Family Matters

Prologue: Background and Explanation

It can sometimes be difficult to write reams of fanfic, all intertwined and related, and keep track of all the threads. The "writing reams" part came about almost by accident; LOTR was my comfort during a long stretch of ill health; I read and re-read the epic and imagined what happened to the characters during gaps and after Sam returned from seeing Frodo off at the Grey Havens. Then after the first film came out, someone introduced me to the phenomenon of fanfiction, and I had an outlet for my imaginings! Plus a wealth of related reading material. It felt, somehow, like I'd won the lottery.

The Greening of the Year (set in the summer of the year the Treasury was recovered after Pippin became Thain; see StarFire) has been nagging at me for a while now, and while re-reading Runaway I suddenly realised why. Tolly's children in Runaway are older than they ought to be, considering the timeline of stories that have written themselves over the past years. (And the fault is mine, not Jo's, for I gave her free rein in the writing, and didn't think to cross-check older stories when I fixed the date of Tolly's wedding in StarFire.)

The Muse has been chewing at the problem for some time now, and suddenly snatched this story from where it had been ripening on a dusty shelf in the lumber room, laying it out on the table and demanding that something be done. 

Originally an epilogue of sorts, detailing Eglantine's triumphant return to the Great Smials after going missing and being feared dead, this sort of ballooned into a larger story centred around Tolly, his coming to terms with to being rescued by one he was supposed to be safeguarding, and just how he and his wife came to have children older than their marriage. 

Don't worry; the other in-progress stories are still in progress. Will keep posting updates to all the WIPs as planned. While much of this is from the viewpoint of an OC, Pippin (and perhaps Sam and Merry) will have much to do in the story, at least the way the draft reads at present. I even managed to have a little fun with Pippin, who has to deal with something of a role reversal when, as the story plays out, he finds himself the only sensible one in a growing body of (seemingly) nonsensible Tooks. 

Short synopsis of The Greening of the Year:

Tolibold Took, a hobbit of the Thain's escort (expert archers who are responsible for the safety of the Thain and his family), is escorting Pippin's mother, Eglantine, through the wild Green Hills as she returns to the Great Smials from a visit to her daughter Pearl on the family farm near Whitwell. Heavy rains have led to instability, and a landslip occurs as the travellers are riding across the flank of one of the great hills. Eglantine and her escort are trapped in the debris. The mother of the Thain manages to free herself, but Tolly is caught and helpless under the bole of a large fallen tree, reversing their roles, where she is protecting him, making Tolly endure the humiliation (as he sees it) of needing help and protection. When the travellers are overdue, and a farmer brings word of the unfolding natural disaster to the Great Smials, Pippin (pardon the impending pun) moves heaven and earth to find his mother and her protector. Family Matters begins just after the missing hobbits have been found and rescued and are on their way back to the Great Smials.

*** 

Chapter 1. Awakening

~ S.R. 1435, summer ~

'Tolly!' The voice was close at hand, more of a hiss than a whisper, his younger brother's voice, he thought, and his dream turned to younger days, and he was being roused out of his bed for some kind of mischief or other. 

'Le’ me sleep,' he moaned, and tried to lift his hands to pull the bedcovers over his head, though something resisted his efforts, and the movement scored his ribs with pain. What mischief had he done himself? A deep breath sent a knife into his ribs, and without conscious thought he adjusted his breathing. Shallow breaths, yes, that was a help. It didn't hurt half so much, though he had to breathe at a quicker rate to get enough air. 

There was a rustling; he had an impression of movement nearby, of someone giving way to someone else, yes, for another voice murmured, 'Tolly! Tolibold, are you with us?' A hand touched his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before simply resting there. 

' 'Twould be better if we could keep him awake,' he heard his older brother Mardi say from his other side. Mardi was using his healer's voice, which made Tolly wonder what hobbit had been injured. It began to dawn on him, as his dreaming burst slowly asunder and began retreating in shreds, that somehow all this bother concerned himself. 

'Mardi?' he whispered. 

'That’s it. Keep awake, Tolly-lad, mustn't sleep now,' Mardi said, still in healer's mien. 

'What...?' Tolly said, lifting his head and striving to open his eyes. 

'There now, lad,' came a soothing female voice, somewhat cracked with age and weariness, and a few strides away, he thought, not right beside him as had been through the dark hours, was it in his dream, or was it...? 

...and memory came back in a flood: riding along the muddied track partway up one of the great Green Hills, the trees above them on the hillside bending as in a strong wind when there was no wind, the sudden realisation that the whole side of the hill was coming down, pulling his unstrung bow from the quiver to strike a sharp blow upon the rump of Mistress Eglantine's pony ahead of him, the path slipping away from under their galloping ponies, the sensation of falling forever, only to waken to worse nightmare... 

Something touched his cheek and he jerked away, but his arms were pinned. 'No!' he cried. 

'Tolly, lad,' someone said. 

'The birds!' he whispered, and the Mistress spoke again. 

'They're well gone, lad, well gone... Do you not remember? The Tooks, they've come, they've found us...!' 

He opened his eyes fully, then, to the light of early morning, and saw that his arms were pinned, not by the bole of a great tree, but blankets, and he was surrounded by hobbits, a brother on either side and Thain Peregrin crouching at his head, gripping his shoulder in reassurance. 

'Tolly,' Eglantine said again, and he turned his head, scanning the faces until he found her, sitting up on a blanket at a little distance, a mug of tea in her hands, though she was too busy with concern for him to be sipping at the steaming beverage. She, too, was mud smeared, wrapped in blankets, her wet and muddy hair plastered to her head, and yet she sat as regally erect as if she were at tea in the sitting room of the Thain's apartments. 'You swooned, lad, not that anyone could blame you, after the night you've had...'

'M-mistress?' he managed. 

'There now,' someone said, Mardi, perhaps? Or perhaps it was the Thain. His head felt muddled, and no wonder. They'd spent the night on the hillside, in the cold and rain, himself half-crushed under a fallen tree and the Mistress by his side, holding onto him with hands and voice, for she'd promised not to leave him. No, she'd insisted on staying with him, even in the face of his telling her to make her way to safety, away from the landslip, to the more stable grassy ground beyond them, where the trail still stood. Some hobbit of the escort, you are, a voice in the back of his brain said bleakly. Struck helpless, and the Mistress protecting you from the carrion birds, rather than you watching over her as is your duty. And so you think you'll make an adequate head of escort when Ferdi steps down from the position?

'Tolly?' the Thain said again, his grip on Tolly’s shoulder firm, anchoring his injured cousin to the present moment. 'Are you with us?' 

'I'd like to know where else I'd be,' he muttered. At home in bed, preferably. Waking up next to his lovely Meadowsweet, brushing a wayward lock away from her forehead to lay a wakeup kiss there. 

Mardi's tired face lit up in a smile. 'There's the lad,' he said. 'Stay with us, now.' 

Tolly bit down on his reply. He remembered, too, his earlier wakening, from nightmare into deeper nightmare, the touch of cold steel on his leg as Mardi prepared to saw away. In the end the Mistress had stopped them, had not let them take his legs to save him, had ordered them to dig him free though every moment was fraught with the danger of more of the hillside coming down upon them all. His own brother... Somehow it felt like a betrayal. 

He shivered as Mardi lifted the blankets away, that had been tucked so firmly around him that he'd not been able to move. 'You've cracked some ribs, Tolly,' he said. 'We'll need to bind them.' 

He winced as Hilly and the Thain lifted him to a sitting position, for it gave not only his ribs a twinge, but his damaged leg as well. Hilly apologised under his breath. Pippin told him to be steady, as if he had much chance of anything else, held in place between them, while Mardi began wrapping a long strip of cloth around Tolly's torso, lending support to his labouring chest. 

Mardi talked as he worked, a blend of reassurances and healer-talk, about how they'd have him home soon, they had a litter ready and any number of hobbits eager to bear him back to the Great Smials in fine style (and to Tolly's annoyance, Mardi chuckled at this bit of rhyme, and Hilly chaffed their older brother, hoping aloud he was a better healer than poet). 

Tolly distracted himself by listening to other talk nearby. Aldi, the Thain's chief engineer in charge of digging, was talking about the lake that had formed below them when the hillside came down and blocked the Tuckbourn stream that ran through the valley all the way to Tuckborough, and beyond. They were calling it "Bilbo Lake" in jest, for as soon as they figured out how to let the water out without collapsing the earthen dam and sending down a flood, the lake would be disappearing and only the stream would be left to run its course through the valley. 

The main difficulty now was that Eglantine refused to recline on a litter, to allow herself to be carried homeward, at least carried by hobbits. 'I can ride a pony,' she said staunchly. 'I've been riding since before any of you were born, and there's certainly no need to treat me as if I've been injured or incapacitated, when I'm perfectly well and whole!' 

This, from an elderly hobbit covered head-to-toe with mud and soaked to the skin. 

Aldi, of all hobbits, spoke up in her support, in the face of the other rescuers' sputtering protests. He was neither healer nor escort nor son of the hobbit in question, and this gained him perhaps some perspective in the matter. In addition, the sooner the rescued hobbits reached safety, the sooner he could be about his business, and he was nothing if not efficient. 

'By all means,' he said, 'ride! I would that Tolly could ride as well. ...by any chance, can he?' This last was directed to Mardi, who had finished binding his younger brother's cracked ribs, and now turned his attentions to Tolly's injured leg. 

'Out of the question,' Mardi said flatly, his eyes on the work of his hands. 

'I'm well!' Tolly said with a wince. 'Completely well,' he insisted, and then grabbed at Mardi's sleeve. 'D'you have to wrap it so tight?' he said. 

Mardi patted his brother on the shoulder. 'Let the healer do his work,' he said, meaning of course himself. He pulled the bandaging cloth tighter yet, wrapping in an intricate pattern to support the damaged leg, though he was careful not to cut off the flow of blood. 

Ferdibrand, the Thain's special assistant and, for a few more months, the head of the Thain's escort (and the finest hobbit Tolly knew, as close as one of his brothers to his heart) rolled his eyes about the same time Tolly did, and then the two of them smiled a matching smile. Healers! Bad enough by themselves, but when one was a blood relation... Of course, Tolly could hardly demand a different healer, not, at least, until he got back to the Smials. Which was the topic under discussion, after all. The sooner he got back, the better. 

Aldi shook his head. 'I don't like it,' he said. 'In all likelihood...' 

Pippin took the hint. 'In all likelihood... what?' 

Aldi swept a hand across the brightening landscape. 'Look at the footing – treacherous for an able-bodied hobbit bearing only himself. Litter-bearers, now... one slip, and the Mistress, or poor Tolly, goes rolling down the hillside and into the lake!' 

'Ponies can slip just as well,' Ferdi began, but Aldi held up a staying hand. Tolly noticed then, idly, that Ferdi was holding a steaming cup, just holding it, letting the good warmth go to waste. Perhaps he was simply too wrapped up in events to notice.

'They've twice as many feet, to keep them stable,' the engineer said. 

'Twice as many feet to slip, that is,' Ferdi argued, but Pippin was considering, and not listening to further argument. 

'You'll be home much faster, and out of danger of the flood that might come down,' he said slowly. 

'I'm all for that,' put in Tolly, sitting up straighter from where he sat propped against Hilly, though he grimaced in pain and spoiled the effect he meant to give. 

Mardi hushed him and told him to drink his tea. 

Tolly frowned in answer, but he was shivering, to be sure, and all could see it except perhaps himself. I would, if I had any. He'd had a cup in his hands, or thought he'd had; he'd begun to drink from it, even, though he had no idea what had happened to the cup in the meantime. If I had any, I would... But it seemed too much trouble to say so. A mist was gathering before his eyes, and sleep beckoned, despite Mardi's insistence on his staying awake.

'Yes, drink your tea,' Eglantine said, gulping at her own cup for good measure. 'Drink it whilst it's hot, there's a good lad.' Ferdi gave a start at that, and reached to place his cup in Tolly's hands. Evidently it had been Tolly's cup all along, only Tolly'd not been aware of it, and Ferdi had for the moment forgotten.

Since it was a direct order from the Mistress, he swallowed the contents of his mug in a series of steady gulps, and the warmth went down and spread through his chilled innards and brought him once more to alertness. 'There,' he said. 'I did drink, I drank, I have drunk. Bring on the ponies!'

*** 

Chapter 2. The Long Ride Home

After a three-way consultation with Aldi, the chief engineer of the Tooks, and Mardi, as the healer on the spot, the Thain directed those returning to the Great Smials to ride along the dry streambed, which was “as wide as one of the King’s high-ways”, as Pippin described it. ‘A little rougher, perhaps,’ he added, conceding the jumble of rocks and silt uncovered by the damming of the Tuckbourn’s waters by the landslip that had nearly taken the lives of Eglantine, mother of the Thain, and Tolibold, her escort. 

‘But you’ll make better time in the valley than riding up and down the great hills in this part of the Green Hill country,’ he said. ‘And Aldi thinks the dam will hold.’

‘He thinks so, does he?’ said Ferdi, head of the Thain’s escort – at least until the annual archery tournament should take place later in the year, in the autumn. This year, Tolly was favoured to win, due to Ferdi’s recent fall while racing, resulting in injuries that threatened to permanently affect his shooting. He added wryly, ‘That might be a comfort... or so one might think.’

‘The dam should hold,’ the engineer clarified, unperturbed. ‘In fact,’ he said, pursing his lips and taking a moment to survey the spreading floodwaters below them, ‘did we wish for a lake at this spot on the map, ‘twould take little enough reinforcing and perhaps some yearly maintenance to ensure the dam’s continuance for years to come...’ He stomped a foot, albeit somewhat cautiously, considering the unstable slope upon which they stood. ‘See? Solid!’

‘If not Bilbo Lake, then Lake Paladin,’ Ferdi said. ‘Or Peregrin, perhaps.’

‘Lake Eglantine,’ Tolly contradicted stoutly, still feeling warmed and invigorated by the tea Mardi’d administered, even though now the fire had been extinguished and the tin cups and kettle had been packed away, preparatory to the departure of rescuers and rescued. ‘Lake Eglantine,’ he said, and of a wonder, despite the pain of his injured leg and cracked ribs and the still-fresh memories of the desperate night they’d only recently passed, he felt a grin stretch his lips as he added, ‘Sparkling in the sunlight.’ Had he been in his right mind, he might have mentally kicked himself for such familiarity, but for the feeling of relaxation spreading through his body. Taking strict hold of himself again, he blinked at his brother Mardi in sudden suspicion – had there been more than just tea and sweetening in the cup he’d quaffed?

No reprimand for his nonsense came from the Mistress or the Thain or even the head of escort, strengthening Tolly’s suspicion that he’d drunk some sort of healer’s potion, all unwitting, in the guise of a mug of tea.

‘Indeed,’ Eglantine said with a smile of her own. Under her borrowed cloak, she was covered head-to-toe in drying mud. Only her face and hands shone forth, testament to Mardi’s gentle ministrations with a cloth and the limited water the rescuers had carried with them. Though water a-plenty sparkled below them in the morning sun, getting down to the banks of the new-formed lake would have been no easy task. ‘My lake looks quite lovely in the morning light, not at all frightening as it looked only a few hours ago, lying in wait for us, as the lightning flashed and the hail pounded down in the night.’

‘I think the farmers of the Greentuck Vale would have some objection to this new lake continuing to occupy their smials and fields,’ Pippin said mildly. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but yours and Tolly’s lake must vanish again, and sooner would be better than later.’

‘Just send a messenger back when the rescue party reaches the Stone Bridge,’ Aldi confirmed, ‘and we’ll see to it that Bilbo Lake vanishes as thoroughly as the hobbit Ferdi named it for last night, once the old fellow decided to stay vanished, that is.’

