Author notes:

This story has been on my mind for a long time and I have been adding bits and pieces to my ideas file for well over two years. Yet I did not manage to put the puzzle together - until two months ago. This is thanks to Slightly Tookish who let me ramble on about the story almost every day.

Dreamflower has also been of enormous help in creating this story. Not only did she beta it, but she also let me borrow her story And so it Begins not only as an inspiration but she also allowed me to work bits and pieces of her story into mine - since I couldn't have told it any better.

I was long wondering what to do with the prologue - to change the rating or not. I decided not to, but simply let you know that this is going to be the darkest bit of the story.

When Trouble Came

Prologue

He was floating; flying in the sky like a bird, unseen, but seeing. Lands rushed past beneath him: juicy green grass, sparkling streams and gushing rivers, thick forests that seemed to stretch endlessly across the earth. Fast they went by – fast and ever faster. He closed his eyes, dizzy and light-headed.

When he opened them again, he was surrounded by blackness and fear gripped him. He reached out with his hands, but there was nothing; no ground to stand on and nothing to hold onto.

Then suddenly, as if a candle had been lit, he saw a small golden red glimmer coming from below. The light extended itself until he recognised a dark wooden desk. On it lay a piece of parchment. Somebody had scribbled onto it in a thin, flowing hand, but ever so often the ink was blurred as if the writer had wetted them with tears.

To my loving mother and father, was written there. I’m sorry.

His throat became tight, choking on the tears of a young woman running through the dark of night. Her left hand was on her stomach, swollen with child. Her long, auburn curls fluttered around her shoulders along with a green shawl as she stumbled across the grass exhausted and left breathless from crying. She stopped short when she reached the bank of a wide river. Her hands were on the trunk of a tree, supporting her, keeping her from falling.

She looked up at the sky, her dark eyes looking right through him, entreating him, accusing him of the grief that was her life; and all the while tears rolled down her cheeks like endless streams. He wanted to hold out his hand to her but he could not move.

She gathered up her pale yellow skirts, shining bright in the darkness, and climbed down the steep bank. One last time she looked over her shoulder, back at the life she used to have and for a moment she seemed to hesitate. She climbed onto a huge boulder at the bank and put both her hands onto her belly as if to ask the forgiveness of her child. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and was carried away by the wind, when slowly she stepped forwards and threw herself into the river.

“Pimpernel!” He cried out but his voice choked before any sound left his lips. Horror-stricken he watched her body float away in thick, red liquid. Blood, his mind whispered. The Brandywine was filled with blood and whatever it touched withered and died. And from the distance a voice called. “There is no life left in Buckland.”

As if the mention of Buckland had brought another thought into his mind the vision faded. The gardens of Brandy Hall appeared before him – bare and empty, deserted. The smell of death filled the air and as he watched, Merimac walked out of empty stables. The doors gaped open behind him like the black abyss of demise. He looked pale and worn. His hair hung in streaks across his face and blood dripped from some strands. Splashes of blood covered his clothes and body, and his hands, as he held them out to him, were dripping wet and shining red.

“I had no choice,” he whispered in a choked voice and hung his head. If Guilt ever had a face it would have been Merimac’s.

Again the vision faded and before him sat Esmeralda at the head of a small table. Thirty or more children were gathered about her, all thin and frail, all crying and reaching for the single lump of bread she held in her hand. Despair, in its purest form was in her eyes which were tired beyond measure and lined with dark rings. And as the vision faded again into darkness, he knew that the old roll was the last one left.

Then he saw people – hundreds of them – clustered in an unlit corridor, pushing and pulling and gasping for breath; desperate, like rabbits caged in their own den. And among the jostle a voice rose, clear, but weak and without hope. “It is stifling. The rooms are crowded, the corridors blocked. We cannot get out. The Hall will be our grave sooner or later.”

And in the distance the Horn-call of Buckland rang.

FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE! AWAKE!

~*~*~

Paladin started into wakefulness. He was breathing hard. His hair clung to his brow. He was soaked in sweat and trembling.

“Pimpernel,” he whispered into the darkness, shivering. The dream burned vividly in his mind and he knew beyond doubt that things looked bleak in Buckland. He had to help them, save them; save Nel.

A knock at the door made him jump. “Master Paladin, wake up sir.”

“What is it?” he called, sharper than he had intended.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but some ruffians have crossed the borders. A group of Tooks are hunting them, but we need your help.”

Paladin got out of his bed, careful not to disturb Eglantine who was stirring uneasily. His legs almost gave way beneath him as he stumbled towards the wardrobe, trembling with cold and fear. Buckland was in trouble. He grabbed one of his shirts and dug his fingers into the cool fabric, closing his eyes.

“Master Paladin, are you coming?” came the voice from the door.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. Buckland was in trouble, but he could not help them. He had to defend his own borders.

~tbc~

Chapter One: Dearly Bought

“When the time comes, will you let me go?”

Adamanta, who sat on a tree root and gazed dreamingly at the Brandywine’s brown waters flowing past them, woke from her silent reverie. She turned to look at her husband’s thoughtful expression. His eyes, unseeing, gazed at the far-off, western bank of the river.

“First, I mean,” he added quietly. “Before you.”

For a moment Adamanta found herself unable to answer. As he sat next to her, with his pale cheeks and his dark hair hanging deep into his eyes, he seemed far away and his words added to the distance between them. His voice was thick and low, sad like never before and her heart ached. Merimac did not speak of it, but Adamanta knew that recent events had shaken him more than he let on. His mother’s death brought forth a side of his character that could not be more different from his usual cheerful and jaunty self. He was deeply troubled but until now she had not been able to guess what was on his mind. He looked at her, searching her face for an answer he did not seem to find.

“Why are you asking me such a question?”

His gaze was uncertain like a child’s would be after he had confessed a misdoing and is doubtful about the punishment the silent parent would deem fit. For a moment she thought he did not know the answer but then he tore his eyes from hers and shrugged. “I don’t want to become like him. He seems fine among company, but whenever I catch him in his office, alone, his eyes are blank and he seems empty.”

Adamanta took his hand in sympathy. She knew he was talking about the old Master of Buckland, who seemed quite at a loss since his wife’s death several days ago. “Give him some time,” she replied and when Merimac laid her head onto her shoulders, she put her arm around him. “Him and yourself. Such wounds take time to heal.”

A gust of wind blew his hair into his face and he shivered. Adamanta kissed his cold brow and looked thoughtfully out onto the gurgling stream. Beside her Merimac was breathing deeply, silently accepting what little comfort she could offer, but her heart was heavy.

~*~*~

She had never answered his question, not even to herself. She could not, though now, twenty years later, she at least remembered – remembered it far too often. Her eyes wandered to the window looking southwards.

“Will you let me go?”

A shiver crawled down her spine and her fingers clutched the soft cotton shirt she had been mending. “I couldn’t,” she whispered, unable to control herself. “It would break my heart.”

Beside her Esmeralda looked up from her own sewing and frowned, but Adamanta paid her no heed. Her heart was racing. Sudden, cold fear was on her. She laid aside the shirt and hurried to the window looking for a sign of the troop of hobbits who had walked to the southern fields, armed with hayforks, knives, axes and bows, determined to hold the root gardens, meadows and crop fields of the Hall.

There was no sign of them. All she could see was a bright sun shining from an untroubled, dark-blue sky. Wind played with the trees, rustling the dark green leaves of Afterlithe.

“Adamanta?” She started. Esmeralda placed a hand on her shoulder, following her glance. Proud she looked, with her hair bound back in a tight knot, yet Adamanta could see the same fear in her sister-in-law’s eyes that held her own heart in a tight grip.

“I feel ill at ease,” she told the older one. “Something’s happening out there.”

Esmeralda nodded. “There are always things happening these days and few make my heart lighter. But we shouldn’t trouble ourselves now. Let us hope for the best and trust in whatever power that guides them,” she said. And then quietly, as if she was talking to herself she added: “While we are still able to trust and hope.”

The Mistress shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. Gently she then led Adamanta back to their seats by the empty fireplace, but Adamanta kept looking back. Something wasn’t right.

~*~*~

Saradoc called his troop of defenders to a halt. Hobbits of every age and profession stood silent for a moment and then broke into loud shouting and cheering. Twenty ruffians, at whose heels they had been, fled south and east. Some of them shook their fists at the glinting tips of the hobbits’ hayforks and axes which glittered as they caught the light of the afternoon sun.

“That will teach them,” Merimac said as he came to stand beside his brother, grinning broadly. “They will think twice before they try to send us from our fields again.”

“Maybe,” Saradoc wondered. His voice was not optimistic.

Merimac sobered immediately and followed his brother’s thoughtful look to their fleeing attackers. “You don’t trust it.” It was no question.

“Not a bit,” Saradoc replied. “It was too easy and did you see them sneer as they turned their backs on us?”

“Shall we follow them?” one of the boys from Bucklebury enquired.

Saradoc turned to the lad. He had dark hair and eyes and looked to be just out of his tweens. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek, but apart from that he seemed unharmed. The Master shook his head and put his hand onto the boy’s shoulder. “No, Nibbs, we’ve done enough today. You fought well. All of you,” he added, facing the assembled group of no less than sixty stout-hearted Bucklanders.

The group shouted their approval and shook their weapons in triumph. They had done well indeed. A few cuts and bruises could not be avoided but their assailants bore at least the same number of wounds. The onslaught had been strong at first, but tactics had helped the hobbits to their success. Half of his people Saradoc had sent with Merimac to hide in the high grass, and when Saradoc had feigned retreat and the ruffians had already been sure of their victory, Merimac had surprised them with his troop and their opponents had fled after only a short fight.

“Why not follow them and fight them while we have an advantage?” Berilac asked as Saradoc turned northwards.

“Because we have achieved what we wanted,” Saradoc answered calmly, before he ordered half of his people to keep a close watch over the fields and meadows they had successfully defended. “Be wary and on your guard in spite of our victory.”

“But they would follow us if we were in their stead,” Berilac argued heatedly as he hurried after his uncle. “They would hunt us and make us their slaves like they did with the rest of Buckland. What use is there in defending a couple of fields while the rest of the people suffer?”

“Enough!” Merimac glared at his son, but Berilac would not listen.

“Now we have a chance, Saradoc. If we follow them now…”

“If we follow them now,” Saradoc stopped short and his voice was as sharp as the look he gave his nephew, “we do exactly what they want. Once we scatter we are easy prey and then not only our fields are lost. The Hall and its surrounding areas are the only safe place left in Buckland, Berilac, and I will not put that at risk because I see a chance of following a handful of men. What would you do with them anyway? Slay them?” Saradoc studied Berilac’s unmoved face for a long moment in which the air itself seemed to sizzle with suspense. “You wouldn’t be any better than them if you did.”

With that he turned and after a last doubtful look at Berilac all Bucklanders apart from those that were on watch followed his lead. Berilac stood rooted to the spot, hands clenched at his sides and eyes dark with irritation. Merimac stood beside him and shook his head. “No need to feel misunderstood, son. He is right, and you know it.”

“So you’re on his side?” Berilac shouted.

“I’m not on anybody’s side because there is no side apart from the one we are all trying to protect. So leave it be and come home with us.” Merimac said and though there was a reprimand in his voice it was neither sharp nor angry. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder and led him away. He could see Berilac’s point but Saradoc’s was clearer. The Hall and its folk had priority and if the Master did not trust their victory, neither would Merimac. They had to stick together.

Merimac left Berilac to his sulking once they had caught up with the others and chose the more cheerful company of his friends and cousins. It was only when they were back at the Hall and Merimac wished to consult his son about moving the paddocks that he realised that Berilac had not returned with him. Immediately it seemed to him that a shadow fell upon the land and he shivered in spite of the warmth of the afternoon.

“Oh, that pigheaded fool of a Brandybuck!” he muttered as he gazed back at the road he had just come from. All of a sudden he was more afraid and troubled than he had been in all the months since Men first entered the Shire.

“Merimac, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” He was dimly aware of Marmadas standing next to him, grumbling something about the ruffians not being idle while they had defended their fields. “We might still hold the crop, but they have taken all our sheep. One of the scouts reported that they have broken the fence and driven them out going north eastwards. We assume they are heading for Newbury. However, Tobi, who keeps an eye on the Bridge, reported that they are taking loads of stuff westwards to Hobbiton, though I can’t imagine what they would want to do with a flock of twenty sheep. Merimac! Will you stop nodding to yourself and listen up!”

“He is gone.” His voice sounded strange even to his ears. “I have to find him before he does anything stupid.”

With that he ran leaving Marmadas to call after him in confusion. “I’ll be back soon!” Merimac shouted and to himself he added.
“Hopefully.”

~*~*~

Merimac had reached the southern fields in less than fifteen minutes and there he learned that Berilac had indeed come back and had hurried after the bunch that had run away eastwards. “We tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to us at all.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Once Berilac had put something into his mind he would see it through, even if it meant to beat his head against a brick wall. And this wall, Merimac had no doubt, was a strong one. He did not dare to call for Berilac. Saradoc’s words were still clear in his mind and now they seemed to him even more probable than before. Unconsciously, he ran from one cover to the next, sometimes hiding behind a tree, sometimes sneaking around a now abandoned house or smial. A dead silence had fallen over Buckland. In these days even the birds seemed to be fewer and their twitter less cheerful.

He had long left the Bucklanders’ tiny refuge behind, when he heard a rough voice and taunt laughter – the very sounds he had dreaded to hear. He crouched behind the closest tree and laid his hand onto the hilt of a small dagger he always kept with him these days. Sweat lay on his brow and his heart thumbed wildly in his chest as he strained his ears and sneaked a glance from behind the tree trunk.

Merimac gasped and his eyes widened in utter shock. Less than twenty paces ahead stood Berilac, breathing hard, his eyes like livid fire. Blood trickled from his nose and ran over his chin. He was swaying but he would not bend to two enormous broad-shouldered and square-faced ruffians standing before him.

Merimac dug his nails into the tree’s bark. His heart urged him to storm right at them, but his mind warned him to be careful and stay hidden and out of their reach as long as he could. He needed a plan, and quick. Wildly he searched the ground for stones to throw, but the grass was as smooth as any well-tended meadow in Buckland, and he would not throw his knife, the only weapon he had against the brutes.

“Did you really think one small, little maggot could fight us?” one of the ruffians scoffed.

Instead of answering Berilac charged. His knife found the laughing one’s hip and successfully wiped the sneer from his face. The man screamed in pain and stumbled backwards, swearing and clutching at his hip. Merimac secretly congratulated his son. Even small, little maggots had teeth!

But the momentary joy vanished as quickly as it had come. Merimac stood still, heart, body, and soul momentarily frozen. Time stopped as realisation struck him. Berilac had stopped moving. He stood, slightly bent over like an old gaffer whose back would not allow him to walk straight. His knife, which he had held with both hands, slipped from his fingers. The second man, similar in figure than the first but with less hair, seemed to support him, one arm around his stomach, the other holding Berilac’s shoulder. Then the stranger drew his knife, deeply buried in Berilac’s stomach and pushed the hobbit away from him, so that he landed hard on his back and did not move again.

“That will teach him!” he growled and turned to his companion.

Merimac stood thunderstruck, deaf and dumb to the world around him, his eyes fixed on his son. Like a drunken person he swayed towards the motionless body even as the ruffians withdrew. Cover and stealth were no longer of importance. Nothing mattered apart from that still, brown-haired figure. As if in a dream he stumbled towards his son, dizzy and disbelieving.

“Berilac,” he whispered as he sank to his knees next to the boy’s body, and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. He was breathing – harsh and laboured – but breathing nonetheless.

“Berilac,” he whispered again and as he brushed his hand across the pale brow his son’s green eyes fluttered open.

“Father,” the voice was barely audible, but to Merimac it seemed that he had never heard a more beautiful sound. It was all he needed to wake from his stupor. Swiftly he took off his shirt and pressed it onto the bleeding wound on Berilac’s right side.

“I’m sorry, father,” Berilac breathed and his eyes fluttered. “I…”

“Hush,” Merimac whispered and put a finger onto his boy’s blood-covered lips. “Save your breath. I’ll take you home now and everything will be all right.”

Merimac tried to smile and hide his fear, even as Berilac sucked in his breath and his face contorted with pain. Hastily, but very carefully Merimac stripped Berilac of his shirt and tried to bind it around his son as a make-shift bandage. He had just finished when Berilac’s laboured breathing was again interrupted by a breathless “Father…”

Merimac looked at his face and saw that the pain had been replaced by fear, but before he even realised what was happening, a hard blow onto his back made him fall over and knocked the breath from his lungs. Instinctively, Merimac reached for his knife but before his fingers even touched the hilt a strong hand grabbed him around the wrist and turned his arm until he uttered a muffled scream of pain.

“Don’t even think about it, maggot,” a voice threatened behind him. He was lifted to his feet like a stumbling child and his knife was taken from him. Bent with the pain in his back, Merimac turned to see a third man standing before him, this one wielding a club. He was smaller than the other two but his arms were strong. He grinned, revealing a mouth in which only a handful of rotten teeth were left. Merimac looked away in disgust and clutched his throbbing wrist as he forced himself to breathe.

He stood quietly, awaiting his doom; for even though he felt numb and less afraid than he thought he would be, he knew in his heart that it was very likely that neither he nor Berilac would ever return home. And there was nothing he could do against it. He was too small, too weak.

“Don’t worry. I don’t have no mind for killing, as long as you do as I ask.”

If he had been able to Merimac would have laughed. The blow he had received told a different story.

“Leave,” the man told him and Merimac could not help but to look up in surprise. “This land is no longer yours and I would suggest you surrender the rest as well if you don’t want to end like this one.” He nodded at Berilac whose eyes were closed again.

Merimac made no reply but knelt down once more. He caressed his son’s pale cheek and whispered a few words into his ears. He then pulled Berilac’s arms around his neck and tried to heave the limp body onto his shoulders. He painfully remembered the cheerful giggles of a young boy who loved to be carried piggyback even if the destination of his ride was his bed.

Merimac’s legs trembled as he struggled to his feet, his son’s dead weight heavy on his aching back. Roaring laughter accompanied his task and made it all the more difficult to get up. “What are you doing, Halfling?”

Merimac mustered all the strength and courage he could find within himself. As he turned to face the man he stood straight, with grim determination on his face. “I am Merimac Brandybuck,” he said proudly and unfaltering, “son of Rorimac Brandybuck, and I am not going to let my child die in the wild.”

For a moment the ruffian seemed to hesitate. His eyes were full of wonder, but once Merimac turned his back on him, he laughed the louder for it. “Take him with you then,” he sneered. “It won’t make no difference. Before you reach home he’ll be dead.”

As Merimac walked on the straight route to Brandy Hall, stubbornly holding on to his determination, he felt that the words were not far from the truth. In the beginning Berilac moaned and muttered and listed to Merimac all the people the boy was sure he would never be able to say farewell to. Yet, eventually, he fell silent. Blood trickled down Merimac’s back and thighs – blood that was not his. Had it not been for the warm shaky breath Merimac felt on his neck, he would have thought his son dead already.

The journey home seemed to drag on endlessly. He sweated and ached so much he had to will himself for every single step. Several times he stumbled and almost fell, but he did not dare to rest. Every delay would reduce Berilac’s chances. Besides, he was not sure if he would be able to pick his son up again, once he lay him down.

His legs felt like lead and his heart was as heavy, trembling with anxiety. A hundred questions, all beginning with that fateful line ‘what if’ filled his mind. What if he was being followed? What if he did not make it home in time? His eyes burned with exhaustion and fear, when eventually Merimac gave up his fight. He sank to his knees, trembling all over. Berilac still lay across his back and Merimac did not dare to put him down for he dreaded that the face he would be looking into would no longer hold any sign of life.

“Master Merimac!”

At first Merimac thought he imagined the voices and shook his head, standing on the verge of despair. How he would tell Mantha, explain to her that he had not been able to protect her son and defend him when his need was greatest, he could not guess. What Bluebell would say to that he did not even want to know.

“Master Merimac! What happened?”

Suddenly they stood all around him. He recognised them as the hobbits watching the south eastern brink of the Hall-land, as the Bucklanders had come to call the refuge that was Bucklebury and Brandy Hall.

“Help him,” Merimac told them with the last bit of strength left in him, as Berilac’s weight was gently lifted off his back. “Bring him home and help him. Be quick! Please, be quick.”

