Chapter 31. In which a rescue is interrupted (Warning: PG, at the least)

Farry was seized by cruel, ragged talons, with bruising force that felt as if the very bones of his arms were penetrated, and foul breath ghosted in his face, hot and reeking of blood.

‘You,’ Red said again, shaking the hobbit fiercely, but Farry bit down hard on the awful-tasting gag and made not a sound. ‘You... it’s all your doing. You knew!’

And Farry wondered how the ruffian knew that he knew, though it didn’t much matter in the long run. He was for it now, and his demise would be the thing of nightmares... though no nightmares would remain to him. He could only hope, when it was all over, that all his dreams would be peaceful ones, for he knew that the pain would be unbearable, and would go on for as long as Red could manage, and Farry could not even conceive what would happen to him, but what the fat man had described would be only the beginning of his sufferings.

The mad ruffian was babbling, his fingers opening and closing on Farry’s arms as he held the hobbit child suspended. ‘...make you pay,’ he gurgled, and Farry felt something wet and nasty spraying his face. It was Red’s blood, though he didn’t know it. The ruffian was burned and battered; the fat man had sent him out to fetch the ponies, after seeing the barrels and barrels lined up in the cavern, and the blast had rolled down over him, yet not with killing force.

He’d clawed his way back towards the cave, only to find the hillside blasted beyond recognition, and no sign of his brother. Gone. All gone in a flash of heat and light and smoke. The gold was gone, the fat man was gone, all was in ruin.

‘I’ll cut you to pieces,’ Red snarled, through teeth broken and bloody. ‘Slowly,’ he added. ‘O so slowly—had you a tongue you’d beg beautifully, not that it matters now...’

A detached part of Farry, standing off somehow from the terror, wondered how long it would take the ruffian to discover that he still—for the moment at least—retained tongue and eyes.

‘...and pull out your bowels, lovely ropes they make, you won’t need these bindings any more, for I’ll bind you hand and foot with your innards, and cut off your privates and stuff them down your throat, and...’

But suddenly Farry was flying through the air, and he landed hard and awkwardly, because of his bound hands and feet, shaking with reaction, hurting, confused.

There was a snarling sound nearby, and he thought of a dog-fight he’d seen, once, but hope had died in him, and he imagined, if wild dogs had attacked Red, either the dogs would win, and turn to tear Farry next, or Red would win... and Farry knew what would happen, then.

He couldn’t see it, to know that the youngest ruffian had returned from the cave, dropping the ponies' reins when he saw Red, and he’d run forward in a silent rush, grabbing at Farry, jerking him out of Red’s grasp, but the maddened Red was on him, sending Farry spinning to the ground as the two ruffians gripped each other like angry bears, striving for the advantage.

The young ruffian was able to bear Red to the ground, and he had his hands on Red’s throat, choking the life out of him, when suddenly Red’s hands fell away from the choking wrists and a red-hot agony lanced through the young ruffian, causing him to shriek out all the air his lungs held, to gasp for more air, despite the pain it cost him, and he instinctively pulled his hands from Red’s throat to grasp at his middle, where he felt a great gash, a wetness, the terrible feeling that he’d been sliced in twain.

Red wheezed with laughter, rolling away, regaining his feet, to totter towards the young hobbit, bloody knife still in his hand, but the young ruffian twisted, caught his leg with a foot aimed more by luck than skill, and brought him heavily to the ground where he lay stunned. The young ruffian, one arm desperately pressed against his midsection as tight as he could manage, took up a fair-sized rock with his free hand, bringing it down upon Red’s head once, twice, and again, with all the waning strength he could muster, while Red’s legs spasmed... and then the mad ruffian went suddenly limp, and still.

The young ruffian pried Red’s knife from his hand and turned to Farry, for he must cut the hobbit child’s bonds; Farry must not be left bound and helpless in the wild Green Hills, not with the dark coming on. Strange, he thought, wiping at his face with a bloody hand. He’d not thought it so late in the day, for the light to be fading so very rapidly. He fell to his knees at Farry’s side, brought the knife in close to the young hobbit’s body, to cut the ropes binding his wrists...

And gave a grunt of surprise as the first Tookish arrow thudded home.

Pippin ran to scoop up his son while the young ruffian was still twitching, chanting Farry’s name. He sat down upon the ground, cradling the lad, rocking him as if Farry were a very small hobbit, while the tears poured down his face.

Merry kicked the knife away from the ruffian’s hand. ‘This one’s done,’ he said, for to his experienced eye, while the man still fought for each gasp, his last would not be long in coming.

