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By: Dana
I. (Astron, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) He insisted that the hobbits of Hobbiton and Bywater call him "The Chief" not "Mr. Lotho", or even "Mr. Sackville-Baggins", for neither of those were good enough, now. He insisted, and the hobbits knew well enough to call him what he wanted (at least, to his face). He had them frightened to full obedience, well, his Men did, and that was as affective, and Lotho knew that he was the most powerful hobbit in all the Shire. Still, there had been an incident between his Men and the hobbits, at the Bridge, and another out in Buckland, and Lotho had heard, from his Men but from the talk about Hobbiton, that a hobbit had been killed. When Lotho had first sent his Men into the Tookland, it had been the Tooks who shot first. And Lotho didn't find that hard to believe, for the Tooks were full of themselves more than most. And his Men were more his people than were the Tooks, so he believed them first. Hobbiton was their chief place, for it was their Chief's Place: but they were strong in Frogmorton, as well, and were forces to be reckoned with at both Waymeet and Michel Delving. His Men took special care and delight, in keeping watch on the Tookland: they had settled upon Pincup, and so kept watch from there. They were doing a good job of it, too, so if Lotho let them get away with more than he would have had before, he thought it their due. They had made it quite impossible to get in, or out Lotho was hoping that, in time, enough pressure could be applied and then the Thain would beg him, on his knees, even, to lighten the watch on the borders, would beg him for food and other supplies, and Lotho fancied himself so thoroughly powerful that he would simply laugh at him, then kick old Paladin Took in the face, and have him dragged off to the Lockholes. Once the Thain was gone, only the Master would think that he had power enough to stand against him, but Lotho did not consider the Master of Buckland powerful at all. It should have been as simple as that. There was not an inn or tavern open along the East Road, from one side of the Shire to the other but there was a new nuisance, and one he had not expected to face. His Men had only been doing as was their duty, gathering in his name and Lotho had not expected any to stand against him, for who could stand against the greatness of his might? But the hobbits had started gathering back, interfering with the gathering and the redistribution, and Lotho at first was in a pleasant enough mood (he was on top of the Shire, after all): but his mood failed him, and he told his Men to use what force they needed. If one thought to stand against Lotho, then another might think to do so as well, and Lotho would not bear that, for this place was now his. He busied himself with other things. There'd been no proper housekeeper about Bag End since Solmath, and he needed to deal with that: his mother had been looking for likely applicants, but there'd been no luck, yet. Fathers and mothers thought to keep their daughters out of Bag End but one would soon break, for times were hard now, weren't they, and they would need the coin. Lotho was Master of the Shire now, wasn't he? He couldn't be expected to live in filth.
II. (Astron, SR 1419 Hobbiton to Bywater) Lotho sent word, and Ted went to Bag End. It was turning to the end of the month, and there was a new housekeeper about, a biddable looking thing with straw-coloured hair. Ted recognised her from Overhill, for she was one of the Overhill Twofoots. Likely, not that Ted faulted Lotho's thinking, Lotho didn't even know her name. He came often to Bag End, for Lotho liked to hear the news, and Ted was very suited to doing that simple task. And if Ted was distracted, well, he had other things on his mind. 'A lass,' he said, when pressed. Lotho laughed, pressed further. 'Just Rosie Cotton, of Bywater you might remember, it was her Sam who vanished with your co with that Brandybuck. Well, I was thinking, it's been too long since her Sam went off, and she must be lonesome, now.' Lotho wished him luck, and sent him off, after saying, 'take an escort of guards with you, if you'd like I can't see a better way to impress upon her the importance of your station.' Ted hadn't ever thought himself one with a station, but now he had one, and he didn't even have to be a fool with a feather in his cap. Ted hadn't seen the need in an escort of guards, had thanked Lotho kindly enough. 'I've known Rosie since we were children both,' he said. He'd known Sam since he was a child, too, and had never liked him much. It had gone from not liking, to hating, and Ted hadn't known as good a day as when he'd heard the rumour that Sam was dead. But Sam was gone now, so Ted went to Bywater, for certainly Rosie was lonesome now, with her Sam gone. He found her out walking, for she was an insensible sort, and mightn't know the risk she put herself in. Or, more likely, she escaped her home whenever she could. Then Rosie looked at him, shoulders squared, jaw tense. 'Hello, Rosie,' he said, and gripped her arm, smiling. 'This might seem unexpected. I've come calling on you, though.' 'Ted, you aren't welcome here,' she said, and tried to pull away. 'What?' Ted laughed. 'Not welcome on the road? Rosie, walk with me awhile.' He jerked on her arm, and marched her alongside him. 'If you were to take with me, Rosie,' he said, after some thought, 'you could go out whenever you wanted. You'd eat better than you have in some time, I'm guessing. You wouldn't need to be so frightened. You are frightened, aren't you?' He found it fascinating, the way she shivered, for clearly she was quite afraid. He stroked one hand through her hair, but did not think himself so bold to kiss her though he wanted to, that and more. He stroked her hair again, and then her cheek, and pushed her down off the road, his heart thumping in his chest. 'You're not welcome here,' she said again, her voice low, cracking. 'Now, now, now,' Ted laughed, and pulled her to him, breathed out against her ear. 'You needn't fuss and shout.' She'd not done much of either, but Ted wanted to remind her of her place. He gripped her arm further and Rosie stood, breathing hard, before twisting about. He was startled enough, but more startled when her fist cracked against his mouth, then cracked against his nose. He stumbled back, losing hold of her: Rosie turned from him, fled. He could have run after her, and taken what he wanted. Instead, he sat, and thought, and nursed his bloody lip.