He was not able to look at his son again, for a handful of hobbits hastened away with Berilac in their arms as soon as he had finished his words. Another, so he was told, was already on his way to the Hall to alert Fastred Bolger and Ted Puddifoot, the old healer from Bucklebury and the young one from the Marish, who, for the time being, both resided in Brandy Hall.

“You’re bleeding, sir. Can you walk?”

“No,” Merimac shook his head as if in a daze. “I’m fine. It’s all his. Save him, please.”

“It’s all right, Master Merimac,” the same voice told him. “Master Berry is in good hands now. Come, let me help you to your feet.”

Merimac was dimly aware that two pairs of hands grabbed him under the arms and helped him to his feet. His entire body seemed to throb with a dull pain and every limb was trembling with exhaustion. He was unsure whether to trust his legs but somehow, with the help of Rufus and Togo, he managed it to the Hall where he was already expected by Saradoc, his form glowing red in the light of the sinking sun.

“How is he?” Merimac asked before Saradoc could pester him with question.

“Alive,” his brother assured him, but his face was troubled. “You look dreadful. What happened?”

Merimac gave his brother a brief account of what had occurred while Saradoc led him to Berilac’s room. A fire jittered merrily in the hearth and candles had been lit. The smell of myrrh and alcohol lingered in the air, mixed with several other herbs Merimac’s tired senses were unable to distinguish. Adamanta stood at the bed’s head. Her eyes widened when he entered the room and for a moment her face, which seemed almost as ashen as her son’s, seemed to light with relief. Beside her, Pimpernel stood, bravely fighting the tears that threatened to spill over her eyes. She and Berry had married only two years ago and for the first time, with a pang of guilt, Merimac realised that on the way home he had only worried about his little family and had unintentionally left out Nel.

“That’s it,” Fastred said as he cut off the thread of the stitches he had just done. “You may bath the wound with myrrh, Ted, and if he wakes up, see to it that he drinks some tea. Cinquefoil should help against a possible infection and dandelion to stimulate the blood production. He has lost a fair amount. Also,” and now he turned to Adamanta, “I would like him to get some broth as soon as he is able to have it. One made with narrow bones would be excellent and some thyme. Even garlic,” he added as an afterthought.

As he turned around the aged healer came face to face with Merimac. They looked at each other for a long moment, before Fastred waved him outside. “You look dreadful, boy,” he told him as he looked him over.

“Will he make it?” Merimac asked, ignoring the comment. He had known Fastred all his life, or so it seemed to him, and he was glad that the old healer had taken care of Berilac although he had, in fact, retired a couple of years ago. In times like these, however, every helping hand was needed, and Merimac trusted Fastred’s skill.

“If he wakes up to drink and have some broth, he has a fair chance,” Fastred replied truthfully. “If he doesn’t I will have to find another solution to get some nourishment into him. For the time being, however, all we can do is to wait.”

Merimac nodded weakly and Fastred put a hand on his shoulder. “You did all you could, Mac. He is all right. No organs have been damaged as far as I can tell, and with what you had you wouldn’t have been able to stop the bleeding anyway.”

Again, Merimac nodded, unable to find anything to say.

Fastred gave him an assuring smile. “I suggest you wash that blood away, and then, I think, little Bluebell will be glad to see that at least one member of her family returned hale.”

Only now Merimac became aware that dried blood stuck to his hands and legs, where it had run down in small runlets from Berilac’s wound. Merimac swayed at the sight of it and Fastred quickly grabbed him by a trembling arm. “Rest Mac,” the healer advised him. “Rest for tonight at least and tomorrow things might look brighter already.”

“I will try,” Merimac replied and his voice wavered. Slowly he turned his back on the healer, but when he was about to disappear behind a bend he felt Fastred’s hand on his shoulder once again.

“Take these,” the healer told him as he handed him a small pouch of dried herbs. “Valerian leaves, all that are left of last year’s. You seem to need them.”

Merimac looked at the small leather pouch, feeling both grateful and exhausted beyond measure. “Thank you, Fastred.”

~*~*~

Merimac gazed blindly at his hands. They were smeared red and covered with small foam bubbles. He had always considered them strong and vigorous, gentle and protective, able and capable of every task he set himself. He dunked them in the basin and immediately the water turned a pale red. Merimac shivered and looked at his dripping fingers once more. For a moment he wondered whether he could still trust the strength that used to be in them, after all he had not even got a chance to defend himself. His right wrist was already sporting a reddish black bruise. He shook his head and stepped into the bathtub he had prepared for himself.

The warm water eased his aching muscles almost immediately and yet the pain in his back prevented him from being comfortable. Steam hung in the air like mist on a late autumn morning. The warm glow of the fire was on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and listened to its flickering and the occasional crack of a log. It would have seemed like a peaceful moment, if his heart had not been that heavy as it thumbed almost painfully in his chest. To Merimac it felt as if it still cringed with fear and worry. He could not forget the moment Berilac fell motionless to the ground and once again he asked himself why he hadn’t helped him, why he had stayed as if rooted to the spot instead of running to his son’s aid.

And so he lay in water stained with his son’s blood, and inhaled the soothing fragrance of valerian. His mind was troubled, his body ached, but his soul was numb.

~tbc~

Author notes:
This chapter features a flashback to the night the Black Riders attacked Crickhollow. This flashback has been heavily inspired and partly copied from Dreamflower's And so it Begins. I'm very grateful that she let me borrow her excellent story.

Chapter Two: From the Beginning

Adamanta sat on a chair beside Berilac’s bed and spoke quietly to Pimpernel who sat next to her. Four days had passed since Berilac had been injured. He had awakened several times since – just long enough to get some broth or tea into him – but each time he seemed delirious and recognised neither his mother, nor his wife, who hardly ever left his bedside. Sometimes he would moan and mutter in his sleep, but now he lay quiet again and Adamanta could not tell whether he was just sleeping or whether he had drifted into unconsciousness again.

Pimpernel took a cloth from his fevered brow and as Adamanta replaced it with a cool one, she spoke softly to her daughter-in-law. “You should get some sleep, lass. I haven’t seen you resting for a while.”

“I can’t sleep,” Nel replied instantly and shook her head. “I’d rather sit here and wait.”

“You may wait in a bed. I will tell you the moment his condition changes.”

Pimpernel made no reply but took Berilac’s hand into hers and gently stroked her fingers over his. Adamanta’s heart grieved to see her like this. Her face glowed in the firelight and yet it was pale and dark rings lay under her eyes. Her long auburn hair, which she had bound in her nape, looked dull and many strands had loosened from the knot and now hung unkempt over her shoulders and down her back.

“She is right, girl.” They looked up in surprise to see Merimac standing in the doorway. “Allow yourself a break. He will need you when he wakes up and I don’t doubt he’d rather have you full of life than worn out and weary.”

Nel gave him a weak smile, the first Adamanta had seen on her for several days, but she did not let go of Berilac’s hands and kept looking at his face, peaceful now, though a few beads of perspiration glittered on his glowing cheeks.

“Do me the favour,” Merimac said and bent down beside her to gently take Berilac’s hand from hers. He looked deeply into her pale green eyes. “Rest. I don’t want to worry about the both of you.”

For a long moment Pimpernel simply held Merimac’s gaze, her hands folded in her lap were gently covered by one of his to reassure her. Finally, she nodded. “You’re probably right. But if I go, please…”

“We will let you know immediately,” Merimac assured her and got to his feet to make room for her.

“Thank you,” Adamanta said when Pimpernel had left the room. “I was beginning to be as concerned about her as about Berilac.”

Merimac sighed in reply and sank into the chair as if worn with exhaustion. Adamanta looked at him, aware of a change in his mood. She had noticed it several times since the day Berilac was injured. Merimac constantly tried to give hope to Bluebell and Pimpernel, yet at the same time he didn’t seem to have any left for himself. He looked worn and aged, older than ever before. His hair had been lined with silver for several years now, but age never seemed to catch up with the rest of him. Lines of mirth were ever on his face, some carved deeper than others, yet he had never looked old to her eyes – until now. A huge weight seemed to bend his head and back and whenever she saw him, it seemed to her that more lines had appeared on his face.

“How is he?”

“He was awake for a bit about an hour ago,” she informed him, “but so far nothing has changed.”

Merimac nodded weakly and not for the first time Adamanta wondered what had happened to him. Ever since he had returned with Berilac on his back he was lost in thought. He spoke little and said nothing about the incident itself, apart from the few words he had told Saradoc on coming back.

It was he now, who held Berilac’s hand in his lap, and when Adamanta placed hers on top of them a shiver ran through Merimac. “Mac,” she entreated him, looking in vain for his eyes which were lowered as if he was afraid to meet hers. “Will you not tell me what happened out there?”

“I told you,” he said but his voice seemed unsure of his words. “Berilac was…”

“No,” she squeezed his hand gently. “I know about Berilac, but what happened to you, Mac? What brought you back to me all changed?”

Merimac looked at her as if in shock at her question, only to turn away the instant their eyes met. He faced Berilac instead. Time stretched and a heavy silence wrapped them in a mantle of brooding. Merimac sat like a figure carven into stone. Adamanta felt her nape tingle with anticipation, but she restrained herself and waited.

And suddenly something happened that she had never expected. Merimac drew a shaking breath and a single tear trickled down his cheek. “I didn’t help him,” he breathed, his voice so low that Adamanta had to strain her ears to catch it. “I just stood there and hid myself behind a tree. I wanted to help him,” he told her, “but I was too afraid to reveal myself. So I waited and,” his voice hitched. “And watched.” He took another shaking breath, his eyes fixed on Berilac’s ashen face and his cold hands closed tighter around Berilac’s warm one. “I didn’t even realise what was going on until it was too late. He just lay there and for a moment I thought they had killed him and still I couldn’t move.”

He spoke as if to himself and Adamanta pressed her lips together to keep from interrupting. She felt that there was more to come but also that she would never learn it if she did not keep her mouth shut. Merimac trembled like a leaf in a cold winter breeze. His eyes were dark and blank, completely lost in memory, but in his face she could see all wretchedness and misery. It was eating him, gnawing at his spirit from inside and her heart quailed to see him like that. She put a hand onto his damp cheek and gently forced him to look at her. He gazed at her like someone waking from a dream but not yet roused enough to distinguish truth from fantasy.

“I am the tallest in the family,” he went on. “I always thought I was strong. But then this other one came and he beat me with a club and then he grabbed my arm so I didn’t even get a chance to defend myself. He was so strong. He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing at all and he stared down at me and grinned. He said he didn’t have a mind for killing, but I think he thoroughly enjoyed what had been done to Berilac. He said Berry would die ere we reach home and I believed him. I didn’t think I would make it home either. I kept waiting for a knife or an arrow to pierce me from behind.”

Adamanta trembled as hard as he did. She hardly dared to breathe. Her tongue was dry and swollen and her heart was in her mouth. She could hear its quickened thumping like drumbeat in her ears. Time stood still while Merimac spoke and Adamanta could see clearly all that had happened, unaware that she was safe for the time being and that a fire warmed her cold, shaking fingers. “I felt so small, Mantha,” he whispered and his voice was hoarse and choked with tears, “so helpless and afraid.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand as if for the first time aware of her touch. “I’m sorry,” he said and kissed her palm before he robbed himself of her touch and pushed her hand back so that it rested on her heart. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

“You didn’t,” she answered and only now did she realise that tears streamed down her cheeks as well. “You did all you could, Mac. If you hadn’t stayed hidden it might well be that neither of you had returned to me. You’d have been lying out there bleeding to death.”

Merimac wanted to avert his eyes but once more she stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Mac,” she entreated him, desperate to have him understand that he was not to blame. “I’m grateful for everything you have done, and I’m proud.” He furrowed his brow in confusion and opened his mouth, but Adamanta would not be interrupted. “I’m proud to be your wife and the mother of your children. I love you, Merimac, more than anything, and there is nothing to be sorry for.” She caressed his cheeks and wept soundlessly. All the worry and fear of the past weeks surfaced in her at once and mingled with the pain to see the one she loved more than even her own life torment himself over a feat he would not see. “You brought my son back to me and as of yet he is not lost to us. Because of you, Merimac.”

As he made no answer she leaned forward and kissed him in a most passionate way. If this did not convince him nothing ever would. His lips trembled, yet for a long moment he hesitated. Adamanta was about to draw back when suddenly he responded with a hunger and eagerness that startled her. He stood up, pulling her with him, and flung his arms around her, holding her, clinging to her as if she was a rock – the last rock and his only hold in a thunderous storm. And Adamanta accepted it and let herself fall into his kiss, willing to be whatever he needed her to be.

~*~*~

Saradoc sighed heavily as he leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the wooden ceiling of his study. His lids fell closed and for a moment he feared he might lose the struggle to open them again. He turned his head this way and that to ease his aching neck. It was no use to brood over Esmeralda’s latest food calculations any longer. They promised nothing but dismal prospects, with the Hall as crowded as it was and still another five weeks to go until they could begin to harvest in earnest.

He blew out the candles, left the study and staggered down the dimly lit hallways. He was about to quietly open the door to his bedroom so as not to disturb his wife, when he realised that the opposite door was slightly open. Saradoc closed his eyes as if in pain, knowing what he would find in his son’s room even before he pushed the door open.

The room was bathed in the pale white light of the full moon streaming in through the small window next to Merry’s bed. Ominous shadows, like long, gnarled fingers stretched themselves on the wall beside him. Untouched by them a small, bent figure with long, silver hair, sat on the bed. On her lap sat a brown, stuffed rabbit, worn with many years of being a favourite snuggle toy. Esmeralda shimmered like an elf-maiden in her white nightgown, and Saradoc pitied her as he watched her unnoticed.

He missed Merry more than he dared to admit to anyone, but the oftener he found his wife in this room, the more he realised that he would never understand what she felt. During the day she was strong and stern, untouchable and ready to help wherever she was needed – the reliable Mistress of Buckland. It was in the night that she put aside that coat and was neither Mistress nor wife. All that was left of her was a mother – the mother who grieves over the child that has been taken from her.

Saradoc longed to comfort her, but he knew that nothing he would say could console her. So he watched her and suffered in his turn over her anguish. How much she knew of this he did not know. She never spoke of it, too proud, perhaps, to admit all her sorrow, so he did not mention it either, too afraid to upset her further.

He was about to leave and, for Esmeralda’s sake, pretend that he had not seen her, when suddenly she spoke. “I’ve heard them talking again,” she said and Saradoc stopped short silently cursing the gossiping folk. “They didn’t know I was listening.”

Saradoc shivered as he walked to her, for a chill air seemed to linger in the room, although Esmeralda kept it clean and tidy, ready for their son’s return. Tears glistened in Esmeralda’s eyes and just as he sat down beside her and took her in his arms the first of them trickled down her cheeks. “They say he is dead. No one believes he’s going to return. No one but us and I…” she lifted her head and her eyes looked to him like a sparkling pond of dark blue on a sunny summer’s day – deep and desperate. “I’m not sure if I still have any hope left.”

Saradoc made no reply, but kissed one of her tears away. When she laid her head onto his shoulder, he rested his chin on her hair and gently caressed her cheek. Words were of no use and yet, as they sat like this, he remembered an old lullaby his mother used to sing to him a lifetime ago. But even as he hummed softly in the silence and stroked her hair the memories of a growing darkness came unbidden to his mind.

~*~*~

FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE! AWAKE!

Saradoc jumped to his feet and all but knocked over the Master’s chair in his study. He blinked, for a moment too confused and disoriented to realise what was going on. Then he saw Merry’s letter on his desk, the very letter he had read again and again all evening until sleep had finally claimed him, and fear gripped him.

He hurried into the corridor where already a huge turmoil had broken out, and all exclamations and questions were addressed to him the moment people realised he was among them.

“What’s going on?” some demanded.

“It must be a fire,” others replied, but Saradoc had an ill feeling about it. Why should the Horn-call sound the very night he discovered Merry’s letter? That dreadful letter! If only he had found it sooner.

“I do not yet know what happened,” Saradoc said and his voice caused all others to fall silent. “Whatever it is, I want all males between the ages of twenty-five and sixty to be prepared to assist in the emergency. Dress yourselves and gather in the front hall within a quarter of an hour. The rest of you return to your own rooms.”

The order was carried out immediately, though it neither caused the hubbub to die down nor did it stop the Horn-call. Every now and again Saradoc heard it blowing from just outside the smial and every call increased his fear.

Saradoc hastened down the corridor and almost bumped into his brother, who came running round a bend closely followed by Berilac and, tousled but wide awake Esmeralda dressed only in a dressing gown.

“What are you doing here?” Merimac demanded for he would have been the first one to knock at his door. “What’s going on?”

“Follow me and you will find out,” Saradoc said and grabbed him by the shoulder even as he told Esmeralda to see to it that no one lapsed into a panic, after all the Horn-call had not been sounded since wolves invaded the Shire in the Fell Winter of 1411.

Saradoc, followed by his brother and nephew, ran into the dark where Tobi was still blowing the Horn. “It’s come from the direction of Crickhollow,” he told them.

All colour left Saradoc’s face as the tight noose of fear closed around his neck. “Any news why?”

“Not as of yet, sir.”

“Get ponies saddled,” Saradoc said. “The three of us will ride to Crickhollow and find out.”

Tobi nodded and bolted off, but Saradoc stood silent for a while and stared uneasily into the darkness. In the distance he could still hear answering calls piercing the cool night air with their sound.

“Do you think the lads are in trouble?” Merimac asked uneasily. He looked as worried as Saradoc felt and his teeth clattered as he spoke, since he had apparently only found time enough to slip into a pair of trousers before he went to search for him.

“More than I had feared,” Saradoc replied quietly. “I will tell you more about it once we’re on the road. Get dressed now, the both of you, and be quick.”

They headed back to the Hall when they heard the sound of hooves approaching and a voice asked for the Master. Saradoc hastened to meet the rider and Merimac and his nephew followed him in spite of the cold. It was young Finch Boffin, who lived closest to Crickhollow – a little over a mile from the small house that Frodo had purchased.

“Mr. Saradoc!” He was breathing hard. “One of Mr. Merry’s friends come to the house, a-running for his life! He says there’s Big Folk in Buckland all dressed in black on big black horses – and he said something about the Old Forest, too! He’s all done in – but he said it was danger, so me da blew the Horn.”

Saradoc knew without any doubt that Finch was speaking of Fredegar. Merry and Pippin had left with Frodo, or so he hoped – and feared. He turned to Merimac. “I want you to ride with me to find out what has happened at Crickhollow. Berilac, go back in and tell the others we need them to spread out and give warning. Send Seredic up to the bridge, with about six others to see to what’s happening. Send Cousins Marmadas and Merimas south towards Haysend, and then head over to the Ferry and make sure all is secure there. Send the Ferry across to the west bank. If there are enemies in Buckland we don’t want to give them an easy way into the Shire proper. Also, send message to Ted Puddifoot. We might be in need of a healer.”

Berilac darted off. Less than ten minutes later Saradoc and Merimac were on the road as well, a still anxious Finch leading them at a swift trot to his home. It was then that Saradoc got a chance to quickly inform his brother of Merry’s letter. “It seems that Frodo is in some sort of danger. Merry said it has something to do with old Bilbo’s stuff, but he only hinted at things and wouldn’t speak clearly. He and Pippin went away with Frodo since he feels that the Shire is no safe place for him anymore. I fear that tonight only proves them right, but I hope that Fredegar will tell us more about it.” He shook his head helplessly. “Then I might even have something to comfort Esme with. She doesn’t know yet.”

Merimac did not reply but even in the darkness Saradoc could see the concern on his face. Merimac loved Frodo dearly and though Saradoc had at a time taken responsibility for the lad and raised him as his own Merimac had often supported their young cousin as much as he had.

When they arrived at the Boffin smial they were taken into a small guest room. Fredegar lay on the bed, shuddering and moaning like somebody caught in a fever-dream. Saradoc stared at him, horror stricken.

“Fredegar,” he said quietly and made to touch his shoulder.

The young hobbit screamed in shock. “No, not me! I haven’t got it! Not me!”

Saradoc withdrew in surprise. He looked first at Fredegar, then at Finch’s father, then at Merimac whose face was pale with fright.

“That’s all we could get out of him,” said old Mr. Boffin and shook his head.

Saradoc nodded, his eyes, filled with pity, resting on Fredegar. “Can you bring him to the Hall for me? The healer will take care of him there.”