Sam looked up from the red-headed ruffian’s side. ‘This one’s not,’ he said.

‘Then bind him,’ Merry said.

The Mayor nodded.  He had a slim coil of rope in his pocket, thin but strong, for he never left home without rope, and it was quick work to bind the ruffian’s hands behind him.

Healer Fennel knelt beside the Thain. ‘Please, Sir,’ he said, trying to ease Pippin’s hands away. ‘Please. Let me see...’ It took no little coaxing, but at last he was able to slip the blindfold away... and stared... for the Talk had gone through the ranks, of what the Thain carried close to his heart.

‘Farry!’ he gasped, and then he grabbed Pippin’s arm, to shake him. ‘Look, Sir! Look at his face!’

And Pippin opened his eyes and looked, to see his son’s bright eyes, blinking, filled with wonder, as if the lad did not quite credit what he saw.

‘Farry,’ he whispered, scarcely breathing.

‘Da!’ Farry breathed, though it was muffled by the gag, and then he buried his head against his father’s coat, trembling.

Pippin worked the knots of the gag loose, gently pulled Farry’s head away and pulled the awful bloody cloth from his little son’s mouth before Farry could even spit the thing out. ‘Farry?’ he said.

‘O Da,’ Farry said again. ‘You came for me! You came!’

‘Of course I did,’ Pippin said, hugging the little one close. ‘Of course.’

‘Let’s get these bindings off,’ practical Fennel said, and finding the knots resisting him, he warned Farry to keep quite still, just for a moment. He took out his knife, and began to saw at the bindings, but his knife had little effect. ‘What in the—?’ he said.

‘What is it?’ Pippin said, worried all over again.

‘Some sort of metal, twisted in with the hemp. Steel, perhaps,’ Fennel said. ‘It’s tough and strong. I’ll need a sharper blade.’

‘Here,’ Merry said, extending the ruffian’s knife to the healer. ‘This one’s got a good edge on it.’

And so Fennel sawed away at the stubborn bindings, parting them strand by strand, until Farry’s hands were free and the little lad could throw his arms about his father’s neck, holding tight as if he’d never let go.

‘Water,’ the young ruffian gasped. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘...pity...’

‘As much pity as you showed the lad?’ Sam said grimly, but he’d finished binding the battered, red-haired ruffian, and now he took out his water bottle and held it to the younger ruffian’s lips. He knew the torment of a dry mouth, himself, and at least the fellow would die with what little comfort Sam could offer.

But Farry had heard the exchange, and he looked over, to see the young ruffian, a gaping wound in his middle, and feathered with Tookish arrows, and he drew a shuddering breath, and tears spilled from his eyes. ‘He saved me, Da,’ he sobbed. ‘He saved me, when the other’s would’ve...’

His gaze met the young ruffian’s, and of a wonder the Man smiled. The lad was safe, and in the arms of his father, and all was well. All would be well. He didn’t know how he knew this fact, but he did. The world was dimming around him, but he’d accomplished his aim, and that was more than a great many others might be able to say, his erstwhile companions among them. The struggle for air seemed far too much trouble now, and a gentle Presence hovered, whispering to him, and he smiled, and his spirit broke free of its bonds, of fear and doubt and pain, and winged its way, swift and sure, to the place that had been prepared for him.

And Sam saw the light leave the staring eyes, and he corked his water bottle and put it away, and then reached to close the eyes, now that the light had left them, while Farry sobbed, staring at the body, from his father’s lap. I never even knew his name! the young hobbit gulped. I never even thanked him!

Then Farry’s eyes widened, and he choked off his sobs as Red moved, and hissed at the pain of his many abrasions and battered head, and he looked down, to see Red’s knife in the healer’s hand, as Fennel grimly worked at the bindings at Farry’s ankles. And he buried his head once more in Pippin’s coat, and stayed there, in that place of refuge, though his father coaxed and soothed.

Sam knew immediately what troubled the young hobbit, and he got to his feet, saying to Merry, ‘Well, I suppose the next order of business is to dispose of the rubbish.’

The brawny man, draped over a nearby pony, stiffened in dread.

Pippin looked up. ‘O yes,’ he said, with a vague wave. ‘Take care of it, will you Samwise?’

Sam chuckled, a dry sound. ‘That’s just what my Rosie always says,’ he said, and he garnered some help from the hovering hobbits. It was not long before Red was slung over a pony’s back, and Sam and Tolly and an adequate guard, after consulting with Merry (and a half-listening Pippin), began the journey to the bounds, to “toss the refuse out of the Shire” as it were, to give the border-watching Rangers something to do, that they might not find time falling too heavy on their hands.