‘Down to the River, and on to the Sea,’ Tolly heard the Thain mutter under his breath, quoting a sad old song, reminding him that young Pip, still only a tween at the time and years away from becoming Thain, had accompanied old Bilbo to the Grey Havens of the Elves on the Baggins’s final disappearance from Middle Earth. But when the bedraggled escort looked over at him, the Thain smiled and nodded in response, not at all melancholy as he sat with one arm encompassing his mother, cloak, blankets, and all, holding her close as if he might never let her go again.

‘We’ll send a messenger forthwith,’ Ferdi said to the Tookish engineer. ‘Far be it from me to keep you – much less, the Thain – waiting a moment more than necessary.’

‘Would you care to accompany the rescue party, Sir?’ Aldi turned to the Thain to ask.

‘No,’ Pippin said, his eyes alight with curiosity. ‘I’ll stay and watch the engineers at their work. I’m sure Merry will be fascinated to hear how we “disappeared” an entire lake without bringing down a flood on Tuckborough!’ His arm tightened in a brief hug, and he tenderly kissed Eglantine’s cheek, and then he released his hold and stood lightly to his feet, ready – even unTookishly eager, considering the subject of discussion was a treacherous body of water – to take in this novel experience.

And why not? Tolly thought to himself. Pippin’s mother, whom the rescuers had thought lost in the cataclysm, was found, and safe! ...no thanks to Tolly, her escort. The warm, relaxed feeling that had surrounded him seemed to fade now as the weight of his failure pressed down upon him once more.

He scarcely noticed the activity that swirled around him as he was lifted and eased into a saddle, nor did he hear Ferdi order Adelard (one of the more recent additions to the Thain’s escort) to remain with the Thain and his engineers, nor did he even mark when the pony under him began moving. He was only slightly aware of Hilly and Mardi, walking to either side of him, steadying him in the saddle as they made their way on a gradual diagonal down the hillside, until they reached the valley floor on the dry side of the dam.

Not far behind them, Tolly heard Eglantine conversing cheerfully with the hobbits walking on either side of the pony she rode, as well as calling occasional comments to the others walking before and after, and even to Tolly and his brothers, leading the rescue party. As for himself, he had nothing to say. In fact, it was taking all his remaining strength to concentrate on bracing himself with his uninjured leg while trying at the same time to relax his body, despite the firmly wound chest-bindings that held him upright, to move with the motion of the pony he sat upon and thus minimise the jarring that sent ripples of pain through his body.

Mardi evidently noticed Tolly’s abstraction, for more than once on their way down the great hill, he urged his younger brother to “stay with us, now, Tolly”.

Each time, Tolly blinked and sat a little straighter, but he did not have the heart nor the courage to answer in words, sunk deep as he was in feelings of shame and disgrace. 

Ferdi had assigned him to escort Eglantine safely back from Whittacres Farm, to guard her and keep her safe from any danger... yet she’d been the one watching over him through the long, weary hours after the landslip had left him pinned under the bole of a fallen tree. She’d safeguarded him, and ignored his pleas to make her way off the unstable dirt slope, at least as far as where the broken-off trail beckoned and the grass began, signalling more stable ground than that where Tolly lay, all unwilling, but unable to free himself.

When they reached the valley floor, Tolly was vaguely aware that they stopped briefly, at which point the walkers mounted ponies for the ride back to Tuckborough. Mardi coaxed some water into him, and he drank. Some minutes later, his pony began to move under him once more, picking its way with some care over the rocky streambed, occasionally splashing through the shallow puddles left behind by the dammed stream. He fell into a dream, then, consisting mainly of the pony’s motion and his brothers’ hands on his arms, steadying him as they rode onward, a journey that seemed to have no beginning that he could remember, in the moment, and no ending that he could discern. 

Though he scarcely noted Mardi’s occasional question or encouragement, after they had been travelling for some time, the cheerful tones of the Mistress of the Tooks pierced the dark fog surrounding him.

When the near-tragedy had struck the previous afternoon, Eglantine had been riding back from Whittacres Farm where the Mistress of the Tooks had been visiting Pearl, her eldest, to the Smials, where she ought to have breakfasted this morning as a part of her second-born daughter’s birthday observance.

Even now she was saying to Haldi, another hobbit of the Thain’s escort, who was riding beside her, ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to the lass, to have missed her birthday breakfast!’

‘Now-now, Mistress,’ Haldi rumbled in reply. Somehow that hobbit, amongst very few of those who lived and worked in Tuckborough and its surroundings, seemed always at ease in Eglantine’s presence, as if he were one of her grands rather than a mere archer assigned to her protection by order of the Thain. Even now, he was bold enough to contradict the old hobbit, for all she was the Head of the Took clan. ‘ ‘Twas the happiest birthday breakfast of her life, I deem, for the arrival of the messenger before second breakfast, if I’m not mistaken, with the news of your surviving – and the most memorable celebration of her experience, for the same reason.’

And Eglantine tolerated this contradiction, aye, even seemed to welcome Haldi’s observation, laughing heartily at his response and commending him, of a wonder. ‘Bless you, lad! I find myself quite heartened! You have me feeling much better...’

As for himself, Tolly was feeling worse by the moment. 

*** 

Chapter 3. The Agony of Defeat

Part-way back to the Great Smials, Tolly slumped in the saddle – or would have, if not for the tight bindings that supported his cracked ribs, not to mention his brothers Mardi and Hilly, riding to either side of him and steadying him on his pony.

He would have been chagrined at the knowledge that his collapse halted the entire rescue party, had he not been blessedly unconscious. Mardi slid from his own pony whilst Hilly held Tolly in the saddle, then together the brothers carefully eased the injured hobbit to the ground, where Mardi took his younger brother’s hand between his palms and squeezed it firmly, calling Tolly’s name. On getting no response, he lifted one of his hands to Tolly’s cheek, striking it not quite hard enough to be called slapping but still patting it vigorously as he repeated urgently, ‘Tolly! Tolly...’

From ponyback, Hilly also called Tolly’s name, for all the good it did, and Eglantine craned from where she had halted her own pony, crying, ‘Is he all right? What’s happening?’

Mardi looked up. ‘We’ll have to carry him from this point on a litter, Mistress,’ he said. ‘I cannot rouse him.’ Though his worry was plain on his face, he added, ‘Would you like to go on ahead, Mistress? We’ll follow behind.’

‘No I would not like to go on ahead,’ Eglantine returned stoutly. ‘Poor Tolibold is in these straits because of me, after all! I was the one who insisted on continuing along the path we’d begun, in the face of his protests, instead of sensibly taking the longer way around because I did not want to miss Pimpernel’s birthday breakfast. And look at how things have turned out because I insisted on having my own way! He’s been injured, and I’ve missed the celebration anyhow!’

Mardi knew better than to argue or even draw attention to his concern for the mother of the Thain by ordering more blankets wrapped around her as she waited, which he strongly suspected would raise her ire. No, but he simply made the necessary arrangements as quickly as hobbitly possible, ordering four of the rescuers from their saddles to become stretcher-bearers and others to take the reins of their ponies to lead the riderless beasts, then unrolling one of the stretchers they’d brought with them and directing the newly designated bearers to ease Tolly onto it.

After checking his brother’s heartbeat and breathing and tucking blankets more securely around Tolly, Mardi looked up again, meeting Eglantine’s piercing regard. ‘We have another stretcher here,’ he said to her. ‘Is it well with you, Mistress? Are you finding riding a strain after your ordeal in the night?’

Eglantine snorted at his mention of her ordeal but refrained from reprimanding the healer. ‘I am well,’ she replied austerely. ‘Better than I deserve, as a matter of fact.’ She fixed Mardi with a stern gaze and added, ‘If you’ve arranged all things to your healerly satisfaction, then let us be off again! The sooner we have my unfortunate escort to the Smials and surrounded with comfort and warmth, the better.’

Perhaps only Haldi, waiting on his pony beside hers, might have heard the words she added under her breath. ‘And seeing me borne into the courtyard on a stretcher would be the finishing touch on ruining my Pimpernel’s birthday, no doubt!’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ Mardi said, but of course he was agreeing with her concern for Tolly more than anything else.

Carrying an injured hobbit on a stretcher is much slower than riding, even at a walk, on ponyback, and so it took them nearly two more hours to reach the Stone Bridge just outside of Tuckborough, whereupon Mardi nodded to one of the hobbits with the rescue party, a messenger bearing a horn. ‘Blow the alarm in the town,’ he said. ‘Be sure the hobbits there know that a flood may come down some time in the next few hours.’ Mardi himself would see to starting the word spreading in the Great Smials proper.

‘Aye,’ the messenger said, and kneed his beast ahead of the group to fulfil his mission.

Mardi signalled to the other messenger who’d been sent out with the group. ‘You know what you’re to do, Asher.’

‘That I do, Mardi,’ the hobbit said cheerfully. He reined his pony around and set off at a brisk pace back along the way they had come, to where Aldi had more than likely already buried his stick of black powder (Fancy that! A single stick filled with black powder, and it would be enough to take down that enormous dam formed by the landslip! Rivers were tricksy bodies, indeed...) in a carefully selected location in the face of the dam and was just waiting for Asher’s assurance that the warning had gone out to Tuckborough before lighting the fuse.

Despite their slow progress, the distance from the Stone Bridge to the Great Smials was not far and did not take long, even at a walking pace for hobbits burdened with a stretcher, and so it was not long before the rescue party were treading the stones of the courtyard, where stable workers were ready to take charge of the ponies. On seeing Eglantine in the saddle, wrapped in blankets but otherwise apparently whole and hale, they raised a cheer that continued and grew as ever more hobbits spilled from the stables and other outbuildings and the entrances to the Smials at the hopeful sound, adding their voices to the celebratory hubbub on seeing for themselves that the beloved Mistress of the Tooks was alive and well.

Amidst the bustle, Mardi managed to convey to the bearers that Tolly should be borne to the infirmary (a part of the Great Smials that Tooks made a point of avoiding, as a rule) rather than his quarters. Though Tolly’s injuries did not seem at first glance serious, his brother wanted a closer look at them all the same than he’d been able to manage heretofore. Moreover, they could remove or cut away the hobbit’s filthy clothing more easily on a table there than to do so in his bed, and they might as well wash away the mud that covered him while they were there. If nothing more than Mardi’d already seen was amiss, they could then bear Tolly to his own bed to recover. He’d be more comfortable there, and comfortable convalescents healed faster, to the healers’ way of thinking.

Mardi was also hoping that Meadowsweet would not see her beloved in his present state but that they’d keep the news from her until her husband had been washed and dressed in a clean nightshirt and bundled in blankets. Was that too much to hope for?

Yes, as it turned out, for before they reached one of the lower doors in the face of the Great Smials (it would have been foolishness to carry a burdened litter up the steps to the main door), Meadowsweet was there, gasping and weeping, throwing herself on her husband without regard for mud or injuries or any other consideration. Thankfully the bearers’ firm hold on the stretcher prevented Tolly’s being spilled to the hard stones of the courtyard. 

All the same, Mardi bodily lifted the distraught wife away, rather more roughly than he meant to, and gave her a shake, scolding, ‘Sweetie! Calm yourself! You do him no good in this state!’

Gulping back tears, she pulled free of Mardi’s grasp, caught her balance and stared at him. ‘They told me—’ she gasped. ‘They said—’

‘Minor injuries,’ Mardi returned in his heartiest voice, ‘minor injuries only, Sweetie. He’ll be fine.’

‘But he’s—’ she said, her anguished gaze returning to Tolly.

Mardi felt the need to take her arm, to prevent any further extreme measures on Meadowsweet’s part more than to offer comfort. ‘Exhaustion – that’s what you’re seeing, lass. He needs rest more than your tears, my dear.’ And then he thought better of the words, especially seeing the hobbits nearest them listening eagerly. Exhaustion implied weakness and, perhaps, some failing on his younger brother’s part, and the word could all too easily echo in the whispers of the Talk of the Tooks long after Tolly was back on his feet and fulfilling his duties once more. And so Mardi hastily amended his response to Meadowsweet, then, saying, ‘We’re just going to get him clean and comfortable, and then you can tuck him up in your bed with your own sweet hands...’

‘He’s well?’ she said, somehow calmer.

‘Well...’ Mardi replied, signalling to Tolly’s bearers to continue on to the infirmary. If she took his answer as confirmation rather than hesitation, it was all for the best.

Meanwhile, a mob of Tooks and servants were fussing over Eglantine, crowded so tightly around her that Pimpernel found it difficult to force her way through. When she reached her mother at last, she threw her arms around Eglantine, laughing and weeping in one.

Eglantine returned the hug and then reached up to wipe away the streaming tears, small clods of drying mud dropping from her arm. ‘My love,’ she said. ‘Put your tears away. All is well.’

‘O Mum!’ Pimpernel sobbed, but then she swallowed hard and did her best to comply. ‘We thought—’ she said brokenly.

‘What you thought doesn’t matter now,’ Eglantine said, raising her voice to be heard over the murmuring hobbits filling the courtyard. ‘I’m well! As old Bilbo was so fond of saying, the reports of my demise were slightly exaggerated.’ She waited out the resulting cheer from the hobbits around her, then added, looking around at the sea of faces, ‘Thanks to the dedicated efforts of my escort, I am safely among you again!’

There. She hoped it would be enough to direct the Talk of the Tooks away from any speculation on Tolibold’s supposed failings. The unfortunate hobbit would have a difficult enough time as it was, with her riding into the courtyard in triumph whilst he was borne on a stretcher.

Perhaps she ought to have allowed them to carry her home, as well, if only for Tolly’s sake. Ah well, no use borrowing more trouble than the previous day had already imposed. If Tolly’s good reputation should be threatened by the unfortunate recent turn of events, well, they’d have to deal with icing that cake when it came out of the oven and not beforetimes. Hopefully all this excitement would blow over, and people would be distracted with all the other details of the disaster, such as housing the homeless hobbits and rebuilding after the floodwaters receded, instead of indulging in the pleasurable pastime of second-guessing the actions of Eglantine’s escort.

*** 

Chapter 4. Special Commission

Ever since he’d recovered from his injuries suffered during the landslip a few weeks past, Tolibold had seen a certain speculation in the looks directed at him, or so it seemed to him, though of course the moment they realised he had noticed, people tended to put on a bland expression. Some would even begin to speak animatedly about some minor topic, usually drawn from the latest gossip, as if to cover an awkward pause. Really, he’d’ve thought he was imagining things if he hadn’t caught glimpses of the changes in others’ faces. But then, that was part of his job as the head of the Thain’s escort since the recent Tournament. Protecting the Thain and his family meant being aware and alert, noticing the slightest details in his surroundings, and being ready to respond appropriately.

The news that he and Meadowsweet were expecting again – already! (for she'd been under the impression that she would not be able to quicken again so long as she was nursing their firstborn) – first conveyed by Mistress Eglantine while he'd been hopelessly trapped under the tree, and then confirmed by Tolly's beloved, had been heartening, to be sure. Early in the new year, or perhaps even sometime during the month of Foreyule, they'd welcome their second child to their little family. Even on a day like today, when Tolly could feel himself sinking in the bog of self-doubt, the thought brought a smile to his face, albeit a brief one. On their pledging their love to one another, Meadowsweet had confided her desire for a large family, half a dozen children, at least, to fill up their lives with wonder and noise and joy, and Tolly had agreed whole-heartedly.

Yet all too often lately, he had to fight the feeling of being lost, or at least that a vital part of himself had gone missing. He'd sworn on his life to safeguard the Thain and his family... and yet, who'd done the rescuing when the hillside had fallen upon him and Mistress Eglantine? Why, the Mistress, it had been. What use was his oath? What use were the skills he'd taken pains to cultivate and maintain, if in the end, his fate had rested in the hands of an elderly (though indomitable) hobbit matron? 

I feel as if I’ve lost myself, he thought, and not for the first time, as he walked down the corridor to the Thain's study, answering each respectful nod he received with a nod of his own.

