Author’s Note:  This has been a very difficult month for me, so when I found myself with any energy to write, I chose to spend it hammering out this chapter, which was incredibly troublesome.(I really really REALLY hate writing action!)  I hang my head in shame for not managing to find a few minutes to at least tell my reviewers, “Thank you, I VERY much appreciate you taking the time to review,” because I most certainly DO appreciate every single word!  I will try to do better in the future, promise!

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Chapter XIX

Expect the Unexpected

Although their first instinct was to simply shed their assumed hroär and leave the surrounding brigands befuddled, both Manwë and Olórin recognized an instant later that this was a rare instance in which they need not remain inactive in order to preserve free will.  As the four Men had approached them of their own incentive, so too had they brought themselves into this place and this state of their own freely made choices.  While shedding their forms would be convenient, remaining as they were would give them an opportunity to do something about these ruffians, who clearly had no love for Hobbits, nor compunctions against harming them.  While Manwë's powers were still very limited by his lack of familiarity with this kind of corporeal state, they were still able to speak to one another via the swift silence of mind-speech.  In the brief moment they exchanged a single glance, they also held converse.

Do you still remember how to fight, my lord? Olórin asked cheekily, though his expression betrayed nothing of it, nor of the fact that in his thoughts, he indicated the walking sticks that were on the ground between their seats, barely visible in the wavering firelight.

Manwë's inner snort went unheard.  Well enough, he answered drolly.  But I deem we should not be the ones to begin this fight.

The Maia agreed, adding grimly, Though if they begin it, we shall finish it.  And his brother silently concurred.

The four ruffians were, of course, totally unaware that anything had been said or done in that bare fraction of a second that it took in osánwë.  They pushed into the covered space, heads barely missing the low and slanted excuse for a roof as they tried to make use of the shelter and warmth they had done nothing to make.  Manwë wrinkled his nose as he afforded them a mild glance.  "Stinking rats," were they?  If anything stank here, it was the wet and dirty and plainly unwashed Men, but he kept the thought to himself, as it would surely be considered provocative.

"Oh dear, I don't think we have quite enough for everyone, after all," he said instead, giving an unplanned but remarkably good impression of Bilbo's consternation on the day he'd been beset by strange Dwarves who'd interrupted his afternoon tea.  Olórin had to struggle to hide his laughter, though Manwë felt it in his thoughts.  He gave the intruders a warmly cheerful smile.  "Still, we'll gladly share what we have, and a warm bite to eat on a chilly evening is better than nothing at all, wouldn't you say?"  

Spoken like a true Hobbit, was the younger Ainu's amused subvocal response.

The Men, unfortunately, were not so charitable.   "Nah, I've got a better idea," said the ruffian who'd already spoken — apparently their leader — with a rude curl of his lips.  "How's 'bout we just take everythin' ya got, an' we'll see if we feel like sharin' any of it with you?"  The other Men chortled at his suggestion.  It was clear that they planned to take whatever they wanted, and give only threats and abuse. 

Olórin's mild response was the lift of one eyebrow.  "And what makes you think we have anything, other than a small pot, half-full of assorted nutmeats?  We're not wealthy travelers."

An assortment of snorts and rough laughter was the reaction to that claim.  "'S not what we heard tell," the Man with the axe said with a most unpleasant smile, made even more unpleasant by the state of his teeth.  "Word up 'long th' Road says some well-off Shire rats'd be comin' by this-a way, t'day or tomorr'r."  He grinned at his fellows.  "They look nice 'n' plump 'n' ready fer pickin' t' me, don't they, lads?"

While the Men chortled and pressed more closely to the fire, Manwë pressed his lips together in a tight line of annoyance.  I hadn't expected that choosing healthy hroär would be a detriment, he muttered to Olórin in osánwë.  Aloud, he said, "Now, there you're wrong, gentlemen.  I assure you, this will be the first meal I've had in days!"  Which was the absolute truth, since he had had no call to break bread with any of the Children in Aman for several weeks.

