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Shire: Beginnings  by Lindelea

Chapter 20. A Stitch in Time

 ‘What chance would they have against orcs?’ the brown one said. The tall old ones were speaking in a language Pick did not know, while the brown one hastily stuffed bread and other foodstuffs into a bag. The stag waited patiently. Pick could feel its breath beneath his feet.

 ‘This one is young,’ Grandalf answered. ‘Young, and injured. He appears helpless, but his people are sharp of wit and weapon.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, the urgency within me grows. The Little Folk are badly in need of aid.’

The brown one handed the bag to Grandalf, then moved to the stag’s head, pulling at the furry ear. The head lowered obediently and he whispered. The beast shook its head as if tickled by a fly, then nodded and snorted.

 ‘He knows the way,’ the brown one said, stepping back. ‘Go with grace.’

The stag moved swiftly through the gathering gloom, a moving shadow amongst the shadows of the trees. Far away wolves called, and Pick stiffened. ‘No need to worry,’ the grey one told him. ‘They will not attack a great prince of the forest; his weapons are formidable indeed.’

The stag shook his crown of antlers and Pick laughed softly. ‘I think he understood you,’ he said in delight.

 ‘Of course,’ the grey one replied. ‘He understands all we say, so watch your words.’

 ‘Great Prince,’ Pick said, one hand stroking the soft fur beneath him while the other hugged sore ribs made more painful by the motion. He supposed it was better than walking on his own legs. ‘I thank you for your aid.’ The beast gave a soft snort and continued its steady progress. The brown one who would not give his name had murmured wordlessly to the beast before they had started. Pick wondered what sort of directions had been given. In any event, the stag seemed to know which way to go.

Pick dozed, and when he wakened again they were in bright sunshine. He thought he recognised the landscape; here they had snared rabbits by the dozens and the children had gathered enough berries to feed all the People. Here his mother had joyously plucked sage and thyme for rabbit stew, while his sisters dug roots. ‘Grandalf?’ he said.

 ‘What is it, Pick?’ the wizard answered.

 ‘What sort of evil?’ the hobbit asked.

 ‘Eh?’ the grey one said.

 ‘What sort of evil is on their trail?’ Pick said.

 ‘Orcs,’ the grey one answered. ‘Gobble-uns followed their trail into the mountains.’ He hesitated. There was another evil that had not yet been made clear to him. He decided not to mention it to the little one, not yet at least, not until he could give it a name. The People ought to be well out of the mountains and into the new lands by now. Had the orcs followed them that far? Or was it the new evil that threatened now? And would Gandalf be in time to bring aid?

 ‘They have no trees for refuge,’ Pick said, his heart beating faster.

 ‘They have weapons and stout hearts,’ Grandalf said, ‘and plenty of reason to fight.’

Pick nodded, but he was not reassured.

***

Elladan followed the Thorn through the woods. It was not like his earlier journey with this hobbit’s father, where he’d been challenged to walk as swiftly and silently as the small one. This hobbit was weak from lack of food and half-healed wounds (“wild-cat” he said tonelessly in answer to Elladan’s query); he stumbled as he went and had to stop to catch his breath.

Reaching a secluded area, thick with brambles and away from the paths usually taken by the Men whose fortresses dotted the nearby hills, the Thorn paused and whistled. There was an answering whistle. ‘There,’ the hobbit said. ‘They won’t shoot you out of hand.’

 ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Elladan said.

 ‘We live like rabbits these days, amongst the briers,’ the hobbit said. ‘Can you crawl on your belly?’

 ‘If need be,’ the son of Elrond replied.

The Thorn nodded and went down on his belly, crawling under the brambles. Elladan followed. He found it a tight fit, sustaining several painful scratches before they emerged in an area where the ground had been dug away. Brambles grew thickly over them, screening them from above. ‘No hawks or owls hunt our little ones,’ the hobbit said grimly. ‘This is only one of our places. We could hardly fit nearly two hundreds of Fallohides here, not even with most being small children.’

 ‘Two hundreds!’ Elladan whispered, aghast. There had been three or four times that number, he thought, when he’d met the hobbits in Greenwood.

A familiar-looking hobbit crawled out from a hole dug under a great tree bole. He was thinner than the Thorn and one leg was splinted. ‘Thorn,’ he said. ‘Did you bring any--?’

 ‘No fish, I’m sorry to say, Leaf,’ the Thorn said. ‘Something better, I hope.’