He found himself resisting a nagging thought that kept returning as often as he pushed it down to concentrate on his duties. Should he be serving as one of the Thain’s escort at all? Much less as the head of escort, though he'd only recently been elevated to the position after winning the Tookland's annual archery Tournament? Perhaps everyone would be better served if he resigned his position as a hobbit of the escort altogether and asked to work under Verilard, the Thain’s chief hunter, instead.

He'd returned to his duties rather sooner than the healers advised, but then, that was typical for a Took in any event. The Thain and Steward had overlooked the slight limp that remained; it shouldn’t impede his shooting, at least, and he could always ride a pony to deliver a message for the Thain, even if it must be a borrowed beast. His own gelding had never quite recovered from the strain of standing up to the charge of an enraged wild boar on a hunt some months ago, in the springtide of the year. Of a mercy, the recovery of the lost Treasury of the Tooks meant that his salary had increased, allowing him to begin setting aside funds for another pony. By next year’s Pony Sale, he ought to have enough for a decent mount, and then, he vowed, he’d start saving for a second, for the sake of prudence. In the meantime, he had to ride one the ponies belonging to the Thain (or more properly, the Smials Tooks) when his duties called for riding.

Though he regretted the death of the borrowed pony that had died in the recent landslip, at least it had been a near-stranger to him. And the Thain had decreed that Tolly was not to blame for the pony’s loss which was an immense relief. At least he wouldn’t have to pay restitution, pushing the purchase of his own mount even further into the future.

Reaching the Thain’s study, he put aside all thoughts except for the reason for the summons he’d received. Haldegrim, who was on duty as doorward at the moment, exchanged a nod with the head of escort, tapped at the door to alert the Thain and Steward of an arrival and then opened it to allow Tolly to enter. 

‘Ah Tolly!’ the Thain exclaimed, rising from his desk. ‘Come in and sit down.’ He indicated the chair by his desk. The next word was directed to the Steward. ‘Regi?’ 

Reginard moved to the side table where a cosied pot was keeping warm over a candle, picked up one of the cups waiting there for guests or visitors, and poured out a steaming cup of tea, then added milk and sugar without the need to ask Tolly’s preference.

(Not that Tolly often took tea with Thain or Steward, mind, but simply stated, Reginard had an eye for detail, down to the smallest matter. Of course, this quality made him an excellent steward to the Thain and the Tookland. It was rather inconvenient for anyone who might want to put something past the hobbit, however.)

Tolly perched upon the chair indicated and accepted the cup with muttered thanks. He took the requisite sip, managed not to shudder or make a face – it was considered eccentric for a hobbit not to like the taste of tea, even when doctored with milk and sweetening – and set the cup down on the small table next to him. ‘Sir?’ he said. ‘You sent for me.’

‘I have need of a messenger,’ Pippin said, looking down at a paper in front of him and then looking up again. ‘More than that, actually. It’s something of a delicate matter.’

‘Sir?’ Tolly said again. Best to be cautious, and the less he said, the more he might hear.

‘The Master of the Flocks tells me he’s been made aware of a fine strain of sheep in the North Farthing, and he’d like to acquire some new blood to improve the wool we produce for trade.’

But Tookish wool is the finest in the Shire! Tolly thought, though he said nothing.

His startlement must have shown in his face, however, for the Steward said to him, ‘Despite our reputation for producing the finest wool, it’s good business to look out for improvement where ever possible.’

‘Aye,’ Tolly said. He had no head for business, but then, that was why he was an archer and not a merchant or decision-maker. He didn’t envy either the Thain or the Steward their positions, for all the trappings and privileges that went along with them.

‘I need to send an agent to speak for me, but it has to be the right hobbit,’ Pippin resumed.

‘The right hobbit, Sir?’ Tolly said. He was honestly puzzled. They were talking about sheep, something he knew near to nothing about, and not shooting, which was a special feature of his hunter’s training. While he might be the finest archer in the Shire, having been the favourite to win the Tournament this year, and actually having won, into the bargain, his ability to aim words and hit the mark felt dull to him by comparison. ‘Are you looking for my recommendation for someone to send on this errand?’ 

The Thain actually burst out laughing at this response, while the Steward raised an eyebrow. ‘Not at all, Tolibold! You’re the agent who was recommended to me!’

‘I—but Sir, I—’ Tolly said, at a complete loss. Still, tripping over his tongue would quickly solve this dilemma he found himself in, wouldn’t it?

Regi quietly interjected, ‘The owner of the sheep we’d like to purchase is Bolham north-Took.’ At Tolly’s blank look, he said, ‘During the time of the Troubles, he was known as “Bolham the Red”.

Tolly’s face cleared. ‘Aye,’ he breathed. ‘The Rebels of Bindbole Wood!’

Though Lotho’s ruffians had over-run the North Farthing, a small number of rebels and dispossessed hobbits, many of them north-Tooks, had retreated to the Wood, where they’d been able to hide and evade capture. From the forest, they freely harried the Men who were trying to impose their will on the inhabitants of the North Farthing. Often, they’d swooped down upon waggons full of gathered crops and other items, incapacitated the drivers and guards, and absconded into the forest with their ill-gotten gains. 

The bold and daring rebels of Bindbole Wood were never captured, unlike some of the other bands who resisted Lotho’s louts, like Fredegar Bolger’s hobbits who’d been smoked out of their hiding place in the Scary Hills and marched off to the Lockholes. Men who were ordered into the forest to capture the rebels or reclaim the stolen goods encountered such ill luck as made any of Lotho’s louts reluctant to enter the Wood. Moreover, it had been whispered at the time (but had not been made public until after the Scouring of the Shire was complete) that Bolham’s hobbits ventured out by night, evading detection and capture, and distributed goods and food to hobbits in need.

After the Battle of Bywater and subsequent Scouring of the Shire, Bolham and his band had been slow to leave the protection of the forest, suspecting some trick or other on Lotho’s part. In the end, Frodo Baggins, as deputy mayor, made a special journey to the Wood, accompanied only by his humble Sam, to persuade the Bindbole rebels that the Occupation was over, Lotho was dead, and his Men had been forcibly expelled from the Shire following the uprising of the Shire-folk under Captains Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck. Only then did the rebels put down or hang up their weapons and return to farm, field, and cot to begin rebuilding and reclaiming the North Farthing from the depredations of the invaders.

‘I’m told that Bolham has heard stories of the exploits of the Tooks who kept the Tookland free of Men during the Troubles,’ Pippin said, ‘and that he’s eager to meet some of them. And so I thought, we could employ a single stone and perhaps strike two birds at one throw.’

‘What about Ferdi?’ Tolly said without thinking, and then kicked himself for contradicting the Thain and Steward. But Ferdi, with his silver tongue...

‘The Fox, we’ll save for the next trip,’ Pippin said, tenting his hands and tapping his forefingers together.

‘And besides, he’s newly married, in case you’d forgotten,’ Reginard added dryly – which Tolly might have taken for a joke if it had been anyone else other than the Steward, who was well-known for his lack of a sense of humour. In point of fact, Tolly had stood up with Ferdi at the latter’s wedding the previous highday, a week after the Tournament. At the time The Took and The Bolger had conspired to bring Ferdi and Pimpernel together – midsummer, it had been – the betrothed had dolefully contemplated the long months that stretched before them until a traditional Springtide wedding could take place and, with Pippin's blessing, had set the wedding date for after harvest-time.

But then Pippin had thrown caution to the winds and suggested – nay, practically ordered them – to move the wedding sooner, that it might take place immediately after Tookland's annual archery Tournament, when Ferdi would officially step down as head of the Thain's escort and into his role of special assistant to the Thain. 'We've already scandalised the Tooks this far; what's a little more scandal, I say, but to add spice to the cake?'

Even having to wait until after the Tournament had been difficult enough for the two lovebirds, Tolly knew. In any event, Thain Peregrin had blithely set all tradition aside in the matter of scheduling the wedding of his sister and his chief assistant, declaring that he needed Ferdi's mind to be fixed on matters of business and not distracted by the anticipation of months more of waiting before he could be joined to his true-love at last. 'I need a special assistant with a working mind and memory,' he'd said on more than one occasion when some traditionalist had tried to take him to task for his high-handedness in the matter. 'One who can pay the strictest attention to his work and not be distracted by matters of the heart. Is that too much to ask?'

Along those lines, Regi lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the head of escort as he added, ‘Ferdi's mind is not terribly likely to be fixed on matters of business, at the moment...’

Tolly nodded. Of course they would have considered Ferdibrand first as their best choice, and settled on the head of escort as the next best possibility. His younger brother Hilly, like Ferdi, had a silver tongue and was similarly acclaimed as a Hero of the Tookland. In truth, none of the hobbits who were known as such would have claimed the title themselves, and they made themselves scarce when stories of their exploits were told by the hearthside in the great room. 

Bolham’s band had been renowned for their skill with a bow, and Tolly’s archery prowess ranked him amongst the highest in the Shire at the present time, earning him the position of head of escort. Thus, Tolly held higher status than his brother Hilly. It was the only reason that made sense to him for the decision to send him to the North Farthing on a commission for the Thain. Perhaps the Thain anticipated that Tolly and Bolham would sit down together and exchange reminiscences over pints of ale, smoothing the way for an equitable agreement regarding the purchase of a few sheep for the flocks that generated income for the upkeep of the Great Smials.

A long talk over a few pints of beer didn’t sound too onerous. Tolly just hoped that the business discussion to follow might not be too much of a trial, and that he could satisfactorily discharge this task.

Another thought occurred to him some time after he’d left the study and gone to inform his beloved Meadowsweet that he’d be away for a few days, perhaps a week, on a commission for the Thain. Perhaps Pippin had lost confidence in his abilities as a hobbit of the escort, and this was his way of easing Tolly into another occupation?

He had better set his mind firmly on the task at hand, then, so as not to fail yet again.

*** 

Chapter 5. Racing Against the Storm

Tolly set out from the Great Smials on a glorious autumnal day. Fiery trees stood out against a pale sky that deepened to an intense blue as the Sun climbed to her zenith. Riding across the fields towards Bywater and points north, he found himself breathing deeply of the crisp early-morning air, heavy with the scent of rich earth being turned over by teams of farmers and ponies who were ploughing the fields in preparation for sowing winter barley and wheat. In the meadows, the warm, dry summer and early autumn had lent themselves to a second cutting of hay. Workers were out in force, swinging their scythes, as Tolly passed by. ‘Hot work,’ he said to himself. ‘I’d rather be a hunter.’ He patted the pony’s neck. ‘Or a messenger,’ he said aloud, ‘keeping cool in the breeze of our passing.’

But by the time he pulled out the second breakfast packed away in his saddlebags, the day had warmed considerably. He stopped where a stream crossed his path to let the pony drink, and dismounted so that he could more easily remove his cloak, roll it tightly and stow it away until night fell and the air cooled to autumnal crispness once more. He paused briefly, considering, and took out the soft, wide-brimmed hat he carried to keep the sun from his head when the weather was too hot or stifling for cloak and hood. Then, mounting again, he clapped the hat firmly on his head and rode on, eating hearty sausage rolls and succulent hand pies made from the new crop of apples. ‘The cooks certainly know their business,’ he told the pony, whose ears twitched to hear him and then switched forward again. The beast’s flanks were dark with sweat, but seeming refreshed from the rest and the water it had enjoyed, it trotted along at a comfortable pace, seeming untroubled by the growing heat of the day.

He reached Bywater and The Green Dragon an hour or so before elevenses and decided to stop there for the pony’s sake, if not for his own. The escort was used to eating cold food in the saddle when carrying messages, but this “commission” was different from the usual messenger task, for the latter entailed delivering the message in a timely manner and returning promptly. In contrast, he was not on a simple there-and-back-again errand, but was expected at Bindbole Farm this evening, and he’d be stopping over for a day or three.

It would take them another hour to reach Overhill, he calculated, where the road became more of a track, suited to farm waggons. Though not as carefully maintained, the difference in the road they’d travel from that point onward would hardly slow them; they might even manage to go a bit faster on the track’s dirt surface. From Overhill to the edge of Bindbole Wood should take a few more hours. Upon reaching the southern border of the wood he'd follow the right-hand branch of the beaten track that led to the lesser north-south road running between the eastern verge and the stream that ran from near Oatbarton to the Bywater Pool. A mile or so past the small community of Bolton, he'd come to the farm where Bolham north-Took had resumed his life after the Troubles were over. Too bad they'd be skirting the Wood rather than riding through the shady woodland, which might have been cool enough for a gallop, bringing him to his destination by teatime. Considering the open country he'd be riding through, he was more likely to have to maintain a slower pace for the pony's sake. Luckily, he’d brought food enough for a day of travel. 

In any event, even if he came to Bolham’s farm after teatime, the Thain's messenger, er, agent thought he ought to arrive by eventides or not too long after. They’d be expecting him, per a letter the Thain had sent a few days earlier by Shire-post. He’d sup, enjoy a pipe with his host in the cool of the evening, and then seek his pillow. By Shire custom, they’d not discuss any business until the day after his arrival.

Though Tolly’s arrival at The Green Dragon was too late for second breakfast but too early for elevenses, he knew the proprietor as a canny hobbit who would have food ready between-times as well. Thus, while his pony, relieved of its saddle and bridle, rested in a shady stall, eating hay and a little grain and drinking freshly drawn water, Tolly was able to enjoy a plate of freshly baked scones, with crocks of butter, honey and jam to choose from, washed down with cups of tea poured from a freshly brewed pot.

When he emerged from The Green Dragon, he was surprised to see clouds building in the sky to the south, somewhat unusual this late in the year. The air felt warmer to him, as well, though the Sun had not yet reached her zenith. He shook his head at himself. Of course it would be hotter under the bright Sun than inside the shady inn. But there was a heaviness to the atmosphere that seemed to weigh upon him.

The pony, he was glad to see, was cool and fresh from its rest, and it even danced a little under the saddle. Tolly thanked the ostler as he accepted the reins from the latter’s hand, noting that the now-dry coat had been curried and brushed to remove the dried salt from the gelding’s earlier efforts. They did things properly at The Green Dragon.

‘Looks like we might be havin’ a spot of weather,’ the old fellow said, glancing southward.

‘P’rhaps,’ Tolly hazarded. ‘ ‘Tis a bit late in the year for thunder.’

‘Ar,’ the ostler said. ‘But I’ve even heard thunder growlin’ from snow-clouds in the wintertime!’

‘Snow clouds!’ Tolly said, eyebrows raised. It hardly ever snowed in this part of the Shire.

‘Ar,’ the ostler answered. ‘Up on the high downs i’ the North Farthing, it can thunder any time of year.’ 

‘You may have the right of it,’ Tolly said. ‘The air feels sultry enough for a summer afternoon.’

He gazed southward, assessing the clouds, and said, ‘Looks as if we may have a dousing if we don’t hurry on, then.’

‘D’you have far to go?’ the ostler queried. 

‘Far enough!’ Tolly replied cheerfully as he swung lightly into the saddle and nudged the beast into motion. He lifted his hand in farewell as they rode out of the courtyard, and the ostler called, ‘Safe journey to you!’ in response. 

Tolly patted the pony’s neck and leaned forward, urging the pony to move from a walk to a trot. ‘At least those clouds are behind us, Snip,’ he said. ‘We’ll just pick up the pace, if you don’t mind too much. Better yet, we’re sure to arrive in time for tea if we hurry a bit!’

They cantered the mile to Hobbiton, and then on reaching the Hill, he slowed the pony, once again sweating freely, to a walk, for the road was very steep here, all the way to the top. On the far side, the descent to Overhill was more gradual, and they’d be able to go much more quickly then. This time, at least, there would be no stopping off at Bag End part-way up the slope with a message for the Mayor, a familiar destination to Tolly.

A small group of Gamgee children were standing on the bridge by the Mill, watching the mill-wheel turning and, perhaps, hoping to catch a cooling breeze. One of them – Frodo-lad, he thought it must be – called to Tolly as he approached. ‘Do you have a message for the Mayor? We can take it to him, if you’d like to turn around sooner!’