Since anyone who knew anything about Hobbits was well aware of their habit of eating well and often, it was hardly surprising when that remark was answered with sounds of utter disbelief.  The leader of the group slapped his bludgeon into the palm of one meaty hand, making a loud and unsettling smack!  "Sure ya haven't," he sneered.  "Jus' like yer poor and penniless!   We've got eyes t' see, same as you, an' it's plain as plain that those ain't no farmhand's worn out work clothes on yer backs."  He'd moved close enough to prod the elder "hobbit's" chest with his heavy stick.  "A right fancy weskit, there, wi' gold buttons, an' a fine heavy wool coat wi' a velvet collar an' all.  Ye've got a fine heavy purse somewhere's, too, I reckon, t' pay fer it all!"

 The others muttered in agreement.  The two who had pushed their way in opposite the larger "entrance" moved closer; their rough motions caused a shower of dust and old ash debris to fall from the remains of the roof above them.  "Gold buttons an' silver buckles," the one with the iron-heavy club grumbled.  "An' that sparkler there hain't no bit o' broken glass!"  He used the club to point out the shimmering ring on Olórin's right hand.  Inwardly, the Maia winced, having forgotten that perhaps it would have been more prudent to leave his Gift behind, or at least render it invisible to Mortal eyes.  Too late now.

The ruffian with the large knife drew it from its worn sheath, baring his teeth in a feral grin.  "Then let's skin 'em both!" he chortled.  "Betcha they'll recollect where they left the coin they say they ain't got if we takes all them fine clothes an' kicks 'em out inter th' cold rain!" 

"Aye, that ought'r do it," the leader agreed.  "But I'm fer some o' those chestnuts, first.  No sense wastin' good food on fat lazy Shire rats.  Here, hand 'em over an' be quick about it!"  

Manwë bristled at that description.  He was getting quite tired of being called a rat, and while he hadn't devised forms for them that were slender as reeds, he knew he hadn't chosen any shape that could be called fat, never mind lazy.   He was about to speak when he heard Olórin's silent whisper.  In a moment — be ready.  No further explanation was needed.

"Hurry it up there," the axe-wielder said when they didn't comply instantly.  He poked the disguised Vala's shoulder with the butt of the axe handle.  "Or we'll be skinnin' more'n jus' th' clothes off o' ye."

Olórin gave a huge sigh of surrender, and reached for the pot hanging over the flames — without using anything to protect his hand from the heated metal, which he knew would be quite hot.  But he grasped it casually, as if it were perfectly cool to the touch.  He felt the burn of it against his not-quite-fleshly skin, but let not so much as a twinge of the semi-real pain register on his face or in his movements.  And he deliberately took his time about it, making it look as if he was having a problem getting the pot handle off the hook.

As anticipated, that did not sit well with any of the ruffians.  "C'mon, hurry it up!" snarled the one brandishing the knife, giving the younger Ainu a less than gentle kick with one muddy boot for emphasis.

Even though the kick hadn't truly hurt, Olórin made a sound as if it had, for the benefit of the ruffians.  Their glee in having the two not-halflings apparently at their mercy would put them off their guard, such as it was.  It also gave Manwë an opportunity to believably cringe away from their threat, one arm coming up in a warding-off gesture while the other dropped to his side, away from the nearing brigands and, conveniently, much closer to his steel-shod walking stick.  Thus, when the Maia lifted the pot off the hook with a resigned groan, the leader of the Men pressed forward eagerly to snatch it away.

Now!

When the ruffian leaned over to grab the pot, Olórin met his motion with a lunge of his own, pushing the thing into his bare hand.  It was hot from the fire, much hotter than the disguised Istar had made it seem.  The Man screamed at the unexpected pain, but when he tried to snatch his burned hand away, Olórin simply pushed harder.  He shoved the scorching hot metal into the thug's belly with such force, the Man stumbled back, lost his footing on the loose rubble, and landed so hard on his backside that the breath was forced from his lungs and he dropped his bludgeon. 

