A/N: If you have not read any of the previous "Remember" stories, you might want to as this will make a good deal more sense if you do :-) Thank you.

Whatever Shall Be Done?

Marrin and Clary Brandybuck sat, stiff and uncomfortable, in straight-backed, hard-seated chairs set squarely in front of the huge desk in the Master’s study. They had a good notion of why they had been summoned and it was not for any cheerful reasons.

“Thank you for being so prompt,” Macimas II said whilst eyeing them sternly over the tops of his glasses. He was called “Efficient” for the records. He was called “Pompous” when he and his lackeys weren’t around. “I am certain that you are aware of the serious nature of the matter which warrants your being called into my study?”

Clary’s right hand searched about for Marrin’s left hand, grasping it quite firmly when she found it. They knew. All of Buckland knew. The whole Shire knew.

“We reckon it is because of our sons.” Marrin’s voice didn’t shake as much as Clary felt his hand trembling. She was proud of him.

“Yes. It is indeed because your recalcitrant sons.”

“They aren’t recalcitrant!” Clary spoke a bit hotly. “They have a good deal of respect for those in authority over them; those in authority of the hobbits of Buckland and the Shire.”

“Really? Do they indeed?” Old “Pompous” fixed Clary with an icy glare. “Is that what you two regard it to be when they call all of us liars? You consider that to be a show of a ‘good deal of respect’, Clary Brandybuck?” He shrank her with his eyes. “You were a Mudge before marriage, weren’t you. I suppose such a view of what is meant by “respect” can be expected by such a one as a Mudge, but you are married to a Brandybuck, Madam, and we expect better of those who carry our name.” His look, his tone and the slight gesture of his right hand combined to brush Clary aside like the speck of dirt to which his words had lowered her. He thereafter addressed himself solely to Marrin.

“Jebbin and Other, your sons Marrin Brandybuck, have brought discord to the whole of the Shire and great shame upon the name of Brandybuck with these preposterous notions they are purporting to be the facts about two of the Shire’s grandest and noblest heroes. Well,” he added as though it were an insignificant afterthought, “Four actually but those other two are not nearly as great a concern.” His voice returned to being quite pointed. “Heroes, one of which, might I just remind you, from whom you and I are both descended.”

“Yes, Master Macimas.” How Marrin was managing to keep his voice so steady, Clary had no idea.

“Yes to what?” the Master snorted. “Yes to the fact, the truth, that your sons are fomenters of fictitious fallacies?”

“No, sir. Yes, acknowledging that we are both descendants of Meriadoc the Magnificent.”

Macimas II snorted again. “You’d best begin to agree to everything else I’m saying as well, Marrin Brandybuck, lest you and your wife find yourselves on the door step of Brandy Hall, in need of new lodging.”

“What would you have me do, sir? They are both hobbits full grown and of legal age. The are their own hobbits, sir, with their own families and no longer under my authority. What would you have me do?”

“Disowning them would be a most excellent beginning. Disowning them and speaking out against them upon every possible occasion. Put it all into full and legal writing, seven witnesses, red ink, and so forth all bearing my seal, of course.

Clary choked a bit and gasped, though she desperately hoped her husband and the master didn’t hear her. Marrin was not answering. The three of them sat without speaking while the ornate clock on the mantle ticked the seconds away.

“Well, Marrin Brandybuck?”

Clary looked up. There was frost in the Master’s gaze while his question cut through the stuffy air of the room like a falling icicle.

“I will give your request due consideration, Master Macimas.” Was all Marrin said, and that quietly.

“You’ll . . . ah . . . of course.” This was not the response the Master had been hearing in his mind. In his mind, Marrin had shrunk, cowered, meekly agreeing to anything he, the Master of Buckland, had demanded. Macimas quickly regained himself. “I will expect your answer no later than immediately following luncheon on the morrow. That will allow sufficient time to draw up the paper work and gather witnesses before the close of the business day, so this matter may be properly dealt with as expeditiously as possible.”

Marrin rose, having to pull his wife to her feet to stand beside him. “As you wish, Master Macimas. Good day, sir.” Marrin gave a curt nod of his head before guiding Clary out of the Master’s study.

“Be strong, my dearest,” he muttered into her ear as he set a brisk but not hurried pace down the tunnels. “Let us get to our apartments first. Keep up with me, we’re almost there.”

Several twists and turns later, they entered their rooms. Clary nearly collapsed before Marrin set her upon the nearest chair. She sat immobile for a few moments before turning sharply upon her husband.

“How dare you, Marrin Brandybuck I . . . I . . .”

“How quickly can you pack most of your things, my dear?”

Clary’s expression went blank. “Pack?”

“We will leave as soon as most of the Hall is asleep. It should help that it is Blotmath and the night comes sooner.”

Marrin was at his desk, stuffing every item it held into a satchel as rapidly as he could while Clary still sat in the chair with her mouth agape. Marrin latched the satchel, turned, then stopped as he took in that his wife hadn’t moved.

“Clary?”

“Pack?” her eyes slowly grew more focused as she blinked a few times. “Leave, Marrin? Leave to go where, love? There is no where in the whole of Buckland or the Shire to run to.” She paused, blinking away some tears. “Is there?”

“Well, we’ve old Aunt Catmint’s small hole in Twombly.”

Clary thought a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I suppose we do. I mean Aunt Catti did leave it to us.”

“And quietly. She signed it over to us with just old Nob Hedger there to witness. I don’t think anyone much knows or cares about the old hole, plus it’s a ways out of town nearly hidden in Twombly Wood.”

“But what of supplies and such, Marrin?”

“I plan on making my way to the stables as soon as it’s dark. The Master is always to bed at dusk so no word should make its way to him until the morrow. I’ll make ready our trap, that should help us take more then we could carry ourselves, though still not much. We’ll take all we can of what we have here in our own pantries. I’ll just have to hunt for our meat and we’ll gather what we can from the woods. Poor time of the year for that, but we’ll do the best we can. We’ll write the lads and post it at the Quick Messenger’s as we leave. They’ll see to it that we don’t starve, Clary.”

“Can they see to it that they and their families don’t starve, that’s more my worry. Oh, Marrin,” she sighed as new tears grew in her eyes. “Whatever is to become of our dear lads?”

Marrin went down on his knees beside Clary, pulling her into a tight hug. For a long moment he only hugged her, saying nothing as tears of his own joined hers.

“I don’t know, my dearest, I don’t know. But this I do know, it is the fire of truth that burns in their hearts. Whatever it is that stirred this passion up within Jebbin, whatever it is that has put a backbone of steel, like the swords he has forged, into Other . . . well whatever started it, all has ended in the truth. I believe them, Clary. I believe every word.”

He kissed his wife’s head then stood. “We need to get busy, dearest, if we are to get out of here and clear of Buckland before the morning comes.”

Clary squared her shoulders, nodded firmly to her husband, then rose to begin packing what she could from the pantry. As she worked, her thoughts were busy; just what was it that had so possessed her lads those few short years ago?