‘Or you can stop at Bag End and wait out the storm!’ another – Miss Elanor? – said.

‘Thank you, Master Frodo, Miss Elanor,’ Tolly said, saluting them with his crop. He guided Snip to the bank of the water and loosened the reins to allow the pony to drink, then said, ‘But I’ve no message for your father this day. I’m going rather farther...’

‘Storm’s at least an hour away, anyhow,’ Frodo-lad said, shading his eyes to study the sky, ‘if it even reaches us, that is. So often, it looks like rain – and then it doesn’t!’ The lad scratched his head at this thought, then remembered he was delaying one of the Thain’s messengers with this conversation. ‘Well then, Master Tolibold, we won’t keep you!’

‘My thanks to you!’ Tolly said in dismissal, touching the brim of his hat in a gesture of respect for the Mayor’s children. He turned the pony back to the road and urged the beast to take up a fast walk, though he was almost sorry to leave the relatively cooler waterside behind.

Cantering down the long slope to Overhill felt pleasant, for their speed created its own breeze. He pulled the pony down to a walk through the town, as was only polite, and then picked up the pace on the long stretch over open country to Bindbole Wood, trotting and cantering by turns.

The Wood came into view at last and crept closer as they travelled onward, and Tolly had a fleeting wish that he might be travelling to Needlehole, instead, following the west-running road under the trees. The air felt oppressive to him as they cantered, steadily eating up the miles. Flecks of lather flew back from the pony’s neck, and the beast was breathing rapidly though not showing other signs of distress, meaning Tolly didn’t feel the need, at least not yet, to ease him down to a walk to help cool the gelding down. Too bad they were not bound for Needlehole, for the shady wood would have done the pony good, as well. If wishes were ponies... the rider thought, and then absurdly, If ponies had wishes...

When the path forked, Tolly remembered to take the first left-hand fork that skimmed the edge of the Wood and then turned north, instead of the right-hand fork that avoided the Wood altogether, part of the original road leading to Oatbarton that had been swallowed by an expanding bog some years earlier. Tolly neither wanted to ride into a bog nor did he want to have to backtrack to avoid such – not with that storm catching up to them the way it was.

As they approached the edge of the Wood and the place where the road divided a second time, one branch going north towards Oatbarton (and Bolton, his destination, some miles south of Oatbarton) and the other branch leading west, proceeding under the cover of the southern reaches of the Wood towards Needlehole, thunder grumbled behind them. ‘So often it looks like rain – and then doesn’t!’ Tolly repeated Frodo-lad’s observation under his breath. ‘Well, Master Frodo, I think this time it just might!’ Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the clouds had nearly caught them, towering yet building ever higher in the sky, the tops brilliant in the afternoon Sun. Their undersides were ominously black, and dark streaks reached from the clouds to the ground, suggesting heavy rain was about to sweep over them. 

‘Well the rain’ll be cooling, anyhow,’ Tolly said to the pony, ‘And even if it buckets down when we’re under the trees, the leaves will keep some of it off...’

Seeing how rapidly the storm had pursued them made Tolly uneasy, and either his unease communicated itself to the pony, or the beast was also unnerved by the change in the weather. A sudden blast of cold wind disrupted the still, sultry air surrounding them, lifting the pony’s mane and blowing Tolly’s hat right off his head, bowling it along. At the flash of lightning and crack of thunder that followed upon the heels of the wind gust, the pony danced under its rider.

‘I’m with you!’ he shouted to his mount and hauled its head around to follow the western fork under the trees instead of the northern fork towards Bolton, where the open countryside would leave them vulnerable to hail and lightning. He shouted again, gave the beast its head and kicked hard with his heels. The pony, in full agreement, galloped towards the uncertain refuge that the trees might offer. Better than being caught out in the open! While Tolly knew of the dangers of attempting to shelter from lightning under a solitary tree, he rather hoped the massed trees they were swiftly approaching would blunt the impact of hail, if the oncoming storm held such, as well as protect them from a direct strike of fire from the sky.

Tolly’s hair and the pony’s mane and tail streamed behind them in the wind of their passing as they raced under the canopy of the trees, managing to beat the onset of the storm even as a whoosh of wind swept down from the heavens, carrying a strong smell of ozone with it. But when Tolly pulled up the dancing, excited pony, laughing a little in his relief, he became aware of a bluish glow illuminating the treetops against the black sky and a crackling sound in the air. His skin tingled, and sudden pain assaulted his head. He lifted his hand to his brow in an unconscious attempt to soothe the ache and felt his hair standing on end. 

Instinctively he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and threw himself from the saddle. He seemed to hover in mid-air as the air around him turned to excruciating heat and unbearable brightness; the pony’s terrified shriek was swallowed in a deafening boom as if all of Tookland’s black powder had gone up at the same instant. Time froze; terrifyingly, he felt his heart stutter, stop...

A giant’s hand slammed him violently into the ground. Stunned, numb, he felt his heart beat once... again... and then as darkness claimed him, the world both inside and outside his head blurred as the storm’s intense downpour reached the woods.

*** 

Author’s note: The term “ozone” was mentioned as long ago as in the time of Homer, who connected ozone with brimstone and thunderbolts, according to the following article: https://www.oxidationtech.com/blog/the-terribly-fresh-smell-of-ozone

*** 

Chapter 6. Missing...

As he headed southwest from Oatbarton towards Bindbole Wood on his rounds, Hawfinch Brownlock, one of three Shirriffs in the North Farthing, kept a wary eye on the sky. To the south, the clouds were mounting ever higher, as if they meant to climb all the way to the waxing crescent Moon, high in the sky and beginning his descent in pursuit of the westering Sun.

On reaching the small community of Berehyll, part-way between his starting point this morning and his destination in the Wood, seeing the curtains of rain beneath the towering clouds decided him. He'd stop early for the night – or at least until the fast-moving storm had passed over.

Berehyll was not much more than a cluster of smials surrounded by fields, but he was welcomed warmly by the farmers who appreciated his diligence in keeping watch over the condition of the fences and hedges and rounding up strays in his district. He visited farmsteads and villages on a regular basis and was always ready with a jest or a listening ear. Thus, he kept his ear to the ground, in a manner of speaking, and had built a reputation for identifying problems, such as an incursion of foxes or sheep-worrying dogs, before the farmers themselves.

Stopping and seeking shelter had been an excellent decision, he thought as he watched the rapid approach of the storm from under the eaves of the Fairfoot brothers' barn.

He and the two farmers winced as the sky seemed to split itself apart and a flaming bolt issued from the clouds. 'Did you see that?'

The three all jumped at the sharp crack of thunder that followed close – too close – on the heels of the brilliant spear of fire that had leapt from the heavens to the earth. 

'Comin' from the south,' Mundy Fairfoot said. 'I think it'll pass quickly, the way those clouds are moving. And that last bolt fell in the Wood, as it were.'

'Let's hope those clouds are carrying a load of rain, then,' Hawfinch said. 'I don't fancy fighting a wildfire this day or any other, for that matter.'

'You an' me both,' Gundy Fairfoot said, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he nodded at the horn attached to Hawfinch's saddle pad. 'But if you blow the Fire Call, you know we'll come a-galloping.'

'I know I can count on you,' Hawfinch said. 'My thanks.'

Gundy snorted. 'No need for thanks quite yet, anyhow,' he said. He ducked and grabbed at his broad-brimmed hat as a sudden heavy gust of wind slammed into the barn followed by a heavy deluge of rain that bucketed down in its wake. The farmer laughed, holding onto his hat with one hand, and slapped the Shirriff's back with the other. 'There's your rain, Shirriff!'

'If only all my wishes were answered so promptly!' Hawfinch answered. His hat hadn't blown away because he was already holding it securely under his arm.

'What would be the sport in that?' Mundy wanted to know.

'None at all!' Hawfinch said, and chuckled. 'But sometimes, between you and me, I could use a little less sport and a little more certainty.'

'Naught's certain when you're a farmer,' Gundy said. 'So it's probably a good thing you're a Shirriff.'

*** 

Some time later, Hawfinch thought about these words as he drew up his pony and gazed with dismay at the hat floating in the bog that formed a natural hazard on the eastern side of the Wood. Smaller than Rushock Bog to the west of the Wood, it could still prove deadly to any animals – or hobbits – that blundered onto the marshy ground. 'Good thing to be a Shirriff, eh?' he said to himself.

He took out his horn, drew a deep breath, and blew the Bog Call as loud as he could.

It was not long before local hobbits, including the farmers who'd offered the Shirriff shelter from the storm began to gather at the edge of the swamp in response to the call, unlit lanterns in their hands and coils of rope over their shoulders. Several held shepherd's crooks, and a few others had fishing poles, each equipped with a long line and heavy hook.

'Spread out!' Hawfinch told them. 'Spread out along the edge! Keep a sharp eye out for any sign of a hobbit or pony...'

The floating hat was close enough for a hobbit with a crook to reach it and retrieve it. No need for the fishers to cast their lines this time.

'No sign where he went in,' a gaffer said. 'Not on this side, at least.'

'The deluge might've washed away any such sign,' Havers Frog-catcher said, straightening up from his examination of the soggy expanse between the grassy meadow and the tufts of iron-grass marking where solid footing ended and danger began. 

'With that wind we had earlier, could someone's hat have simply blown off his head and ended up here?' Rocky Gadwall, one of the fisher-folk suggested.

'Which way was it blowing?' Hawfinch said.

'Every which way,' the gaffer answered. 'But the heart o' the storm passed over this side o' the Wood... a gust might've blown the hat from that direction.'

'A traveller, you think?' Mundy said.

'A traveller could as well have taken the wrong fork and ended in the bog,' someone said.

'Or he rode into the Wood and his hat blew off!' Rocky insisted.

'Look! Hunters!' the gaffer pointed, and the hobbits who were spreading out along the edge of the bog stopped to look at two figures emerging from the Wood at a gallop.

Hawfinch waved his hat in the air and received answering waves from the on-comers who were rapidly approaching.

They pulled up so abruptly that one of the ponies reared in protest, and its rider had some trouble bringing the beast under control. 'Shirriff!' the other rider gasped. 'You've got to come!'

'What is it?' Hawfinch asked.

'The Wood!' said the hunter – Hawfinch seemed to remember he was a north-Took. 'Pony!'

'A rider?' Hawfinch guessed.

But the north-Took had wheeled his beast around and was already galloping back in the direction he'd come from.

'Take charge o' the search,' the Shirriff told Rocky.

The fisher, all too familiar with searching the edge of the bog for signs that a hobbit or animal had come to grief, nodded and waved at him. 'Go!'

But Hawfinch was already galloping after the hunter, even as the second rider finally brought his pony under control and stopped to tell the searchers what he and his brothers had found just inside the Wood.

*** 

'D'you suppose we ought to send another Messenger to Bindbole Farm?' Pippin asked, rolling his shoulders back and stretching after a long morning at his desk. 'Tolly's been gone for the better part of a week now!'

'A week tomorrow,' Ferdi said.

'To be precise,' Regi added.

'Let us be precise, at all cost!' Pippin said. 'But really! What do you suppose the hobbit is doing?'

'Well if half the stories about Bolham the Red I've heard are true,' Ferdi said, 'then he's probably been riveted, listening to more tales of how the north-Tooks confounded the ruffians who dared to enter the Wood!'

'Or perhaps Bolham o' the north-Tooks is keeping our Messenger longer in order to hear more about their relatives, the Tooks, under similar circumstances,' Regi said.

'Well in that case, sending another Messenger – or more of them – seems counter-productive, doesn't it?' Pippin said. 'A grand old time they'd have, swapping tales and debating strategies... We might never see any of our Messengers again! They might just decide to stay in the North-lands as my wife's illustrious ancestor Bandobras did!'

'None of your nonsense now, Pip,' Reginard remonstrated. 'And for all we know, Tolly might be on his way home even as we speak.'

'I might go,' Ferdibrand offered.

Pippin stared him down. 'Have you already forgot?' he said severely. 'Is the bloom already off the rose? You married my sister less than a fortnight ago! And you're already volunteering to travel to the North-lands and, quite possibly, never return?'

'I should have every intention of returning,' Ferdi said, meeting the Thain's stern look squarely. 'I should imagine that I'd be the least likely to stay in the North-lands of any of the hobbits of the Thain's escort! If, of course, the danger were real and not simply a piece of whimsy.' He shook his head. 'Really!'

'Really what?' Pippin asked.

'It's not my place to say... Sir,' Ferdi replied.

'Speak your mind, Ferdibrand,' Pippin said. 'And why are you "Sir"-ing me all of a sudden?'

Ferdi glanced at Regi and then looked back to his younger cousin. 'Pip,' he said. 'Speaking cousin-to-cousin...'

'Yes?' Pippin said, while Regi raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'Although I must say that Sir seems out of place in that context.'

'And as a former head of escort, as well as a former hobbit of the escort,' Ferdi said.

'Ah well, I suppose Sir might fit in that case—'

'Pippin!' Ferdi snapped. He ran his hand over his head, uncomfortable now that he had the Thain's and Steward's complete and unblinking attention. 'If you would be so good as not to make a jest of your hobbits of escort, or aim your whimsy in their direction...'

'I beg your pardon, Ferdi?' Pippin said, but he was seeking clarity rather than forgiveness.

'Our job – their job,' Ferdi said, correcting himself since he was now Pippin's special assistant, in part because of an injury that had constrained his ability as an archer. He would never again know the thrill of shooting in the Tournament against the best archers in the Shire. Though serving as a hobbit of the Thain's escort had been his highest goal in years past, he'd never again qualify as an escort. 

A shadow of pain crossed his face which he quickly wiped away, but not before the others had seen it.

'Ferdi, I—' Pippin said, completely serious now, and stopped. He held up his hand. 'I make their job much more difficult, I know,' he said, 'with my constant grumbling about the need for the escort.'

'And the job is difficult enough without making a joke of it,' Regi added quietly. He had previously argued this point with Pippin himself, but the hard-headed young Thain had not heeded him. He supposed the plaint meant more, coming from one of the hobbits directly affected.

'I beg your pardon, Ferdi,' Pippin said, and this time he was offering an apology for his thoughtlessness.

At that moment, there was a tap on the door, and Isenard, the escort currently on duty outside the Thain's study stuck his head in at the door. 'Post, Sir, from the North Farthing.'

Regi rose to take the missive from the escort's hand with a quiet word of thanks, and Isen nodded and left the study to take up his station once more, closing the heavy door behind him.

Pippin looked at the envelope. 'From Bolham himself,' he said. 'I wonder...' But he refrained from making any obvious jokes about Tolly extending his stay further for whatever reason. He broke the seal, lifted the flap, and extricated the folded paper from within. Ferdi and Regi watched the play of expression across his face as he read... mild interest, confusion, dawning realisation, consternation.

'What is it?' the Steward said as the moments stretched out. 'What's happened?'

At about the same time Pippin was saying, 'Bolham writes to ask when he might expect our agent to arrive...' there was another knock at the study door, and Isen was announcing, 'The Mayor, Sir.'

Samwise Gamgee entered, a hat on his head, another in his hand and his expression solemn. A Shirriff accompanied him, some torn and blackened saddlebags hanging from his hand. 

'Sam!' Pippin said, rising from his chair, the open letter in his hand momentarily forgotten. 'We didn't expect you! Why didn't you send word you were coming?'

'I didn't know I was coming,' the Mayor replied, 'but urgent news came to me from the North Farthing, and so I rode down here at once...' He indicated his companion. 'If I may introduce Hawfinch Brownlock, one of my Shirriffs in the North Farthing...'

'At your service, Sir,' Hawfinch said with a bow, his face expressionless. He moved to the Thain's desk and deposited the saddlebags. 'We found these... and the remains of documents within them, when we were able to piece enough of the fragments together, indicated that the pony belonged to one of the Thain's Messengers...'