III. (Thrimidge, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) Lotho found the housekeeper in the pantry, one day, and put his hands on her shoulders. 'This ain't as what I'm paid for, Mr. Lotho, sir,' she said, softly, as if gauging his intent. Then, bolder, 'that is, Chief Lotho. Surely you've some fine lass for bedding. I couldn't say I'm suited to the task.' Lotho laughed. Her hair smelled like cinnamon, for she had been baking, and her dress was coarse beneath his hands. He gripped her more tightly, and pressed his face into her honey-coloured curls. She made a small, gasping sound. 'Sir, no. As I said, this ain't as what I'm paid for.' 'Then I'll pay you for it,' he said gruffly. 'Well.' He let loose his hold on her, stepped back, reaching for the door to the pantry as he did. He shut it, and they were left alone, just the two of them, alone in the darkness, with the one small, flickering candle that she had brought along. He looked at her, her arms hanging limp at her sides, light flickering in her bright curls. 'Well?' he said, still gruffly. And she nodded, then reached for the lacing of her bodice. Lotho leaned his weight against the door, would convince himself somehow that she had come to him, willingly, and watched as she undressed. She was soft-looking, with curves, and she turned her head, her curls tumbling, obscuring her face. He was dressed still, and he walked forward, put his hands on her shoulders, squeezed, rubbed down to her wrists. Then he reached for her face, and tilted it so. 'Kiss me,' he said, and she did, her eyes shutting softly, her breath soft, too, and warm. He was breathing harder, now, and he pushed her back, back against the shelves. Another small, gasping sound, this one laced with pain, and she waited, not quite watching as he pushed his clothing aside. No time to undress proper, now, and he pushed his mouth against hers. Likely, the shelves pressed bruises into her back, him pushing her back, and with such force, her thighs quaking: and so he had her with little other thought, gasping out hotly, pressing other bruises into her arms, breath damp against skin. She shook a little, sweet and hot and gasping. Then Lotho spilled, and thought to collapse. He let her go, and she slumped to the ground. He had fallen into a mood, and so straightened himself: he then told her to get up, dress, and then get out. She did, shaking, pulling her dress on, fingers fumbling at the laces. The door creaked as it opened, and Lotho thought, that needed to be dealt with. Then he took the candle, blew it out. He followed the lass as she fled out through the kitchen. She took the kitchen door, went out to the garden, and Lotho followed to the door. He heard a laugh, from one of his Men, or another, for they were gathered outside, waiting to do his bidding. One of them had caught her arm, and looked to Lotho, eyes bright, saying, 'Your little bird trying to fly away, chief?' Perhaps she was. 'I don't care,' Lotho said. 'I don't need her anymore.' A big hand settled over her mouth, and muffled any cry. Lotho's mother was cross at him, when the lass did not return she didn't know why, but likely guessed he'd had some hand in it for Holly had been a good worker, she said, and had well-known her place. 'We'll find another,' he said. 'Not so good as her,' his mother said.
