At Your Service

Man and beast together had depleted the small store of healing salve in his pack, even with reserving it for the worst of their wounds. He’d sought out fresh healing herbs in the nearby thickets to crush and steep in hot water before sponging the shallower wounds, his ears tuned for trouble all the while. When he’d returned to their hiding place, horse and rider hadn’t moved.

Now Bandobras dropped the freshly bloodied pocket-handkerchief back into his cookpot. ‘There,’ he said to the horse, lying on its belly, shivering, forelegs folded underneath, rather uncannily cat-like. ‘That’s the worst of them.’ 

*** 

He jerked awake, not sure what had changed. Use your eyes, you fool of a Took! rang in his memories. Cautious, he opened his eyelids to mere slits. He’d escaped the goblins once before by feigning unconsciousness and then jumping up, darting into the underbrush, and exercising the hobbity art of disappearing swiftly and silently to its utmost. All he saw were stars shining overhead, and two large lumps that resolved into the horse and his rider, apparently asleep. He’d put out his fire as darkness fell, had huddled in his cloak, bow held ready – and fallen asleep! Fool, indeed.

*** 

Grey morning light. Bandobras lifted his head from his breast, though he hadn’t slept again. The Took hadn’t heard them move in the night, so intently had he been listening to the nightly noises, but the horse had rolled to its side and now lay stretched out, rider kneeling beside him. The Man’s steady gaze met his. Too late to disappear. Though he’d seen Men in the North Country before, he’d typically watched them from cover. They were different from goblins, he deemed, but also nearly twice his height – and he was remarkably tall for a hobbit, even a Fallohide.

*** 

He’d lit the fire again at dawn; flames wouldn’t betray them now, and his chosen fuel would give off little smoke. Bandobras raised his steaming mug of tea to the stranger, saying, ‘Wanderer. Can’t say I’ve ever heard that name before, or even that sort of name.’ 

The Man smiled, lifting his own mug, larger than the hobbit’s. ‘At your service,’ he said with a dip of his chin.

‘And at yours,’ Bandobras returned.

‘Indeed,’ the Man said. He drank, set his cup aside, and carefully rotated his injured shoulder. ‘Nearly as good as new.’ Grey eyes darkened as he surveyed his prostrate horse. ‘If I might ask...’ he added.

What he wanted was for Bandobras to heat more water, as it turned out. As the Took watched, he extracted leaves from a pouch at his neck, crumpled them and cast them into the steaming pot, from which a refreshing fragrance arose. ‘What...?’ the hobbit said, leaning forward.

‘Athelas,’ Wanderer replied, leaving Bandobras no wiser. But bathing the horse’s wounds seemed to ease the beast. ‘He’ll grow stronger,’ the Man said, sitting back on his heels. ‘But I cannot wait. Can you keep him for me until I can return?’

***