'The pony?' Regi asked after a moment of silence, when it seemed everyone in the room had been struck dumb.

'The pony's alive – badly injured, but alive, and it may even recover with time and care,' the Shirriff said.

'What happened?' Pippin said numbly.

'Struck by lightning,' Hawfinch said. 'The beast's lucky to be alive at all, considering...'

'And the Messenger?' Ferdi said sharply, rising from his chair.

'I'm sorry,' Hawfinch said. 'I've no easy answers for you.'

*** 

Chapter 7. ...and...

Burned and battered, aching in every muscle, his mind strangely blank, a hobbit had awakened face-down in a growing puddle as rain bucketed down around him. He had convulsively rolled over, coughed, choked, fought for air. Tried to rise – to no avail. Blindly groped all about himself, finding only water and mud. Some compulsion had driven him to roll back to his hands and knees, but they would not bear him up for more than a few seconds before he collapsed face-down in water once more. Somehow, though he had not the words to formulate the thought, he had realised that water and life were not compatible. He had reached forward as far as he could, tortured muscles and joints protesting, grasped at the ground, and dragged himself forward. Again and again, he had repeated the effort, mindless but determined.

He had not been aware when the mud and water beneath him became moss and then a thick, wet layer of duff, with its mixture of decaying leaves, needles and branches. His fingers had dug into the duff, past the soaked surface and into the dry part, yet his mind had not noticed the difference – or even that the puddled water that had threatened him was well behind him now – but drove him onward, ever onward, even as pain wracked his body and he sobbed for breath. He crawled unthinkingly, like a wounded animal, ever onward, stopping only when he swooned. Every time he came to himself again, he dragged himself onward once more. All was darkness around him, and he was thus unaware when the light returned after the dark clouds passed, and of the later darkness that fell, followed by light, and then darkness, light again, and darkness, and finally, when his leaden limbs at last refused to obey him, he knew not the return of the light, for he still could not see.   

When his strength failed at last, he lay, covered (though he did not know it; could not feel it) in wet leaves and hidden by the brambles he'd crawled under, all unknowing. All was darkness around him, within and without. Nor had he, with his blasted, deafened ears, heard the voices calling, sometimes nearer and then farther, or the sounds made by hobbits thrusting their way through the undergrowth as they searched. For his world had gone silent as well as dark, within and without, with neither thoughts nor words remaining.

*** 

'We searched,' Hawfinch said, 'both in the Wood, in a growing circle starting from where the injured pony was found, as well as in and around the bog where his hat was found.'

Ferdi, seeming stunned, sank back into his chair as the Shirriff continued his narrative.

They'd tentatively connected the hat to the saddlebags on the injured pony in the Wood even as Hawfinch acknowledged that it was only a guess. As the Shirriff explained the actions he and the hobbits who'd responded to his summons had taken after finding the hat in the bog, Sam moved forward and placed the hat on the Thain's desk. Pippin picked up the hat and looked at Ferdi. 'Would you be able to tell if it's his?' he said.

Ferdi shook his head, passed his hand over his eyes, and said, simply, 'Rusty.'

Regi rose immediately, went to the study door and yanked it open precipitously. He told Isen, the startled Messenger standing just outside the door, 'Fetch Rusty Stubbletoes. Quickly!'

Pippin waited to speak until Regi had closed the door and returned to his desk. Then he cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. 'But if the pony survived the lightning bolt,' the Thain argued, 'then surely his rider...'

'We don't know!' the Shirriff said, frustrated. 'Had he dismounted? Was he standing beside the beast, or a few steps away? Was he closer to the tree the lightning struck – and so it burned him to coals but left the pony alive?'

'Lightning doesn't burn a body to coals,' Pippin argued. 'At least, I've never seen such a thing.'

'And how many bodies of hobbits – or any other creature, for that matter – that have been struck by lightning have you seen?' Regi asked quietly, adding, 'Sir. I mean no disrespect, but we must be practical here.'

'How many have you seen yourself?' Pippin countered. Then he turned back to the Shirriff and said, 'Were you able to determine if the lightning bolt struck the pony directly? Even there in the Wood?'

'There's a burn mark on a nearby tree,' Hawfinch answered. 'We suspect – though there's no way of knowing for certain – that the lightning struck the tree, which acted as a guide, bringing the bolt to the pony – and, we guessed, its rider.' He paused, then added, 'Perhaps he was less injured than the pony, and was able to stagger away... He might have been disoriented, gone in search of help, and blundered into the bog...? But then, that's just more guesswork.'

There was a sharp rap on the door, and then it opened and Rusty, who served both Tolly's and Ferdi's families, entered. His eyes went first to Ferdi, but that hobbit had a hand over his eyes as if his head pained him. Then he saw the Thain beckon to him. 'Sir,' he said. 'How can I be of service?'

'Here,' Pippin said, lifting the hat. 'I have a hat here that I'd like you to identify for me.'

'A hat?' Rusty said, mystified. But he came forward and accepted the hat from the Thain and turned it over. His face cleared. 'O this is Master Tolibold's hat,' he said. 'O' course.' He looked up. 'Did he lose it somewhere, and they wanted to know who to return it to?'

'How do you know it's Tolly's?' the Thain asked.

Rusty pointed to a mark on the inner band inside the hat. 'That's his mark, Sir. I mark all clothing items when they're acquired so that if something's sent out for cleaning or repair, I can verify that it belongs to one of the hobbits I serve.'

'So it's Tolly's hat,' the Thain said to no one. Before anyone else could say anything, he looked to Rusty. 'Thank you for your help, Rus,' he said. 'You may go back to what you were doing, and please accept our apologies for interrupting your work.'

'No apologies necessary,' Rusty said. He bowed to the Thain and Steward, looked uncertainly towards Ferdi, whose hand still covered his eyes, nodded to the others in the room, and moved to the door. As he exited, he said, 'Thank you, Sir,' though it was fairly clear that he wasn't quite sure why he was thanking the Thain, and he was wondering how Tolly's hat fit into the picture. 

After the door closed behind the hobbitservant, Pippin addressed the Shirriff. 'What I'd like to know is how Tolly's hat ended floating in the bog while his pony was found injured and struck by lightning in the Wood!'

Hawfinch threw up his hands. 'Did they take the wrong path and blunder into the bog?' he said. 'Did the pony leave his rider to sink and drown, and flee to the Wood, only to be caught by the storm?' He shook his head in frustration. 'Was he, as I said earlier, perhaps less injured than the pony, and able to stagger away, and blundered into the bog...?' His gaze swept the others in the room. 'Was he even there at all? The only solid evidence we have is the pony!'

And his hat was the unspoken thought that hung in the room.

'What tracks did you find?' Ferdi put in, uncovering his eyes. 'What story did they tell?'

The Shirriff shook his head. 'The storm brought with it winds and heavy downpours,' he said. 'Any sign that might have been left was washed away.'

Ferdi stood to his feet and looked to the Thain. 'I would like to go,' he said. 'Hang tradition! Please,' he said, 'my Nell will understand,' his voice was almost pleading as he ended, 'surely she'll understand...'

Pippin nodded, exchanged glances with Reginard, and nodded again. 'Go,' he said quietly, and then stronger, 'Go at once! I will explain to my sister...' And to Hawfinch, he said, 'I want you to take the fastest ponies in our stables, and ride at all speed... Ride one and lead another, so that you may go faster by changing ponies as you go. Ferdi is the best tracker in the Tookland, and if the rain and the storm have left any sign at all, he will be the one to find it.'

Though the Shirriff seemed bewildered at this turn of events, Mayor Sam took him by the arm and guided him out of the study, then pulled him along to the stables in Ferdi's wake, for the Thain's special assistant had run ahead to arrange for the ponies the Thain had ordered.

By the time Ferdi and Hawfinch galloped out of the courtyard, each leading a relief mount, a small crowd of hobbits were gathering on the stones, including Pippin and Reginard, along with Sam Gamgee.

Pippin turned to Sam. 'I must beg your pardon, Samwise,' he said.

The Mayor was surprised. 'My pardon?'

'The Shirriffs look to you, and here I am, issuing orders to your hobbit...'

'And, as I very well know, Tolibold looks to you,' Sam said quietly. 'I would expect nothing less than the fastest response on your part, if there's any hope of finding the hobbit alive.'

Pippin simply shook his head and stared at the ground without speaking. The seconds stretched out. The clatter of hoofs from the departing ponies, their shoes striking sparks against the stones of the courtyard, had been replaced by a low murmur on the part of the hobbits around them.

'Sir?' Reginard said at last.

Pippin blinked, seemed to shake himself, and looked up. 'Nell must be told,' he said.

'And Meadowsweet?'

The Thain closed his eyes as if in pain, and when he opened them again, he said, 'I don't know what to tell her.' He swallowed hard. 'What do we say to her?'

Regi had seldom seen the young Thain at a loss before, but then he was at something of a loss himself in this moment.

Mayor Sam rested a work-worn hand on Pippin's shoulder. 'Tell her the truth as you know it,' he said. 'That's all you can do.'

At Pippin's anguished look, he added, 'Tell her he's lost, and searchers are looking for him. At least, that way, she can hope... at least until something more definitive comes up.'

Pippin sighed. 'Better to hope, I suppose,' he said heavily. He looked to his Steward. 'Regi,' he said. 'I want you to inform the rest of the escort of the situation. Send as many of them as you see fit to join the search. Hunters, too. Anyone with tracking skills.'

'Sir,' Regi said, and hurried away to comply.

*** 

'Ferdi?' Pimpernel said as the door to their suite opened. It was nearly teatime, so perhaps Pippin had let Ferdibrand off early, seeing that they were still technically newly wed – and would be for six months more, at least. As long as an entire year, if they held strictly to tradition. At the lack of response from her beloved, she turned around, and her eyes widened in surprise. 'Pip? What're you doing here? I thought you were Ferdi!'

In a lighter moment, Pippin might have turned her confusion into a jest, but he simply shook his head and closed the door quietly behind him, shoulders slumping.

This did not bode well, leading Nell to gasp, 'Has something happened to my Ferdi?'

'No – yes – no, Nell,' Pippin said, lifting a hand to stay her alarm. Unfortunately, his answer had been alarming in itself.

'What is it?' she said, crossing the room to where her brother stood, there by the door – as if he wished to escape somehow – and taking his arm.

'I sent him to the North Farthing,' Pippin said.

'You sent...' Pimpernel said, unbelieving. 'But...'

Pippin shook himself free of her hold and then reached to take her hands in his. 'Tolly's missing,' he said. 'Ferdi's the finest tracker in the Tookland... maybe even the Shire. He – he hoped you'd understand why he felt he had to go...'

Pimpernel stared at her brother, stricken. 'But of course,' she said. 'I remember how we used to jest that the two of them shared a single brain between them... but what we really meant was that they shared one soul...' Her eyes flooded with tears, and she gave a sob.

'Will you be all right here, Nell?' Pippin asked quietly. 'For I must go and tell Meadowsweet... something...'

Nell wiped her eyes and lifted her chin bravely. 'I will come with you,' she said. 'I don't know what to say, but...'

'Neither do I,' Pippin agreed. 'But something must be said at this point, especially before the Talk should bring the news to her ears. Better that she hears the facts from the Thain, at least as much as we know at this point.'

With great courtesy, he offered her his arm, and together, they went to find Meadowsweet to give her as much news as might be conveyed, at least for now.

***

Chapter 8. ...Presumed...

Old Gorbyl north-Took looked out on the bright morning and breathed deeply. As his eyes had begun to dim, his senses of smell and hearing had seemed to grow stronger as if in compensation. Yesterday's storm seemed to have washed the air clean, he thought. Instead of reminding him of a cake too long in the oven, overbaked and on the verge of burning, as had been his impression of the Wood for the past week or more in the unseasonably warm temperatures, he smelled fresh greenery, leaf mould and damp soil. 'Lovely!' he said aloud.

'Grandfa?' young Gorbol, his oldest grandson said in response.

'No storms today,' the old herb-gatherer said. 'And the heat has broken... The bees will be out and about, gathering their winter supply of food, I warrant. But the berries will be wet, and if we leave them on the bushes, they may turn mouldy.'

Though he was only fifteen, Gorbol immediately identified his grandfa's purpose. 'So we're to pick all the berries we can find, I take it?'

'And bring them back, and spread them on the screens to dry,' Gorbyl said, well pleased. But then, his grands, first fatherless when his younger son had not returned from the hunt and then motherless when Dove had died after little Lark's birth, had grown up too quickly over the past decade. The old hobbit had raised Lark on goat's milk, and he'd modified a backpack to hang on his front with the babe cradled against his chest as he went about his days, and he'd fashioned harnesses for her brothers, only faunts when his daughter-in-love had died soon after childbearing, and tied them to himself with slender ropes when he went out of the little cottage, whether to milk the goat, or feed and brush Wren, their bog pony, or chop wood, or gather herbs to bind, dry and sell at market or for some other reason.

At fifteen and twelve, Gorbol and his younger brother Flamol no longer had to be tethered like goats or dogs as their grandfather considered them big enough now to range freely in the vicinity. The lads were relatively tall, like their north-Took grandfather and father before them, and as long as they stayed together, they'd be relatively safe from foxes during the day and owls at night. However, Lark, who was only ten, was only allowed to leave the house with her grandfather or a brother, though Gorbyl no longer employed harness and tether. Truly he'd learned much of child-rearing since Dove's death, when he'd suddenly had to deal with two faunts and a babe with no one else to turn to, even to answer his questions.

'Go with your brothers, Lark,' he told his granddaughter, 'but stay close!'

'O course, Grandfa!' the little one laughed. 'Don't I always?'

Gorbyl put on his fiercest expression. 'Do you, now?' he said.

'We'll keep one eye on her and one on the berries, Grandfa,' Flamol said.

'I dunno why, but that worries me,' Gorbyl said. 'Now, out wit' ye! And I'll have a fine baking of bread and a simmering stew to greet you when you come home. And wit' the milk chilling in the spring, we can have berries and milk for our sweet dish this day!'

Cheering, the two older brothers matched their little sister's shorter stride as they headed down the path to the bramble bushes Gorbyl had preserved, a wild berry-garden of sorts. He pruned them as needed to keep them from overgrowing the entire area, and he trimmed away thorns from the branches on a regular basis to spare his grands at least some scratches when they went to gather the brambles' bounty. 

The old hobbit watched the little procession from the door, marvelling anew at the gift of their presence in his life, unexpected brightness that shone amidst the shadows of loss. As if in response to the grandfa's thoughts, the Sun smiled upon the childer when they crossed from the shade of one tree to that of another, turning little Lark's red-gold curls to flame and causing her brothers' darker auburn heads to glow like smouldering embers. Their grandfa watched until they passed into the shade further along the path, banking the fires atop their heads, after a manner of speaking, and then he turned back to his meal preparations.

Humming, he cut up venison and wild onions and wild garlic and taters and carrots from the small garden he kept, added sweet water from the spring, sprinkled salt and seasoning, and set the stewpot on its tripod over the coals from the fire he'd sparked to cook their breakfast. Then he built up a fire in the clay-lined brick oven and shut the door for it to do its work heating the clay enough to bake the loaves of bread resting on the well-scrubbed table. Nothing else needed doing; the childer had made up the beds, and Lark had swept the floors whilst her brothers chopped and stacked firewood and the old hobbit had cleaned up from breakfast.

While waiting for the berry-pickers, he pulled out his pipe and began to stuff it with some Old Toby he'd bought in the market at Bolton earlier in the summer. 'Job well done,' he told himself.

But a sudden scream – Lark! – and shouts from the direction of the berry-patch had him fumbling his pipe as he was about to light it. He shoved the pipe into his pocket, pipe-weed and all, and tossed the flaming twig on the coals beneath the stewpot, before grabbing up his bow and quiver and hurrying down the path to the berry-garden.