IV. (Thrimidge, SR 1419 Overhill) Azalea Sandheaver was well-tempered, and Tom could trust few as he trusted her. He could send no word to his sister, or his brothers, but he could send word to his father. He was not in this on his own, after all: his Dad worked with the rebels, too, though not so actively as did Tom. Tom missed Marigold. He thought of her, often, and hoped that Rosie was taking good care of her, for Marigold would not know what to do with herself, otherwise. He knew it hadn't been fair, his leaving, but he had done what he could. He was lucky that she hadn't thought to come after him, or Rosie: but they were both dealing with their loss of Sam, and likely his leaving He'd cared for Sam, too, but he was gone now, and Tom didn't see him coming home. And Azalea was well-tempered, and made him laugh, and reminded him of Marigold and Rosie, both she carried letters to Tom's father, whenever Tom passed through Overhill (which wasn't often). She told Tom when the Men planned on gathering, and where they were set to gather from: Tom knew she put herself at risk, and likely, she knew she did as well. One day, Azalea wasn't there to meet him, and there was no sign of her, nor did she arrive, though he waited two hours. If the Men had learned she aided and had dealings with the rebels, then likely she had found herself in more danger than she had ever imagined. He hoped she had found her way to safety. He thought he would miss her, too, for she had been a good friend. She reminded him of Marigold, but of his sister, too. He didn't want either of them putting themselves at risk, though he guessed they both would chafe at being so restricted. It was for the best, and he wished he could send word to them: that they could know that he was safe, and well, and that he missed them both. He missed Sam, too, but Sam was gone now, and nothing he did could turn time back, and let him change that. He went back to the meeting point, and waited for Hilly to return: and he thought back, on how he planned on marrying Marigold, if ever there was peace, if ever he found nerve to speak out to her. He and Sam would have been brothers, double over, then, for he knew Sam had ever planned on marrying Rosie. For Sam, it was less a lack of peace, and more a lack of nerve. Anyhow, their sisters likely had a likewise plan. If Tom and Sam couldn't own to it, and what they needed to ask, they were brothers to bold sisters, and the lasses would have done the asking, if it had come to that. When Sam had followed Mr. Frodo to Buckland, that spoke more of his plans than any of them had wanted to hear. If he had asked for Rosie, then... if Rosie had spoken, given Sam some reason to not go... Hilly came, and Tom told him news of Azalea, and Hilly hoped for her safety. They would find some other contact in Overhill, or they would learn that Azalea had been detained for some other reason. But for now, they were set on gathering at Budgeford, and that was some miles away. Tom had never gone so far from Bywater as he had these last months, going out and putting himself at risk, only for the good of those he loved.
V. (Forelithe, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) His mother saw to hiring the new housekeeper herself, and Lotho knew this one's name, if only because he knew her brother's: it was one of the Gamgee brood, sweet Marigold, and Lobelia told him to not run this one off, unless he wanted to do the cleaning himself. He didn't want to, as it was not his place: he was Chief of the Shire, after all, and as Chief of the Shire, Lotho knew his place. He heard how the gathering had been interrupted. Why, in Overhill, a brother and a sister had been caught, collaborating with the rebels. But they hadn't caught on to the rebels, yet, and so Lotho told his Men to use what force they needed. And he knew they would use force. He thought of Angelica, and wondered if she had learned her lesson: and he wondered if Baro, and the Lockholes, had treated her well. Perhaps Lotho had been wrong, in thinking himself better than a Took. Even the Chief of the Shire could be wrong. Of Thain Paladin's three daughters, Lotho knew that the youngest what was her name again? Oh yes, Pervinca was still unmarried. Once his Men had dealt with the Tooks, and he had dealt with Paladin, he could always take that daughter as his wife. And if she needed breaking, well, he'd proven himself wrong when he'd thought Angelica suited to be his wife. Pervinca might be more easily broken than he had led himself to believe. That gave him something else to look forward to. It made him uneasy, restless almost, to know that there were those that stood against him, that no matter how much he frightened some of them, there were others who thought it their place to stand against him. He only had so many Men, and there were more hobbits in the Shire than he could care to count. If they realised that strength came in numbers, then perhaps they would stand whatever else he put against them. He hardly thought that he should worry himself with that. He had his place, and it was his by right, and he wouldn't just let them take it away. Not that they would ever manage that: his Men would catch them all, and they would be punished. They would see the error of their way, but for them, it would be too late. He sat sometimes, sipping from his glass, and he would watch Marigold as she worked. She had dark hair, curls darker than her brother Sam's, though her eyes were the same. She moved with an easy grace, and must have had a love of dance, and she would move about the room, and Lotho would track her as she did. He wondered what Marigold thought of him, though it didn't matter. She needed the coin he offered, and so she worked for him (for him and his mother). But what did she think of him? But perhaps he'd been right before: it didn't matter. She knew he watched her, but she held her tongue, did not speak. Lotho, amused, would grin into his glass, studying her, as she lifted her arm to dust, as she kneeled to get to some more difficult place. He thought about her, her down on her knees, a good deal more than he ought to have let himself, and thought it bad taste on his part his mother would be more than unbearable, if he ran this one off, too. Lotho looked but didn't touch, and so kept himself in check, watching Marigold as she cleaned, instead.