The old hobbit nodded and so Saradoc and Merimac left the smial again. However, they did not head back home. Saradoc thought it best if he himself spoke to the guards on the Bridge, and warned them. Fredegar looked like death itself and though Saradoc knew him to be less adventurous than Merry or Pippin, young Fatty was no coward. Whatever had put him into such a state must have been dreadful.

They galloped north with all the speed they could muster, yet they were still far from the Bridge when they heard the pounding of hooves and stooped. A hobbit sped towards them and as he approached Saradoc recognised Seredic, who looked at them with an expression of horror.

“There were Big Folk, horrid creatures – they didn’t seem to be Men – mounted on huge black horses – two or three came tearing across the Bridge, and were met by two more who came up from the south road to meet them, and they raced eastward on the Road like a storm! Sara, I found old Denham Banks mourning his nephew – they…” Seredic paused and looked sick. “They rode him down, just trampled him over, when he called them to stop. They – it was dreadful…”

The second time this night Saradoc felt all blood drain from his face. Ned Banks had come of age only last summer and had started work on the Bridge the day after his birthday. According to old Denham it had ever been the lad’s wish to keep watch there with him. Saradoc found himself wishing the boy had found a different occupation for himself.

“You said they left the Shire?” he asked and Seredic nodded. “Well, that’s at least a bit of luck. We will ride up to the Bridge and question poor Den. And then, I think, back to the Hall to see what sort of sense we can get out of Fredegar Bolger.”

~*~*~

When he had returned to the Hall Fredegar had recovered enough to tell him all that he knew. And so it was that Saradoc learned what Merry had only hinted at in his letter, and instead of feeling less worried his fear increased. Who knew how long the four of them could go unnoticed from those Black Riders if they had already been at Crickhollow – and only four days since Frodo had left! The road through the Old Forest might have seemed the safest to them, but Saradoc was ill at ease.

His spirits only brightened when another four days later he got word that Gandalf had been seen at Crickhollow. He had longed to speak with him and get some news about the whereabouts of the lads, but as he reached the small house Frodo had bought for himself Gandalf was gone and had not returned since. Saradoc’s hope was that the wizard had found Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Samwise, but hope was all that was left to him.

Paladin, of course, took the news ill, and it had cost Saradoc some persuasion to keep the Thain from running after the lads. It was the borders that they needed to protect – Paladin as much as Saradoc – and trust in luck and the boys.

That was now ten months ago, and Saradoc thought the first night he had ever heard the Horn-call of Buckland the most dreadful night in his life. The real trouble, however, had started just after Yule and the second time the Horn-call startled him into wakefulness was even worse. Then his sorrows began in earnest and the Master of Buckland was put to the test.

Men had appeared in the Shire. They had come to the South Farthing first, carrying off wagon-loads of goods by order of Lotho Pimple. Paladin had been furious, especially when it turned out that some of them were going to stay and built sheds and houses for themselves. Buckland, however, had remained untouched, until the year drew to an end. Big Folk had come from Bree, though in the beginning most of them did not make it over the Bridge. Saradoc had been wary after Paladin’s warning and besides, most of the men looked too suspicious to be trusted. The majority, however, had taken the river. Buckland had been invaded from the south and when word finally reached the Master it had been too late to drive them out again.

~*~*~

“The call came from the south,” Tobi informed them breathlessly, “though whether it’s from Standelf or as far as Haysend I cannot tell. No news yet, and if the call was started as far south I doubt there will be any before lunchtime.”

“We cannot wait that long,” Saradoc said and drew his coat closer about himself. It was the dark hour before dawn and the air was chill and clear. Stars shimmered in the sky above him and wasps of mist rose before his face with every word he spoke. “Saddle at least ten ponies for me. I will ride to meet the messenger.”

Tobi trotted off, but Merimac who stood shivering beside him shook his head. “It’s no use, Sara. Even if we ride at full speed it will be at least mid-afternoon before we arrive in Haysend.”

“What do you suggest then? Wait?”

At that Merimac fell silent and followed him back into Brandy Hall, where Saradoc held a similar speech as only months before. “I need you to spread and give warning. One of the southern villages is in trouble, though of what kind I do not know. Ten, no, let it be twenty of you that are willing, I beg to ride southwards with me. Seredic, could you again ride to the Bridge as last time and tell them to double the watch. We don’t know exactly what is going on south, but I have a feeling that the number of Big Folk we meet there of late has something to do with it. Milo, take five with you to the Marish and warn folk there. The River is rather narrow at Haysend and if people are in trouble there, folk in the southern parts of the Marish, especially in Rushey and Deephallow, might soon be as well.”

The first glints of red and pink were visible on the eastern sky when Saradoc and his troop finally set out on their journey south. They took the straight road from Bucklebury to Standelf and Haysend, riding now in a gallop, now in a swift trot. The kitchen maidens had packed them some breakfast and lunch, but Saradoc felt that he had need for haste and did not allow for a break until the sun was already high in the sky. Only an hour ago had the Horn-call faded into silence and the cold stillness which surrounded them now seemed even more ominous.

There was little conversation during their quick meal. Everybody seemed to feel the same kind of urgency, even the ponies. Though foaming and steaming in the cold winter air they held a steady pace, but still Saradoc had no sign of a messenger, no news from the south.

They were an hour away from Standelf when they saw a rider approaching them. He rode like the wind, urging his pony on and only came to an abrupt halt when he was right before them.

“Master Saradoc!” he spluttered breathlessly and Saradoc noticed with horror the tears on the young lad’s face. “I’m so glad to see you. They have come! They have come from the river and attacked us at night. I hardly got away from them. So many got hurt, but I think no-one was killed, at least not until I left.”

“Who attacked you?” Merimac ask, finding his voice before Saradoc did. “You’re Tobert Greenhill’s boy, aren’t you? From Haysend?”

The tween nodded. “Yes, sir, Tobert, the Young, that’s me.” The tears now streamed down his face freely as if the mention of his father had awakened another fear. “Big Folk came from the south by way of the river. There were about fifty of them and more came from the western bank of the Brandywine.”

“Then it was a planned attack,” Merimac said horrified.

“Buckland is the only land that still parts them from the rest of the Shire,” Saradoc agreed. “We must have been a thorn in their side. Let’s ride to Haysend with all the speed we can. They might be saved yet.”

A shiver ran down his spine which had nothing to do with the chill winter wind. He could not imagine what was going on, but he dreaded to find out. Neither did he know what he would do once they arrived in Haysend. They had no weapons and even if they were armed he doubted that a group of twenty stayed much chance against a bunch of over fifty men.

When they reached Standelf Saradoc found the people well prepared, all getting ready to help folk in Haysend.

“I sent some lads south, Mr. Saradoc, and they says folk are a-running from their homes all coming this way. They will be here soon, no doubt.”

Saradoc thanked the farmer, then stood silent for a while, gazing southwards.

“We need to guard the river,” Merimac, who stood beside him, eventually broke the silence that was coming up.

“How do we stop them?” Saradoc wondered. “Even if we watch the Brandywine, how do we stop them from going further north?”

Merimac looked about as if he hoped the solution might jump at him if only he turned in the right direction at the right time. “Fishing nets!” he suddenly shouted. “We need to get a net from this bank to the other. It mustn’t go too deep into the river so as not to disturb the fish too much, but if we keep parts of it above water it might stop the men, at least for a time.”

Saradoc could have kissed him for that piece of brilliance and had Merimac put his plan to action as soon as possible. He himself went with the males of Standelf and those he had brought from the Hall to meet whatever was heading for them from the south.

It was now mid-afternoon and the sun shone brightly from a clear sky. Saradoc was tired and exhausted, but determined not to let his people down.

He did not have far to go until he came about the first group of fugitives. Saradoc galloped to meet them and was welcomed with both joy and grief. The news they bore were similar to the ones Saradoc had already got from Tobert. It was Old Gaffer Brownlock, however, who gave him the clearest picture. “Ye needn’t go further. Haysend is lost, and if ye don’t hurry, Master Saradoc, there won’t be no Hall to which you can return either.”

“Are you sure?” Saradoc asked urgently. “We might be able to fight them off.”

The gaffer shook his head gravely. “Nay, sir. All ye’ll find is more people running away. You can’t fight the Men. There’s too many of ‘em. They set fire to me son’s stables and what cattle didn’t break free and run is being burned there alive.”

Saradoc was breathing hard and for a moment his voice failed him. “What about the people?” he enquired at length. “Did they all escape?”

“Aye,” the old hobbit nodded, “as far as I know. Some were badly hurt and some ran with just a nightgown on. They’ll find that all they had is gone now, I’ll tell ye. They’re burning not only stables, they are.”

Saradoc quickly arranged for some of the people to spread in groups and find scattered fugitives, while others should accompany those that had already been found to Standelf. He, however, hastened towards Haysend with the few people who were still left.

~*~*~

Old Gaffer Brownlock had not exaggerated. Haysend had been overrun and plundered. When Saradoc arrived there Men were sitting on the field of their victory amidst the smoke of burning sheds and stables. Hobbits, Saradoc found to his relief, were not among them, neither dead nor captured. They had all made it to Standelf, some severely wounded, others half frozen to death, but none suffering the loss of a loved one.

That day it had begun – the battle for Buckland and the Shire. Haysend had only been the beginning. Soon the Big Folk were pressing north and others came over the Bridge. The Bucklanders had fought for days, but then the capturing and killing started and the hobbits shrank away. Mothers lost their sons, wives their husbands, and still some kept fighting – but it was useless. The men increased not only in number but also in brutality. The hobbits were driven back until only Brandy Hall, Bucklebury, and the surrounding fields remained. The Hall turned into a safe haven and its rooms threatened to burst at the seams, yet Saradoc kept the doors open to anybody seeking support, comfort, or simply a place to sleep. Many had lost their homes but even more had fallen into the hands of the ruffians and were now forced to labour on fields and vegetable gardens that were not their own. So they filled the Chief’s stores rather than their own grumbling stomachs.

It tore at Saradoc’s heart and during the first weeks he doubted his skill and needed Esmeralda and Merimac to assure him and keep him from despair. Yet, whenever the Master was needed Saradoc was confident, assured his folk and drew strength from the trust they had in him. He might have lost the battle, but he had not yet failed his people, not as long as he held Brandy Hall.

Yet he doubted how long that might be. They could hold the Hall for months and years unless hunger beat them and hunger, unfortunately, was their enemies’ greatest weapon. Saradoc had not yet forgotten what had happened on the southern fields and in his heart he still did not trust their victory, although he hoped his concerns were unjustified.

He glanced down at his wife, who had fallen asleep in his arms, and smiled ruefully, loath to wake her. Gently he then kissed her hair and caressed her cheeks. Esmeralda blinked sleepily. “What…?” she enquired but Saradoc hushed her with a shake of his head.

“I hate to wake you, but I believe our own bed will give us more comfort. Come.”

Reluctantly, she broke from his embrace, but when she noticed she was still in Merry’s room she let herself be lead into her own bedroom, where she snuggled up against Saradoc and immediately fell asleep again. But Saradoc lay awake and stared at the ceiling, longing for the blissful forgetfulness of a dreamless night.

Chapter Three: Hope Fails

“It’s all Pimple’s doing, I tell you!” Paladin was indignant. “He brought them here in the first place. Did you know that he ripped down the old mill in Hobbiton and had Menbuilt a new one for him? A horrible thing; all steam and smoke, polluting both air and water.”

Esmeralda had seldom seen her brother so outraged. His fathomless eyes glistened like livid fire and his stern face was grim and dark, as he paced up and down before them, too worked up to sit still. “I’m sure he’s also responsible for all the leaf and food that went away down the old road out of the Southfarthing. That was men too, though back then they didn’t stay in the Shire like they do nowadays. I wanted to go up to Bag End and have a word with him; tell him that he had no right to play the chief, not as long as there still is a Thain in the Shire. But then the snow came and spoiled my plans. I’m not yet done with Pimple, though. I will go up the Hill as soon as I get a chance!”

“I should come with you,” Saradoc agreed. “He put us through a lot of trouble over at Buckland. Weird folk want to cross the Bridge, but most of them have an ill-favoured look on them and we wouldn’t let them in.”

“Good! Don’t let them. Double the guard if you must, but don’t let any more in. They are too many already. People fear them, especially since they grow bolder with each day.”

At his last words he turned to Esmeralda and his face softened. “Do you see now why I wanted neither you, nor Berilac and Nel to come, even though my heart aches to see them? The roads are not safe anymore.”

Esmeralda shivered unintentionally, but quickly pushed aside the memory of a squint-eyed man, barring the road for hers and Saradoc’s ponies. He had asked them where they were going and what business brought them there. When Saradoc had told him that he was not answerable to a brute lurking on the wayside he had snapped a finger in his face and growled: “Don’t you get uppish on me, or you’ll see what’ll happen to you when the Chief finds out.”

Esmeralda took a sip of her tea to drive out the sudden cold. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again they were clear and determined. “So you would deny me to come and talk about something that concerns all – the four of us probably more than any other?” Esmeralda shook her head and looked fixedly at her brother. “You know we haven’t come to talk about the problems in the Shire, Pal. Neither do we ask your advice as Thain, though it is gladly taken.”

Paladin sighed heavily and plopped into his chair. To Esmeralda it seemed that a shadow fell over his face and for a long moment he spoke no more. Silence crept into the Thain’s sitting-room and with it an uncomfortable feeling of foreboding. Esmeralda felt her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her mouth was dry and her skin seemed to prickle with agitation. Suddenly, she caught Eglantine’s eyes, glittering ominously in the firelight, and knew that her sister-in-law would rather not have her mouth the question she had come to ask. Esmeralda looked at her apologetically and Eglantine nodded. The Thain’s wife understood her.

“What did you See?” Esmeralda asked at length and found her voice trembled.

The tension and suspense in the room seemed to increase to an almost unbearable level. Esmeralda clutched her teacup with both hands, so did Eglantine. Saradoc sat up straight in his chair his eyes fixed on his cousin. All of them knew about the Thain’s Gift of Seeing. But Paladin sat motionless, his head bowed and his hands folded on the table.

“What, Pal?” Esmeralda urged in a tight voice. “You did See something, didn’t you?”

The tension became unbearable. To Esmeralda it seemed that everybody held their breath; but Paladin sat unmoving, his eyes closed as if he was lost in deep concentration. At long last he shook his head and his expression became one of pain and sorrow. “Nothing I can make sense of.”

“But they are alive?” Saradoc pressed.

Paladin looked at him sadly. Eglantine laid her hand onto her husband’s and squeezed it gently. “I don’t know.”

Esmeralda jumped to her feet and her chair fell back behind her. “What good is that gift of yours,” she burst out, “when it can’t even tell you whether our sons are all right?”

Paladin looked startled, but before he could reply Eglantine got up as well and her eyes glinted. “Stop it, Esme! We are distraught too, but he can’t force it. You know that and I know it.” She looked at Paladin sympathetically, then bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Though I wish it was not so. Just one glimpse, one proof of his –” she paused, took a deep breath and corrected herself, “of their being alive and I would wish for nothing else this Yule or ever again.”

Esmeralda felt her body quake with sudden weakness and was glad when Saradoc got up to hold her and gently made her sit down in his chair. For a moment he knelt beside her, held her, supported her, and watched her anxiously. Grateful as she was, Esmeralda could not make herself lift her head and look into his eyes – or into anybody else’s. The constant fear had become too hard to bear and she felt ashamed to no longer control herself.

“Here, drink this.” She looked up when Paladin offered her a small glass filled with a clear, golden liquid. “Brandy,” he told her. “I’m afraid it can’t compete with Buckland’s but it will help nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and felt the tears rising to her eyes, but wouldn’t allow them to spill over.

“Never mind,” Paladin replied and once again offered her the glass which she now gratefully accepted.

~*~*~

Esmeralda started blankly into the impenetrable darkness of their room and listened to Saradoc’s heartbeat and his breathing. She felt the regular rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear and smelled the musk of pipe weed, ink, dry grass, and the damp smell of the riverside. She took peace from it in spite of the tumult in her head.

It had been a tiring day. Esmeralda had to prepare rooms for another family of five coming in from the vicinity of Newbury, where they no longer felt safe. An oppressing silence had settled on Brandy Hall, especially in the last couple of days. Adamanta, whom she had grown to love like a sister, was quiet and pale and though she did not admit it Esmeralda knew that she feared for Berilac. It was now ten days since her nephew had been injured and still he would only wake from time to time and when he did he was delirious. Fastred had checked on him several times, but no matter what he did the fever still burned in Berilac and the wound, though cleaned and treated with care was inflamed. Esmeralda found she worried as much about Berilac as she worried about her own son, fosterling and nephew of late. Her heart struggled to hold on to hope for all of them. Giving in was too easy, yet she wouldn’t let despair claim her as long as she had enough strength to fight it.

“No help will come, will it?” she asked in a low voice and Saradoc turned to look at her even though he could not see her.

He kissed her hair and held her tighter but made no reply. Esmeralda knew the answer. The Tooks, she knew, had trouble enough themselves. There was a close watch on Tookland and no one got in or out. Paladin had gone to Bag End and this was the price he paid for it. Perhaps it was the Brandybucks’ luck that Saradoc had never got a chance to take Lotho to task. The assault on Haysend had bound him to his own land and though Buckland was similarly cut from the outside world it could have been much worse. Saradoc might have joined Will Whitfoot in the Lockholes, as they had come to call the old storage tunnels in Michel Delving. The ruffians had taken the Mayor there only two weeks after the Brandybucks’ visit to the Tooks. He wanted to have a word with Lotho about the damage that had been done. Not that the Men had not done any damaging before, but they had stopped making amends, and nowadays all the Shire was slowly turning into a waste.

The rivers had been fouled and not even the Bucklanders would dare any longer to have a swim in the Brandywine, even if they had a mind for such leisure. Trees had been cut down and burned in horrible new machineries that stank and smoked. If Esmeralda had considered the roads unsafe half a year ago they were now positively dangerous. The ruffians had founded their own little communities in the Woody End, Longbottom; and Waymeet where they lived in ugly un-Shirelike sheds. As if that wasn’t enough everybody now had to answer to the Shiriffs and explain their business. They had put up a huge Shiriff-house in Frogmorton, the seat of the First Eastfarthing Troop. It was ridiculous and true enough, most hobbits were not there of their own free will but even among the Shire-folk were some that liked to stuck their noses into other people’s affairs. They spied, too, and used the old Quick Post service for their abominable business.

There was no way of getting news from other parts of the Shire anymore and the hobbits had become too afraid to rise up. Dear Fatty Bolger and his band of rebels were the last to stand up against the ruffians up in Brockenbores by the hills of Scary and now they all sat in the Lockholes as well.

Esmeralda shuddered and drew the blankets closer about her and Saradoc. The Master and the Hall were the only ones left in Buckland that still resisted the rule of the ruffians and every minute Esmeralda feared the next blow. She could not bear even the thought of Saradoc being taken to the Lockholes. Sudden fear clutched her and she clung to her husband and pressed her body against the warmth of his as if to assure herself that he was still with her. Then she kissed him and smiled in spite of herself. He had already fallen asleep. She closed her eyes to follow his example.

~*~*~

Merimac sat on his bed, slightly bent to ease his back which had still not quite recovered from the blow he had received. His expression bore the strange calm of one lost in a pleasant dream. His eyes were closed and his fingers twitched and flexed in rhythm to a slow, smooth tune he was humming, as if he were playing on an invisible instrument. The melody was melancholy, yet not sad, but full of remembrance. Its notes were mellow and in spite of their poignancy they had a strangely soothing effect. It lifted the grief from his heart, although his mind was borne to the past until he was entirely lost in memory.

Merimac found himself sitting in one of Brandy Hall’s common rooms. It was late evening and a fire flickered in the hearth plunging the room into pleasant warmth and light. Several generations of hobbits were assembled, the youngest of which sat on their parents’ knees, several of them already struggling to keep their eyes open. Others were engrossed in some game or other, or listened to one of many stories told. The elders sat on a table with a pint and a pipe, wrapped in a cloud of smoke, talking about days gone by and at the same time enjoying to watch the younger generations grow into their own.

It was one of the evenings Merimac nowadays associated most with life in Brandy Hall. The peaceful togetherness, the silent understanding, the knowledge that there were always new generations of hobbit children that would one day step into the footsteps of their elders. It was one of those evenings when Merimac would have plopped down near the fireside, one arm around Adamanta, the other holding Berilac or, later on, Bluebell and feel blessed and content.