When he reached the edge of the brambles, the old hobbit found the youngsters huddled together, the lads shoulder-to-shoulder and Gorbi holding little Lark tight to himself, hiding her face in his shirt. 'Don't look, Lark!' the grandfa heard the lad saying before he'd even reached them. 'Don't look!'

'What is it, my dears?' he said, replacing the arrow he held into the quiver when he determined no immediate danger seemed to be threatening.

'He's dead! He's dead – I think...' Flam said unsteadily, huddling closer to his older brother. Gorbi, still holding Lark close, put a comforting arm around his younger brother, though Gorbyl suspected the older lad could use a bit of comforting himself. Their baskets lay abandoned to one side, partly filled with berries, one of the baskets spilling its contents onto the ground.

'Who's dead?' he asked.

Flam pointed a shaking finger into the midst of the brambles.

The old hobbit shrugged the bow and quiver more securely onto his shoulder and followed the pointing finger, easing his way into the berry patch, cautious of thorns despite the regular trimming he did. He smelled the sweetness of ripe berries, the rich damp of the duff on the forest floor, the green of the leaves... and something else, a faint whiff reminiscent of something scorched, he thought, like bread he remembered making, when he'd first been learning to bake it and had been obliged to trim away some burnt parts of the crust.

As he passed through the centre of the large patch of brambles, heading towards the far side, he saw something there that didn't belong, half-hidden under the broad, jagged-edged leaves, a shape... a form... that resolved itself into a body. A hobbit!

He forgot all caution and sustained a long, painful scratch on his arm as he hurried forward and bent to lay his hand on the hobbit's neck. Ignoring his own discomfort, he slid his palm down to the pulse-point on the fellow's throat. 'He's alive,' he muttered, and heard a variety of responses from his grands: a sob, a gasp, a sharp exclamation...

The old hobbit looked over his shoulder. 'Childer!' he ordered. 'Go and fetch Wren! We'll need him to help us bring this wanderer to the cot... But hurry!'

While waiting for his grands to bring the pony, he slipped the hobbit's quiver and bow case from his shoulder and laid them aside, idly noting the fletching on the flight of arrows in the quiver. 'My Wallas liked to use that same blue colour for the fletching of his arrows,' he murmured. Of course there was no answer from his companion.

He shook his head at himself and slowly and carefully began to feel the fellow's limbs for breaks. Next, he checked the back of the hobbit's torso and extremities for wounds. He didn't want to turn the fellow over until they were ready to move him, and truth be told, he wasn't sure they ought to move him. Though, o' course, they couldn't very well leave him where he was lying, now, could they?

Along with bruises and scratches, he found unexpected burns to the skin. The scorched smell came from the hobbit's clothing, as if he'd been surrounded by fire some time earlier. 'It's a puzzle,' he said to himself. 'Hullo, young fellow,' he said, though he expected no answer, considering the poor shape the hobbit appeared to be in. 'Can ye hear me? Where did these burns come from?'

No answer.

'How ever did ye come to be in our berry-patch, I wonder?' he muttered. Of course, he heard no answer to that question, either.

And then the children were there, all three of them riding upon the bog pony, breathless and eager to be of some kind of help. 'Here we are, Grandfa!' little Lark sang. Gorbi slid down and lifted little Lark off the pony's back, then stepped aside to give Flam room to dismount.

'I'm going to turn ye over now, my friend,' Gorbyl said to the unconscious hobbit, for it seemed the right thing to warn the fellow he was about to be moved so as not to startle him if he were even a little aware of his surroundings. 'Here we...' He eased the limp body over onto its back – and stared. 'Wallas?' he whispered, dumbfounded.

True, his eyes were not what they had been, making it difficult to make out the hobbit's features clearly. Moreover, the face of the hobbit lying before him was scraped and battered, making recognition that much more difficult... But it couldn't be that his younger son and father of his grands, gone missing these ten years, had found his way back home again? Or could it somehow be possible? 

*** 

As gently as might be done, Gorbyl and the children lifted the tall, heavy hobbit onto the pony. It helped that Wren was small for a pony, but even so, the old hobbit was startled by a warning pain in his chest that did not wane immediately once they'd secured the unconscious fellow face-down over the pony's back.

To cover his unease, he raised his voice and said, 'Now, Gorbi, you and Flam walk on Wren's off-side, to keep him from sliding off, for I hardly think he'll be able to stand on his own two feet – whilst Lark and I walk on his near-side and do our best to keep him from falling on his head.'

'Yes Grandfa,' the three children answered as one.

The old hobbit turned the pony towards the cottage and clicked his tongue to signal a slow walk. Wren tossed his head and stepped off, not seeming to mind his burden or the hobbits walking to either side. But then, Gorbyl had trained him to accept a rider mounting from his off-side and not only his near-side, not a common practice but one he'd learned to value when riding out against the ruffians during the time of the Troubles.

When they reached the cot, Gorbyl told his grandsons to stand on either side of the pony and wait; he hurried up the step and inside, rubbing unconsciously at the twinge still echoing in his chest, at least until he reached the blanket press and pulled out a heavy coverlet.

'Here,' he said, laying it between the pony and the cot. 'We'll just ease him down off Wren's off-side, feet first – sit him down, then lie him as we roll him to the ground... Wren! Stand!' 

And together, they suited word to action, with little Lark dancing between the coverlet and Wren's lowered head, patting the velvet muzzle. 'Good pony!' she praised. 'Good Wren!' For Wren stood as still as he'd been taught. And there he'd stay, Gorbyl knew from experience, for hours, if need be. (Or until something frightened him enough to make him bolt in a panic, for that was the nature of ponies as prey animals.)

With the help of the coverlet, they dragged the injured hobbit into the cot and to Gorbyl's own bed, for Wallas and Dove's room had been closed off since the day Dove had left them. No doubt there'd be dust to deal with, and the bedlinens were ten years overdue for washing.

With a little more effort that had the old hobbit's heart hammering in his chest, he and his grandsons wrestled the limp, heavy body onto the bed, and Gorbyl sank down to sit next to him with a sigh. 'There,' he said with a cautious pat, considering the fellow's injuries. 'Gorbi, d'you think you could manage a pot o' tea? For us, if not for this fellow? And... But where's Lark gone off to? She's not gone back outside, has she? She's not out there alone with the pony!?'

But then the little lass stood in the doorway, cradling something to her chest. 'Is it...?' she said, eyes as wide as Gorbyl had ever seen them. 'But isn't it...? Could it be...?'

'What have you got there, lass?' Gorbyl said. 'What is it, you're asking?'

'You said "Wallas",' she whispered. 'I heard you! Is it... Is he... my da?' And she lowered the framed likeness she'd been hugging, the likeness she'd taken from the mantel over the hearth in the main room, painted upon a sunny day at the market in exchange for a few coins, a smiling couple holding hands and obviously in love with life and each other.

'What do ye...' young Gorbi said, falling to his knees beside his sister and placing his hand over his sister's smaller hand holding the frame. He looked down at the rendering, and then to the battered hobbit on the bed. Though the bruises and swelling made for some difficulty, the hobbit on the bed and the one in the picture might have been cousins... or brothers... or... 'Da?' he said, and burst into tears of wonder and joy.

*** 

Chapter 9. ...Dead?

The children and their grandfa tenderly cared for the injured hobbit in wonder and in hope. It had been ten years... And a body can change over ten years' time... Gorbyl himself was ten years older than he had been, though he'd probably aged more than that in his grief combined with the heavy responsibility of raising his orphaned grands alone. Gorbol and Flamol had been faunts when their father had walked out the door that fateful day, and Lark had not yet sung her first song, so all she knew of her father's face was his likeness on the mantel.

'When he wakens, we'll know for sure,' the old hobbit told the children.

'But what if it is Da? What if he was making his way back home? He looks as if he crawled a long way after he was injured,' young Gorbi argued. 'And you said his arrows were fletched blue!'

'What if it is?' Gorbyl echoed, looking around at the children's hopeful faces. 'Then we'll know for sure when he wakens,' he repeated.

'But what...?' Flam said, his dread clear in his face. 'What if he never wakens?'

'Then we'll lay him to rest beside your Mum,' Gorbyl said quietly. 'For it'll be clear, and no mistake, that he dragged himself all the way home, to be with you – and her. And even death could not keep him away.'

As he sat beside the bed that first day, Gorbyl thought of his losses. Friends, killed or taken to the Lockholes. His own son Gorbas, older brother to Wallas, captured, beaten, and marched to the Lockholes, never to return.

With no body to bury, Wallas had refused to believe his brother was dead. Even after he'd married Dove (whom he'd rescued from ruffians on their way out of the North Farthing with whatever they could carry), once or twice a year, he'd kiss his wife, hug his da, and announce he was going to go looking for Gorbas again. 

'P'rhaps he was part of the muster that drove the ruffians out o' the Shire,' he'd said more than once. 'What if they kept going? Harried them all the way to Far Harad or the Black Lands or such, just like in that old song we heard in the pub last month when we took our gatherings to market?' Or, another time, 'P'rhaps he went to Sea,' he'd said. 'Surely the Elves at the Havens could tell me...' Or, 'Maybe he went all the way to the Lonely Mountain, like Red Bolham told us about during the Troubles, whilst we sat around the fire on that cold winter night, hiding in the Wood from Lotho's ruffians...'

Perhaps Wallas had gone to the ends of Middle-earth and back again in search of his brother, a journey that had taken him the better part of the last ten years to accomplish? Of course, there'd be no way of knowing until the hobbit woke up and spoke.

Gorbyl cleaned the fellow up and robed him in a fresh nightshirt before tucking him into bed. When he'd brushed the dirt and leaves out of the matted curls, the resulting colour reminded him of Wallas's chestnut head. The impression grew stronger after young Gorbi helped him bathe the battered body and wash the rest of the grime out of the fellow's hair, that he might rest more comfortably. Moreover, Gorbyl had lifted the injured hobbit's eyelids, one at a time, to check on the response of the pupils – only to see familiar smoky-green eyes, much like he'd seen in the mirror in his younger years... much like his sons' eyes as he remembered them... and so much like the eyes of his grands. The injured hobbit's colouring matched Gorbyl's memories closely enough to take his breath away. After he'd tucked the childer into their beds, telling them he'd take the first watch, the old hobbit picked up the portrait from the mantel for a closer comparison. By the light of the turned-up lamp, the match looked exact to him.

Could a coincidence be so very indistinguishable?

Over the next few days, as hour after hour passed, the children took turns sitting bedside watch; their grandfa had to shoo them away to take care of their own needs much less their regular chores, such as washing up or milking or gathering eggs or sweeping or stirring the laundry in the tub. 'We'll all take turns,' he said. 'One hobbit cannot watch day and night without falling ill himself...' even though that was what he'd done with their mother Dove after Lark's birth while, at the same time, trying to care for a newborn and two feverish faunts. 

He finished, '...and then what good are they to the hobbit they're watching over?' For little Lark had nearly followed her mother after Dove's death, when Gorbyl had fallen ill himself with the fever that had taken his daughter-in-love and carried her two tiny sons to the edge of the grave. Gorbyl's memories of that time were, perhaps mercifully, lost in fever dreams, but they were enough to bring conviction to his tone and help him resist all wheedling on the part of his grands.

He also claimed for himself the heavy tending that would've been inappropriate for the children, all the extra work that caring for a bedridden hobbit brought. He was thankful for the children and their ability to manage the care of the chickens and the goat, as well as the demands of daily living, though the old hobbit still took care of bread-baking and much of the cooking. The extra burden told on him, however, and he gratefully rested during those times when he could just sit quietly in the chair next to the bed, holding his son's hand. For he was increasingly convinced that his son had come home to them at last. Finding out what had kept Wallas away for so long was a matter for another day.

Late on the day they'd found him, Gorbyl had the lads help him prop the injured hobbit into a sitting position. 'We have to see if we can get some water in him, at least,' he said, lifting one of the fellow's hands and showing his grands the signs of dehydration that they must look for over the coming days as they tended him. 'If he doesn't drink something soon, he'll die. He's not had anything to drink for two days, at least, and more than likely three, if I don't mistake the signs.' 

The lads had responded with sober nods, while little Lark had looked on with wide eyes. Though not a healer himself, during the time of the Troubles, he'd worked with the healers hiding in the Woods who had taught him, among other things, the signs to look for when treating common illnesses and injuries. An herb-gatherer by trade before the Troubles had descended upon the Shire, he'd been fascinated to learn how to prepare and apply various herbs. As a matter of fact, after he'd fallen to a ruffian's club, he'd spent more time in the healers' company than with the bold raiders who went out from the Wood and, greatly daring, reclaimed the Big Men's gatherings and harried the ruffians to the greatest extent possible. 

Gorbyl shook off the memory of the Troubles and returned to the here and now. He drew a deep breath and lifted a mug of cool water to their guest's lips. 'You want to talk to him while you're sitting with him,' he told his watching grands, 'for though he may show no sign, he may well hear every word you say or sing to them.' 

Hadn't it been that way for him when a ruffian had clubbed him to the ground and left him for dead? Bolham the Red had helped Gorbyl's sons carry him to a safe hiding place, where some of the displaced hobbits living in the Wood cared for the sick and injured in Bolham's band as well as their homeless neighbours. Gorbyl's watchers had held his hand, had talked to him, had sung songs to him throughout the days he'd lain unresponsive, and he remembered their voices as a lifeline that had led him back to himself in the end.

'Drink now, lad; I've clear, fresh water from the spring. Drink... You must be thirsty,' he coaxed softly as he held the mug to the hobbit's dry, cracked lips. 'I know I'd be, had I not emptied a pot o' tea an hour agone.' His heart leapt within him when he tilted the mug and saw the fellow swallow the water that trickled into his mouth! Though it was slow, painstaking work to administer the life-giving liquid slowly enough to prevent a choking fit, Gorbyl was able to say, 'All will be well,' when that first mug had been emptied, both to the rescued and his grands.

Still, feeling more hopeful, he stirred up some rich broth and, after it had sent its promise throughout the cot, he poured out a mug of the stuff and let it cool to sipping temperature while he and his grands sopped up their own portions of broth with bread. He thought he saw the fellow's nostrils flare at the savoury aroma as he brought the mug close. 'That's it,' he murmured. 'That's the lad.'

'Grandfa's broth is the best I've ever tasted!' Lark encouraged from her chair beside the bed since it was her turn to sit on watch, though her brothers lingered in the doorway, watching anxiously to see if their visitor would be able to swallow the broth. Neither of them laughed, even though "Grandfa's broth" was the only broth the little lass had ever tasted. 

The children had softly cheered when the mug of water had been drunk. The visitor's response to the broth was even more heartening to everyone there, for he half-opened his eyes as he sipped, though he didn't speak. The old hobbit caught his breath at seeing eyes the same colour as those of his sons and his younger son's children. Almost without thinking, he said, 'Wallas,' when the mug of broth was empty, 'all's well. You're home now, lad. You're home.' The familiar-looking eyes briefly met his gaze before closing, and the hobbit slept again. Through the rest of that first day and well into the evening, Gorbyl coaxed alternating mugs of broth and water into the injured hobbit until the worrisome signs of dehydration diminished sufficiently that he didn't worry the hobbit would expire before the Sun rose again.

That night, the children took turns sleeping curled by the injured hobbit's side, offering warmth and reassurance to the unconscious fellow while ready to awaken if he should move or speak. In fact, the old hobbit and his grands never left their patient alone, day or night, but stayed with him, singing and speaking or sitting quietly while holding his hand. 

'He'll come back to us when he's ready,' Gorbyl told the children – and himself. By the next morning, he was heartened to see healing progressing in terms of reduced swelling. The visible burns and scrapes were also showing signs of recovery. Hopefully anything that was wrong under the skin was also responding to rest and strengthening broth and constant reassurance.

