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One Who Sticks Closer than a Brother  by Lindelea

Chapter 1. For All the Wrong Reasons

He’d had too much drink, last night, and even though it was a-purpose he rued the pain in his head, the awful pain, as if Dwarves had somehow shrunk themselves pin-sized and were plying their hammers inside his skull. They were making a din that would waken the dead, Tolly thought, though Sweetie slept peacefully beside him, even a smile on her face, as if she danced in pleasant dreams.

Might as well leave her there, and not waken her to the cold light of reality. Blearily, he raised himself up, blinking at the clock in the light of the watch-lamp. Four? No, nearer five, he’d overslept himself, and no wonder, with all he’d had to drink. But they’d been toasting a fellow hobbit of the Thain’s escort out of the world, and there ought to be no stinting on the drink, in such case.

But dawn would be coming soon, and time to seek the body, drowned the previous day, saving the life of the son of the Thain and all but one of his trouble-making cousins, who’d gone on a lark along with Farry, a lark that had turned deadly serious before the day was out.

The lads had thought to betake themselves fishing—fishing! ...to celebrate the coming of the Spring. Fishing! This time of year, when the streams were running high and fast. The days might be warming, growing longer, but there’d be no proper fishing for some weeks yet. There had been a rope across the path leading to the best fishing place near Tuckborough, for the path led up along a bluff, overlooking the Tuckbourn, and with the water running so high and fast, the path was deemed unsafe.

The lads, however, thought they knew better than the grown-ups, and they’d slipped past the warnings and gone up the path, and as they walked along the top of the bluff the bank crumpled, throwing one of them into the wild waters, leaving two others clinging to tree roots, a temporary refuge at best, with the bank crumbling away under their weight and the assault of the rampaging stream.

One of the lads, thankfully, had lagged a little behind, and going for help, he’d found Ferdibrand, Farry’s uncle, former head of the Thain’s escort and now the Thain’s special assistant, spotting birds with his adopted son Rudi. Ferdibrand had sent Rudi running back to the Smials for help, and he’d gone with a panting Palangrim, one of the worst young troublemakers in the Smials, to do what he could, for it would be more than an hour before rescuers would arrive with ropes.

Ferdi had managed to get Odobard to safety, using a broken branch for a ladder of sorts, and had fastened his own belt around Farry, securing the son of the Thain to thick tree roots that were protruding from the bank, as they waited for Odo to top the lip of the bank. Farry was to climb up next, and then Ferdi... but the bank crumbled away, throwing Farry’s uncle into the wild waters.

Ferdi could swim—the Thain insisted that all hobbits of the escort must acquire this unTookish skill—but the roaring stream devoured him hungrily, closing over his head, sweeping him away as if he’d never been, and the rescuers had arrived to find only Farry clinging to the bank, with Ferdi’s belt—all that was left of him.

The hobbits of escort had begun the search at once, not that they expected to find aught but lifeless bodies. The drowned lad they found two miles downstream, but there’d been no sign of Ferdibrand at all.

When darkness fell, the escort took themselves off to the Spotted Duck in Tuckborough, drowning themselves in drink, as it were. They’d have to take up the search again on the morrow, but frankly, none of them had cared a fig.

And now, the morrow was here.

Tolly’s eyes felt like peeled eggs, and the room seemed clothed in mist, but he blinked the mist away as best he could, rose from the bed, cursing the dizziness that seized him, and pulled on his clothing.

With a last look at sleeping Meadowsweet, he walked unsteadily from the room, as softly as only a hobbit may go, down the little hall to the sitting room, letting himself out into the corridor. No one was about. The dairymaids would have gone to the milking already, and the bakers would be in the kitchens, at work on the breakfast breads, but it was that in-between time when the early risers were already at their tasks and the rest of the Smials inhabitants were still in their slumbers.

Tolly ought to summon the other hobbits of escort—his brother Hilly, Adelard, Haldegrim, and Isenard—but really, why rouse all of them from their drunken state, when one would do just as well. He could ride down one side of the stream and up the other, looking for Ferdi’s remains, just as easily as anyone else. And with all they’d had at the Spotted Duck, last night, how well would their eyes be working, anyhow?

He didn’t stop to ask himself how well his own eyes were working. He owed this to Ferdi, who’d stood up with him at his wedding, who’d been first to bring a present at each of his children’s Naming celebrations, who’d stuck to him like a cockle-burr, even when the threat of banishment hung over their heads...

He shook his head at the last thought, which didn’t make sense. Must have been a dream, poured out of one of the bottles they’d emptied last night. In any event, he and Ferdi were closer than brothers, though they were only cousins, and he’d search until he found the hobbit, no matter how long it took.

The stones of the courtyard were icy underfoot, heavy frost lying over everything as if it were a light coating of snow; and he could see his breath in the night air. But spring nights could be frosty, and dawn would be coming soon. He was glad to duck into the relative warmth of the stables, where the ponies were still sleeping, for the most part. There was no sound except the snoring of the stable hobbit who had the night duty, lying on a pile of straw in the first stall, and the isolated thud of a hoof against the boards.

The jingle of bit and bridle seemed loud in the silence, as Tolly carried his tack to Wren’s stall. His favourite pony was smaller than most, but had a larger heart, or so he liked to brag. The sleepy gelding lifted his head in surprise at Tolly’s advent, at this hour, and then lowered it again to snuffle at the hobbit’s pockets. Tolly always carried broken bits of carrot, refreshed daily, but for some reason his pockets were empty, and he stroked the soft neck in silent apology before saddling and bridling the beast.

He stopped to lean his pounding head on the cool, smooth neck, and closed his eyes. His thoughts were slow and muddled—all to be blamed on the drink, he supposed. He’d never quite drowned his sorrows so prodigiously, before.

He led Wren from the stall to the yard, mounted, and rode at a walk across the stones, until he reached the soft turf, and then he leaned forward to urge the pony to a little faster pace—not too fast in the darkness—setting their course for the fishing path on the Tuckbourn, perhaps an hour away, at an easy pace. He’d start near where Ferdi had fallen in, just in case they’d missed the hobbit, and work his way downstream from there.

One of the dairymaids emerged from the barn, hearing the clopping of hoofs, and stared after the departing pony, and another behind her said, ‘Who was that, Blossom?’

‘I don’t know,’ Blossom said. ‘Messenger, going out for the Thain, perhaps? It looked like the head of escort—his Wren’s a bit smaller than most.’

‘What would Tolly be doing, going out again so soon? Why, he just got back yesterday afternoon, not long before teatime, and he’d been riding all night for two nights before!’

‘And all day, in between,’ Blossom agreed. ‘You’d think the Thain would give him more than just the afternoon and evening.’

‘I’d say! He ought to have a week of rest, after riding to the Bounds and back, and...’ the other dairymaid dropped her voice to a whisper, though they were they only ones there in the doorway, ‘and seeing what the Rangers do to ruffians caught in the Shire...’

‘What do they do, anyhow?’ Blossom hissed.

‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ came the answer, ‘but it’s something awful, you can be sure of it.’

‘Blossom! Poppy! Come along, or we’ll never get all these mums milked!’

The two gossipers gave a guilty start and turned back into the barn.





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