It was on evenings like that that he would from time to time have brought one of his pennywhistles to entertain family, friends and distant relations. He was considered one of the best players and everybody would listen with joy on their faces. Sometimes they would clap along or even get up and dance, and sometimes they would simply sit still, lost it seemed, in some other time or world. Berilac would listen with pure admiration on his young face and it was him Merimac now thought of most. Shining green eyes, rosy cheeks and curly light-brown hair, leaning sleepily against his mother’s chest and yet he watched the quick movement of Merimac’s fingers as if memorising it.

He never took to playing. The boy had too much energy to be bothered with a musical instrument, but to this day he would listen with the same rapt attention as back then.

Merimac opened his eyes and found he still sat in the dimly lit room he shared with Adamanta. Yet, his mind was made up. He was ready to face another day and he would share this new song with his son. Quickly he went to the chest on the other side of the room and chose one of the lower tuned pennywhistles to take with him to Berilac.

Every morning his way brought him to his son first and like on most other mornings Merimac found Pimpernel already at his side. Merimac stopped in the doorway and watched her with compassion. After some pressure from Adamanta and himself the girl had finally agreed to take more care of herself, but to Merimac she still seemed pale and drained. She did no longer bother to bind her long auburn curls, but let them dangle freely over her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen and though she never showed her anguish in front of him or Adamanta Merimac did not doubt that she cried herself to sleep every night, much like Bluebell wept in silence. Hope waned and the strain became harder to bear every day. Merimac, too, felt a gloom stronger than he had ever imagined possible. It was not in the hobbits’ nature, much like what was happening in the Shire did not fit anymore.

He leaned his head against the doorframe, silently taking in the intimate scene before him, unsure, if he was allowed to interrupt. Nel knelled beside Berilac’s bed, one hand caressing his cheek, the other holding one of his hands. The light of the fire was on her back and her languid shadow danced over Berilac’s unconscious form like a timid animal.

“Don’t give up, Berilac,” she entreated him and kissed the back of his hand. “Don’t leave me now. I need you and,” a quiet sob escaped her lips as she brought his hand to her cheek, “so does our child.”

Merimac’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His fingers loosened the grip around the wooden pennywhistle only to clasp it the tighter a moment later. Unbelievable joy flooded through him, closely followed by dismay and horror. “Not into a world like this!” he thought. “Not without the father.” His eyes fell upon Berilac’s pale, thin face and the sunken cheeks, and now it was him who silently entreated his son. “Wake up, Berilac. For all that’s still good and green on this earth, wake up!”

Without a sound Merimac walked into the room to place his hand on Pimpernel’s shoulder. The girl jumped and her head jerked round sharply. “Merimac?” her voice was full of disbelieve, fear even.

He nodded and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. Nel’s eyes were wide and a shiver ran through her body. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t --, I don’t know anything anymore.” She buried her face in her hands and wept helplessly.

For a long moment Merimac stood beside her, unmoving, hardly breathing. He saw Berilac and Pimpernel, heard her hopeless cries, yet he was blind and deaf, struck by the same numbness he had felt when Berilac had sunk to the ground with blood sipping from his belly. Never had he expected to feel like this the day he learned he was going to be a grandfather.

“Nel,” he forced himself back to the present and got down to his knees to gather the weeping girl up and pull her to her trembling feet with him. “It’s going to be fine, Nel.” The meaningless words left his lips before he could repress them. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

And as Pimpernel buried her face in his chest and he combed through her hair to sooth her, he wished more than ever that the road to the Tooks was still open. Pimpernel needed her family, her mother, not her father-in-law who was himself struggling with everything that had come to pass.

~*~*~

“They came just before dawn. There were at least twice as many as last week. They were upon us before anybody could raise the alarm. They beat up me brother and everybody who didn’t relent willingly. They said they’re taking them to the Lockholes. All of them! How shall I ever tell my poor ma?”

Saradoc hastened through the corridors in search of his brother. Already he had sent Marmadas, Seredic, Milo and several others to the southern fields, though if young Tip was right, the crop and everything else he had so eagerly awaited to harvest was lost to the Hall. The tween’s words echoed in his mind. “It was mere luck that saved me, but I just couldn’t run. I stayed and watched from a distance, and – oh, it’s all my fault! If only I hadn’t waited!”

The poor lad was devastated and nothing Saradoc said would console him. He had left him in Esme’s care and run off to find his brother. He didn’t even know why he was looking for him. Tip was convinced the ruffians were having as close a watch on the fields as the Bucklanders had, and nothing Merimac could say or do would help him regain them. Yet Saradoc needed him at his side, where he had always been; a source of support and encouragement.

Saradoc heard his brother before he saw him. A sweet, peaceful melody reached his ear as he advanced Berilac’s sickroom and went straight into his heart. Saradoc stopped short, strangely touched by the tune. It seemed to him that it felt both, sad and hopeful and he could not help but wait and listen. Silently he walked to the door and watched his brother from its frame. Merimac had his back turned to him. His body was bathed in firelight and his head moved unconsciously in the rhythm of the tune as he played his pennywhistle. To Saradoc he seemed at that moment neither young nor old, strangely detached, and somehow he knew that, even if he wanted to, he would not reach his brother while he played.

Slowly the melody faded and Merimac stirred as if wakened from deep slumber. He lowered his pennywhistle, looked at his son and sighed deeply before he sank tiredly onto the chair.

“That was beautiful.” Saradoc stepped into the room, and before Merimac could reply he let him in on the latest news. “The guards on the fields have been overtaken and captured. According to Tip there is no chance of regaining anything, but I still want to have a look at it. If what he says is true, though, we’re cut off of our main food supply.”

Merimac stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded and turned his attention back to Berilac. All of a sudden Saradoc felt hot fury rise within him and clenched his fist. “Is that all you have to say to it?” he demanded fiercely.

Merimac looked over his shoulder. “What else would you have me say?”

“Come with me!”

“What use would that be?”

The callousness of his voice, the sheer disinterest made Saradoc’s blood boil. His muscles tensed as he stomped towards his brother keen on shaking some sense into him. It was Berilac’s pale face that stopped him and had him shake his head instead. His voice was almost compassionate though with a hidden sting. “Don’t let it pull you down like that.”

That hit a nerve. Merimac jumped to his feet and wheeled round, his eyes glimmering. “What do you know about it?” he growled through gritted teeth. “He’s my son. I carried him home with this only hope of rescue and it is me who shall sit by his side until he wakes up or until my heart is broken.” Merimac shook his head in irritation. “You know nothing about it!”

Saradoc grabbed him roughly by the collar to keep himself from slapping him. “Don’t I?” he demanded. “My son went out into the wild months ago. No one knows where he is or how he fares.” His throat was tight with fury and his white-knuckled fingers trembled as he paused for breath. “My sons could be dead already and I would never learn of it. You, at least, can sit at your child’s side and hold his hand should it come to the worst. So don’t tell me I wouldn’t know the despair of losing the pride and hope of my life. I know better than I ever cared to do.”

He pushed Merimac from him, thinking of his boys. His anger at Frodo was long forgotten. He now understood that the boy probably didn’t have any other chance. The boy. Saradoc closed his eyes sadly. Even though he had come of age long ago, Frodo would always be his boy, his first son, brother to his own child and heir.

His ire subsided as quickly as it had come and as he looked at his brother now his expression was one of silent understanding. Merimac stood motionless, his head bowed and his fists clenched, probably with a thousand retorts ready in his mind, but he made no reply. Saradoc stretched out an arm to place it on his shoulder, but Merimac evaded his touch.

It was all the answer Saradoc needed. He left Merimac to his own broodings. He had hardly made it around the first bend when Marmadas’ son Merimas came running towards him and told him in a hurry of what he had seen in the south. A group of fifty ruffians with clubs and whips guarded what used to be the Hall’s potato field and main vegetable garden, along with several crop and maize fields. The riders they had sent out reported that there were another fifty men close by. “Every single ruffian in Buckland must have come for the fields.”

Saradoc could see why. The Hall’s greatest enemy, hunger, would be upon them far sooner than he had feared. He retreated into his study, for the moment unable to give any more instructions. On his way through the corridors he stumbled across several unknown faces. Another family of refugees had come to the Hall, and they looked just as Saradoc felt: careworn, heartbroken, sad and desperate.

By the time he reached his study he felt like choking. He did not know whether to feel relieved or annoyed to find Esmeralda sitting in his chair. “I failed them,” he breathed and pressed two fingers on the spot between his eyes as he shook his head as if denying his own words. “I was never prepared for anything like this, and now I have failed them.”

Esmeralda stood up and when Saradoc looked into her eyes he knew that he had taken from her the last bit of hope she had still had. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. There was nothing he could do to help his people. Hope was vain.

Chapter Four: Growing Despair

“There it goes,” Marmadas sighed.

“There they labour.” Seredic shook his head.

“And all for the Chief,” Milo grumbled.

“Don’t call him that,” Saradoc said. “Lotho has no authority among the hobbits, no matter what fancy name he gives himself.”

“A name doesn’t change what’s going on,” Merimac pointed out, but his face was dark.

It was the end of Wedmath. Harvest time had begun, but not for the hobbits of the Hall – not for those that still lived there, at least. Saradoc watched his fields from a distance. It was hobbits that worked there, some the very lads who had watched the Hall’s gardens only weeks before. Ruffians stood about them, laughing and driving them on like cattle, cracking their whips if the hobbits worked too slowly for their liking.

Saradoc pitied them as much as the hobbits in Brandy Hall. Folk all over the Shire fared poorly these days. They were oppressed and exploited. Gathering and sharing the Big Folk called it. They took food from every household, food the families had cultivated themselves, and carried it away to huge storage houses where it could later be picked up again. The hobbits, however, saw little of it again. It was all for the Chief’s Men. In fact, Saradoc began to believe that folk in Brandy Hall was better off in spite of food shortage. Here, at least, it was still hobbits who were in charge and though he had little to offer Saradoc cared for his kind. But what were hobbits to the Big Folk apart from cheap slaves?

They had closed all the inns. Not that anybody was in the mood for merriment. Besides, there was neither ale, nor weed, nor any extra food to have anyway. The only thing that did not grow short were the Chief’s rules, and every time Saradoc got one of those lists into his hands he would tear it to pieces. Not that it made any difference. Buck Hill and the surrounding smials of Bucklebury were an island in the midst of ruin.

Saradoc shook his head sadly and turned his back on the picture of misery before him. The sun shone brightly as they walked back to the Hall, her strength and warmth mocking their desperate state. They spoke little and their heads were bowed. Merimac alone seemed to be in a better mood than he had been in for days. Berilac had awakened some two weeks ago, and he fared better with each day, though Pimpernel and Adamanta saw to it that he did not leave his bed for too long. Yet there were worries on his brother’s mind as well and Saradoc was all too aware that most of them circled around the ponies.

It was the beast’s paddock that Merimac now headed for, probably without being aware of it, and Saradoc followed him, nodding his goodbye to the others. Merimac put his arms on the fence and Saradoc followed his example. Thoughtfully, they watched the beasts, about half of the Master’s breed, grazing and galloping without a trouble in this world. How he envied them! Saradoc closed his eyes and stretched his face towards a light breeze that smelled of ponies, dry grass and summer – a smell he would always associate with his youth when uncle Saradas had them under his wing during the haying season and his greatest worry was how to get away from his watchful eyes.

“I don’t know how I will get the ponies and the other beasts through the winter.” Merimac broke the silence and rested his chin on his hands. He did not look at him and Saradoc did not have to see him to know about the worry in his eyes. “Without the southern meadows I don’t even have enough space to let all the ponies out at the same time, if I want to get some hay as well. Without the help of the Marish folk we’d be badly put.” Merimac’s voice was heavy, but not without hope. “I think it’s our luck that the men consider the moor-land of the Marish of not much use to them and don’t pay it much heed. It will be a tight call but I think if we work hard enough on the meadows in the west and north, and if the grass grows fast we might even manage to get just enough hay for every farm.” He looked up. “What we shall do about oat and grain, however, I do not know.”

Saradoc nodded, but made no reply. His eyes rested on a beautiful chestnut mare with a blaze. She held her head proudly and her mane fluttered in the wind. A colt of similar looks skittered about her, one of the few foals this year. Saradoc sighed heavily. A lump was in his throat for he knew what he was going to say would not please his brother. Yet his voice was determined if subdued. “We can’t keep all the ponies. The sheep are lost. Marmadas has already butchered most of the pigs. I want to keep the cows for the milk and the hens, for as long as we manage to feed them in winter, for the eggs. The ponies…”

“There might be a chance…” Merimac interjected quickly and stood up straight.

“No, Mac,” Saradoc stopped him short and looked him straight in the eye. “You said yourself that we don’t have enough food to bring them through the winter. I have a Hall full of hungry mouths that need feeding and the gardens are not big enough to fill all their stomachs. If we don’t find a way to get to the southern fields this winter is going to be harder than any other. We’re lucky enough to still hold the forest south of the road to Bucklebury or we might all freeze to death after the first frost.”

His words were sharper than Saradoc had intended, but it was the truth and the only thing that was on his mind lately. Merimac stared at him, opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it; then he pressed his lips to a tight line, squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, fists clenched. Merimac loved his ponies, but Saradoc knew he also loved him and would see his reason. He pitied him nonetheless and as he laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed it gently his voice was soft and full of sympathy. “I wish there was a different way.”

Merimac took a deep, shaking breath, but did not look up. The muscles under Saradoc’s fingers were tense and the voice that eventually answered him was barely more than a whisper. “I know.”

Saradoc gave his brother’s shoulder another reassuring squeeze, before he turned towards the Hall. He had not gone far though, when he turned around once more and found that Merimac was still standing at the fence with his head bowed and his fists clenched.

“Mac,” his younger brother looked up, and though Saradoc could not quite define what he saw on his face, it struck him almost as painfully as the dispute they had the other day. “Take young ones. The meat shouldn’t be too stringy.”

******

For a long while Merimac did not move. He did not understand why Saradoc’s request pained him so much. He had feared it would come this far, had known it long before this day. Yet there was a dull ache in his heart. The ponies were the only thing in these dark days that had not changed. They were still his, they still loved him, and he could treat them as he had always done. Everything else seemed to slip from his fingers. Like everybody else Adamanta had gone quiet and thoughtful, Berilac he had almost lost, and Bluebell detached herself further and further from him with each day.

Merimac rested his arms on the fence once more and was surprised to find his daughter sitting on the wooden boards at the other end of the paddock. She looked at him and had probably watched him for some time. Merimac managed a smile and waved at her, but the girl immediately looked to the other side, dark curls waving in the summer’s breeze. Merimac lowered his hand again and sighed. This was the worst of all pains.

Every time he and Bluebell saw each other there was an argument. Only last night they had quarrelled so heatedly that it had needed Adamanta to bring them back to their senses. Merimac couldn’t even resent her anger. She felt caged and locked up. She wanted to go out, do something, anything, and she blamed Merimac, for he would not let her. It was not safe, not for anybody, but most certainly not for a young girl of eighteen.

Yesterday she wanted to go for a ride. A ride! Merimac laughed bitterly. At any other time his heart would have danced with joy to see his daughter among the ponies as well as his son. And he would have gladly accompanied her on whatever trip she might want to go – Heavens, he himself ached to go for a good long ride – but he could not allow it. Not now. It tore at his heart to see her storm away from him with tears glittering in the corner of her eyes. He knew Bluebell complained to Adamanta about him, but even his dear wife struggled to bring reason into the girl’s mind. Bluebell had a fiery spirit that Merimac had ever enjoyed, but these days he wished her as unassuming and calm as her mother had been.

One of the ponies, a young skewbald gelding, recognising its master came up to him, snorted and nuzzled his shirt looking for a treat. Merimac chuckled despite himself, pushed the pony’s nose gently from him and stroked its soft nostrils. Immediately, he was brought back to the iniquity of his other burden.

The ponies knew nothing of what was going on and yet they were to pay – to die, so that his kind might live. The circle of life uncle Saradas would have called it and Merimac had ever accepted it – until this day. A cruel stroke that fate dealt on him, and yet he would do as he was asked. Not today perhaps, but soon. He would choose carefully and for once he would not look for excellent breeding but simply for good meat to feed the nigh one thousand mouths that now occupied Brandy Hall’s every room.

Merimac pushed the gelding from him and clapped its flanks so that it bolted out into the paddock.

“Run,” Merimac whispered after it. “Run while you may and enjoy what life is left to you.”

~*~*~

Saradoc stood at the window of his study, hands crossed behind his back, and gazed north-westwards, watching the last fiery rays of sunlight disappear behind the treetops. It was only a simple joy but for a moment there was peace in his heart.

He turned around as the door opened and Esmeralda entered with a roll of parchment in her hands. He smiled at her and gestured for her to sit down. He himself remained standing for another instant, but the moment had passed just like the unexpected lightness in his heart.

“You look tired,” Esmeralda announced as she took her seat at the other side of his desk.

Saradoc smiled weakly. “So says the woman who doesn’t seem to sleep at all these days.”

Esmeralda shrugged. “It could be worse.”

“Could it, really?” Saradoc wondered and sank into his chair.

She made no reply but clutched the roll of parchment tighter as if loath to show it to him. Her face was pale, her expression a strange mixture of pity, sympathy, fear, and determination. Blessed be the Tooks and their ceaseless determination, no matter how difficult the task they faced! Saradoc admired her grit, and though he knew her weakness too, he marvelled every time he saw her. She said that he was the strength that held everything together, including her, and yet he wondered how far he would have got without Esmeralda at his side.

Saradoc leaned over the desk and took her hand when she still would not speak. “What is it you meant to tell me?”

It was a stupid question, for he guessed the answer. Some weeks ago he had asked her to count the supply of food and calculate how long they would manage and where it might be possible for them to save. The parchment and the fact that she was so reluctant to show it to him disclosed the bad news he had already feared. Esmeralda closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“You have to stand up to them.”

Saradoc looked at her in surprise.

“You have to fight them,” she repeated and met his eyes. “If all of Buckland stands together you can defeat them and drive them out.”

For a long moment Saradoc could only stare at her and when he answered his words and the calmness in them surprised him. “I know.”

She straightened, brow furrowed. “Then, why…?”

“Who would follow me?” he asked. “Merimac and perhaps another handful, but not more. The poor souls in this Hall are so intimidated they would not raise a weapon against the brutes unless they were attacked. They might have come with me at one point, but we have lost too much and too often.”

“If we don’t do anything, the Hall will be our deathbed, Saradoc,” Esmeralda insisted. “If the last year hadn’t been such a good one, we would be in trouble already.”

“You don’t understand,” Saradoc stood up and leaned over the table, his hands still resting on Esmeralda’s. “Even if Buckland united against them it would not change our situation much. More Men would come and we would be at constant war, just like the Tooks. If we really want to change something the entire Shire must be roused. Every single hobbit must stop putting up with how the brutes treat them. That is the only way to fight them, to get rid of them and declare the Shire our own country once more.”

His eyes were locked with hers. He was breathing hard, but Esmeralda sat unmoved, her expression unreadable, her blue eyes dark as the late evening sky. Saradoc pushed himself up and strolled back to the window, where he pressed two fingers of his left hand against the spot between his eyes as he always did when he was at a loss. The sun had almost vanished and the study was plunged in a dull, shady grey.

“The soups will be even more watery soon,” Esmeralda informed him factually. He was sure that only he was able to distinguish the slight trembling in her voice. “The potatoes and bean poles as well as most of our roots are out of our reach. We’ll manage during the summer. We’ve tomatoes and salads enough but once the season is over we will quickly run out of satiating food.”

Saradoc closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’d rather have lost Bucklebury than the southern fields and meadows.”

“We’re also running out of flour and corn. Soon we’ll only have milk and cheese to live on.”

Saradoc felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to look at his wife, his expression one of shock and disbelief.

“What did you expect?” she demanded sharply. “We haven’t been to a market for over six months and while we hold Hall-land we can’t go to one of their sharings.” She shook her head. “I’d rather be a beggar than a prisoner in my own home.”

“Don’t say such things!” Saradoc told her.

“Why not?!” Esmeralda got to her feet and all but threw the parchment at him. “Look at the numbers! We’re not just beggars now, we’re dead! And if you’re cursed pride hadn’t forbidden you to ask for help when you still could we might still have a chance.”