In that same moment, Manwë grabbed his walking stick.  With fluid motions and a strength that belied his apparent age, he struck the arm of the knife-wielder, numbing it so that he could not hold his weapon; he then aimed it backward, so that the stick's steel foot came up squarely under the chin of axe-Man, causing his head to snap back with such force, he fell onto his back,  unconscious. 

The Man with the iron-weighted club let out an angry roar when he saw the two "Shire rats" attack his cohorts.  He lunged forward as best he could, given the limited space and the clutter of debris, swinging his club with the clear intent of flattening Manwë.  Olórin, however, had picked up the rock his brother had used as a nutcracker, and with the unerring accuracy of many hobbits, he threw it at the ruffian, hard.  It hit him smack in the middle of his face; a bellow of pain and gush of blood from his nose followed, along with an involuntary flood of tears in his eyes.  His swing went far wide of his mark, and the force of it sent him stumbling perilously near the fire.

"Y' filthy vermin!" The snarl came from the knife-Man -- more aptly, Lost Knife Man -- who, though numb of arm and currently weaponless, was the least injured of them.  "I'll skin th' both o' ye wi' me bare hands...!"  The threat would've been much more effective, if his right arm had been better able to cooperate.  

Despite his bloody nose, the Man with the weighted club managed to recover his balance before tripping into the fire.  Enraged, Bloody Nose started to swing his club to smash Olórin's skull, but Manwë deftly brought up his walking stick to hit him in the gut, knocking him back as he simultaneously avoided the Lost Knife's lunge.  The Maia scooped up a handful of hot cinders from the fire and flung them into the face of the downed leader, who'd gotten his breath back and was attempting to regain his feet.  

"Kill them!!!" the burnt Man shrieked even as he tried to claw the searing ashes from his face and eyes.  The other two who were still conscious tried to do so, but Lost Knife couldn't spot his weapon amid the rubble on the ground, and Olórin now had his own walking stick in hand.  Both not-hobbits were clearly prepared to defend themselves — and moreover had shown themselves to be quite capable of it — which made their opponents hesitate.  Like the ruffians who had despoiled the Shire on Saruman's orders, they were unused to Little Folk willing and able to fight back.

"Come along, now," Lost Knife said in a smarmily reasonable tone even as he tried to look about for his lost weapon, or anything that might serve as one, while the out-of-breath Bloody Nose gasped for air and tried to staunch the bleeding with the back of one filthy sleeve.  "It ain't worth all this scufflin' about, jus' fer a few coins, now, is it?  Hand 'em over along wi' that there ring, an' we'll be on our way."

Olórin snorted his opinion of that suggestion, while Manwë offered a cheerfully chilling smile.  "I've a better idea," the disguised Vala said, his words mild, but the tone beneath them implacable.  "Why don't you and your friends leave, now, while you have a chance."  It was not a question, but an assurance of what would happen if they persisted.

Bloody Nose spat — though whether in derision or to clear the thick fluids choking him was not clear — while Lost Knife hissed and Leader bared his teeth.  "A chance?!" the last of the three growled as he once again tried to climb to his feet.  The action was hampered by his burned hand and the grit still in his eyes.  "I'll give ye—"

But whatever threat he'd been about to make was cut off by the sound of a horn being blown in the near distance.  Before it had even begun to fade, it was answered by another call, from the opposite direction, at a similar distance.

Both of the Men still on their feet swore.  "It's a trap!" Lost Knife cried, abruptly realizing — or so he thought — why two simple halflings could so effectively stand up to four armed Men.  "Them bleedin' Shirrifs've gone an' set us up!"

"Not me!" Bloody Nose declared, giving up on the fight to push his way out of ruins to freedom.  He used his club to knock away a part of the roof that had come down when he and the still unconscious Axe Man had forced their way in; another shower of dirt and debris fell as he did so, along with some of the rain.