On the morning of the second day, the visitor showed more signs of life. Though his eyes were closed when Gorbyl spoke to him, he nodded at the old hobbit's question. 'Are ye thirsty, lad?' But then, when Gorbyl tendered a cup of freshly-brewed tea laced with honey and goats' milk, the eyes had opened, the forehead had wrinkled, and the fellow had weakly shaken his head. 'You don't care for tea, I take it?' the old hobbit asked. Wallas never did care all that much for tea, he remembered. How Dove used to tease him about it!

Receiving a blink for an answer, he patted the night-clad shoulder. 'Broth?' He thought he saw the lips twitch in a brief smile before the eyes closed, as if in exhaustion. He patted the shoulder again. 'Broth it is, then,' he said. 'And we'll put some meat in it later, if you're up to chewing a little.'

'He's getting better, Grandfa – isn't he?' Lark said eagerly.

'He is!' Gorbyl said firmly – for their visitor's sake as much as for his granddaughter. No doubt the fellow could hear every word.

By the end of that day, young Gorbi was able to feed the fellow soup with finely minced meat and vegetables and torn-up bread by the spoonful. 'He is getting better, Grandfa!' the teen said in excitement. 'He is!' And to the hobbit in the bed, watching him with half-closed eyes, he said, 'You are!' He received a double-blink for his reward.

Later, after Gorbyl had settled Flam in the chair next to their visitor, tucking a blanket around the lad to keep him warm since the nights were growing increasingly chilly, he went to tuck up Flam's older brother and younger sister in their beds. But young Gorbi stayed him with a question. 'Why won't he speak, Grandfa?'

'It may not be a matter of "won't" so much as "cannot", lad,' the old hobbit said slowly. 'There may be injuries inside him, besides what we can see on the outside.'

'But he'll get better... won't he?' the teen pleaded.

Gorbyl patted his hand. 'I hope so,' he said. 'We can all hope so. We'll do all we can to help him come back to himself.'

On the third morning after they'd found him in their berry-garden, the visitor groped for a piece of bread smeared with honey from the plate in his lap, managed to close his fingers around it, and lifted it to his mouth. 'Very good!' Gorbyl told him. He allowed the fellow to feed himself several more pieces, and then on recognising the signs of impending exhaustion, he intercepted the questing hand, took it between his own hands, and held it gently while squarely meeting the fellow's questioning gaze. 'Try and make haste a little more slowly, Wallas,' he said. 'You've tired yourself. I can do the rest... When we bring you elevenses, you can work at it again.'

The nod he received told him that the hobbit was taking in what he was told and understanding it, though he could not seem to manage a spoken response. Not yet, anyhow.

After breakfast, Lark had joyously wiped the honey from the hobbit's sticky fingers with a damp cloth, chattering at him, and had received a wink and a smile for her reward. Encouraged, his watchers saw growing signs of improvement as the day progressed: Flam reported that he'd been able to feed himself a hand pie at elevenses, and young Gorbi cheered him on as he lifted a few forkfuls of meat and vegetables to his mouth at noontide before tiring and accepting Gorbi's help in feeding the rest of the meal to him.

That afternoon, Gorbyl was taking another turn sitting at the bedside with Lark while young Gorbi kneaded tomorrow's bread dough and Flam stirred the soup in the kettle that would play the main role in their eventide meal. A knock came at the door, and the bedside watchers heard the door open and Flam speak a greeting that said the visitor was not a stranger.

'Grandfa!' Flam called from the front of the cot. 'You're wanted!'

'Stay close to 'im,' Gorbyl told little Lark. 'And o' course, call me if he speaks...' The hobbit had fallen deeply asleep after the noontide meal – a healing sleep, the old hobbit hoped. As did his granddaughter, evidenced in her response.

'I will!' the little one promised, cuddling closer to her charge. And then she spoke to the prostrate hobbit, as she'd begun speaking soon after his arrival. 'Da, I'm here,' she whispered. 'Your little Lark... Come back to us, Da... Please...?'

The old hobbit wiped away a threatening tear and went to the door where Flam waited with the visitor. 'Hawfinch!' he said in surprise at seeing it was one of the North Farthing's Shirriffs. 'What brings you to this part o' the Wood? Isn't your beat more southerly?' Belatedly remembering to offer hospitality, he added, 'Can I offer you a cup o' tea for your trouble?'

'It's the Tooks,' Hawfinch said, removing his feathered hat. 'They've lost one o' their own, i' the bog, we think, but maybe i' the southern stretches o' the Wood. Have ye perhaps been herb-gathering to the south, and have ye seen any sign of a visiting Took who might've lost himself?'

'What do Tooks look like?' Gorbyl said. 'I've never seen one... never been out of the North Farthing, for that matter. Don't they live off in the South-lands somewhere?'

Hawfinch brushed a speck of dust from the brim of his hat. 'A Took don't look all that different from a north-Took,' he said. 'They're relations o' yours, I hear tell, if the stories about Bandobras Bullroarer are anything to go by.'

Gorbyl shook his head. He had little time for old tales. 'I've not been gathering this past week,' he said. 'Not since that bad storm, anyhow. I've had my work cut out for me, just cutting up the trees that fell in the wind. But I'll have plenty of firewood to take me through the Winter months, at least!'

'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' Hawfinch agreed. 'Well then, I'll take my leave. I've got Tooks crawlin' all o'er the southern half o' the Wood, not to mention all 'round the edges o' the bog, and it'll be a wonder if nobody else falls in and is lost!'

'I'll let ye go then,' Gorbyl said. 'And good luck to ye, and to the Tooks – and to them finding that missing fellow.'

The Shirriff shook his head and then clapped his hat back on, preparatory to departing. 'You know what they say about the luck of the Tooks,' he said dourly.

Gorbyl didn't know, as a matter of fact, but now did not seem to be the time to ask, for the Shirriff was clearly in a hurry to get back to the search. After repeating his goodbyes, he closed the door and went to make a pot of tea.

*** 

Pimpernel almost didn't hear Ferdi enter their quarters, he'd entered so quietly, easing the door shut with barely a snick of the latch. At this slightest of sounds, she looked up from her needlework, for she'd chosen to sit on the settee in their sitting room from noontide onwards, as she'd done each day for the past week – as she would have continued to do into the future days until she welcomed him home, had he come on another day. She'd calculated that, on the day he turned his face homewards, even if he should leave the North-lands before the dawning and pushed his pony to make the best speed, Ferdi would not be likely to arrive at the Great Smials until noon. And while he might travel into the night-time hours, should the darkness catch him only part-way home, she doubted he'd ride past middle night but would seek a place to rest the pony if not himself. 

Thus, from wakening and breakfast until nuncheon, she'd devoted herself to her little ones. The family ate together, and then she'd sent the older ones to their lessons with the headmaster or the tutor. After sharing the midday meal with them all again, she'd welcomed Bella, the minder Diamond had assigned so that Pimpernel might have more time with Ferdi during these "early days" of their marriage. Bella watched with the littlest after she tucked them up for their afternoon nap and took care of teatime and eventides. Lastly, after Pimpernel administered bedtime kisses and told a bedtime story, Bella would watch with the sleeping children until their mother finally stumbled to her bed in the middle night. 

'Ferdi-love!' she said, getting up from her seat. But he did not answer, simply stood by the door, his head bowed. 'Ferdi?' she said more softly. 'My heart?'

He looked terrible, tired and defeated and completely drained. She crossed quickly to him and took hold of his arms. 'Come, love,' she said, her voice low and soothing, 'Come and sit down.'

He shook his head, but then he let her draw him further into the room, towards the table where they took their meals when they did not eat elsewhere, such as the great room or when invited out to dinner. On reaching the nearest chair, he sank down and stared into space without speaking.

'Tolly?' Pimpernel whispered.

Ferdi groaned and buried his head in his hands, and then he began to weep, gut-wrenching sobs that tore at Nell's heart as she circled him with her arms and bowed her head to rest her face on his dusty curls, helpless to do more.

And though the apartments were well-separated and designed for privacy, even as her beloved mourned, Pimpernel heard Meadowsweet's anguished shriek from next door, or perhaps the news had been delivered to Tolly's wife when she'd opened the door to a knock and the sound had echoed down the corridor, announcing the terrible news to all in the vicinity.

When Ferdi at last quieted in her arms, and she raised her head, she was met with the sight of a cosied teapot, cups and saucers, cream jug and sugar bowl, all of which had appeared silently on the table before them. 

Alas, poor Rusty, receiving the news no doubt at the same time Meadowsweet did, had assuaged his grief in the only way he knew. 

She'd no doubt that freshly brewed tea had also been provided for Meadowsweet and the hobbits sent to bring her the news and who'd stay to minister to her in her grief and shock.

Ferdi stirred, and Nell released him, then went to pour a cup of steaming tea for each of them. She fixed Ferdi's cup the way he liked it, but after second thought, she deliberately doubled the sugar and stirred it in. 'Here, my love,' she said, tendering Ferdi's cup. He reached up as she held it to his lips, cradling the cup in his palm, and drank half the cup in one long swallow. Meeting his eyes, Nell released the cup and reached around to pick up her own tea, taking a steadying sip.

Tea, that soother of all ills, she could almost hear Tolly whisper sardonically in the back of her mind.

'Did you find any sign?' she asked delicately, feeling her way.

Ferdi shook his head, then drained the rest of the tea in his cup and set it gently down on the saucer. Nell refilled it, waiting for his answer, if he had one.

'It took us more than half a day, just to get there,' he said, 'even riding one pony and leading a remount. And when we did...'

'What?' she asked, feeling dread clutch at her heart like a cold hand.

'The North-landers that searched before us...' Ferdi said, 'they, and the heavy rain and wind, the damage from the storm, the flooding from the deluge... they left us no signs to find.' He breathed deeply and gave a despairing sigh. 'They think... We think... I...'

Nell took his hand and kissed it tenderly, but waited in silence for him to finish.

'The bog,' he said, and his voice broke, and he bowed his head.

'O Ferdi-love,' Nell said, her heart breaking for him. O Tolly. O Sweetie. O tiny child, and babe yet unborn...

Together, they wept.

*** 

Chapter 10. Picking Up the Pieces

Mistress Eglantine sat silently at the table in the sitting room that had belonged to Tolly and Meadowsweet. She wondered how long her son would give Meadowsweet to make other arrangements... or Regi, rather, or perhaps Diamond. She blessed the fact that she'd given up the role of The Took to her son and the title of Mistress to her daughter in love, for her heart felt hollow with sorrow, and she was tired. Wearied by life. By too many years of tragedies, including the Troubles and their impact on the Outer Shire as well as the Tookland, though Lotho's (and then Sharkey's) Men had not been allowed to defile the Tooks' homeland with their presence.

For the Thain and the Tooks and the land itself had not escaped unscathed. Paladin, the genial farmer she'd married, had to become hard, cold and calculating. He'd tried to warn the heads of the Great Families of the danger he saw creeping over the Shire like a shadow, but they hadn't believed him until they'd left things too late to remedy. He'd had more success in keeping Lotho's influence – and his Big Men – out of the Tookland, in part due to the obstinate pride of the Tooks. Nor had the current Thain – her only son, Pippin – escaped the Troubles unmarked. For he'd returned from following Frodo into the Outlands a different hobbit, not only outwardly in terms of scars and unusual stature and wearing mail and carrying a sword. He'd also grown beyond his years in wisdom and understanding and knowledge... and heartbreak.

'Tea, Mistress.' Though Rusty, who served both Ferdi's and Tolly's families – had served, she reminded herself – had spoken quietly, he'd startled her nevertheless, with her nerves so raw from old pain and the current tragedy. The hobbitservant immediately begged her pardon.

'No need, Rusty,' she answered, managing a smile. 'Very thoughtful of you.' Though she'd handed over all her duties as Mistress of the Tooks to Diamond, everyone still seemed to think of her as such.

'I looked in, and Mistress Meadowsweet is sleeping now,' Rusty said as he poured out her tea and fixed it to her taste. 'Healer Evergreen got up to tell me she'd watch through the rest of the night, and that you should lie yourself down, Mistress.'

'I will,' Eglantine said, picking up the cup and nodding thanks to him before taking her first sip. 'Ah, Rusty, that just suits. May I use one of the guest rooms?' she added. Of course, she might've slept in any bed in the Great Smials she wished, for the Tooks seemed inclined to grant her every wish. She wasn't sure why they held her in such high esteem, for she'd only done what was right over the years Paladin had been Thain. Nonetheless, it seemed she could do no wrong. O' course, it was not something she'd ever abuse or let go to her head.

'Yes'm,' Rusty said. 'I took the liberty of making up a bed fresh for you, Mistress. There's a fire on the hearth and warmers in the bed, and the ewer's freshly filled, and...'

'Very good, Rusty,' she said, trying not to show her exhaustion at this seemingly endless list of actions he'd taken to demonstrate his care and respect. 'Please convey to Evergreen that I wish to be wakened, should Sweetie come awake.'

She saw the arguments he would not voice in the hobbitservant's eyes, but he bowed and assented. 'Will there be anything else, Mistress?' he said.

'No, Rusty,' Eglantine answered. 'I'll just finish this cup, and then I'll see myself off to bed.'

'Very good, Mistress,' Rusty said, and with another bow, he left her alone with her thoughts.

Pimpernel had not wanted to live on after her first husband Rudivacar Bolger had died of a sudden onset of illness. Though the marriage had not been her choice, Rudi's love and care had won her heart. Together, they'd had five children, and she'd been expecting their sixth when Rudi was taken from her.

The Bolger had sent to the Tooks for help. Eglantine had convinced Pippin that they must bring her to the Great Smials, under the care of the Tooks, though Pippin had argued long and bitterly against the move. With Healer Woodruff's help, Eglantine had made arrangements so that Pimpernel would never be left alone but would always have someone with her to talk and sing to her, to keep her from falling into dark thoughts, to remind her of her blessings, even to bring her food and nag her to eat and drink until the babe was born – and then after.

These unconventional, and frankly intrusive, measures had brought Pimpernel through the darkest period. But then, old Odovacar Bolger and young Thain Peregrin had gone farther, stretching the bounds of propriety nearly to the breaking point... and yet... 'And yet,' Eglantine said to herself, 'it's almost as if things were supposed to work out as they did.' She shook her head in wonder.

For The Bolger and The Took had conspired to bring Ferdibrand and Pimpernel together after Pimpernel had mourned for more than a year. Though they'd been sweethearts since childhood, fate had separated them after Ferdi was badly injured – some had called him "permanently crippled" – at the Battle of Bywater. Ferdi had withdrawn from life in general and Tookish society in particular... and so Paladin had arranged for Pimpernel to marry Rudivacar, the younger brother of old Odo. Yet Ferdi never married; his heart belonged to Nell alone. Though marrying a second time was almost unheard-of in the Shire, somehow the two conspirators convinced Nell and Ferdi to marry. And so, quite recently, they had.

'From joy to sorrow...' Eglantine said, placing her teacup on the saucer and rising from the table. But then she shook her head again. 'No,' she told herself. 'From sorrow to joy.' For Nell had grieved Rudi but then married her first love, Ferdi. 

She wondered if it might be possible for Meadowsweet, widowed at such a young age, to find love again... But first, they needed to get the lass through this initial period of grief. Well, Eglantine had managed such a process once before for her daughter. Now she'd try and do the same for her daughter's bosom friend. She headed for bed but was arrested in the hallway leading to the bedrooms by desperate sobbing. Sweetie!

Eglantine hurried to Tolly's and Meadowsweet's bedroom and found Healer Evergreen standing next to the bed, holding the bereaved hobbit close and murmuring broken words of intended comfort as Sweetie wept. Tolly's name, muffled, emerged at intervals, mingled with her sobs and gasps.

Eglantine moved to them and circled them both with her arms, laying her head on Meadowsweet's shoulder. 'I know,' she murmured. 'I know, dearie.'

She did know, of course. Her own beloved husband had died some years earlier, and she knew the pain of such a loss – as if her own heart had been ripped from its place and torn asunder.

She wasn't sure how long they stood this way, but eventually, Meadowsweet slumped in their arms, and together, Mistress and healer eased her back onto the bed and smoothed the coverlet over her.