“Help?! Is that what you call the sparse amount of food every family can pick up every other day?” Saradoc looked down at her, as she stood stiff and erect before him. Her eyes glowed with fury and frustration, her lips were pressed together to a tight, thin line and her fists were clenched at her sides. He felt her warm, ragged breath on his neck. “That’s not help. That’s mockery.”

“It’s better than what we have.”

Saradoc knew about the disappointment in his eyes as clearly as he knew about the accusation in hers. How easy she made it on herself! Blame him, of course, as if he hadn’t tried to find another way. There was none, as far as he could see. He could surrender, but wouldn’t that make matters even worse?

He returned his attention to the darkness outside, so giving himself a moment to think the situation over and offering Esmeralda a chance to calm down. He had once called her spirited and Paladin had agreed that his calm would do her temper no end of good. Saradoc did not think that he had tamed that spirit. Quite the contrary! He was only considerate enough to know when it was better not to argue any further. As much as her temper annoyed him at times, he could not deny that it was that very trait that made him pursue her in the first place.

Silence spread between them and although she was angry with him, Saradoc drew strange comfort from her presence. She was right with one thing. He had to do something if he did not want the Hall to be indeed the deathbed of many hobbits. As he stood in his study, unmoving, and with the sound Esmeralda’s breathing in his ear, the answer seemed clear to him.

“I will have to talk to them,” he said without turning.

“They won’t give you anything if they don’t see any profit for themselves,” Esmeralda announced evenly from behind him. She had calmed down, but Saradoc knew she still meant every word she had said.

“Perhaps I can pay them.”

“Money?” Esmeralda laughed bitterly.

Her laughter angered him and he turned to look at her sharply. “Don’t dare scorn me now, wife! There is nothing else I could give them. My land is mostly taken and I will certainly not offer them my people as slaves.”

Esmeralda stared at him in disbelief. Her mouth hung open and for a long moment she seemed to ponder a possible retort, but something in his expression must have stopped her. Her anger melted away and concern replaced the blame in her eyes. Finally, she seemed to understand him. “Sara…”

She reached out a hand to touch him, but Saradoc shook his head. “I will go tomorrow.”

“Alone?!” The worry in her voice stung him. When he looked at the dark shadows of her eyes he perceived her once more as the mother of a lost child, now trembling for her husband.

“It is safer,” he nodded.

“Safer?!” Esmeralda’s voice was shrill again, but her tone was different than before. “They almost killed Berilac!”

“Almost, yes,” Saradoc agreed and took her hands into his. “But they didn’t.” He pressed his lips against her brow and closed his eyes. Her fingers clasped his as if afraid he might disappear if she let go. He stroked her cheek and managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “They are still under Lotho’s rule. He will not have me killed.”

~*~*~

“I can walk on my own,” Saradoc coldly informed the squint-eyed brutes that walked on either side of him and held his upper arms. The ruffians grunted, but let him go. Saradoc straightened and walked with his head high, although he felt like going to prison rather than parley. Men lurked at the walls. They fingered their knives and grinned while they watched him with suspicious curiosity. The list of rules Saradoc had come across so often on his way here, he noticed, were missing from the walls in this house. He felt ill at ease but nothing in his composure gave him away. He could not afford insecurities, not while he was with them.

Saradoc felt only disgust for them. They had fouled his native land, tormented his people, and nothing that had once been a sure part of the hobbits’ every-day-life was safe from them. He had heard rumours of the Bridge Inn being used for the Men’s purposes, which was why he had come here in the first place. He had not expected to find the old inn completely gone. It had been replaced by a handful of ugly houses with narrow windows, through which hardly any sunlight streamed. Some of the houses were used as the gatekeepers’ small lodgings, others, like the one he had been led into, were the big housings of the ruffians.

He loathed the place, every bare, bleak corner of it. His heart ached for the cheerful lights of the Inn, the smell of ale and pipe-weed, of grilled fish and potatoes, longed for music and song and laughter. He missed the old times when there was joy and peace in the Shire and gates at the bridge were guarded but open and not spiked and dangerous-looking.

“You’ve come to talk, I’ve been told.”

Saradoc looked up. On the far end of the small, dark room sat a man with heavy black brows and dark eyes. Two Men stood beside him, like the guards of a king, only the Man possessed neither nobility, nor honour, only a scornful sneer that seemed glued to his face while he watched Saradoc advance.

“That is why I am here,” Saradoc replied calmly.

“Are you their leader?” the Man wanted to know as he looked him over suspiciously.

Saradoc stood, heart pounding, but his voice was undaunted. “I am Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland.”

Immediately, the brutes at his side grabbed him by the arms again and several other Men who leaned against the walls, reached for their knives and clubs. But their leader laughed, loud and roaring. “The Master, eh?” he scoffed and chuckled wickedly. “I doubt it. I’m Master of this land now, Bill Ferny, not Saradoc.”

“Shall we send him to the Lockholes?” the ruffian on Saradoc’s right asked.

Ferny considered this for a long moment and Saradoc’s heart sank. Esmeralda had been right, after all.

“Don’t dare tell them who you are,” she had whispered into his ear at their parting. “Give any name you like, but don’t tell them who you are.”

Saradoc could still hear the dread in her voice and the fearful trembling of her lips when she had kissed him one last time – more passionately than she had done ever before when in public. He had not cared and would do it again if only her words were proved wrong. What business would any Hall-hobbit have with the ruffians if not sent by the Master? Saradoc would not have the ruffians think the Master of Buckland a coward who was too afraid to come himself when his people were in need.

“If anything happens take my place.” When Saradoc placed a hand on his shoulder Merimac had been almost as pale as Esmeralda. It had probably been Saradoc alone who had seen the fear in his brother’s eyes. Merimac had offered to come with him, to go in his stead, but Saradoc would have none of it. He wanted his younger brother out of harm’s way and see his position in able hands should he not return.

“You don’t know what you’re asking from me,” Merimac had said when he accompanied him to the cart he had made ready for him.

“I do,” Saradoc had calmly replied, “and you know I would not deny myself.”

“I feared so.” Merimac had looked at him for a long moment, sombre and doleful, before he embraced him in farewell. “Take care, brother.”

“No,” Ferny’s voice broke his strain of memories. “No, I don’t think so. He’s no threat to us and neither are those maggots that live with him. They’re frightened, little worms, that’s all they are, isn’t that so?”

Saradoc’s eyes glistened dangerously. How dare that brute insult them so? What did he know about hobbits? What did he care? What…? But he bit his lips and swallowed the retorts he wished to throw at Ferny’s face. If only he could find a way to rouse the Shire and teach him wrong!

“You’ve nothing to say to that?” Ferny wondered and his lips curled with vicious laughter.

If looks had been able to kill Ferny would have dropped dead then and there, but Saradoc kept quiet, fists clenched at his sides. He took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke once more. “Do you only wish to insult me or will you listen to my plea?”

Ferny shot him a glance that was as deathly as the look in Saradoc’s eyes, but he waved his hands dismissively. “Speak.”

Saradoc coldly looked at the Men at his sides who loosened their grip though they would not let him go completely.

“My people are hungry,” he said at last and his voice echoed strangely. “I have come to appeal to your goodwill. I do not ask for much, but I hoped we could come to an understanding that several bags of flour might be picked up every couple of weeks by my people.”

Silence. The pounding of his heart in his ears was almost painful. Every muscle in his body was tense, every breath laboured. Ferny scrutinised him with contemptuous eyes, his brows almost touching.

“What do I get from this?”

Saradoc swallowed struggling to stay calm and unperturbed. “If your companions let me go I will show you.”

Ferny shot him another of these deathly looks as if to warn him not to test his limits, but Saradoc held his eyes unmoving. Ferny gestured to the Men at Saradoc’s side. Freed at last, Saradoc produced a small, brown leather bag from his trouser pocket. Ferny got up from his chair, too impatient perhaps, to see his prize, and Saradoc was all too aware of the many eyes that rested on him. To his right he heard the dull pounding of a club edgily beating into one Man’s palm, as if its owner was itching to put it to real use. Saradoc’s nape tingled and sweated poured down his spine in little runlets.

Ferny snatched the pouch from him, pulled the string forcefully open and examined the coins in it: twenty silver pennies, enough to buy two, if not three, excellent ponies.

“That’s not bad at all,” Ferny said, his eyes never leaving the coins. Unlike him Saradoc was aware that the two Men who had guided him here stared greedily at the silver as well and for the first time he hoped that Ferny had enough authority to keep his fellows from fighting over the money.

“Will you grant me my wish?” Saradoc asked in the hopes to distract their attention from the coins.

Ferny stared at him put the coins back into the pouch which in return he put into his breast pocket. He sneered. “Wish?” he wondered and furrowed his brow as if trying hard to remember something. “I can’t seem to remember a wish, can you?”

Several Men shook their heads and sniggered while others laughed loudly at the joke. Saradoc straightened and looked Ferny in the eye, his expression one of mingled anger and disgust. “You can’t do that!”

The next moment his ears rang and his jaw rattled. Pain exploded in his head. Saradoc stumbled sideways where he was caught by one of his guards. Laughter echoed through the room, along with cheers of approval. Saradoc shook his head to clear his mind and when his eyes finally focused again he found Ferny face to face with him, breathing his stinking breath into his nose. “Don’t tell me what I can do, Master!” he threatened through gritted teeth and was rewarded with more laughter from his Men. “Go back to your Hall of rebels now until you can give me a better offer.”

Saradoc stared at that sneering mouth and those unrelenting eyes in disbelief. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his eyes watered. His mouth worked but he did not dare to answer back. Gone was the proud Master of Buckland. All that was left of him was a broken hobbit who could not believe the cruelty before his very eyes.

His guards grabbed him once more and pushed him towards the door. Saradoc was followed by jeers and laughter and the bitter taste of defeat. Once outside he climbed onto the coach-box of his cart and urged his pony to a quick trot. Not once did he look back.

Yet he did not drive straight home but took the long road over Newbury. He could not face folk in Brandy Hall as he was: mortified and empty-handed. Scattergold the hobbits had nicknamed him and never had he felt that name to be more appropriate. He was a stupid fool not to see what Esmeralda had known from the very beginning. Brandy Hall’s freedom could not be bought with silver. Yet he would not give the place up, could not. Perhaps that was foolish too and his stubbornness would kill them all in the end. Hunger would carry them off one by one and he would feel the guilt, knowing that he alone was to blame. And one day his life would end in misery. The last Master of Buckland, the most inapt of them all – gone.

“Evening, Master Saradoc.”

Saradoc started awake from his reverie to find a band of five Shirriffs trotting next to his cart. One he recognised as Hob Hayward, whom he remembered from the Hay Gate. He nodded his head in greeting but thought better about adding conversation to his gesture when he realised that the others were utterly terrified by this simple greeting. Pale-faced and wide-eyed they hushed Hob into silence and increased the distance to the cart, lest he should be tempted to say more.

Saradoc watched them torpidly and his breath hitched, when he noticed that several hobbits in the distance had stopped working on their fields to see him drive past. Immediately the ruffians who stood guard over them cracked their whips and bellowed a command to set them to labour once more, but Saradoc had seen their faces and had read what was written on every single one of them. “Help us. Get us out of this. Do something!”

“What can I do?” Saradoc asked voicelessly in return and struggled to fight the helpless tears which threatened to overwhelm him. “Would you come with me?” he added quietly and felt the painful truth in Ferny’s words. They were too frightened and he did not know what else it needed to stir their courage and rouse their spirits.

“If we stand together…” he thought, then shook his head, repeating to himself what he had told Esmeralda only the previous night. “We need the entire Shire.” But there was no way of letting them know of his plans. If he could reach Paladin they could start out together and the rest of the Shire would join in, but alone….

As Saradoc drew close to Hall-land borders the sun was setting. His pony had slowed to a lazy walk and Saradoc, lost in his broodings, had not bothered to hurry it. The beast snorted uneasily and only then did Saradoc grow aware of a hissing noise coming from the bushes.

“Who is there?” he demanded in a voice stronger than he would have expected.

There was a low, raspy chuckle and then a hoarse voice whispered: “If you keep your mouth shut I might be able to help you.”

Saradoc squinted and his heart skipped a beat when he noticed the ruffian standing in the shadow of some trees. He clicked his tongue at the pony, but the Man jumped into the road and blocked the way for him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said, still chuckling, and Saradoc had half a mind of saying all the hot returns he had swallowed in the afternoon, but what the Man said next silenced him. “I’ve heard of your plight and unlike that short-witted fool, Ferny, I think you paid a fair price.”

“What do you mean?” Saradoc asked and shifted his position, unsure whether he could trust the Man’s words.

The Man looked in either direction, hastened to the cart’s side and leaned conspiratorially towards Saradoc. “Come to the eastern border of that small town of yours an hour after nightfall tomorrow and after that every week. I shall see two bags of flour delivered to you on a donkey. Take the flour and send the beast back.”

Saradoc’s heart beat fast. He stared at the Man. He was none of the squint-eyed and sallow-faced brutes he had encountered on various fights as well as this afternoon. This one looked more like a Man from Bree, although it had been ages since Saradoc had seen one of that town’s Big Folk. There was no honesty in the Man’s dark eyes, but neither did Saradoc see the spite and malice he had seen in so many others.

“At what cost?” he wondered in a whisper.

Again the Man uttered his raspy chuckle and Saradoc shuddered involuntarily. “Cost?” the stranger mocked. “I have your land, Halfling. What else could I want?”

Saradoc felt the sting in that, but at the same time he was grateful. “What is your name?”

“My name is nothing to you,” the Man replied and looked hastily from side to side. He seemed almost fearful now, as if suddenly remembering that they were still on the open road. “Go your way and never speak to anyone about me.”

He clapped the pony’s flanks and the beast started into movement. Saradoc looked back over his shoulder, brows a-frown. He did not dare trust this stranger, though his heart wished he could. Nevertheless, he was the only hope Saradoc had and although the stranger’s raspy chuckle sent a chill through his body he was willing to try his luck.

“Thank you!” he called voicelessly over his shoulder, but the Man had already disappeared in the shadows.

Chapter Five: In the Dark of Night

“Merimac!” Saradoc growled the name into the darkness. The grey figure that had walked up and down the road halted and turned. Saradoc could see the light of the moon reflected in the eyes as they watched him before the figure heaved a heavy sigh, trotted to his side and plopped to the ground.

“Are you not nervous?” Merimac asked and Saradoc looked at the sky. It was the hour after sunset and the moon was not yet high. If the Breelander was true to his word the donkey should be here any moment. He turned eastwards, but the road was empty and still. Night brought a brooding silence to all of Buckland. Doors had ever been locked east of the Brandywine, but this year brought another shadow, a fear that was stronger than that of the Old Forest.

“How do we know he will come?” Merimac wondered when Saradoc made no reply.

“We don’t.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” Merimac continued and shifted uneasily.

“We don’t,” Saradoc repeated and leaned back against the tree. Immediately, Merimac got up, brushed the dust from his trousers and started off to the other side of the road. Saradoc closed his eyes and sighed. “Please, Mac, stop fretting.”

Merimac turned, a barely noticeable figure in the dark, and – Saradoc furrowed his brow and tilted his head – was he actually smiling? “I’m not, but unlike you I can’t laze about. My feet are restless and so is everything else within me.”

Saradoc chuckled involuntarily. “And you really wonder where Bluebell got it from?”

“I never did,” Merimac said, but the smile vanished from his face. “I just wish she’d take more after Mantha. It would be so much easier. Berilac and Nel distract her well enough, but don’t think I don’t know she regards me as the root of all evil.”

“She’s a tween, or going to be one soon,” Saradoc consoled. “You regarded our father the same way when you were that age.”

“Not with that much contempt,” Merimac replied and chuckled as he shook his head. “If she came face to face with a ruffian she wouldn’t hesitate to hand me over.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Saradoc said and was suddenly glad they were out here tonight. A pint of ale and a pipe were all that were missing now and he would almost feel as if he were back in the old days, when an evening out was all that was needed to be at ease with himself and the world.

“Perhaps I am,” Merimac said and stretched his back. “Perhaps I’m just too exhausted to even care. I just wish I could allow her more freedom. It would quench that fire and would do me a world of good as well.”

“A break would be nice,” Saradoc agreed, “and perhaps tonight is the first step into the right direction.”

“If he shows up,” Merimac nodded and as if in answer to his words they heard the soft clapping of hooves on the road.

They straightened and their hands moved reflexively towards the hilts of their knives. Saradoc squinted into the darkness, silently regretting that he had not brought a lantern. He only spotted the lone beast when it was almost on them, a small but well-fed donkey, walking at a leisurely pace and looking rather lethargic. Saradoc smiled at his brother. “Luck has not yet abandoned us.”

Merimac beamed at him and together they hastened to unload the animal and take home the prize for their patience and strain.

~*~*~

The Bucklanders were as busy as ever they had been at the beginning of Halimath. The sun burned down from the sky as they laboured, some scything the meadows around Brandy Hall, some harvesting in the expanded kitchen gardens and others cutting firewood for the winter. Saradoc wiped the sweat from his brows and stretched his aching back. He had helped to turn over the drying grass in the north of Brandy Hall even though they had more helpers than land to work on. He needed to keep himself occupied.

Saradoc took his water skin from the shadow of a tree and had his fill as he slowly walked towards the pony paddock. Berilac stood inside the paddock with a brush and a small bucket. His nephew had recovered well although he was thinner than he used to be and would bear a scar until the end of his days. Bluebell sat in the lush grass, her legs hidden under a crimson skirt. Her long dark hair was braided in two pigtails and a straw-hat with an overly broad rim protected her from the heat. Saradoc first gaped, then chuckled at the sight of the hat. He had thought the ugly headdress long gone. After all, in his tweens, he had threatened his brother often enough to burn it. Unbelievable that Merimac should have kept it all these long years only for Bluebell to find it.

“Nice hat!” he greeted his niece and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

“I found it in the very back of mother’s wardrobe only yesterday,” she informed him, shining eyes looking up at him from under the rim. “I never saw her wear it. It’s not her style at all.”

“Not quite,” Saradoc agreed with a smile that turned into a full-grown grin as he pictured Adamanta with the hat. Beside him, seated on a wooden box and looking across the paddock Merimac shook with silent laughter.

“Who’s next?” Berilac asked and greeted Saradoc with a nod of his head. Bluebell immediately turned her attention back to the task at hand. On her lap was a wooden board on which she kept a list of the current steeds in the stables. She read out one of the numbers, along with the pony’s details and Berilac nodded. “Tick that one off. I’ll go and find him.”

With that he disappeared among the ponies while Bluebell carefully dipped a feather in a tiny ink-bottle and added a cross in front of the pony’s details.

“It’s not the same,” Merimac informed him quietly. A leather case lay on his lap, equipped with several knives of various lengths. Merimac studied them intensely, watched their glistening blades in the sunlight and carefully separated sharp from blunt ones. “The one I had started to smell after a couple of years so I threw it away. This must be the one I got myself when I visited Adamanta for the first time. She must have kept it.”

“I wonder why,” Saradoc said and shook his head. “I can’t believe you actually paid to have another of these…” he made a vague movement with his hand and smiled when Bluebell looked up at him.

Merimac chuckled as he took the knife grinder and set it to work on his butchering tools. “It’s not that bad.”

“Well…” Saradoc started but he never got to finish his sentence. Cousin Marmadoc came running towards him from Brandy Hall and called his name in breathless gasps. Saradoc’s heart skipped a beat as he straightened himself and prepared for the worst. Merimac, too, stiffened and looked anxiously at their cousin, but Marmadoc only smiled.

“You keep yourself well hidden,” he said breathlessly. “Esmeralda wants you. You have a guest and,” his grin broadened, “from the looks of her I think the girl brings better news than we had in months.”

******

Only moments later Saradoc hurried into his study. Esmeralda already awaited him at the door, a wide smile on her face. Saradoc furrowed his brow in confusion but did not get a chance to wonder what made her so happy for he noticed that there was indeed a guest waiting for him. A young girl, no older than twenty-five, jumped up from her seat and curtsied the moment she saw him enter.

Saradoc smiled. “Please, there is no need for that. Make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you anything?”

“No, sir,” the girl replied in a timid voice and blushed to the tip of her ears. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“How may I help you?” Saradoc wondered as he walked to his own chair. Only then did the girl dare to sit down as well, though she fidgeted nervously.

“My name’s Poppy, sir,” she said and lifted her head shyly to look into his face. “Poppy Tunnelly. My father sent me here because he thinks we have news that has not yet reached you.”