Lost Knife would've followed him, but for the fact that the two armed hobbits and the stupefied Axe Man were blocking the way.   Leader grabbed Knife's belt, using the added leverage to pull himself to his feet and almost bringing them both down in the process.  "Split up!" he ordered, pushing the weaponless Man back out the way they'd come, giving him a second shove to get him running across the road and to the southeast while he headed for the northeast.  

The incognito Ainur did not give pursuit, especially when they heard the clamor of scuffles coming from all three directions in which the brigands had fled; the fluent cursing and noises of pain that followed made it clear that the Men were on the losing side of the conflict.  The sound of galloping ponies along the road underscored the fact that this was no accidental engagement.

Manwë looked over the mess the ruffians had made of their semi-cosy little refuge from the rain while Olórin made sure the fire was still properly contained.  The Vala sighed, seeing the discarded pot and the scattered and trampled nutmeats.  "Waste of perfectly good food," he sniffed, then cast a jaundiced eye at the remaining Man, who was just beginning to make sounds of reviving.  "It would also seem that in a pinch, there is no such thing as honor among thieves.  Are you well?" he asked the Maia, concerned that he might have taken harm from handling hot metal and coals in this unusual incarnation.

But Olórin shook his head.  "I'm far better acquainted with this kind of hroä and how to make use of my natural abilities while in it.  Even if you haven't acclimated yet, you acquitted yourself quite creditably," he added with a twinkle in his eyes.  A slight nod of the head indicated the downed axe-wielder.  "It may have been a long time since you last fought, but it seems you haven't forgotten how."

Manwë answered with a small smile and a shadow of ancient sadness in his eyes.  "Some things, you dare not forget more than once."  He cocked his head in thought as he studied the fellow on the ground.  He tried to extend his powers to do a better examination of the Man, but was still frustrated by his inability to do more than receive a very vague impression that he was at least alive and in no danger of dying. "I hope I didn't cause him serious harm."

The former wizard picked his way over debris the Men had kicked about in their haste to flee to pick up the dagger Lost Knife hadn't been able to find, though Olórin could see exactly where it had been dropped all along.  "The Eruhíni may seem frail, but we often underestimate their hardiness.  I can tell from here that he didn't do worse than rattle his brains when he fell.  He'll have a lovely headache when he comes around, no doubt, but no worse than that."

The Vala accepted that diagnosis, since he could at least tell that his brother wasn't relying on ordinary Mortal senses to make his appraisal.  It was mildly annoying, being unable to use his powers as easily, but he allowed, without rancor, that it was part of the price he owed for keeping his distance from Endórë for so very long.  The lessons he was learning from it were worth the temporary inconvenience.  "Do you think we should find something to use to restrain him before he does come around?"

Olórin had been thinking just that.  "Our belts would suit, if naught else, though I wonder if we oughtn't to fetch some of the Shirrifs to handle it...."

The question was settled when they heard the rustle of people approaching from the direction of the road — hobbits, from the sound of it, not Men.  A moment later, three stout halflings carefully made there way into the semi-sheltered area, which was dripping more rainwater on the far side, from where two of the ruffians had pushed in past the fallen roof.  All were damp with rain; two wore hooded brown cloaks and the third a wool hat with a somewhat weather-bedraggled feather drooping to one side.  All three carried staves of a more weapon-like sort than those of the disguised Ainur, with daggers at their belts; the two with hoods also carried coils of rope slung at their shoulders.

The hobbit with the hat — one of the official Shirrifs — smiled broadly when he saw the two strangers.  "Ah, this explains why Ned and Barlo had us hurry along, afore they'd had a chance to by 'waylaid' by these louts!  We had a notion they've been holing up somewheres along this road, but not in the 'secret hideout' of Orell Wilkin's young 'uns!  Did they nab you on the road and drag you here?"