VI. (Forelithe, SR 1419 Some Indeterminable Location) If Folco had been told he would one day find himself a rebel, and standing against Lotho Sackville-Baggins, of all hobbits, he would have told whomever that they were cracked, and that would simply not happen, not ever. It wasn't that he thought well of Lotho, for he didn't. He knew that Lotho was taking more than he should, that his Men were cruel beyond measure, doing what they did, all in Lotho's name. Folco knew that Freddy had his own reasons: and Folco knew that Freddy thought that he had let Merry and Frodo down, though Folco didn't think it as simple as just that. They stayed in Bridgefields, for the most part, sometimes going north, and south to the far stretches of the Green Hill Country. Going too far afield put one at risk, and Freddy wasn't so senseless. He tried to think ahead, and wondered where that might lead him. He remembered stories heard at Frodo's, and hardly thought he had the foresight of the Wise. They'd had dealings with Aldo Boffin's band, from Overhill: Aldo was Folco's cousin, so he knew him well enough. They needed the extra hands, when it came to interrupting the gathering . But Aldo and his band had come to them. Folco hadn't seen it coming, and likely Freddy hadn't, either but somehow, Freddy had turned into a leader. Estella, though, was becoming something of a problem. It was his watch, but she had come out to join him, and they had spoken some in low whispers. Now Estella sat, quietly, thinking. He loved Estella dearly, for she was Freddy's sister, and he had known her since her birth. Still, they had both thought (him and Freddy alike) that Estella would stick to Brandy Hall, and stay with Rosemary, and that they both would stay safe. The Men had not yet gone so far east, or, at least not in great numbers. Estella had said, 'I can't let you go off on your own,' and perhaps she'd meant to keep them both safe, and not just for herself. They couldn't say she was any worse at this than they were, for none of them had been given proper training. Estella had a steady hand, though, when it came to bow and arrow, and she was intent on proving herself. 'I can't sit idle,' she told Folco. 'Freddy will come to understand.' Folco didn't think that Freddy ever would, but he didn't tell Estella that. She laughed, shook her head, and went on, saying, 'Well, I think he will. And then, when this is through, when Merry comes home, we will all head back to Brandy Hall and Freddy, too: won't that be grand?' He did like the thought of that, though he couldn't guess at how Estella would talk Freddy into crossing the River once more. But thinking on that was better than thinking of the hobbits who had been lost to the Lockholes: or the pressure put on Bridgefields: or the hobbits caught and hung, just south of Budgeford, and the fear left in the air. Estella put her hand on Folco's, and Folco looked up: Estella smiled, though her smile was as troubled as her eyes were. He smiled back at her, small act that it was. He knew Freddy would come to a point, and he'd not let Estella stay with them any longer: Estella was Freddy's little sister, after all, and Estella would have to listen to him, sometime soon. 'Go on,' he said. 'Freddy's waiting on you. You needn't sit here it's my watch, after all.'