She smiled then and it seemed to lighten her entire freckled face. Her green eyes sparkled like grass on a dewy morning and her red curls glistened like flames. “He asked me to bring you this.”

To Saradoc’s amazement the girl lifted a huge straw basket onto his desk. It was filled with the finest potatoes, maize, some beans and peas, carrots and celery. Saradoc’s jaw dropped. That was what they had sown on the southern fields! He brought his hand to his mouth in utter disbelief. He stared at the girl who seemed torn between amusement and abashment. “My da has a secret storage cellar where he keeps most of what we harvest, so that the Big Folk can’t find it when they come a-gathering. ‘Tis not ours, though. By right it’s yours.”

“You got this from the southern fields?” Saradoc asked astounded, although he already knew the answer. He reached out his hand, slowly, as if afraid the roots and vegetables might vanish the moment he touched them.

Poppy nodded. “My da and brothers work there all day and though ‘tis not allowed they manage to sneak some stuff away in the evenings when the ruffians get too tired to watch over them. My ma and I work in our own gardens and that’s enough to keep us going, so my da says I should come and bring some here where it is needed.”

“I am very grateful your father thought of us,” Saradoc said and looked at the girl with a mixture of admiration and concern. “However, I am not sure whether to call him brave or foolish to send his girl on such a dangerous journey.”

“It was not easy, but that’s why my da sent me not only with food but also with a message.”

Saradoc smiled and pushed the basket from him. In his excitement he had forgotten that the girl meant to bring him news as well. He sat back in his chair and tilted his head eager to hear what she had come to say.

“My da says that the fields are only watched from the north,” she told him. “He said they are expecting you to come from Brandy Hall if you do come, but if you’d manage to come from the south or from the riverside they wouldn’t even notice.”

For the second time this afternoon Saradoc’s heart skipped a beat and he was left speechless. Often enough he had watched the fields from a distance and had felt the ruffians’ watchful eyes on him. He had thought the fields lost to him, but to learn that there were unguarded paths, that there was a way to reach what he so desperately needed was more than he had dared to hope for. His heartbeat droned in his ears and his mind was in tumult. Different ideas flew at him from every corner of his mind and, unable to stop himself, he grasped at them and mulled them over, even as he stared open-mouthed at Poppy.

“Don’t fight,” his mind told him. “Don’t make them aware of you. Only take what you need and what is yours, but never too much. Don’t make them suspicious.”

“I hope I could help you,” Poppy said when Saradoc kept his silence, and shifted uneasily.

It took him some effort to pull his mind from this new information. His tongue was dry and felt swollen in his mouth. He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the red-haired girl before him. His face, for a moment grim with new determination, softened and the creases in his brow vanished.

“You did more than that, Poppy,” he replied and his voice trembled with emotion. A gush of gratefulness for this young girl and her brave family washed over him. There was courage yet in Buckland, though it lay hidden even to his watchful eyes. He, as their Master, should have known better than to doubt his people. Never again would he allow his heart to discredit them, not if valour could be found in so young a girl. “I’m deeply indebted to you and your family,” he said.

“Not at all, sir,” Poppy quickly shook her head. “My Da says we hobbit kind must stick together, especially in times like these, and that’s true.”

Saradoc smiled and tears glistened in the corner of his eyes. “It is, indeed, and today you have given me more than just news and food, my dear Poppy. You have brought back hope and returned my belief in my kindred and for that I am grateful.”

Poppy did not reply but blushed once again and Saradoc could have embraced her then, so great was his joy and relief.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked unwilling to let her go empty-handed.

She shook her head. “No, sir, just let me go now. It’s getting late and if the Big Folk come gathering and see I’m not home they’ll suspect me.”

“You can’t go alone!” Saradoc interjected.

“I’m not alone,” she said and smiled that sparkling smile of hers. “My brother awaits me at the border to Hall-land and until then I am as safe as can be.”

“I will give you an escort anyway,” Saradoc said and smiled in return. In only one short conversation he had grown to love this girl and he would not see her in danger. He got up and she followed him outside. Saradoc put an arm on her shoulder as if afraid she might be harmed the moment she left his study. To his surprise he found Esmeralda and Merimas already awaiting him. His wife, apparently, had had the same idea and would not see Poppy alone on the road.

They watched her depart from Brandy Hall waving whenever she turned back to look at them. To Saradoc Poppy Tunnelly seemed like a vision from another world, stepped into his to help him out of his gloom and return the hope he had lost weeks before. Beside him Esmeralda breathed lighter too and he did not doubt she already knew much of what Poppy had told him. Saradoc looked down at her, eyes still brimming with tears, and once Poppy and Merimas were out of earshot he flung his arms around her waist and spun her round. Esmeralda screamed in shock and clung to him, but he only stopped when he was dizzy. “Blessed be the Tunnellies!” he cried happily and kissed Esmeralda light-headedly. “May they prosper in Buckland and wherever their feet might carry them!”

Esmeralda tilted her head and kissed his nose. “Tell me everything.”

“Not now,” he said. “You must be comforted by knowing that it was the best news I have had in weeks. Tonight you will learn more. I need to call a moot. Bring them all: Mac, Marmadoc, Marmadas, Seredic… everyone. I need them all. We have important matters to discuss.”

~*~*~

Saradoc winced. The placing of spades, shovels and other gardening tools in the boats was deafening after the stiff silence of this night. “Hush,” he ordered and was answered with several murmured excuses.

It was the second hour after nightfall and the stars glittered above their heads. The moon was a pale white sickle in the eastern sky and for that Saradoc was grateful. He was jumpy enough as it was. Two nights ago he held a moot in the Hall’s largest festival room and this was the plan they had come up with: they had formed two groups of thirty hobbits willing to take the risk. Saradoc led one of these groups, Seredic the other. Every second night they would sneak to the southern fields, dressed in their most unobtrusive clothes and with only their eyes to guide them through the darkness. They would use the boats to float along the eastern bank and once they reached the poppy meadow, they would sneak ashore, walk through the small forest patch east of the meadow until they reached the south-western parts of their crop field. Ten hobbits would then part from the main group and stand watch around them. Should the ruffians draw near to them or should they encounter any other kind of trouble the imitated hooting of an owl was supposed to warn them. They would bring one bag for three workers which they would only fill up to half. The bags would be heavy enough to carry home even then, especially since they had to row upstream too.

“What a song it will make!” Merimac announced as he stepped into one of the boats. “The Crop Raid of Brandy Hall.”

Saradoc stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. Merimac caught his glance and winked. He winked! Saradoc had half a mind to tell him what he thought of such fooleries in a situation like this, but the ripple of quiet laughter that went through his troop stopped him. The gay sound, though hushed, lifted from him a heavy blanket of apprehension he had not been aware of carrying. The oppressive tension that had weighed them down since they had left Brandy Hall loosened and in the gloom Saradoc saw several people straightening as if suddenly relieved from an invisible burden.

Milo clapped Merimac on the back as he climbed into the boat behind him. “I leave the singing to you, cousin-mine, whenever you feel in the right mood for it.”

“As long as you don’t start just yet,” Saradoc said with a sideways glance at his brother as he pushed the boat from the landing stage. “Now, be quiet, all of you. And don’t touch the water. It smells unhealthy.”

Their journey to the fields passed without any troubles. Merimac had put it onto himself to keep everyone’s spirits up and although he could not sing as he doubtlessly would have done under normal circumstances he tried to point out the humour in their situation. Saradoc certainly did not see anything fun, adventurous or even memorable in their doings but he was glad for Merimac’s light-hearted whisperings.

The hobbits knew their way well and though they could see little ahead there was no stumbling and they managed to make their way through the small patch of forest in silence. Saradoc stood at the edge of the forest when the scouts parted from the main group. His heart beat fast and his neck was damp with sweat. Before him the field seemed to stretch endlessly, each stalk of maize a dark shadow against the pale, silver moonlight. A light breeze came up and the long leaves fluttered. Saradoc shivered and took a deep breath. In the distance he could see the yellow lights of lamps moving eerily to and fro. Every now and again they halted and though it was impossible for them to be discovered, Saradoc held his breath. He was aware that all were waiting for his signal, yet he took his time and took in the scenery of his half harvested fields with gloomy eyes.

“I never thought I would ever raid my own field,” he whispered dolefully to no one in particular.

“Well,” Merimac smiled and put his arm around his shoulder. “I’d say the old pilferers are together again. Just imagine you’re after Maggot’s mushrooms.”

“Or Greenhill’s blueberries,” Milo agreed and the two of them earned another round of silent amusement.

“I’d say you stop talking and get to work,” Marmadas said and shoved a spade into Merimac’s hand. “Otherwise the night is over before we even began.”

To that Saradoc had no objection and though his heart already longed to cast aside the mantle of secrecy and declare himself as the Master he had been born to be he set to work in silence and plundered what by right was his.

~*~*~

Days dragged by and Adamanta watched her husband with concern. A new routine had replaced the old: sleep away the morning, get the usual chores done, slaughter ponies, and prepare for another night on the fields. Exhaustion lingered in the air like sickness and though their situation improved most folks’ spirits waned. Merimac, Adamanta noticed, withdrew more and more into his own thoughts again and although he smiled his laughter rarely reached his eyes. The Master’s breeding had been reduced to less than two thirds and Adamanta knew that it tore at his heart to be the one to destroy the work and joy of his lifetime himself. Yet he would not allow Berilac to help, and although he was spent by the time the sun set he went out to work on the fields every second night as well.

Only once had they faced a near discovery during their night raids and ever since they had become even more wary. Many women complained about their husbands being tense after a night out and alert to every sound. Sleep would not find them easily and if it did they tossed and turned and moaned as if facing what they feared every night in their dreams. To Adamanta it seemed that her husband aged a year every day and there was nothing she could do but watch. Her heart ached and her body longed for his warmth and the comfort that Merimac Brandybuck had always been to her from the first day she had come to Brandy Hall. And every night she sat at the window and waited for a new morning and a sunshine that would reach her freezing soul.

It was at one late evening when she was lost in her own thoughts that voices penetrated to her fleeting mind and her heart sank and she hung her head. “Not again,” she sighed and gazed helplessly at Esmeralda who sat next to her and had looked up at the now familiar sound.

“You can’t just lock me up like this! You don’t own me!” It was Bluebell’s voice, shrill and full of frustration and fury.

“I am your father.” The words were pressed through clenched teeth.

“Then you should treat me as a daughter, not as some possession.” It was a challenge that paid no heed to the unmistakable ire in Merimac’s voice. “I need a life and if you don’t allow me to have it I need to take it myself.”

“I want many things as well,” was the hot retort, “an obedient daughter among them, but I don’t get what I want either. Yet, do see me throwing a tantrum?”

“I am not throwing a tantrum!” Bluebell almost spit her denial at her father.

The steps which had resounded through the hallway stopped. Adamanta could all but see Merimac turning around. He would pull Bluebell after him, of course, and no matter how much she stumbled or struggled her wrist was in his iron grip. “Then why have you been screaming loud enough to wake the dead out there?”

“Because you were hurting me and you shouted.” The voice was sullen, almost pained.

“I shouted because I couldn’t hear my voice over yours!” And he was definitely shouting now. Adamanta heaved a sigh and got up. It was time to stop this before it got really ugly.

“It’s not fair!” Bluebell cried out and Adamanta could hear the suppressed tears in her voice. “You get to go out every other night.”

“Oh, yes,” Merimac’s voice turned sarcastic, “and I’m enjoying myself so much while I’m away! Don’t be a fool, girl. I know you’ve got more wits than that, though you have me in doubt when you act like that.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Don’t twist my words,” Merimac rolled his eyes in resignation and for a moment, as she stood in the doorway watching the two of them forgetting everything around them in their row Adamanta pitied them both. There was a time when father and daughter had been one heart, one soul, and Adamanta could not even guess whose pain was greater after a fight like this.

Merimac sighed. “Do me a favour and don’t trouble me further. There’s enough on my mind already.”

But Bluebell had no mind for favours this evening. She stood, relentless like her father, gazing unflinching into his eyes. “I look forward to the day I marry,” she said gutturally. “I will move far away from you and live my own life.”

“Mind your tongue, lass,” Merimac answered angrily and the rebuke in his voice was almost as distinctive as his weariness. “It will run away with you and lead you on paths you don’t want to tread.”

“You’re hurting me!” Bluebell screamed and only now did Adamanta become aware that her husband’s grip around the girl’s wrist had tightened further. “Merimac!”

Cold fury flashed in Merimac’s eyes as he spun around and pulled Bluebell close to him. He bent down to her until their noses almost touched and Adamanta stiffened, knowing she should interrupt, but somehow not daring. Berilac’s hand suddenly rested on her shoulder but he, too, kept his silence.

“You don’t care what I think,” Merimac growled, but Adamanta noticed that he loosened his grasp anyway, “so why should I care whether I hurt you or not?”

For a moment Bluebell was taken aback. She frowned. “You’re my father.”

“Am I, indeed?” Merimac was back to shouting. “A moment ago I was just Merimac to you.”

Bluebell’s face was set in both anger and hurt. Her lips were pressed to a thin line, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered with unshed tears. She was still face to face with her father and looked up at him with an expression Adamanta only later understood to be a mixture of regret, love and pain. Yet her words were carried by anger alone. “I wish you were. Life would be a lot more enjoyable.”

“Stop it!” Adamanta stepped into the hallway. “The both of you!”

Merimac and Bluebell turned to face her. Both breathed hard and trembled with emotion. Adamanta could also see that there was only a very thin, fibrous thread that kept Merimac from entirely losing his temper with their daughter. His right hand, the one not holding Bluebell’s wrist in a firm grip was half raised and trembled and Adamanta had no doubt that if she had not interfered, Merimac’s hand, for the first time in almost forty years with their children, would have slipped, and for once she would not have blamed him.

“What happened?” Adamanta asked and struggled to remain composed.

“Tobi brought her to me,” Merimac replied with forced calm. “She’s been saddling a pony on her way off, but why don’t you ask her for details?” With that Merimac all but shoved Bluebell from him. “Take her to her room and woe to her if I don’t find her there when I’m back.”

He turned on his heels only to run into Saradoc who had followed him from outside. “Don’t you think you should stay at home for a night?” his brother suggested helpfully, but Merimac only glared at him and shook his head.

“I’ll come with you,” he said and glanced coldly over his shoulder. “Unlike my daughter I know what is at stake.”

Adamanta was surprised to find Bluebell not even trying to retort something. The girl simply turned around and ran down the hallway, past the crowd that had gathered at the various doors. Merimac, too, said no more and just like his daughter he stomped down the other end of the hall. Saradoc followed him with a sorrowful look on his face.

Adamanta wearily closed her eyes and once again found Berilac’s hand on her shoulder. “Shall I talk to her?” the boy asked and Adamanta took his hand and squeezed it gently.

“No,” she answered and met his concerned eyes. “I will do it.”

~*~*~

When Adamanta entered the room she found Bluebell sitting at the head of her bed with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped about them. Long shadows danced on the walls behind her – dark, bent figures, cheerless and miserable. Bluebell’s face flushed and with the traces of tears still visible, shimmered golden in the light of several candles she so loved to light. She stared blankly at the wall unperturbed by her coming.

“Calmed down again?” Adamanta asked tentatively.

Silence; then, in a quiet voice full of surprise and fear: “He meant to slap me.”

Adamanta nodded and slowly advanced the bed. “He would have had every right to.” She shook her head and sighed. “You weren’t just rude, Bluebell. You hurt him more than you can probably imagine.”

The girl didn’t reply, but hugged her knees tighter. “He said he’d tie me to a chair!” The voice was sulky now and Adamanta thought she heard tears lurking at the bottom of it.

She smiled a little as she sat down next to her daughter. “I don’t doubt he would as long as he knew you were safe.” Her deliberately light comment stirred something within her and she frowned. When she spoke again she did so in a hushed voice which was intended mainly for herself. “He is so afraid. I have never seen him that frightened.”

Adamanta shivered unintentionally and wondered not for the first time what exactly happened on the fields and what else Merimac kept secret from her. She knew of occasional skirmishes in the north, but the wounded were few and according to Saradoc, who went there every day, the ruffians regarded those scuffles as an amusing pastime only, something to show the Shirefolk their place. What would happen if those pursuits became serious she did not even dare to wonder.

“I really did hurt him, didn’t I?” Bluebell enquired in a small voice.

Adamanta took a deep breath to clear her mind and faced Bluebell. The girl’s huge eyes – eyes like her father’s – glistened with unshed tears as she looked pleadingly up at her, her brow creased with worry and fear. Adamanta spread out her arms and kissed her daughter’s hair when Bluebell buried her face in her mother’s bosom and wept silently. The girl was so unsettled that the muscles on her shoulders trembled under Adamanta’s soothing fingers.

“I didn’t mean to, but I was so angry I couldn’t stop myself.”

“I know, love,” Adamanta whispered and rocked her gently, “but you have to understand him too. He is a father and fathers tend to be very protective of their daughters. They wish to protect them from anything at any time.”

Bluebell turned to look at her, brow a-frown. “And mothers don’t?”

“They do,” Adamanta assured her with a smile, “but mothers have been daughters once.”

“So you would let me go?”

“No,” Adamanta shook her head. “He might be overly protective at times, but I agree with your father on this. Buckland is no safe place these days and we must not challenge our luck.”

“So we just stay here and rot?” Bluebell’s temper rose again and she drew away to look at her with disbelief. Adamanta meant to interrupt her, but Bluebell went on before she got a chance. “You might be able to do that, but I can’t. And it’s not just me. Asphodel and Primula are getting bored too and it’s not like we would leave Hall-land.”

Adamanta could not help her smile as she watched the light and shadows play with the features of her young daughter’s face and the long, ebony curls that splayed around her shoulders. For a moment she felt she could see glimpses of the beautiful, strong willed girl she was going to be – the pride and worry of her father’s life.

“You are so much like your father, love, if only you could see it,” she said fondly and was rewarded with yet another confused frown. “He aches as much as you to leave those chains behind him again. Only this morning when he returned from the fields he fell asleep rambling on about the wind in his face when galloping at full speed across the hills and the lightness of heart and mind that come with it.” She shook her head and smiled. “He once said to me that there was nothing better in the world than this feeling of freedom. He even took me with him one time.”

“And?” The candle’s light reflected in her daughter’s curious eyes and made them sparkle like pools of water in the sunlight.

Adamanta ruffled her hair and slid back against the wall, lost in memory and a smile on her face. “It was amazing. I can fully appreciate his longing – and yours.”

Bluebell sighed heavily and after a long moment of silent pondering she snuggled close to her once more and rested her head on her bosom. Adamanta put her arms around her relieved to find the trembling of the girl’s shoulders gone. A strange calm settled upon them, a peace Adamanta had not felt in weeks. It warmed her heart and nourished what hopes were left to her.

“Did you ever regret marrying him?”

The question surprised her yet the answer was quickly given. “My father had his doubts. I simply loved him, and I still do.”

Bluebell thought this over for a moment, then hugged her a little closer. “I love him too, but he does drive me mad at times.”

Adamanta chuckled and as she kissed her daughter’s brow she thought to herself: “So do you, my girl. So do you.”

~*~*~

Merimac woke to find he could not move. His body was pressed down by an invisible force that would have crushed him had he had the energy to worry about it. His limbs felt like lead and he was aching all over. He struggled to open his eyes but was unable to. He was tired beyond measure, even more so than last night – or had it been this morning? He could no longer remember. Time had ceased to exist and every day melted into another and with every troubled sleep a month might have passed or a year without his noticing.

Last night had been another close call. Merimac was sure the Men knew they were there but played with them like they played with the guards on the northern border of their refuge. Everyone was afraid and of the thirty that had started this mission in their group only nineteen remained. It did not matter. They could not take much anymore and before this week was over the field would be harvested bare. Between now and then something was going to happen. He sensed it and so did Saradoc. Every evening when they made ready to step into their boats they held brief council whether it was wise to go out again. And each night they went, not because they were not afraid, but because it was the only thing they could do. This was the Bucklander’s way of challenging the Men and before long the counter strike would fall and when it did it was going to be hard and ruinous. The ruffians had turned more aggressive over the past weeks and rumour had it that they would strike to kill when they attacked. Merimac used to silence those voices but he no longer knew what to believe. Weariness had robbed him of reason and common sense. The worst thing was that he knew it. He no longer recognised himself and, in a way, he was glad his daily routine was so entirely different from that of his family. They might not yet have noticed.

