A/N The names of the men of Rhovanion are a rough approximation, following JRRT's convention of using adaptations of Gothic words to come up with such combinations as Marhari, Marwhini, Vidugavia, and Vidumavi. Since resources on the language and usage of the Goths have proven somewhat hard to find, any "howlers" (to the perceptions of those more knowledgeable) are hereby apologised for in advance.

Chapter 29. Thorn: Lessons to Be Learned

Day after day, ships tied up at the quayside to divulge their passengers and cargo and, once emptied, left the sheltered harbour to anchor off the coastline, for so vast a fleet had sailed from the Southlands that it might take the better part of a month for all to debark and for the provisions and munitions they brought, enough for a war of great kings, to be unloaded. Bucca never tired of watching the flow of new faces, though few noticed him, half-hidden as he chose to be, seated in the shadow of a piling.

Tall Men of Gondor there were, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with proud, stern faces, looking very much like their kinsfolk from Arthedain. With them came some who were shorter, swarthier of skin; but the ones who caught the hobbit's imagination were the tall Men with hair that shone as the sun in a summer sky and eyes that were as blue as the heavens, laughing Men who led great horses snorting down the planks from the ships. These, he heard, were of a land called Rhovanion, whose king had sent his sons and nephews to the battle.

Indeed, these princes of Rhovanion walked the docks with Aranarth and him who was Captain of Gondor, Eärnur, and it seemed to Bucca that shadow and sunshine walked together, the dark-haired Numenorians and the bright and bold Riders, as the latter styled themselves. Aranarth was grim and Eärnur eager, while the Horse-princes walked lightly along the docks as if they scarcely trusted the wood beneath their feet.

The armies spread out over the plain, and bonfires sprang up, and there was feasting, especially among those of Rhovanion who were greatly relieved to have solid land under their boots, and under the hoofs of their horses, and fresh grass for the grazing instead of dried fodder, and fresh water running from springs and streams to take away the taste of slightly brackish water from barrels.

Cirdan met daily with the Captain of Gondor and his officers, and Aranarth who accepted the title of Captain of Arnor if not "King", and the princes of Rhovanion, laying plans.

In the meantime, Bucca was laying plans of his own. He was fully healed from his injury, though his ribs still ached when the weather was changing. He had fletched a quiver full of arrows, and having found a yewtree growing in a glade, he had fashioned himself a bow to take the place of the one he'd lost on the night Aranarth had trampled him. His bag was packed with dried fruit and journey-bread baked by the Elves--fine stuff it was, more like a feast-day cake in flavour than the hard biscuits that Tokka's archers had taken with them to the battlefield.

He had cut a sturdy staff suitable for walking, and for fending off the larger of the predators to be found in the forests of the Shire, at least long enough to go to ground or climb into the branches of a tree. He had a warm yet light cloak of Elven-make--he could not name its colour, for it was woven of many colours blended together, browns and greens and heather and grey, and wearing it he could crouch and lose himself amongst the grasses of the meadow or trees of the forest. Why, even in the shadow of the piling on the quayside, the cloak seemed to hide him from the piercing eyes of the arriving warriors.

Elves, however, were another matter. 'Ho, there, Master Bucca!'

The hobbit looked up, recalled from his thoughts and plans, and scrambled to his feet to bow. 'Galdor!' he said. He no longer stammered and blushed, and having been underfoot for some months had taught him to address most of the Havens residents as neither "Lord" nor "Master", but simply by their names.

The names of these tall Men of Rhovanion were not so strange to his ear as the Elves' names had seemed.

The Elf bowed with a smile, but his companions, two of the youngest among the princes of Rhovanion, stared with open-mouthed astonishment. 'Master Bucca of the Marish,' Galdor said. 'If I may present Marfráuja and his kinsman, Valwisai...'

'Lord of horses,' Bucca said in the old tongue, that his father had insisted on teaching Tokka and Bucca, though some of the words had changed since the Fallohides came over the Misty Mountains so many centuries ago, and the Common Speech had replaced many other words and phrases. The Men stared at this, and at Bucca as he continued. 'I heard him introduce himself when he arrived, three days ago now. And Maker of songs,' he added, with a bow to the pop-eyed princes.