VII. (Afterlithe, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) Lotho had always considered Ted the one hobbit who understood him, for the hobbits of Hobbiton and Bywater did not. They thought that he had brought the Men to the Shire, and Lotho alone knew that that was not the truth. And Lotho liked knowing he was in charge, for the hobbits of Hobbiton had never been particularly fond of his family. His being Chief was payment for that, and those who'd wronged him would now learn their proper places. Or had already started to learn. But this was business, too, and Lotho perhaps had been lax on that front he had forgotten there was a bigger picture to look at, and that his own part of it was small. Lotho had had some luck with Ted, as Ted was a steady enough hobbit (with his own misgivings): not only was Ted the one hobbit who understood him, but he had a sharper mind than many gave him credit for (sometimes, even Lotho). And anyhow, Ted did what he was told. He already knew his place. It wasn't well-known, but the majority of Lotho's money came from his pipe-weed dealings in the south. But it had been some months now since he had had any word from his Longbottom agent and through him, Mr. White. 'All good fortune ends,' Ted said. Lotho could only frown. You'll go south to Longbottom carry my letter to Tom Goatleaf, our Longbottom agent. If the money stops coming, then....' He didn't know what he'd do then. The Chief could not be a beggar, after all, and his Men likely respected him only as far as his coin went. He thought of Marigold, and then he thought of his own place as the Shire's Chief. He shook his head, and said, 'I've been distracted.' Distracted, but now he was worried. Ted understood. Ted was not Chief of the Shire, but perhaps, if things went on as they were going, then Ted might end up Master of some smaller place. He was the Chief's right hand hobbit, after all: no other hobbit could go about, as such, and do so unmolested. 'You have been distracted,' Ted agreed. But Ted had been distracted, too, and said as much, though he had kept himself on task, of late. 'I don't see what this has to do with the old Mill.' The Mill was Ted's, had been his father's before him. 'Change happens,' said Lotho. 'But change doesn't happen without money. And if the money runs out...' Lotho didn't want to think about that. If there was some delay, then likely it would only be a small delay. Lotho had come to this, he had worked for it, put blood into it And he thought, well, it hasn't been my blood. He sobered for a moment. Perhaps he was fast in over his head, with no going back, and no turning round. Well, he was Chief now, Chief of the Shire, and he knew his Men respected him (made himself believe that they would respect him, beyond the reach of his coin). And if there was a delay in pay, then it would only be a small delay there were other ways they could occupy themselves, after all. He hoped that would lighten his thoughts. He sobered again. Oh well it was not as if he had been in on the act of it, himself. Now, distracted by that thought instead, he told Ted again to carry his letter to Longbottom (he'd been writing all along). 'This time, next month, it will all be settled.' He pressed his seal.
VIII. (Afterlithe, SR 1419 Hobbiton) Robin had lived in Hobbiton all his life, and had gone for a Shirriff at the age of thirty-four. His Da had been a Westfarthing Shirriff before him, and his grandda before that so Robin was a Shirriff, too, and his Da had never been so proud as that far-ago spring day that Robin first put on his feathered cap. Now, his Da was too old for a Shirriff's work and while Robin was not the eldest of his siblings, but he had wanted to do well by his father, and carry on what had turned into something of a family tradition. And he'd do so with pride. So he gathered strayed livestock when he was needed, carried special messages sometimes all the way to First Shirriff in Michel Delving (that being Mayor Whitwell, of course). And he laughed, and knew his neighbours better than he ever had before, and he let himself be invited to special dinners, whenever it was offered after all, it was expected, as he was a Shirriff. It was Afterlithe, closer to the end than elsewise, and Mayor Whitfoot had been a guest at the Lockholes, now, through these long months. And Robin was a Shirriff still, for he was not allowed to simply drop his position: a Shirriff under Lotho Pimple, of all hobbits ah, Lotho, calling himself Chief Shirriff, and Chief of the Shire. There was too much hogwash in that, and Robin was not sure how he had managed it, standing it so long. Oh, he knew why. He feared that they would hurt his family, and then it would be put on his head. So he did his job, and did it well as he could, and he hoped his fellow hobbits could understand. His Da did. He took up with his eldest daughter's family, her and her husband and their young children, in Underhill, for it was not safe in Hobbiton proper. But that had been months ago. And Robin went on, doing his job: making sure the Rules were followed. Conducting unruly citizens as was needed. And always, always, Robin looked the other way when Lotho's Big Men did as they pleased. It wasn't that he wanted it. But there was nothing he could do. He wasn't the only Shirriff, either. Some others, stuck in their job as he himself was, only went on, through the motions, as the saying went but there were some, like Andson Twofoot, who laughed and joked and seemed to like it, the act of pushing other hobbits about. Now, that was unhobbity, and Robin knew it was. But he had gone from helpless, to helpless but angry, and now his blood fair boiled. Perhaps it was not hobbity, either, to punch Andson, but he did, gritting his teeth as he did: and then he was standing over Andson, still stunned, on the ground. Robin would have acted further, but then two other Shirrifs, Bredo and Finch, caught hold of him, and held him back. That had been his one great moment: but then he felt himself diminish, and he slumped against restraining arms. Andson got up, rising quickly, as if he might punch him instead, he wiped the blood from his face, and Bredo and Finch pulled Robin away. 'You have to be careful,' said Bredo. If it wasn't for his family, he wouldn't have cared for that: the need to take care. Two days later, he and three other Shirrifs who'd been in Hobbiton were sent east, with an escort of Big Men, to Frogmorton, to join with the Shirriffs stationed there.
