Chapter 27. Thorn: Arrival

High summer had come to the land, and sometimes Bucca walked outside of the gates, breathing the scent of meadows and sun. Rich fields of grain billowed in green waves, fair folk waved, Men of Arthedain who took solace in working in the fields bent their heads, sowing seeds or cultivating the growing crops. Their swords were sharp, their quivers full, they were ready, should Gondor come as promised.

After the days of mourning had passed, Aranarth would not take the title "King", no matter how his advisors pressed him. 'King,' Bucca heard his voice floating out of the opened window, of the hall where the nobles and captains of Arthedain gathered. 'King, without a kingdom! Nay... let us win our land free again from the filth that has overrun it, and then perhaps we'll talk about king and crown.'

How they knew the ship had foundered in the storm, taking all on board into the icy depths, was beyond the hobbit's ken. Perhaps the gulls had brought the message to Cirdan. In any event, it was generally acknowledged that King Arvedui was dead, and that the stones of seeing had gone to the bottom of the Sea with him.

'Pity,' Bucca heard Thulion say. 'We've no idea what is happening on the other side of the Lune... we could use someone with the talent for far-seeing...'

A word of rebuke from Aranarth silenced the Man, but Cirdan spoke as if he'd not just had his honour impugned. 'Indeed,' he said. 'I wish I knew where Mithrandir wandered, that I might send a summons to him. His counsel would be welcome. Long has he journeyed, looking into the things of the Enemy...'

'The Grey Pilgrim offered us little enough advice, as Angmar massed upon our borders. Be vigilant! he told us. Be watchful!'

'Captain Thulion!' Aranarth said again.

'We were vigilant and watchful, for all the good it did,' Thulion muttered. 'The king sent to Gondor, seeing the stormclouds building, and Gondor promised to come...'

The king's aide had soured since word of Arvedui's death. No longer did he stand on the wharf during the few hours he had free of his duties, watching for the sails of Gondor. He seemed in danger of being consumed by bitterness, yet continued to do his duty in a dogged manner, serving a king without a kingdom, a king in exile, living in a far land amongst a fair folk, but still, not his home.

'We have some idea what is happening on the far side of the Lune,' Cirdan said now, and Bucca sat up and listened more closely. 'We have sent out spies of our own, to scout out the land...'

'Birds...' someone muttered. 'What good are...?'

'They have told us that the land lies empty, fallow, the fields overgrown with weeds, the ruins of barns and byres and dwellings empty and desolate.'

Bucca's heart sank.

'Empty...' Thulion echoed.

'Empty of Angmar's army, as well,' Cirdan continued. 'There are outposts along the Road. Messages travel the King's Road from the watchers on the Eastern banks of the Lune, towards the North Downs. But there are no great encampments... the bulk of the army have been withdrawn. Many have been put to rebuilding Fornost, for much of the city was burned when it was taken...'

Norbury rebuilt, Bucca mused. It seemed strange, somehow, to think of Angmar building something rather than tearing it down. Of course, whatever was built would be terrible to behold, he had no doubt.

It struck him suddenly that Cirdan had said the land was empty of Angmar's forces, except a few messengers along the Road. The bulk of the Shire-folk would have escaped into the forests, if they had escaped at all. Obviously they would not return to their farms, not if they crept from the shelter of the trees and saw Men on horses travelling the Road. But his people might still be alive, and hiding, living by hunting and gathering as the Fallohides had before crossing the Misty Mountains!

He made a firm resolve in himself, that he would make his way homewards, to the tree his father had told him about, to see... to see if any still awaited him there. Perhaps they thought him long dead, but he'd never give up hope of finding them. He'd search until he did find his loved ones, or until his last breath, whichever came first.

He scarcely took note of the discussion as plans tumbled over themselves in his head. He'd have to gather provisions for the journey, find some way of crossing the Lune, and avoid the watchers on the far side, the sentries who sent regular reports back to Angmar...

'Master Bucca?' ...and suddenly he became aware that his name had been repeated while he'd been deep in thought. He looked up into Cirdan's face, the ancient, wise eyes holding amusement. 'You have found a pleasant place to enjoy the afternoon sun, it seems.'

'Very pleasant,' Bucca said, scrambling to his feet. 'Sunny, yet perfectly located to catch the caress of the breeze.'

'Yes,' the Shipwright said. 'The windows catch the breezes as well, directing them into the hall for the comfort of those within.'

'Ah, yes?' Bucca said, trying to look baffled and politely inquiring.

