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Thain  by Lindelea

Chapter 31. Thorn: A Matter of Timing

Something had changed. Bucca could smell it in the air of Lindon; he could feel it, somehow, in the earth that curled between his toes. For that matter, he seemed to taste a difference in the water, in the food.

Though he knew much that once had been in his life, was now lost, and for all he knew he was the only Halfling to survive, to remember the Shire as it was, green and living in the cool mist of a morning, shining under a smiling sun, glistening of a frosty moonlit middle night... somehow so long as he had not seen the destruction for himself, Stock yet stood in the back of his mind, as it had of any of a number of market days, bustling with cheery folk going about their business with no cares for the “outside”, or even, really, awareness that there was an “Outside”.

When he closed his eyes, sitting down in the grass, his back to a tree in the “near” pasture, listening to the pleasant chomping of horses on the grass, he might have been in one of his own father’s fields, drinking in the sweetness of the early morning birdsong, before hitching the ponies to the plough and beginning the day’s first furrow.

But even before the sun rose high enough to burn away the lingering mists, another song blended with that of the nesting birds: a song of cold steel, borne on the breeze; a thunder of horses, charging across a distant meadow; rough voices of Men and fair calls from Elven throats, raised in command.

Bucca missed the busyness of the recent past, the responsibility of shepherding the young princes, coming to know more of their words and their ways. They were as bright and bold as any tween Bucca had known, as reckless and in need of subtle guidance; as ravenous as any growing lad he’d known, they ate nearly as much as Bucca himself, which when speaking of those belonging to the race of Men, was saying something!

But now the youngsters were busy with riding manoeuvres and sword drills, and Bucca's time was once more his own. He’d asked Cirdan for a ferry across the Lune. Surely the Shipwright could spare a small boat and one body, to row a hobbit across. Bucca asked nothing more. His own feet had carried him here, nearly all the way from the Brandywine to the Lune, and they’d serve to carry him back again.

But the Elf Lord had stared gravely at him, one hand absently stroking the long beard so unusual among Elves, pursing his lips as in deep thought, before he slowly shook his head. ‘The time is not yet right,’ he said quietly.

Bucca had wanted to demand to know just what would constitute the right time? But for some reason he found Cirdan’s gaze, those ageless eyes, unnerving in their regard, at that moment. He thought he read sympathy, and worse... pity?

What is it that you know? he wanted to say, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. What is it that the birds have cried on the morning breeze?

But the Shipwright nodded, brought his hands to his knees in a soft slap that portended his departure; he rose and bowed to the frozen Halfling. And Bucca remained, still as a statue, for some minutes after Cirdan left him, questions tumbling in his brain.

Questions... questions...

He blinked his eyes open as the thundering hoofs fell into sudden silence and a voice was raised in seeming anger, addressing the faults of the riders, urging them to greater effort, greater diligence, greater...

He scrambled to his feet, for the Riders would charge again and yet again, drilling their formations, forming wedges to drive forward and wheels to address a flanking enemy; and any lingering birdsong would be drowned in the riot of mock battle, shouts, and clashing of steel.

And the Captains would be meeting, after overseeing the progress of the armies’ training through the first hour of the day.

***

Bucca dug into the garden bed, relishing the feel of earth embracing his fingers. The soil was loose here, well-worked, mingled flowers and herbs flourishing. The living scent of green and growing things rose around him in soothing counterpoint to the serious talk coming through the open window not far away.

Elves and Men, coming and going, hardly seemed to take note of the small figure. Indeed, Bucca, finding solace in the gardens, was a familiar sight.

‘...but if Elrond does not come...!’

‘Can you not persuade him? Surely he sees the danger to himself as well as the rest of...’

‘There is a hidden power in Imladris, they say... evil things do not enter there. Perhaps he thinks...’

‘But if the Lord Elrond does not come...’

‘...a dearth of archers...’

‘...what I would not give, for even two-score archers like those Halflings who supported us on the plain...’

Bucca’s heart stirred within him. Tokka!

‘Aye. Small they were, but doughty, and their arrows never went awry. I saw one strike the Witch King himself, though the shaft fell to ashes as it landed...’

Bucca scrambled to his feet. Of their own accord, it seemed, they carried him to the large open window, trowel hanging forgotten from his hand, and there he stood, openly listening to the grave voices within.

‘Surely, Cirdan, he would listen to you!’

Bucca saw the Elf Lord shake his head. ‘He has turned his thoughts away,’ he said. ‘He listens to another voice, and does not hear my words.’

More than one of the debaters gasped at this news, and one Man half-rose. ‘He has been... turned?’

Cirdan waved the Man to be seated. ‘I did not say such a thing—it would not be impossible, but I deem it would be nearly so, in any event. His attention has been drawn to the South, and he argues now with the Galadrim, and all my messages have fallen on deaf ears, it seems.’

‘But without Imladris...’

‘We will fight with the few archers we have. Surely your folk, Lord Cirdan...’

The Elf Lord nodded, his face grave. ‘There are a few archers among the folk of Lindon,’ he said. ‘But we are a peaceful folk, growing our food in our fields, and taking most of our meat from the Sea, with little need to hunt with bows. I will send what archers I can, though they will not be many.’

‘I will go,’ Bucca said into the silence that followed. ...though his rash words carry him far from the Shire, farther, even, than he was now, and perhaps no returning...

Cirdan did not seem surprised to see him there, nor at his contribution to the discussion.

The eyebrows of a prince of Rhovanion rose; he opened his mouth to speak but his brother beside him dug a sharp elbow into his ribs, whispering, ‘My son told me of this one, how he can shoot an arrow through a ring tossed into the sky...’

‘I thank you, Master Bucca,’ said Aranarth, rising to bow. ‘Perhaps we ought to have invited you to take part in our planning. Your bow would be most welcome.’

‘Especially if it were to be accompanied by those of your kinsfolk,’ Ciryanor said at his brother’s side. He had seen the arrows of the Shire-folk falling, a deadly rain, amongst the encroaching enemy, while he had still held out hope that they might prevail on the battlefield; he had seen Tokka’s arrow strike the Witch King and crumble to dust, just before one of Arvedui's aides had cried out, pointing to the thick smoke rising from the city, and inexorably the battle disintegrated into chaos. He had ridden for a good way northwards with his father the King, before breaking off to take a message to Cirdan, to beg a ship to the Ice Bay to retrieve the King and the small body of Men with him.

There was still an alliance of sorts between Elves and Men, in the face of a common Enemy, the Darkness that would destroy them all in its malice. Cirdan, if not Elrond, saw clearly the threat before them.

‘Yes,’ Aranarth said, his keen grey glance burning into Bucca’s eyes. ‘Any archers that you could gather, in the face of Imladris’ desertion, would be a boon.’

Bucca smiled grimly. He had been seeking a suitable excuse to go home, it was true, and every reason he’d brought up, to this point, had been quietly countered by Cirdan or the sons of Arvedui.

However, it seemed that the right time had come at last.

***
A/N: Yes, though I seldom write movie-verse, I sometimes refer to it if it doesn't conflict with book-verse. The opening to this chapter is a bow to Peter Jackson's "Fellowship", just because it seemed to fit.





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