Manwë chuckled while Olórin returned the wide smile.  "If Ned and Barlo were supposed to be the 'well-off Shire rats' these brutes were expecting to pass this way, then I imagine that was their plan!  But we were on our way up to Waymeet when the rain and wind grew foul enough for us to seek some sort of shelter, and warmth.  Likely that's what drew them here, the sight of our fire and the promise of easy pickings."

One of the hooded hobbits barked with laughter.  "Not so easy, if that one there's a sample of how you greeted 'em!"  He nodded to the Man on the ground, who was beginning to groan his way toward consciousness.  "And from the look of the other two we caught making tracks across the road, you dealt with them just as handily."

A small frown narrowed Manwë's eyes.  "There was a third, headed in the opposite direction.  Did he escape?"

"Oh, no," the Shirrif assured him.  "We've had people trying to track down these four since they started causing trouble along the roads, back in the spring.  We were hoping to catch all of them at the once, so we had plenty of the local lads, like Ferri and Talb, here, out to help tonight."

"They've been thieving from our farms and harassing our women-folk and youngsters," Ferri, the one who'd laughed, said grimly.

Talb nodded.  "We were right sorry to hear they'd caught innocent folk, instead of Ned and Barlo.  They were coming south on the road, expecting the ruffians to jump 'em, when they spotted the light from your fire an' saw this gang head in, all stealthy-like."

"They heard enough to signal for the rest of us to come," the Shirrif said.  "The Captain, he was right worried that whoever they'd caught might come to harm before we could close in.  They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Olórin shrugged. "No more than a bit of shoving and rough talk."  He offered the Shirrif the knife he'd collected.  "The one who'd had this threatened to use it to skin us."

The hobbit took it with a sour expression.  "I'd be willing to wager he used it more often to pick locks and stab a few people in the back.  They haven't done no killing yet that we know of — not of our own folk, anyways — but they've hurt folks they've robbed, and were getting too bold in their thieving.  It was time to deal with 'em proper, afore winter sets in and there's nothing in the fields and orchards for them to steal.  Nobody wanted 'em to start thinking about robbing a snug little house or hole to winter in."

"Should we truss up this one, Mardo?" Ferri asked, seeing as the Man would likely be more trouble once he'd fully come around.

Mardo, the Shirrif, gave a nod of approval.  "Aye, that'll be safer.  Dando Thatcher's bringing up his wagon to haul 'em down to Whitwell.  Captain made arrangements with the Thain to hold them there 'til it's decided what to do with 'em."

"Is there a usual punishment for their kind of thieving?" Manwë wondered while his brother went to give the others a hand with the soon-to-be captive brigand.  The Elder King knew a great deal about Hobbits and their ways, but if he'd known this, it was locked in a part of his mind he couldn't quite access at the moment.  But that, he knew, was a lesson about how the Mortals lived, for few of them had the powers of recall that even the Eldar enjoyed, much less the Ainur.

Mardo made a vague gesture while Olórin went to assist the others.  "Afore the Troubles, we didn't much need 'em; usually the Thain or the Master or the Mayor decided what was to be done, if the need arose.  Most times, they were made to work off what debt was owed to those they'd robbed.  After the right mess Sharkey's Big Men made of the Shire, though, the Thain'd like nothing more'n to take this lot and bury 'em in the deepest hole ever dug.  But the Captain, he wants the new King to deal with 'em and all their like.  Not a bad idea, mind you, since the Big Folk are better fixed'n we are for dealing with their own kind, but...."  

He shrugged again, considering the matter too weighty for him, a simple Shirrif, to judge.  "Well, that's for the Thain to decide.  Our job is to round 'em up and get 'em down to Whitwell.  A pleasanter job in better weather, but not tonight!"

While Mardo explained the situation to Manwë, the others made their way over rubble at the far side of the "shelter" where the downed Man was stirring, the two hobbits to the left and Olórin to the right.  "Take care," the Maia warned as he spared a moment to glance at the dripping beams and thatch where the Men had pushed in — and out again.  "Between our scuffle and their forced entrance, things may not be as stable as they once were."