'And so, did you have any questions you needed the answers to?' the Elf-lord said, turning his steps towards the harbour, long steps, long legs, of course, but slow to allow the hobbit to keep pace without getting out of breath. 'I thought I would save you the trouble of apologising before launching into a dozen or more.'

'Will Gondor come?' Bucca blurted. Seldom were his questions so boldly invited, though the Elf-lord was remarkably patient with him and seemed to enjoy the hobbit's company, in the brief hours when his attention was not claimed by duty or discussion.

'The gulls have brought news of a vast fleet,' Cirdan said. 'Many ships... one is to hope that they are not Corsairs, coming to assault the Havens, but filled with Men of Gondor, come to the aid of their northern kin.'

'Is that why you've sent all your ships away?' Bucca said. He had wondered, but no one seemed to know the explanation, why Cirdan would man the ships with skeleton crews and send them from the safety of the Havens.

He supposed that the combined forces of Arthedain and Lindon would be enough to repel the Corsairs... but the thought of two titanic forces clashing made him feel once again as small and insignificant as an insect, easily crushed.

'The harbour is cleared for action, to welcome foe or friend,' Cirdan said. 'It is a pity that the birds cannot distinguish one sort of banner from another. All Men look alike to them, they say. However, the sails of the ships are not dark-of-night, they say, and in that we may find hope.'

'And when will they come?' Bucca said, craning eagerly out to sea. A handful of the Fair Folk stood upon the docks, their far-seeing eyes looking into the distance, and Cirdan called up to him who stood in the watchtower high above, but received only a shake of the head in answer.

'If they keep driving before the wind and tide,' Cirdan said, 'and do not lay off, for whatever reason, they will arrive at any time... and we will be ready to greet them.' He smiled at the hobbit and added, 'I bid you good day, Master Bucca, and come not late to the daymeal.'

'Never!' Bucca said, and the Elf-lord laughed, before turning away to hail the Harbour-master, to walk away, voices low, in serious discussion. Bucca hesitated, wanting to follow, for he'd not yet had a chance to ask about the possibility of being landed on the far side of the Lune, to begin to make his way homewards. If home existed, that was.

It would have been difficult to eavesdrop, having no eaves nearby for starters, though Bucca had grown used to the language of the Elves of Lindon and could make himself understood, after a fashion. He, in his turn, understood much better than he could speak. He thought he had an idea of the topic, anyhow, and the next day saw his suspicions confirmed as men-at-arms took up their posts on the docks, in the shadow of the buildings, and on the rooftops, watching for the arrival of the expected fleet.

It was Gondor they expected, but with Gondor so belated and no news to be had, it was possible the Corsairs had attacked their southern kin, attacked and overwhelmed them, and now, bolstered by their success and perhaps even lent strength by the Enemy, were on their way to assail the northern harbours. There was no harm in being ready to repulse an attack, in any event, with so great a fleet reported by the seabirds who wandered the wind currents above the swelling waves.

And so, on a foggy morning Bucca sat upon his customary rock on the beach, watching the waves come in. It was quiet here, with all the Men and Elves massed in the harbour, waiting... perhaps if battle came, he'd be able to creep into the long grasses and avoid being spitted by arrow or sword. He was only a hobbit, after all, and rather a cowardly one at that. Tokka had been the bold one, the one who'd led them into adventures. Bucca had been the prudent one, the voice of caution, for all the good it had done him.

Prudence, that was what it was, he told himself, even as his face burned at his private conviction of cowardice. What good could he do in a battle? What good could he do at all?

He hunched in his cloak, miserable, not even noticing the sounding of the bell for the morning meal as the fog-shrouded sea slowly brightened before him in the rising of the sun at his back.

He heard a faint cry, carried on the wind from the harbour, and something moved him to slide over the rock, to crouch behind its comforting bulk, peering into the fog. He blinked, was it but a phantasm, a trick of sun and fog and sleepy eyes? No, it was not mere fog that billowed on the waves, but a sail, a large white sail, and another... and a red sail, and yellow, and blue, and striped bright colours, and painted designs, and more of sun-bleached white! And below the sails the form of a ship, ships, more ships, sun glinting from shields and spears and helms lining the decks, more than he could count as the fog lifted, revealing a vast fleet lying off the point, filling the Gulf as far as the eye could see, and from the far bank of the Lune where the watchers of Angmar crouched came the faint blast of a warning horn.

A cheer arose, coming from the dockside, thin at first but growing in volume until it seemed the ancient buildings of Mithlond themselves joined in the praise. The hills of Lindon rang with the sounds of welcome.

Gondor had come.