on his clothing and going to his duties, suitably cheered despite the dreary weather.

‘Stand there,’ she said, adjusting the lace at his throat, smoothing the collar of his jacket, sneaking a quick kiss on his chin, but even that did not bring a smile. ‘All ready now, I think.’

‘Fine,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Let’s get this over with as best we can.’

‘Aren’t you even curious as to her naming?’ Meadowsweet said.

Tolly sighed again. ‘Ferdi didn’t know, the last time we spoke,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that Nell has picked something suitable.’

‘I’m sure she’d like to,’ Meadowsweet said, rather cryptically, but Tolly wasn’t paying much attention. He was searching in the cupboard, finally coming up with a promising bottle, gracefully formed of dark glass. ‘Careful! Don’t shake it!’

‘I know better,’ Tolly said, ‘though I’m half-tempted to sit down and drink it, and drown my sorrows.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Meadowsweet said. ‘Now, love, come along, or we’ll find that we’ve kept them all waiting!’

The soft chiming of the clock in the sitting room gave emphasis to her words. ‘Four o’clock!’ she said. ‘Why, tea ought to be starting! You’re keeping the Thain waiting!’

‘What more can he do to me, than he’s already done?’ Tolly muttered, but he squared his shoulders, took up the bottle in one arm and offered the other to Meadowsweet. And so they hurried to the great room, arm-in-arm, if the term “hurried” may be used to describe their progress. They could not go so quickly as to jar the fine wine, after all. Even though it’s not as if Ferdi will be enjoying it, this evening, Meadowsweet whispered, for the injured hobbit would not be allowed spirits for some days yet. Tolly blinked his eyes fiercely and nodded agreement.

The great room was full to bursting as Smials Tooks and Tuckborough residents and friends and relations from far and near gathered to honour Ferdibrand and Nell’s youngest.

Ferdi was seated by the great hearth, in a chair made comfortable with cushions and soft knitted blankets, his feet elevated on a stool. He was thinking privately that he might as well have stayed in bed, but he looked up at Pimpernel, standing with the baby in her arms, with a smile and a wink to let her know that all was well. Their children were clustered near at hand, all grinning broadly.

Regi was watching the door. ‘Do you want me to go and fetch him myself?’ he said.

Pippin shook his head. ‘I already took care of it. I saw Gorbi, hovering about the tables of sweets, and sent him off to tell his parents that we cannot start without them.’ His eyes lighted. ‘Ah,’ he said in satisfaction. ‘Here they are now. Tolly’s a sight, but Sweetie looks like the cat that’s been in the cream.’

Diamond gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow and he subsided, putting on a properly dignified face. ‘Ahem,’ he said, and the nearest hobbits in the crowd began to subside, silence spreading from the front of the room to the back, until everyone was as quiet as Ferdibrand himself.

As head of the family, the Thain moved to stand by the proud parents and raised his voice to speak the traditional words.

'It has been a month and a day since this new hobbit graced the Shire with her presence,' he said, 'and we gather now to welcome her to the family and to write her name in the Book.'

Little Lass gave a sort of hiccough, and a ripple of amusement ran through the crowed, and then a soft murmur of "welcome".

An expectant hush fell, and the crowd parted so that Tolly and Meadowsweet could make their way to the head of the room, their children falling in to either side. Tolly kept his eyes on his toes as he walked, right to where Pimpernel stood, and stopped.

Meadowsweet nudged him, but he seemed to have lost the use of his tongue.

A lot of that going round, Ferdi thought to himself. He wanted to say something, opened his mouth, in fact, groped for a word, and fastened on about the only word he’d been able to manage, this morning. ‘What?’

Tolly looked up, slowly, his eyes widening to see Ferdi, in the life, sitting before him. ‘F-Ferdi?’ he said, unbelieving.

Ferdi grinned just as widely as he could manage. Sweetie didn’t bother to tell you? Reports of my burial were... well... only slightly exaggerated, but they were exaggerated, all the same.

‘W-w-w,’ was all Tolly could manage.

Meadowsweet, stricken with remorse, for she hadn’t realised... she’d thought... in any event, she tried to save the situation. ‘Welcome to the family,’ she said in a high, clear tone. ‘We give the gift of wine, for joy...’

‘Joy, indeed!’ Nell said, and Ferdi put out a hand to take the symbolic gift, and then Regi took it from him, to leave his hands free for the next. Usually it was the father holding the babe, and the mother accepting the gifts, but the general consensus was, with Ferdi still so very shaky, ‘twould be better for him to drop a gift than to drop the babe.

Joy, indeed! Tolly allowed the tears to flow freely as he fell forward, to grasp Ferdi’s hand in his and pump it vigorously. He was becoming quite a leaky sieve, he was, tears here and tears there and yet he cared not a whit.

And Ferdi was grinning like an idiot, and nodding, and squeezing Tolly’s hand in return with as much strength as he could manage.

And when Tolly could pull himself away, he embraced Nell and the babe, leaving a kiss upon each of their foreheads, and he whispered his blessing to the sweet and wondering face that stared into his. ‘Welcome to the family, little love!’

Reginard and Rosa came forward with a loaf of bread. ‘Welcome to the family,’ Regi said, and Rosamunda added, ‘We bring bread, that she may never know hunger.’