Merimac tried again to open his eyes and this time his lids fluttered just long enough for him to realise that he was not alone. His thoughts darted to Adamanta. How long had he been asleep for? Another struggle; and just as he thought he would lose the battle he managed to fight the heaviness of his lids.

Not his wife lay next to him, but Bluebell, curled into a little ball with her nose almost touching her hand on the pillow. Her hair lay in dark strands around her shoulders while her lashes provided an equally deep contrast to the tanned and slightly flushed skin of her cheeks. Merimac felt a painful sting as he watched the girl and listened to her deep and even breathing.

Saradoc’s words echoed in his mind, neither blaming nor supporting him, but with concern at their root. “Don’t you think you overreacted?”

“Overreacted?!” his voice had cut through the nightly stillness outside Brandy Hall like a knife. “What would you have done? What if she were your daughter? You’d overreact as well!”

And then there was Bluebell. “I wish you were. Life would be a lot more enjoyable.”

Merimac closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. His hand reached to gently caress her cheek. Bluebell stirred and mumbled in her sleep. “Can’t you see that I fear for you?” he whispered. “I don’t want to stand helplessly by a second time and lose you the way I almost lost Berilac. Locking you up at home is the only way to prevent that. I need to know you’re safe; you, your mother, your brother and Pimpernel.”

Merimac’s lids had dropped and when he forced them open once more he found Bluebell looking him straight in the eye. His hand froze in mid-movement. Time stood still and silence settled about them. Merimac tried to read her expression but could not bring his mind to focus. Bluebell, on the other hand, studied him with great interest and without difficulty, or so it seemed and Merimac wondered just how much of the tumult inside him she was able to distinguish and understand. He was grieved to see her expression become one of concern, although he could not tell whether it resulted from his lasting silence or from whatever she read in his eyes.

In the end, however, after what felt like hours later, Bluebell crept closer to him and laid her head next to his. He could feel her warm breath on his face when she finally broke the stillness between them. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Nor did I mean to hurt you,” Merimac replied almost inaudibly.

“I know,” Bluebell nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Merimac managed a small smile and kissed her brow. His lids drooped and with one burden less to worry about he found he could not fight the urge to rest any longer. He drifted into a dreamless sleep even as Bluebell drew the blanket over his shoulder.

Chapter Six: The Importance of Love

Summer moved on and slowly turned into autumn. Trees were crowned in red and gold and mist covered the meadows in the morning like a thin, white blanket. It was an eerie season. No children collected chestnuts and acorns to create tiny animals which would decorate their rooms at least until Yule. Few tweens were seen gathering the last of the windfall and this year no end of harvest cheer would come up. As the days grew short no lanterns were lit to make the grey hours of evening more pleasant and no young couple was seen enjoying a walk on the last balmy days.

Instead a ghostly silence settled on the land and the stink of smoke hung in the air. Doors were kept locked all day and curtains were drawn before sunset. Wind rustled in dead leaves nobody cared to sweep from their front gardens, and went whining through eaves and chimneys. The first frost was not far and already dewdrops hung on the grass in the first hours of morning, but no hobbit was out to feel their cool wetness on their feet. No one left home until the sun was high end even then they only went if they had to. The Master had not gone to inspect the High Hay and the fires that so often burned close to the hedge as a warning to the trees were not lit. Buckland was robbed of its life and it was only in Hall-land that some lanterns burned and workers were out from time to time. Yet they always travelled in groups and the securing of boats which was usually accompanied by rhythmic song was done in silence and included many a nervous glance over one’s shoulder.

After the nightly raids were over, spirits in Brandy Hall rose considerably. Esmeralda’s new food calculations showed that it would be a tough winter with no morsel to spare, but the immediate danger of starvation was, for the time being, forgotten. The sense of utter exhaustion disappeared and for a while tautness and strain went with it. But this peace of mind did not last long. The silent oppression from outside their haven was not easily forgotten especially when the inns were closed and one and all were stuck at home every evening. Brandy Hall’s main parlours were crowed, and though the hobbits pretended not to notice the air was stiff and stifling Adamanta came to fully appreciate Bluebell’s feeling of being caged. Every time she entered one of the stuffed common rooms her heart beat fast and she broke into a sweat. Her breathing quickened and before long she felt like choking and had to leave. Never had Brandy Hall been that packed with entire families of four and five or even more, sharing a single room simply to have somewhere to stay – a place where they did not feel threatened.

Adamanta pitied them and wholeheartedly approved of Saradoc’s open door policy, yet she had never been that glad to live in the Brandybuck’s family wing on the upper level. This was her refuge and it was there, in one of the smaller sitting-rooms, she spent almost every evening with her husband, her children, and her daughter-in-law.

This night was no different. She sat by the window, as had become her habit, and listened to the rain clattering against the glass and the howling of the wind. The sound made her shiver in spite of the flickering fire that burned in the hearth. It reminded her of whispered voices, bearers of news, but what they said was unclear and Adamanta doubted she really wanted to know.

It was Esmeralda who had first mentioned voices. At the beginning of last spring her friend had advanced her all smiles and in high spirits. She had spoken of good fortune and a new hope rising. The wind had told her, she had said, and Adamanta sometimes wondered whether her sister-in-law possessed that same gift of Seeing her brother had inherited. Yet neither good fortune nor hope had come and Esmeralda had never again spoken of the wind. She had lost weight and these days she hid herself in Meriadoc’s room whenever she was not needed as Mistress of Buckland. Adamanta would not blame her for a single look at her own son was enough to remind her of the despair she had felt when he had been wounded.

She looked over her shoulder as if to make sure he was indeed with her and smiled when she saw him engaged in a board game with Bluebell. They sat by the fire. Their faces glowed golden and the tip of Bluebell’s tongue furiously licked over her lower lip as she considered her next move.

“Take the very left one.”

Adamanta almost jumped at the sound of her husband’s voice. He stood by the door. Wet curls hung into his face. He had been with Saradoc and stood watch at the border. Hall-land felt the pressure at all sides and Saradoc had doubled and tripled the guards. He was out most of the time as well and Merimac usually went with him.

“No taking sides!” Berilac complained, but smiled at his father, who in turn winked at Bluebell.

“Nel is all but eating your pieces with her eyes and I’m sure she whispers in your ear too, so I guess it is all right if your lone opponent gets some support.”

Pimpernel who sat next to Berilac with her head on his shoulder, blushed a deep shade of pink while Bluebell broke into a badly concealed snicker.

Adamanta smiled. It did well to hear his humour had not completely left Merimac although it rarely showed these days. She got up to welcome him with a kiss and noticed with regret that his eyes were more troubled than his comment had suggested. “Is everything all right?” she wondered nervously.

“Not worse than it had been,” Merimac replied quietly, but when Adamanta tried to kiss him again he pulled away and retreated to the far corner of the room where he sank into a chair and closed his eyes wearily. He was not aware that four pairs of concerned eyes were turned towards him. They had all noticed a change in him. Dark lines of worry had carved themselves onto his brow and he detached himself from them even when he sat in the same room.

It frightened them, especially Bluebell who feared it was an aftermath of their many quarrels. It was Berilac who consoled the girl and it had also been Berilac who had first spoken to his father. Adamanta could well remember the argument she had overheard from the adjoining room knowing in her heart that if Berilac did not reach him she hardly would.

“I know your relationship has not been the best of late and I saw your point, but now you hurt Bluebell without reason.”

“I’m sorry.” Merimac’s voice had been uncommonly low. “I had a bad day.”

“You only have bad days of late,” it was an accusation, yet his voice softened and became almost gentle. “Please, pull yourself together for her sake and mother’s if not for anybody else.”

Adamanta knew that had hit a nerve even though she could not see him. A long silence followed in which she had to fight the urge to press her ear against the wall and listen.

“Father,” Berilac’s voice was entreating him now. “You know Nel is with child. I need you to guide me.”

She never saw the expression on Merimac’s face and yet she thought she knew it. He was shocked and pained to realise he denied his son what he so frequently sought when he was in the same situation: the supporting words of his father.

“I can’t,” he replied and the haunted tone of his voice sent a chill crawling down her back. The next thing she heard was the door being pulled open and hurried steps down the corridor.

Merimac never mentioned that conversation to her although she was sure he knew Berilac had told her. His sorrow went deeper than anything she had ever witnessed in him, but he would not confide in her, would laugh even, and that was what felt the wrongest among all the wrongs in Buckland and the Shire.

They had little news from outside Hall-land. What did reach their ears was bleak and made them even warier. Men now beat up folks without reason and no father or husband left his family alone anymore too afraid that Big Folk might show up at his doorstep unexpectedly. Even within their refuge everybody seemed to wait for an assault they had expected while they were still raiding the fields. Merimac especially; at least that much he had let on.

She sighed and sat back down. Berilac now looked at her and she nodded. Yes, she would talk to him again.

~*~*~

Adamanta still heard the wind when she got ready for bed. The fire in their room had burned low and the glowing embers offered just enough light to distinguish shapes. The comforting smell of apple wood teased her nose as the bed creaked and she nestled into her pillows. Merimac had his back turned to her which pained her even more than his silence.

“Merimac?” she whispered hesitatingly and placed her hand on his arm.

He flinched as if burned and Adamanta quickly drew her hand back. Her heart beat fast and her throat was tight but she swallowed the pain she felt at his rejection. “What is the matter?” she asked instead, concerned.

“Nothing,” Merimac replied coldly. “Just leave me.”

It stung. Never had he spoken to her in such a voice and for a painful moment she was tempted to, indeed, draw away from him as he wished her to. Then she remembered the look on her children’s eyes and her determination awoke. Her eyes glistened as she pondered her husband’s motionless form and it was deep love rather than anger that lead to her next move and perhaps made all the difference.

She slid closer to his side of the bed, put first her arm around him and when he tried to pull away she pressed the entire length of her body against him. For a moment Merimac froze as if in shock. Every muscle tensed. He stopped breathing.

“Please,” Adamanta entreated him and was surprised to find she spoke out loud. A tremor went through Merimac’s body and she closed her eyes not knowing that he had done the same.

“I can’t.” his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind. He took hold of her hand, gentle at first, and then pushed it from him with determination. Before Adamanta could do anything else he had hastened out of bed. His eyes were full of pain with no hint of the coldness that had been in his voice. “Don’t you see that I can’t?”

Adamanta pushed herself up on one elbow. “Can’t do what?”

Merimac took a deep breath and held it. He clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut and turned his back on her. His shoulders shook and to Adamanta he suddenly seemed painfully young and insecure. Her heart wept to see him so.

After a few breaths he regained his composure and his back straightened. He stared at the wall, a dark shadow against the greyness of their room, and the callousness returned to his voice. “I cannot bear to love you.”

It was her turn to hold her breath. The arm on which she leaned threatened to give way and tears sprang to her eyes. If he had slapped her it could not have been more painful. A thousand memories rushed into her mind: the birth of their children, their wedding day, his visits to Scary, walks on the riverbank, dances at Yule and Lithe, and a thousand occasions he had surprised her with just being himself; the twinkle in his eyes, the laughter, the love, the comfort of his touch, his smell. Of course, there had been arguments, but together they had overcome all obstacles. They were meant to spend their lives together – or so she had thought. And as if from a distance she heard his voice.

“When the time comes, will you let me go?”

“No,” she whispered but Merimac no longer heeded her.

He walked up and down the room and talked to himself, his tone becoming more and more agitated with each word until she no longer recognised her husband’s voice. “Something is going to happen, should have happened already. How I wish there was a battle! It would take away the tension and fear and give us something to do even if we just die in an attempt to save our home. If only we had more bows like the Tooks and could shoot from a distance.”

“Stop it!” Adamanta’s voice was shrill with fear. Her heart drummed in her head. A chill had taken hold of her and her every limb trembled even as tears of pain and fear streamed down her face. “Stop talking such nonsense and listen to me!”

But he would not. To Adamanta it seemed as if he was no longer with her. A ghost, a shadow paced from one end of their bed chamber to the other. It looked like her husband, but everything that was Merimac was gone. She could not feel his presence and still that figure rambled on.

“When the time comes, will you let me go?”

“No!” Before she knew what she was doing she jumped out of her bed and ran after him. She only realised she had slapped him when she noticed the red mark on his barely illuminated face. Shocked by this deed she stumbled backwards and covered her mouth with her hands.

Merimac looked at her, stunned and wide-eyed. His breathing was laboured and hitched. For a long while his eyes seemed to stare right through her. Even in the scarce light of their room his face looked ashen apart from the red mark on his cheek. After what felt like a lifetime his left hand moved to touch his cheek and his expression became one of wonder.

“You are no murderer,” Adamanta said quietly and tentatively advanced him, “so don’t speak as one.”

At that his eyes cleared fully and if her heart had not broken before the agony she saw in them now was destined to shatter it to pieces. “But I am,” he whispered and walked shakily towards the bed where he sat down and stared at his hands as if he had never seen them before. “There is so much blood on my hands already. I can smell it even now.” He grimaced in disgust and turned away from them.

“The ponies?” Adamanta wondered and swallowed the lump in her throat. “You can’t compare that.”

Merimac shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t, but it aches nonetheless.” He looked at her almost apologetically. “They were good beasts.” He sighed heavily and clenched his fists once more. “They should not die because that cursed Lotho Pimple has gone power-hungry. No one should even have to fight!”

Adamanta looked at him. “This is not about the ponies, is it?”

Again Merimac shook his head but to Adamanta it seemed as if for a second time that night he was no longer aware of her. His voice, weak and trembling before turned grim once more. “I always knew he was a fool but what possessed him to believe he could control Men once they are in the Shire? Folk get hurt and die because of his greed and stupidity!”

Adamanta watched and listened with concern before she sat down beside him and gently took his hand into hers. “Merimac?”

He flinched, but then he lifted his head to look at her and his eyes were full of grief and a love that betrayed his earlier words. As if by impulse he kissed her hand before he laid it back into her lap. “I’m sorry, but I can’t love you any longer.” His voice was soft and after a long look into her tear-filled eyes he lowered his head. “I’m too afraid already and if I love you the fear will be even greater and so will the pain should anything happen to you, Berilac or Bluebell.”

Being rejected had been painful but to learn Merimac kept his distance not because he did not love her, but because he loved her too much to let her go set her heart to bleeding. She was numb and confused and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

"You think it will be better when you push me from you? When you pretend not to love me?” she said at last and Merimac winced and closed his eyes as if in pain. She was tempted to force him to look at her but his trembling stayed her hand. Instead she put what she meant to say with her eyes into her voice which suddenly was stronger than it had been all evening. “No, Merimac. It will make all worse. Should anything happen, and I don’t think the battle of life and death you and so many others go on about will come,” she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Should anything happen you would suffer even more if you draw back now. You would wish that you had spent time with your family while you still could.”

She touched his shaking shoulder and this time he did not withdraw. She swallowed hard but her tears overwhelmed her. “Do you remember how, many years ago, you told me you did not want to become as your father had been after your mother’s death?”

Silence. Adamanta’s skin prickled as she listened to their shaking breathing. Part of her was afraid of losing him again to that shadow-like ghost he had become, but her senses told her he was with her.

“You remember that?” he suddenly asked in wonder and turned to look at her. His eyes glittered with unshed tears and on his cheeks were the traces of those that had escaped.

She nodded. “And so should you, for you have become like him, but unlike him you have your wife with you, as well as two wonderful children who trust in you and count on you.”

His eyes widened with a mixture of fright and guilt, but he made no reply. Instead more tears trailed down his cheeks and Adamanta reached out her hand to brush one away and comb her fingers through his hair. “Don’t give up now,” she entreated him softly. “I will lose my strength if you do.”

A sob escaped his lips that seemed bemused and helpless at the same time. He looked at her apologetically and his tears made his words even more poignant. “I don’t think there is any strength left in me.”

“There is,” Adamanta replied earnestly and secretly wondered how much strength and willpower he had needed simply to make up his mind not to show them his love anymore. He had meant to protect himself – and them – and had ended up breaking his own heart for Adamanta now knew that the deep sorrow she had noticed was the heartache and suffering he had brought upon himself. “I know there is,” she repeated.

Merimac looked at her with such pitiful eyes Adamanta had to restrain herself not to kiss that sorrow away. This was his decision. The next move was his. Only he could take away their pain.

And he did. After what felt like hours he kissed her tentatively, as if afraid she might draw away. He broke into more tears when she did not and flung her arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ve been a fool. I thought it might be easier if…” he gasped for breath. “It wasn’t. It made everything worse, but I couldn’t tell.”

Adamanta did not reply but began to kiss away every single tear on his face while Merimac stuttered on about how afraid he was and how he could not bear to lose any of them like he almost lost Berilac. And as she kissed his face over and over again and whispered soothing words of assurance, he slowly calmed down and she felt her own fear weaken. Never had she seen him like this and she hoped she never would again.

  Chapter Seven: Message from the North

“Trust me,” she had said when his tears at last subsided. “You have trusted me since the beginning. Don’t stop trusting me now. Tell me when you are afraid and if I can I will help you but, please, don’t ever push me or our children from you again the way you did. They love you too and they are as worried about you as you are about them.”

This was what a family was about, but in his fear and with his life and everything he had ever known turned upside down Merimac had forgotten. He was ashamed that he had lacked the courage to confide in his family earlier and all the more grateful to see that they forgave him. He tried his best to erase all traces of his mistake and was surprised at how effortless it was. Now that he no longer denied himself to love them he found that even laughter would come easier to him. He felt like himself again although the burden of their siege kept his spirits from rising too high.

“Will you be up in the north tonight?” Saradoc asked.

Merimac nodded and broke the bread to offer one half to his brother. The dining room was clustered with hobbits and a hubbub of voices filled the air. Many ate in silence, others talked quietly, and only the children said out loud what they all felt. “We’ve had that yesterday. It’s not stew it’s soup.” And once the first plate was finished: “I’m still hungry.”

Merimac was well aware that the children’s parents looked nervously at his brother even as they hushed and chastised their offspring for their ungratefulness. Saradoc avoided those looks as well as he could, but no one could deny that the children spoke the truth. Their situation could be a lot worse, but it was far from what Saradoc would like it to be. Merimac was grieved by the sadness in his brother’s eyes and meant to cheer him up, but he never found the right words.

“It’s been a quiet night last night. I haven’t seen a single ruffian near the border,” Saradoc informed him as he plucked his bread to pieces and threw them into his bowl.

“Perhaps they get bored with teasing,” Merimac smiled a little, “or too cold for it. Whatever their reason is, I’m glad.”

Saradoc nodded and for a time he spooned his soup in silence. “How is Nel?”

“Getting round,” Merimac replied and was glad to see his brother’s lips twitch. “Berilac is talking to nothing else but her stomach. He’s sure it will be a boy. It’s what he hopes for anyway.” Merimac chuckled. “He says girls are trouble which, of course, gets Bluebell all worked up. I guess that’s why he’s doing it in the first place. He just sits there and laughs while Bluebell bickers away at him.”

Saradoc smiled, but Merimac suddenly wished he had kept his mouth shut. His brother’s eyes were empty and desolated and to Merimac he looked utterly miserable. Now that Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Samwise had been gone for over a year Saradoc struggled to hide his worries. Whether or not he still believed in their return Merimac did not dare to ask. He sighed and swallowed hard before he finished his lunch in silence.

They had just pushed the dishes from them, when Doderic stormed into the room and hurried to their table the moment he spotted them. They got to their feet immediately. “What is it?” Saradoc asked concerned.

“Father’s in your study,” Doderic quickly informed them. “Hob Hayward, who’s with the Shiriffs, came running to the border this morning and wanted to see you, but father wouldn’t let him come here alone. He might be a spy and run off to the Big Folk the moment he finds out whatever he has come to look for.”

Doderic made no secret of his dislike for the Shiriffs, but when Saradoc did not reply he seemed nervous. “He has been at the Hay Gate, hasn’t he?” Merimac wondered in hopes he could wake his brother from his ponderings.

Saradoc nodded and recognition dawned on his face. “That’s the one! He’s greeted me.”

Merimac frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know yet, but I doubt he is a spy,” Saradoc replied and Merimac was astounded to see hope shine in his brother’s pale green eyes. “Come with me.”

They found Seredic at the door to the Saradoc’s study glancing suspiciously at the hobbit who stood near the Master’s desk with his hat clutched to his chest. Saradoc thanked their cousin before he entered closely followed by Merimac. Hob Hayward turned and his eyes widened with an almost disturbing amount of joy.