Ferri snorted as he took the rope coil from his shoulder.  "My youngsters play here with the Wilkins lads.  Can't say as I've ever thought of this place as 'stable'!"

Talb agreed.  "Can't for the life of me figure why it's still here.  I can see why Cadaroc didn't build here again, but most everything else the ruffians ruined was put to good use fixing things up again."

"There's no good use left in burned wood and fire-cracked brick, left to rot for years," Ferri pointed out.  "Let's start with his feet.  I don't want him trying to kick or run on us afore we've got him bound good an' proper."

"You're not from these parts, are you?" the Shirrif asked Manwë while the others prepared to restrain the ruffian.  "Can't remember seeing either of you hereabouts before."

"My brother and I are from much farther west," the Vala said in perfect honesty.  "We took it into our heads to hike up to Waymeet, but we weren't counting on this weather.  Foolish, I know," he added with an abashed smile.  "It's an unpredictable time of year."  And that could be true even in Aman, unless the Powers deliberately controlled the elements, which they seldom did in these latter days.  Life with no uncertainties became dangerously boring.

Mardo snorted his agreement.  "Neither did we, but this looked to be our best chance to finally catch these louts."  He was about to say more when the clop of pony hoofs and the rattle of wheels on the road interrupted.  "That'd be Dando with the wagon.  I'll go fetch my brothers to give a hand hauling this 'un out."

Manwë watched his go, then turned back to the others.  The two true hobbits had crouched down to start binding the axe-man's ankles.  Ferri, being more stout of build than Talb, found the space too restrictive; when he bent down, his back end pressed hard against the half-fallen beam behind him.  He shifted to make his work easier, and pushed so hard against the obstacle, it shifted position.  

That caused a part of the slanted roof near Olórin to shift even more precariously, showering him with dirt and burnt rubble and rainwater.  He instinctively attempted to hold up the part that was sagging, to make certain that if anything more shifted and fell, it would not fall on them or the two hobbits, who tried to hurry their work, seeing the danger.  The Man was starting shift about as he struggled back to consciousness, and the movement of his legs made their work more difficult.

Manwë saw the added danger of the fire, which could cause even greater problems if it spread, especially with their mostly-dry cloaks hanging so near it.  He had collected them from where Olórin had put them to dry and was about to poke the fire into a smaller, neater shape when a motion caught from the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the others.  He gasped, and cried out almost as swiftly as he tried unsuccessfully to reach for his powers.  

"LOOK OUT!!!"

On the heels of his shout, several things happened in far too quick succession.  The ruffian — who had been more awake and aware than he'd let on — kicked out with one leg, pushing back the two hobbits who'd been trying to bind him.  At the same time, the hand that had been lying lax upon the haft of his axe grasped it and swung the blade toward Olórin.  

Fortunately, he hadn't the time to shift the weapon in his grip, to aim the sharp edge at the not-hobbit, but he struck him with the flat of the heavy blade with enough force to cause the Maia's knees to buckle and his footing to slip on the damp pavers and loose rubble.  While Olórin fought to recover his balance, Ferri attempted to spring onto the brigand, without success.  The Man kicked him, hard, knocking him back into Talb.  Both hobbits slammed into and through the wall of decaying thatch, pulling the already unstable beam even farther out of place.  

While that was happening behind him, the Man pushed himself onto one elbow to take a second and more effective swing with his axe.  Olórin just barely managed to turn himself in time to avoid the wicked edge, which whistled past his midsection with less than an inch to spare.  

Unfortunately, the twisting move caused him to lose his balance, and let the blade of the axe swing with full force into one of the more rotted timbers of the fallen roof.  It broke, and a large piece of more solid wood fell, now free from whatever had been holding it up.  Even as he lost his footing, it slammed into the back of Olórin's unprotected head a moment before what was left of the beams and thatch and a part of the scorched brick wall came crashing down, burying the suddenly senseless Maia along with the hapless ruffian.

Next:

Complications