'You speak our tongue!' the first prince said, 'or something to that effect.'

'Do not insult him!' the second said, falling to one knee, to see eye-to-eye with the hobbit. 'You...' he said, his eyes taking in every detail, from curly head to curly foot. 'You are... are you... one of the hole-dwellers of legend?'

'Hole-dwellers!' the first scoffed. 'Children's tales, to beguile the little ones to sleep when the fire burns low.'

'You know of hole-dwellers?' Bucca said.

'Not that any has ever been seen by my people, my father, my grandfather before him, nor his grandfather, but there are old tales...'

'Lwis...'

'Fráuja...' the second said in the same vein, and then he turned back to Bucca. 'It is said that they brought luck to those who beheld them, which was not so easy a thing to do as they could disappear in the twinkling of an eye, and one of their frowns could sour the milk...'

'You are not going to sour the milk for the evening meal, are you, Master Bucca?' Galdor said.

'I will temper my frowns,' Bucca said in a judicious manner.

'The cooks will be most grateful,' Galdor said.

'You cannot deny that he is a Halfling,' the second prince said.

'A young Dwarf, perhaps,' the first insisted. 'He has not yet grown a beard, and...'

Bucca had been about to deny that he was any sort of Dwarf, young or not, but Galdor made a face, as of one drinking soured milk, and he laughed instead.

'I have never seen a Dwarf,' he said, 'no, not in the looking glass, nor anywhere else, for that matter.'

The second prince threw his head back and laughed. 'Whatever you may be, Master Bucca,' he said, thrusting out his hand to show it was empty of weapons, 'you are not slow of wit!'

Bucca touched his empty palm to the large one, in gesture of friendliness. It was not a soft palm, but well calloused, and the fingers curled around his with a gentle strength.

'Valwisai is too long a name to shout on the battlefield,' the prince said. 'It would be much less of a burden if you should call me Lwis.'

'And I am Bucca,' the hobbit said, withdrawing his hand from the clasp, with another bow.

'My kinsman, however, you may continue to address as Marfráuja-waúrdja,' Lwis said with a grand gesture that was rather spoilt by his mischievous grin. 'It is a cumbersome name, and he finds it troublesome and inconvenient.'

'If it would not be too much trouble, Master Bucca,' Galdor said, 'I am called to a meeting with my lord and the lords of Arnor, Gondor, and Rhovanion.'

'If I may be of assistance?' Bucca said, and nodded as Galdor made it clear that, Bucca being the princes' elder, he was putting the young warriors in the hobbit's charge while their fathers and older brothers were occupied. It was not so much child-minding as keeping the restless and high-spirited young men out of trouble, now that they were recovered from the long sea-journey. Back home on their rolling plains, theirs was a wandering life, keeping their borders secure. The younger warriors, having cut their teeth on tales of battle and glory, had been overjoyed to respond with their elders to Gondor's call, to bring aid to the North.

The sooner the army took to the field, the better, or so the Men of Rhovanion believed. Sitting encamped was tiresome, and these two young princes had already stirred trouble with their restlessness, in challenging some of the young Men of Arnor to contests of physical strength. The Men of Arnor, having faced a more fearsome foe than the princes could imagine, had no tolerance or patience for boasting.

Cirdan had set a watch upon the princes, to preclude further difficulty. Galdor thought that perhaps the hobbit would keep the two youngsters diverted for this afternoon at least.

'We are not invited to join in the deliberations,' Lwis said as the Elf took his leave, and Marfráuja grimaced. 'It is a council of war, and the young hotheads are considered more of a burden than a benefit in making plans.'

'Plans,' Marfráuja said under his breath, unconsciously grasping the hilt of the knife in his belt. 'They can talk the sun down out of the sky, and all the while the enemy makes his escape...'

'They withdraw from the land they have despoiled,' Lwis said, 'but only to gather on the northern plains, where their dark lord will meet us in strength.'

His kinsman hushed him, and both looked about surreptitiously. Bucca supposed that he was not the only one to have listened at windows.

Perhaps he and his new companions could learn a thing or two from each other.