Chapter 19. Thorn: Beginning of the End

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

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

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

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

 ‘Shallow breaths,’ the man whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Not Angmar? 

I think not—he has a Halfling with him.

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

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

But if he’s of Angmar!

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

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

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

Hurry! The sky begins to lighten in the East.

There’s no time!

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

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

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

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