 ‘Ell Adan!’ Oakleaf said. ‘I never thought to see you again. Do you know how many valleys...?’

 ‘Yes,’ Elladan said dryly. ‘So I’ve been told.’

A hobbit lass crawled out of Leaf’s hole. Her face was dirty, her hair tangled, and the thinness of her arms and legs was accentuated by her protruding middle. ‘Thorn,’ she said, ‘I heard the whistle. What news?’ Seeing an alf, one of the Fair Folk, in the middle of their bramble-cover, she turned her face away, brushing at the dirt, pushing her tangled curls behind her ears.

 ‘All is well, Holly,’ the Thorn said. To Elladan he said, ‘Water is difficult enough to fetch for drinking, much less washing.’ The son of Elrond only nodded, stunned silent as dirty-faced, bony hobbit children began to emerge from nearby holes. There was none of the cheerful chatter he remembered, only sober faces with eyes that were too big, and sad beyond his bearing.

 ‘All the comforts of home and hole,’ the Thorn said wryly. ‘We’ve become animals, Ell Adan, hunted for sport by cruel and careless Men who kill us and leave our bodies for foxes and carrion-eaters. We eat our food raw, for we dare not make smoke in cooking. I have led my People out of the mountains, it seems, to fade and die with the leaves of falling-time.’

 ‘No, Blackthorn—Thorn,’ Elladan said. ‘Forgive me.’

 ‘Forgive?’ the Thorn said quizzically.

 ‘In the Halls of the Wood Elves I dreamed of crossing the mountains and bringing word to my father. The dream came every night, until I knew I must go, and so I begged a swift horse from Thranduil and took the easy pass, the one the traders follow. I brought word to my father, of Glorfindel and the orcs, and thought my task was done, but my restlessness continued until I was forced to wander, hunting...’

 ‘Hunting?’ Oakleaf said.

 ‘I should have known I was hunting your people. When you did not come to Imladris, I assumed you had continued Westward, to the new land Mithrandir spoke of, where there are others like yourselves.’

 ‘The Lady speaks soft and subtly,’ the Thorn said quietly. ‘You must listen with all your heart if you are to hear and heed.’

 ‘Winter is coming swiftly to this land,’ Elladan said. ‘Game grows ever harder to find. Without fire the rain and cold will be unbearable for your little ones, and what of the snow and ice to follow?’

 ‘What would you have me do?’ the Thorn said wearily.

 ‘Lead your people to Imladris,’ Elladan said. ‘Spend the winter with my people, grow in strength and health and hope, and in the Spring set out for your new land.’

 ‘Have we the strength?’ Oakleaf said.

 ‘Have we a choice?’ the Thorn retorted. ‘Gather the heads of families, Leaf.’

 ‘As you wish,’ Oakleaf said. He made the noise of a scolding squirrel, then wormed his way out of the bramble thicket. Several hobbits, two only half-grown, descended from the surrounding trees.

The Thorn introduced each. ‘Burr, Root, Twig, Bark, Fern,’ he said.

 ‘These are heads of families?’ Elladan said.

 ‘Of course,’ the Thorn said. ‘These became heads when their fathers and uncles failed to return. At least they stopped the gobble-uns. We hid in the trees when we came out of the mountains, but no gobble-uns followed.’

 ‘That was a mercy,’ Twig said. ‘I don’t know what we’d have used to fight them if they had found us.’

While they waited for the rest, the Thorn reached beneath his furs, bringing out a green jewel. 'You gave this to my father, I believe, to give to your father. I suppose you can give it to him yourself now.' Elladan took the jewel without comment, though his throat was tight with grief.

About a score of "heads" gathered under the bramble-shelter. It was a tight fit, but they folded themselves compactly and settled to the ground to await developments. Most were young, about the same age as Thorn and Leaf, a few perhaps a little older. The eldest, Beech, was led into the circle by a young hobbit.

 ‘Beech?’ Elladan said. ‘I remember you!’

 ‘I know your voice,’ the hobbit said, peering uncertainly at him. ‘Come closer.’

With difficulty considering the crowd of bodies in the small space, Elladan squirmed closer to Beech. When the son of Elrond was within arm’s reach of the hobbit, Beech blinked and said. ‘Ah, yes, you are as I remember you, Ell Adan. Have you come to bid the People farewell? Evil times are upon us.’

 ‘I have come to guide you to Imladris,’ Elladan replied.

 ‘It’s about time,’ Beech said.





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