“He is alive, Master Saradoc,” the old hobbit burst out as he advanced them and clutched his hat even tighter. “They are all alive.”

Time froze. As the words slowly sank, in Merimac was struck as dumb as his brother. He stared at the Shiriff with unbelieving eyes, when Saradoc suddenly grabbed his arm for support. “Merry?” the Master asked breathlessly. He was pale and the fingers that held on to him trembled.

“Yes,” Hob said with shining eyes, “and he’s all dressed up – all of them. They looks like princelings in their fine garments and with swords on their sides.”

“Swords?” Merimac wondered incredulous. Beside him Saradoc swayed and Merimac forced himself to wake from his stupor and slowly led his brother to his chair. His heart beat fast, torn between disbelief and excitement.

“How do you know?” Saradoc asked in a shaky voice.

“They came to the Bridge two nights ago and they tears down the notice and breaks the rules; and Mr Merry, he drives away Bill Ferny all by himself he does.”

“Bill Ferny!” Merimac exclaimed and clenched his fist. He was one of the few who knew exactly what had happened the day his brother had visited the ruffians.

Saradoc smiled a little, but his thoughts went into another direction. “Why didn’t they come here?”

Hob shrugged. “They left for Hobbiton in the morning. They’re going to have a word with the Chief.” The old hobbit gasped as he realised what he had said and lowered his head bashfully, almost crushing his hat with his fists. “Mr Lotho, that is.”

“They are going to rouse the Shire,” Merimac said amazed. Saradoc’s smile widened.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Hob looked almost frightened now, “but I don’t know if they will be able to. They’ve been arrested last night in Frogmorton. The Chief has ways of getting news.”

“You mean your spies told him,” Merimac replied darkly and Hob shrank back a step.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” he mumbled. “A Shiriff escort goes with them to Bywater. They’re lucky most of the Big Folk have gone there too or they might be on the way to the Lockholes already, but I don’t know what’s going to happen once they see the Chief. I’ve been dismissed last night and all I knows is that the Chief wants to see them.”

They considered this in silence. Merimac noted that his brother’s first shock had dwindled and excitement was written all over his face. Merimac himself felt like dancing at the news, but at the same time he was worried.

“Merry got rid of Ferny all by himself, you say?” Saradoc inquired and Hob nodded.

“Yes, sir. He drew his sword and Ferny run for it, but before he got far one of the ponies kicked him and sent him sprawling,” he smiled at the memory. “I’d have run too with the four of them all dressed for battle and Mr Merry and Mr Pippin all grown.”

“Grown?” Merimac lifted an eyebrow. “Pippin might grow half an inch but Merry is long past growing.”

“But they did,” Hob insisted and shrank further back nonetheless.

“Never mind their size,” Saradoc said. “What do you think? Could they manage to rouse the Shire and fight the ruffians?”

Hob blushed all the way to the tip of his ears and fumbled nervously with his hat. “They might,” he said at length. “They didn’t put up with what’s going on and most hobbits don’t neither. I reckon most hobbits will come with them if they asks.”

Merimac smiled as he caught Saradoc’s glance. They were going to make it. This was the moment they had waited for. Folk in Hobbiton and Bywater were going to stand up and so would the Bucklanders. If they were lucky the Tooks had got the news as well and would fight from the south. The Shire would soon be theirs again.

Merimac’s skin prickled with excitement and now it was his trembling fingers which held onto his brother’s shoulder. He was about to asks questions about their plan, when Saradoc brought him down to earth again. “There’s going to be fighting,” he said earnestly. His face was stern and in his eyes lay the calm strength of Buckland’s Master for which Merimac had always admired him. “Whose side will you be on?”

Hob stared at him for a long moment, face pale and eyes wide with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Suddenly his features changed. His brows drew together and his mouth set in a straight, thin line. Without looking at it he held out his hat, took the red feather from it and threw it onto the ground. He was a Shiriff no longer and only Merimac knew what this gesture meant to his brother.

“Welcome back,” Saradoc smiled and Hob shook his outstretched hand.

“Never meant to go away, Master Saradoc, and neither did many others.”

“I know,” Saradoc replied. “That’s why I need your help. I’m going to call a moot.”

~*~*~

When Merimac stepped outside the next morning he could hardly believe his eyes. All the Hall’s inhabitants seemed to be gathered in the garden. Wives embraced their husbands in farewell and children kissed their fathers for good luck. The air was chilly, but Merimac hardly noticed it. He stood, staring at the crowd with a mixture of wonder, relief, joy and a nervous excitement to fulfil the promise Saradoc had spoken the night before.

“This will be the last stand. If we don’t get up now and fight for our home it will be lost to us forever. Every one of you is needed. If we stand together no ruffian can oppose us.”

And they had come. Two hundred were ready to go out with Saradoc – nervous but with new hope. The return of the four travellers as well as a Shiriff joining up with them had raised their spirits and their trust in Saradoc’s words. Yet the scenes of goodbye and the hubbub of voices planted a seed of fear and sorrow in Merimac’s heart. No one knew whether they were all going to return.

He jumped when Adamanta placed her hand in his, then squeezed it, glad for her support. “Are you afraid?” she asked and looked curiously up at him.

“A bit of fear will keep me from recklessness,” he replied and kissed her brow. “This time we will succeed. We have to.”

But even as he spoke his face turned pale. Several steps in front of him stood Berilac, one hand combing trough Pimpernel’s hair, the other resting protectively on her belly. A knife hung at his hip and a sling-shot peeked out from the rim of his trousers.

Merimac let go of Adamanta’s hand and hastened towards his son, not heeding his wife’s calls. “May I talk to you for a second?” he asked and grabbed him by the shoulder even before Berilac could reply.

“You’re not coming,” he said as he pulled Berilac away from Pimpernel.

“What?”

“You’re not coming,” Merimac repeated sternly. “Your wife is expecting and needs you here, not out there.”

Berilac looked at him and his confused features softened into a smile. “If this is your way of telling me you’re worried and would not see me hurt again I appreciate it, but I won’t stay home.”

Merimac grimaced at the truth in these words but could not get himself to let him go. Berilac, however, stopped him before he could even open his mouth. “This is as much my home as it is yours and I want to fight for it like everybody else, especially because my wife is expecting. I don’t want my child to grow up in a world like this. But if it calms you I’ll have you know that I have every intention to return. No single-handed foolishness this time. Besides, I still have you at my side to take care of me, don’t I?” Berilac smiled so genuinely that Merimac was at a loss for words. Tears of pride gathered in his eyes and he pulled his son into his arms.

“I will be at your side all right,” he laughed and looked the boy over. “And I swear I shall rip off your head before any ruffian could, should you only think about foolish ideas.”

“That’s settled then,” Berilac smiled. “Let’s go.”

And go they did to the tears and good wishes of friends and family. Bluebell waved at them until they were out of sight and Merimac was almost relieved to see Berilac look back at their family with sorrow in his eyes. Indeed, a little fear might well do them good today.”

Saradoc had suggested going to the bridge first and as they journeyed there many a hobbit who saw them pass picked up his hay fork and followed them.

When they reached the guard houses they were met by a group of amazed Shiriffs. Hob Hayward stepped out from among them, all smiles and anticipation. “Good morning, Master Saradoc,” he greeted and touched the rim of his hat. “They have grown more careful since Mr Merry’s return. There are five of them in the guard house.”

“Hob, don’t,” one of the Shiriff’s hissed, before he shrank back from the Hall-land folk.

“Will you get them out for me?” Saradoc asked and Hob immediately hurried off.

“Master Saradoc,” a timid voice to their right said. Merimac who sat on a pony next to his brother recognised young Rufus Puddifoot from The Marish. “What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done eleven months ago,” Saradoc replied and seemed strong, proud, and determined at the same time.

Rufus looked at him in awe and a murmur went through the assembled Shiriff’s. The wind came up and brought with it a smell of burning. It whispered and whined as it passed them by and to Merimac it spoke of change. A thrill of anticipation went through his body and made him shiver.

“May I help you?” Rufus asked in a voice hardly louder than the wind’s.

“You may,” Saradoc smiled, “and everyone who has had enough of this my come with me too.”

“But what about the Men?” another voice enquired. It belonged to a well-fed, middle-aged hobbit with dark curls.

“Let them be my worry,” Saradoc replied and as if requested Hob darted out of the Big Folk’s house followed by all five squint-eyed brutes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the broadest of them enquired harshly and Saradoc moved his pony forward.

“We have come to reclaim what you have taken from us,” he said in a voice that echoed strangely in the sudden silence. “This land was never yours to inhabit and now you will leave it and never return.”

The ruffian’s lips curled in a smile that froze the moment he noticed the assembled group. He merely gaped at Saradoc. Merimac felt his nerves strain and his muscles tense. He held his knife in his hand, ready to push forward. On Saradoc’s other side Berilac stood with the sling of his sling-shot drawn back. The air was stiff with suspense.

The ruffians looked them over and while their leader’s features darkened those of his companions blanched. The Man on the leader’s left was the first to drop his weapon, a wooden club. Another put a horn to his lips, but thought better of it. One after the other the ruffians let go of their weapons and in the end, seeing the superior number of hobbits, the leader, too, surrendered.

Saradoc nodded his head at which several hobbits tentatively advanced the Men and took their weapons.

“The Boss won’t approve of this,” one Man snarled gutturally.

“Your Boss’ days are numbered,” Saradoc replied with an authority that had the hobbits look at him with admiration and wonder alike, and even as he spoke several Shiriffs got rid of their feathers and joined Brandy Hall’s troop. The rest, too afraid perhaps to be recognised as those on the wrong side, followed their example quickly enough and Merimac felt his heart lighten. Perhaps they needn’t fight after all.

“I need fifty of you to guard the bridge and see to it that no one goes in or out,” Saradoc ordered as he made the Men walk before him to the gate. Hob opened it. “The rest of you come with me. We will find every single ruffian in Buckland and The Marish and escort them to the border.”

A loud cheer broke at that and when Merimac turned to look at the crowd they shook their weapons and the tips of their forks glistened in the sunshine.

~*~*~

The next two days they spent riding and walking through Buckland, and in the end it was almost too easy. Most ruffians surrendered quickly when they found themselves surrounded by so many. Only one fought back in earnest. He died before his stroke fell and was buried near the High Hay at Haysend.

In the meantime news had reached them. Sharkey, the real Chief, was dead and so was Lotho Sackville-Baggins. All over the Shire folk were now standing up against the ruffians and one by one they surrendered and fled or were brought to the borders.

Saradoc had just escorted the last group of ten to the bridge whose spiked gates were already ripped down. He felt weary and exhausted yet he was happy beyond measure. They had succeeded. Buckland, no, the entire Shire was free once more.

“We have really done it,” Merimac said as he got off his pony, stretched his back and looked after the last group of Men walking from them like beaten beasts. Saradoc turned to him and smiled. His brother had never left his side these last two days although most of the hobbits had returned to the Hall. Some, so he was told, had already returned to their old homes and were either rebuilding what had been broken or simply cleaning out a long abandoned smial.

Saradoc dismissed the hobbits who had accompanied him on this last escort when old Denham, who had resumed his post as gatekeeper, called out. “There’s somebody coming.”

Instead of looking west the old hobbit pointed east. Saradoc turned and shielded his eyes against the sunshine. A group of over twenty ruffians advanced them surrounded by at least thrice that number of hobbits. Saradoc mounted his pony again and with Merimac at his heel he galloped to meet them. The hobbits cheered and waved when he advanced them. The heady feeling of a newly won freedom lay in the air and Saradoc laughed and greeted them with joy.

“We’re the Bywater troop,” one of the hobbits said when Saradoc asked them where they came from.

“Bywater?” Saradoc gasped and his heart involuntarily skipped a beat. “Have you seen Merry, then? Did you see my son?”

“He is right here,” a voice called from his left and all strength left him. Saradoc was suddenly afraid to turn, afraid all might have been a dream and when he woke up Brandy Hall would still be besieged and he would not have had any news about Merry.

“Merry!” It was his brother’s voice now and the sound of him jumping from his mount and hurrying in the direction of the first voice made him turn around after all.

And there he was: Meriadoc Brandybuck, his son and heir, every inch of him he remembered – and, indeed, several he did not. He had grown both in size and experience. His hair was thick, but it could not quite conceal the brown scar on his forehead. His armour, for that was what he was wearing, was a splendid green with a white horse on his chest that glittered in the sunlight. A princeling Hob Hayward had called him and Saradoc agreed to that wholeheartedly. His princeling.

He jumped from his pony and almost stumbled because of the weakness of his knees. Tears spilled down his cheeks before he even noticed them as he ran to embrace his son. “You’re alive,” he breathed as he kissed first his left cheek, his brow, and then the right cheek. “You’re home.”

Saradoc held him at arms-length to look his son over. He stroked over his hair, gently brushed his fingers over the scar, touched his shoulders, his arms, and grasped his hands only to hug him the tighter a second time. He heard Merry talk to him, but his words were of no meaning to him. For the moment it was enough to hold him – hold him and never let him go again.

It was Merry, who after many reassuring claps on Saradoc’s shoulder and with tears of his own in his eyes, broke from the embrace to laugh out loud. “That’s my uncle!” he called between fits. “More interested in a pony than his nephew’s return.”

Saradoc turned to find Merimac inspecting Merry’s steed from every side and a breathless chuckle escaped him. “What could I do?” Merimac asked as he took hold of the beautiful pony’s reins and patted its neck. “Your father denies me a chance to get close to you. Besides, I need to set up a proper breeding program again. The stables look worse than ever before and this one,” he looked at Merry hopefully, “I’m sure you will lend him to your old uncle, won’t you? He is perfect for a new beginning.”

Merry sobered immediately and drew his brows together in concern. “What do you mean by worse?” he enquired and looked from one to the other.

“Bad enough to have him fear every new morning,” Saradoc said and his light-hearted tone did not bear any hint to the despair he had been through, “but we had it better than folk in Bywater and Hobbiton from all I’ve heard.”

Merimac waved his hand dismissively. “As if you weren’t afraid,” he huffed, but smiled nonetheless as he advanced them with the pony’s reins still in his hand. He pulled his nephew into a tight embrace and kissed his brow. “Welcome home, lad!”

~*~*~

Brandy Hall’s windows – each shimmering golden with the light of lanterns and candles inside – appeared in front of them shortly after sundown. News of their coming had reached the Hall already and when they rode up they found most of the inhabitants assembled in the gardens in spite of the chill air. They cheered and sang and hailed them like heroes returning from the battle against the dragon in the days of old. Merimac’s heart opened and sang with them as he rode home – Brandy Hall as it should be: a source of joys and sorrows, of light and togetherness, of singing and dancing, of bliss and recreation. How he had longed to see it so again!

He waved as he spotted his wife and children among the hobbits. Bluebell ran immediately towards them, but it was Esmeralda who reached them first. She stood ahead of all the others with a shawl around her shoulders and tears and her eyes. Her greying hair, which she wore down for once, played in the wind. For a long while she just stood there and watched them advance with disbelief in her eyes, until suddenly she gathered her skirts and darted towards them, Merry’s name on her lips. Merry dismounted and ran to meet her and face the same treatment Saradoc had administered earlier.

Merimac watched them with a smile and clapped Saradoc’s shoulder when he saw tears gather in his brother’s eyes once more. “We’ve done it,” he simply said, knowing that for Saradoc this had been more than one victory.

He got off his horse to catch Bluebell with open arms and kiss her in welcome. “You’re back!” she said and smiled so brightly that he had to kiss her nose again.

Hand in hand they walked towards the rest of their family. Berilac, who had returned home only this morning, clapped his shoulder and nodded his head, while Pimpernel gave him a quick hug. When Merimac finally turned to his wife he was shocked to find her eyes brimmed with tears. He kissed her lovingly and one of them loosened and trailed down her cheeks. Merimac brushed it away and looked at her with concern. She shook her head and laughed. “You’re smiling and your eyes are shining,” she kissed him and breathed a sight of relief. “Things are really going back to normal then.”

Merimac smiled and kissed her again before he had her lean her head against his shoulder. He gazed out over the garden upon which the hobbits were still singing and dancing. In the midst of them all stood Saradoc, Esmeralda, and Merry still embracing each other and looking Merry over from top to toe. He chuckled and put his other arm around Bluebell. “Yes, normal would be quite nice for a change.”

Epilogue

Weeks passed and the hobbits were busier than ever. The Men’s houses were ripped down and new houses were built while others were repaired and, in most cases, improved. Instead of streaming into Brandy Hall, folk now could not get away from it fast enough. Everybody was eager to return to their own home and Saradoc was not unhappy to see his halls become less crowded.

Winter, Saradoc found, would not be as difficult as he had feared. The Chief’s storage houses were bursting with food, enough to feed every family in Buckland and all over the Shire well into summer. They also discovered that they had more livestock than they had thought. The Hall’s sheep, stolen from them a lifetime ago or so it seemed, were found again at Newbury, all well fed and still un-sheared.

Saradoc was out almost every day, but he found that his business had become a lot easier and definitely more enjoyable. He helped where he could, offered advice, and saw to it that no one was left out when the food sharing took place. Being busy in his own land prevented him from riding to Hobbiton and see Frodo, and so it happened that his cousin surprised him by suddenly standing at his doorstep one evening. He was welcomed heartily and Saradoc listened intently to all he, his son, and Pippin had to tell although he noted not without a certain sting of sadness that there were things they kept hidden from him. Especially Frodo seemed filled with a pain that tore at his heart, and although he let him know that he would listen he did not push him. Years of experience had taught him that pushing Frodo was no good thing to do.

When Merry, who at first was either at his side or helped all over the Shire, announced that he would like to stay at Crickhollow with Pippin Saradoc had been loath to see him go again. In the end, however, he realised that he could not hold him back and let him go willingly, although he made sure his son paid frequent visits to Brandy Hall.

Paladin and Eglantine came to Buckland almost as soon as the roads were free again. They were beside themselves with joy to find Pimpernel was not only all right but with child, and there was many a round of drink poured on behalf of the soon-to-be-parents. Yet, the Took’s joy was mingled with a silent sadness. Saradoc saw Paladin walk with Pippin almost every day and every so often Eglantine would join them. Pippin’s decision to stay at Crickhollow grieved them, but they too came to accept their son’s wish.

Merimac had worries that were entirely different from Saradoc’s. After the first joy of reunion had passed he had tried to get to the bottom of Merry’s and Pippin’s sudden growth. So far Merimac had been the tallest in the family and the tales about Treebeard and his Ent-draught did not convince him in the slightest. After two weeks, however, he gave up and started on his new project. Pimpernel was pregnant not just with one child but two and Merimac had put it onto himself to get a second, brand-new cradle for his daughter-in-law, knowing that his son was hopeless at any kind of handicraft. Not that Merimac was any better, but Saradoc would not dare to tell him that. His brother got cross enough when he happened to sneak a glance at his bruised and scratched fingers.

Yule was a feast like none before it. Everybody celebrated the heartier to make up for a missed Lithe and several other occasions that could have done with some merriment. There was drink and food a-plenty and even some pipe-weed could be found. The inns were reopened and rebuilt and whenever the hobbits did not find enough reason at home to make merry they would sit in The Jumping Pike or the Bridge Inn and chat and sing over a pint or two.

Merimac, eventually, came up with his promised song of The Crop Raid of Brandy Hall and gained many a round of laughter and applause for his performance. Especially Paladin, who returned to Brandy Hall with his wife shortly after Yule, never seemed to tire of it and was determined to come up with a song about his own troubles in Tookland.

The Tooks stayed well into spring for in Solmath Pimpernel gave birth to two wonderful children: Roderic and Amaryllis Brandybuck, one even more golden-haired than his mother, the other with chestnut curls and a snub nose for which Nel argued Berilac was to blame.

When summer came and Saradoc saw children swimming in the river and a new generation of colts and fillies gallop alongside their mothers, as he walked next to his fields there was only joy in his heart. Nothing reminded of last year’s events, but Saradoc would never forget the Troubles in Buckland and how his people had stuck together and, after a while, found the courage to face an enemy that was no longer stronger than they. He was proud of them and he would treasure the memory of that year although it had caused him great pain and worry. The last eighteen months had shown him again what it meant to be Master of Buckland and he was glad to have passed the test. And when he looked to his side where Merry liked to walk and enjoy the peace he knew that Buckland would be in the best of hands once he passed on his title.

~THE END~