'Thank you, Mistress,' Evergreen whispered. 'I would have summoned you, to let you know she'd awakened, but...'

'Of course,' Eglantine said, and added, 'You look exhausted, my dear.'

'Grief is exhausting for everyone it touches,' Evergreen confirmed. She looked to the bed. 'I think... I hope she'll sleep for some time now.'

'A draught?' Eglantine asked delicately.

But Evergreen shook her head. 'I offered her one earlier, but...'

Eglantine nodded. It went against the healers' principles to dose a hobbit without their knowledge or permission. How difficult it must be for them to stick to their resolve in this sort of situation!

'Get some sleep yourself, Mistress,' Evergreen urged. 'I'll watch over her until Woodruff sends another healer to take my place.' She cocked her head with a keen look of inquiry. 'Were you planning to breakfast with her?'

'Well I wasn't planning to sleep in,' Eglantine said crisply. She softened the words with a smile and amended, 'Yes, that was my plan. I'll do my best to persuade her to eat for the babe's sake, if not her own.'

'Very well, Mistress,' Evergreen said, and bowed her head in dismissal.

Eglantine could take a hint.

Rusty had indeed made the guest room as comfortable as he knew how, with many small touches that spoke of his skill and dedication to his duties. Even so, sleep eluded Eglantine for a long time. 

*** 

Despite her short night, Eglantine was up well before breakfast. As the wife of a farmer, she'd arisen halfway through middle night and the dawning for years in order to provide early breakfast for the farmer, hired hands, and their children when they'd reached an age where they could help. After early breakfast, comprising freshly brewed tea with bread and jam, came the washing up and the preparation of second breakfast, a hearty meal taken at dawn. Early breakfast provided enough energy for "close in" chores such as milking, gathering eggs, feeding all the animals, and cleaning stalls. Second breakfast prepared the workers for more rigorous work, such as ploughing and planting, haying and harvesting, pulling weeds, herding goats and sheep, training ponies, and more. 

Here in the Smials, the working hobbits ate early and second breakfasts at the same scope and on the same timetable as farm families, while the gentry generally ate a hearty breakfast a little before dawn; their second breakfast was a much lighter meal taken around nine o' the clock. It had taken some getting used to for Eglantine to adapt to the Great Smials morning scheme, but she had managed it. She'd had it easier, she supposed, than Pippin's experience in the Southlands when he'd been faced with eating like a Man, both less often and lesser quantities!

When Eglantine entered the sitting room, Rusty had already lit the chafing dishes on the sideboard and placed food there to warm. A cosied teapot waited on the table with cups, saucers, and spoons as well as a pot of honey, a pitcher of milk and another of cream, and a bowl freshly filled with lumps of sugar. The hobbitservant had obviously been "there and gone" and was at this moment, no doubt, performing the same service for Ferdibrand and Pimpernel next door.

'Here we are,' Evergreen said from the door to the hallway leading to the more private rooms.

Eglantine looked up to see the healer guiding Meadowsweet to the table. She frowned absently at seeing the strain in Evergreen's face which had seemed relatively serene in dealing with Sweetie's grief last night, even though serenity was probably the appearance the healer deliberately put on in her professional capacity.

'Would you rather sit down, and I serve you, or would you prefer to make your own choices?' Evergreen said.

'I'm well,' Meadowsweet answered. 'But please, sit down with us and take some breakfast before you must go. From the delicious smells, Rusty has been making magic in the kitchen again. That hobbit...!'

And now Eglantine was suppressing a frown for a different reason, and understanding some of the strain Evergreen was showing. Had grief stolen Sweetie's wits?

Her worries were further reinforced after Sweetie had filled her plate at the sideboard, encouraged Eglantine and Evergreen to do the same, sat down and poured out tea for them all, and then proceeded to eat with a good appetite as she spoke lightly about everyday matters.

Pouring out more tea, Meadowsweet shook her head and said, 'Tolly actually detests tea! I think he only drinks it to please me and to avoid scandalising his cousins...'

Eglantine and Evergreen exchanged glances. 

After listening to a few more observances of Tolly's likes and dislikes, Eglantine put a gentle hand on Sweetie's arm. 'My dear...' she said, trying to figure out how to broach the subject.

But Meadowsweet arrested her, almost mid-word, by laughing gaily. 'O Mistress!' she said on seeing Eglantine's dismay and confusion. 'Please, forgive me. But all is well!'

'All is well?' Eglantine echoed, stunned.

'O' course!' Meadowsweet said. 'Why such a long face? Please, comfort yourself. I am well!'

Eglantine looked to Evergreen, who nodded – as soon as breakfast was over, she'd go and find the head healer and bring her here as quickly as possible. When she looked back to Meadowsweet, the lass's smile was as bright as a sunny day. 'I'm glad to hear you're feeling well,' she ventured.

'I hate to see you so worried,' Meadowsweet said, placing a gentle hand on Eglantine's. 'Please,' she added. 'Half the things we worry about never come to pass!'

'I...' Eglantine said at a complete loss. 'I don't understand.'

Meadowsweet patted Eglantine's hand and said, 'Don't worry. When Tolly comes back, I'll have him explain it to you just as he did to me, that day when all the hunters rode out to deal with that sounder of swine.' At Eglantine's befuddled expression, she clarified, 'Why you remember, I'm sure you do! For they were so dangerous, the Steward would not let your son, the Thain, ride out on the hunt but insisted that only trained hunters go out!'

She laughed again. 'And I was so worried... for everyone knows how that hunt went in Thain Ferumbras's time – hunters injured and killed and crippled, and the Thain himself scored and battered! I thought, what terrible thing might happen if a boar should charge the hunters again! But then Tolly came back, and he chided me for my worries... and we had a grand feast, did we not?'

Tolly's pony had been badly lamed, Eglantine remembered, and a charging boar had come much too close to goring and trampling Ferdibrand, who'd been on foot when the enormous creature had broken from cover, than bore thinking about. But she only knew these things because Pippin had told her much later, after receiving the chief hunter's report of the hunt.

'My dear...' Eglantine tried. But Meadowsweet shook her head.

'He's not dead,' she said firmly. 'O I know they think he is, or they wouldn't have told me so. And it frightened me terribly, I must admit, and at first I couldn't help but believe them, for why would they tell me if it wasn't so?'

'I...' Eglantine said, though her head was whirling.

Meadowsweet wasn't finished. 'If my Tolly were dead, I would have felt it. I would have felt his death – my heart would have broken into pieces, tiny pieces too small to ever put back together again.' She thumped her chest with her fist. 'But it's not... I mean, it's there. He's there. I know...' 

Her eyes demanded Eglantine's full attention. Slowly, she repeated. 'I know he's not dead.'

*** 

Haldi stood uneasily in front of Pippin's desk, though it took a sharp eye to detect his unease. The Thain surveyed the paler-than-usual face and red-rimmed eyes that told, not of tears, but of the escorts having gathered, probably in The Spotted Duck, a favourite haunt, to toast their Head out of the world after they'd returned from their fruitless search. Likely enough they'd kept on toasting and drinking up until the moment the landlord chased them out of the public house. The grief and anger were worse, somehow, when there was no body to bury.

The hobbit stood straighter under the Thain's scrutiny, though it hardly seemed possible since he'd been standing at attention from the moment he'd taken his stance before the desk and had said, 'You sent for me, Sir.'

'I did,' Pippin said at last. 'You came second in the Tournament.'

'Third, Sir,' Haldi corrected boldly, but then he'd always been one to speak his mind. 'Hally Bolger came second after Tolibold.'

'Second amongst the Tooks who competed,' Pippin allowed, shooting a staying glance at Reginard, who was poised to offer a reprimand to the escort for his "cheek". It's not cheek if I'm wrong and the other hobbit is right, the glance said. 'That means, with Tolly gone, you've already qualified for the position as head of the Thain's escort.'

When Haldi offered no response, not even a nod, Pippin spoke again. 'I'm offering you the position. You're the best candidate, according to the traditions of the Tooks going back even farther than Regi-here remembers...'

Haldi's face remained blank, expressionless, not even offering the faintest of polite smiles to acknowledge the small witticism.

'Well?' Pippin said, wondering if Haldi was even more badly hungover than he'd suspected as the hobbit had entered the study, eyes narrowing at the onslaught of light from the turned-up lamps.

'Sir?'

'Will you take it on?' Pippin pressed. 'O' course, it would mean that you and your Laura would move into the apartments set aside for the head of escort and his family. I only ask that you'd allow Meadowsweet time to absorb the shock and decide what she wants to do... We've offered her rooms here at the Smials, or we'll help her remove to her parents' farm.' When Haldi still did not speak, he added, 'And Mardi, as head of that branch of the family, has asked her to consider staying in Tuckborough with him and his family.' 

'No, Sir,' Haldi finally said.

'No?' Pippin echoed, wondering just which option the escort was objecting to.

'I won't take it on,' Haldi said, his lips set in a grim line. 'Tolly's head, not me.'

Pippin blinked. 'But he's...'

Before the Thain could pronounce the word dead, Haldi interrupted.

'I'll fill in for him while he's gone, at least until next year's Tournament, when p'rhaps the escort will find themselves with a new Head, but I'll not take the position he won with his steady hand and keen eye.' His gaze bored into the Thain. 'Finest archer in all the Shire – I'll not take that away from him.'

'You'll...' Pippin said slowly, '...fill in for him...'

Haldi gave a short, sharp nod. 'Aye, Sir,' he said. 'So do you have any orders for me this morning, Sir?'

Pippin sat staring at the escort for a long enough time that Regi felt the need to jump in. 'No orders for the moment, Haldi,' the Steward said. 'You may go.'

Haldi bowed to the Thain and then, somewhat ironically, to the Steward. 'Thank you, Sir,' he said, ostensibly to Pippin, but he was acknowledging Regi's dismissal.

When the door had closed behind the hobbit, Pippin looked to his steward. 'So what are we to do about Meadowsweet?' he said.

Regi shook his head. 'Tolly's Sweetie is a force unto herself... but at least Haldi won't be claiming the head's suite of rooms anytime soon. That means we can leave things as they are, for the moment, any road, and give her plenty of time for grieving before she has to make up her mind as to next steps.'

Pippin answered Regi's head-shake with one of his own. 'There's no such thing as "plenty of time for grieving",' he said. 'I'm almost surprised at you, Reg, for saying such a thing.'

And so, instead of saying None of your nonsense now, Pip, as he was so often moved to do, the Steward found himself begging the Thain's pardon for his careless choice of words.

*** 

Though Eglantine and Healers Woodruff and Evergreen would hardly have credited it, Meadowsweet and her babe-in-arms were gone from the Smials within the week. 'It unnerved her,' Diamond explained as she poured out cups of tea for Pippin and Eglantine after Farry had been tucked in for the night with a song and a story. 'Rattling around in that large suite, meant to accommodate even a large family since there's no telling what sort of hobbit will win the Tournament and the position of head...'

'The finest of archers,' Pippin said. 'That's the sort of hobbit we're talking about.'

'That's all fine and well,' Diamond said, 'but Tolly and Sweetie have only the one babe, as it were, and one on the way...'

'Had,' Pippin said, quietly emphasising the word. At Diamond's questioning look, he clarified. 'Tolly had only the one babe, as it were. To hear folk speak of him as if he's still in the world and will walk in through the door at any moment, well, it gives me a turn.'

He looked from Diamond to Eglantine and said, 'Dead is dead, so far as I'm concerned.' He spoke with an air of confidence that shook his listeners to their core, for he'd first been forced to look Death in the face at too young an age, had anticipated Death's touch too many times from that point onward, and now, he daily walked with the knowledge that he was fated to die sooner than later, considering the state of his lungs since the Old Gaffer's Friend* had got its hooks into him just after he'd come of age.

But Diamond caught her breath sharply, and her eyes shone with tears. 'Is that how you think of it?' she half-sobbed. 'You'll be dead and gone... really gone... cut off...'

Understanding, he took her hand in a firm grip between his two hands, squeezed her hand and then patted it gently. 'But I won't be gone, not at all,' he said quietly. 'I'll be at the Feast, waiting for you, of course, my heart. I'll only be a breath away...'

'While there's breath, there's life,' Eglantine murmured incongruously.

But Pippin nodded at his mother with a smile. 'Exactly!' he said. And turning back to Diamond, he said earnestly, 'And when you've taken the last sip that's in the cup, my love, and you put the cup down upon the table and look up, why... there I'll be, my arms spread wide to welcome you, and it'll be as if no time at all has passed since our parting.' His voice lower, he said, 'As if there were no parting at all, once we're there together again...'

But Diamond buried her head in his shoulder and gave herself up to her tears. Pippin released her hand, encircled her with his arms, and held her close and patted her back. Eglantine quietly rose from the table and left the room, groping her way to where little Faramir slept with a smile on his face. There, she sank down beside her small grandson and quietly wept at her own losses, both past and too clearly anticipated.

About a week later, bearing a lantern as if he meant to explore one of the abandoned, closed-off tunnels deep in the Great Smials, Pippin stepped over the threshold of the head of escort's apartments, for he and the Steward had discussed only that morning what to do with the furnishings belonging to Tolly and Meadowsweet.

Belonging to Meadowsweet, he reminded himself firmly. For where Tolly was, he'd have no need of the kind of furnishings to be found in the Great Smials. Not for the first time, Pippin wondered about the furnishings at the Feast. Did the hobbits there recline on blankets and picnic cloths on a grassy meadow? Were there tables and chairs, or one long table, stretching into the far distance, with benches lining either side? He shook his head to dispel the fancy and looked up to survey the sitting room, the first room one encountered after passing through the entryway from the public corridor.

Though he'd expected to see a darkened room sporting a fine layer of dust on all the surfaces after nearly a fortnight of emptiness, the lamps were lit and a small, cheerful fire burned on the hearth. Fresh fruit filled the bowl resting in the middle of the table, which had been polished to a high sheen. Pippin, blowing out his lantern and setting it upon the table, looked down to see his reflection in the wood.

No dust was evident, either, on the chairs or the mantel or the sideboard or the settee and easy chairs by the hearth. No spiders had been allowed to spin their webs in the absence of hobbit occupants. He wrinkled his nose and inhaled as deeply as his damaged lungs would allow, but no smell of dust came from the carpet or tapestries. Even the andirons in the fireplace gleamed with polishing.

Someone – Rusty, no doubt – was keeping the apartments as if Meadowsweet – or Tolly, he had to admit – might walk through the door at any moment.

'Have half the hobbits in the Smials lost their wits?' he wondered aloud. For over the past fortnight, too many of the Tooks and Tooklanders and servants he'd spoken with had talked about Tolly in the way one talks about someone who has just stepped out for a moment and will soon return. Sooner or later, Pippin thought, and shook his head at himself.

You're already daft enough that Regi has to regularly remind you to rein in your nonsense, you fool of a Took! he chided himself. Someone around here has got to keep a cool head.

But why does that have to be me? he thought rebelliously.

With a sigh, he took up the lantern, rubbed at the mark his carelessness had left on the glossy surface of the table – suddenly sure that if he should return later, the mark would have been buffed away – and took his leave, closing the door silently behind him.

*** 

Author's notes:

*Old Gaffer's Friend: Shire term for pneumonia, which could take a terrible toll on old and young alike.

The story of how Pimpernel and Ferdibrand finally came together as a result of a conspiracy between Pippin and Odovacar Bolger appears in Flames.

Even though it goes against a healer's principles to slip a potion into someone's drink without asking or telling them, I wouldn't put it past Mardi to have done something like that after they pulled Tolly out from under the fallen tree in the earlier chapter...

The disastrous hunt when Ferumbras was Thain is described in Pearl of Great Price, and more graphically in a dream Pippin has in StarFire. The hunt that Steward Reginard prevented Thain Peregrin from joining happens in The Thrum of Tookish Bowstrings (Part 1).

***