Meliloc Brandybuck stepped forward with a small bowl filled with white crystals. 'Salt,' he said, after his greeting, a twinkle in his eye. 'That she would never be spoiled.' There were a few soft snorts here, a few discreet eye-rollings there, but on the whole the crowd of Tooks kept their composure from long practice. Meliloc, Pervinca’s husband, always gave the same gift. Some said it was the fruit of wisdom gained by being married to a difficult wife, though he managed her beautifully and appeared to adore and revere Pippin’s mercurial sister.

Faramir stepped forward, carrying a butterfly he’d netted, and with his uncle Ferdi’s help, mounted, though he’d been unable to stick the pin through the velvet-soft body. Ferdi’d had to do that part. ‘Welcome to the family,’ he said. ‘I give the gift of wonder, that the world might always hold a little magic in her eyes.’

Merry smiled and swallowed hard, remembering a similar gift at Pippin’s Naming celebration, given by their beloved cousin Frodo.

One by one the relations and friends stepped up with their greeting and their gifts, a flute to bring music to her heart, flowers for beauty, honey that life might be ever sweet, oil that she might live off the fat of the land, and more. Many of the gifts were clever, and laughter was sprinkled amongst the more serious presents. Some of the gifts were duplicated, of course, but in hobbit eyes this merely multiplied the blessing.

After the last gift was given, Reginard stepped forward again with a sparkling crystal glass filled with water. 'Welcome to the family,' he repeated. 'I bring water, that she may never know thirst, or drought, that the rain that falls into her life may be ever sweet and refreshing, that all her sorrows may be quickly washed away.'

He moved to stand at Ferdi's side, as Pimpernel turned to lay the tiny lass in her father’s lap. Ferdi dipped his thumb into the water that Regi extended to him, stroked it gently over the babe's forehead, and kissed the wet spot tenderly.

He looked up at Nell, for he was unable to speak the traditional greeting. Mischief, however, sparkled in his eyes, and she gave an answering grin, though she gave a soft snort before speaking.

'Welcome to the family, my lass,' she murmured, and laid a hand on either side of their little daughter, to help Ferdi to lift her as high as he could manage. Together they held the little one up, for everyone to see, and Nell raised her voice to announce, at last, the Name.  'We welcome...’ she said, and paused, a smile that fully matched Ferdi’s for mischief playing about her lips. And she took a deep breath, meeting Ferdi’s eyes, and then looking to the crowd. ‘...Wonder!’

There was a wondering murmur, as if in answer to this novel address, surprised laughter chuckling forth from more than one hobbit, a gasp of surprise from others. What sort of name was that?

And yet, with all the strange happenings of the past few days, the marvels, the unheard-of goings-on, well... somehow it seemed fitting, if extremely unTookish.

‘Wonder,’ Diamond said softly to her husband. ‘I’m surprised they thought of it before you did!’

Pippin laid a gentle hand on her swelling abdomen. ‘There’s time yet,’ he said. ‘Just you wait. I’ll figure out a way to outdo them.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Diamond said, and shook her head. ‘It’s a good thing we have love-names to fall back on, don’t you agree, Farry?’

Farry laughed out loud, a high peal of pure joy, and many of the hobbits standing close by stopped to savour the sound.

‘Wonder,’ Merry said to Sam, and Sam nodded, and being Mayor, he always knew the right thing to say, and he said it.

‘Indeed.’

But Pippin was speaking in a voice that carried over the crowd, shouting his greeting, and indicating the beginning of the festive tea, though there was something rather more festive than tea in the glass he was brandishing aloft, for the servants were circulating through the crowd with trays full of “cheer” as the Tooks call it. The Thain, as tradition demanded, gave the first toast of the evening.

‘Welcome, Wonder!’

There was a cheer and a chorus of welcome as other glasses were raised, and the musicians struck up the first tune, with many more to come.

Drat. This story was supposed to be that hinted at in Where the Love-light Gleams. The story that I set out to write was this: Ferdi, as a result from a blow to the head, suffers memory loss and is catupulted (in his mind) back to the times of the Troubles, to the middle of the struggle to keep Men out of the Tookland. A comedy of sorts, astonishing as it may sound. I even told Dana that this was that story, while recounting the plot to her.

But over lattes with EF the character of the story seemed to change, and I was asked to stretch myself as an author, in a manner of speaking, and so this story may be a bit darker than originally planned. Apologies to those seeking lighter fare.

Sometimes stories seem to take on a life of their own, and together with the fact that A Matter of Appearances is a birthday present, and thus follows certain suggestions/requests on the part of the recipient, the comedy is going to have to wait.

I suppose the "good news" would be that there will be another Ferdi story to be written, one of these days, if all goes well. Perhaps even for another birthday-present. Time will tell.
(8/1/06)

Further note: Story taken offline for editing.

Further further note: Sorry for the inconvenience; didn't realize that re-publishing this author's note chapter would move it to the "top" of the list, so to speak.

Final note: Rating changed from PG-13 to R for the portrayal of horrific ruffians. The violence, however, is not gratuitous, serving the purpose of showing the evil that lurks in the hearts of some men. It is actually milder than some modern-day accounts of real-life kidnappings. Chapters with graphic details are clearly marked with warnings for the reader's convenience, and summaries are included for those who wish to skip the graphic parts without losing the thread of the story.