IX. (Wedmath, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) What had he said? Change happens. And change doesn't happen without money. That was true enough, but the New Mill still went up, though there were hobbit labourers as well as Men (the Men did seem to like pressing the hobbits into doing as they wished) and there were some changes that happened with little push, and some tasks that Lotho's Men took to with relish. It was summer. It wasn't just the place, but the people were changing, too. When Lotho took his leisure about Hobbiton just to look at the changes himself he found himself faced with faces he didn't know. At least the hobbits were keeping to the Rules. There was one Man, named Bill Ferny, a late-comer from Bree: and it wasn't that Lotho was one for listening in on what his Men over-said, but rather that Bill had interesting things to say. If only he had learned them sooner. He might have liked knowing what could have come of it, telling Paladin and Saradoc what had become of their heirs. And through this, trees went down, and some smials, too. Ugly shacks had gone up in Hobbiton, and Lotho thought, wondering, if this was what he wanted to be Chief of. It couldn't they would waste it all, before they were through. If he was holding on, then this would have to be the end of his rope. But the Men were taking more, perhaps more than Hobbiton could bear: their hold was seemingly greater than Lotho's, or what he might have hoped for. He'd heard of violence against hobbits, and he tried not too think too hard, or too long, on such though his thoughts always returned. Still, Lotho felt unsettled, that it was all too much and he could not possibly keep hold of it, and it would not be long until his Men decided they would not listen to him anymore. Or that they'd find someone else to follow, and then he'd have his own end. Oh, stars. This wasn't what he wanted. If this was holding on, then it was all crumbling in his hands. But there was meant to be a difference, a difference in power. Lotho had power, even if his Men seemed harder and harder to keep on leash, and even if it felt that a storm was approaching for surely his Men would listen to him, even if the funds were lacking and power was all he needed. There wasn't beer and pipe-weed for others than the Men, and when they wanted, they would sit at ease, drinking and smoking and it was not below them to terrify hobbits into doing their bidding. In fact, they delighted in it. No need for bribery, now not when could take as what was needed, and not worry themselves over giving in return. Then came the fires, for the Men burnt trees and homes as well, laid destruction in great swaths to green-growing fields and Lotho truly tried not to think about them. Lotho needed to prove himself. Prove himself somehow. Keep hold, when it was all falling away. He could show that he was still Chief of this place, that Bag End was his, that Hobbiton was. If they needed a Chief that they could respect, then Lotho would have to prove himself capable of that for, he felt somehow that his own idle days were coming to an end, and if he didn't hold on before it all fell away he would not just hang on to the end of his rope, but hang from it as well.
X. (Wedmath, SR 1419 Various Locations Throughout the Northfarthing) Diamond knew how far north the Men had come, for she would listen when news came, eavesdropping on her father in his study and not since that once, that first time when they had come full to Long Cleeve, had they crossed to the north of the Rushy Way. They seemed more content in raiding the farmsteads to the south of it. So Diamond led Estella south, riding as far south as they were able. The day was bright, though clouds skirted the northern edge of the sky: the breeze summer-warm, and Estella summer-bright. It had been a month since Estella had come to Long Cleeve, but the days seemed so much longer it must have been longer than that. Diamond did not wish to let Estella out of sight. Estella would look to the south, and east. Diamond would look to the south, and west. But then she would look at Estella, and they would both smile. Diamond understood Estella, after all. They went on riding, together, at ease. They went to Oatbarton, for Diamond wished to see how they were faring: well enough, and a merry welcome was made. Her cousin Brandivar was the head in town, and had been a Bounder in his youth. If she and Estella wished to stay the night, then rooms would be found. Diamond thanked him, but said it was not needed: Brandivar, some ten years older than she, only grinned at her in a knowing fashion. Then he asked after Tolly, but Diamond had no news to give. At a hard pace, one could ride through to the Brockenborings is less than two hours. Estella knew that, also, and she looked south and east, again, even as they ate. Diamond should not have been able to guess at Estella's intentions, for all she did know her, she did not know her well. But there was an understanding there, for they were in a similar position, the both of them. And there was an openness about her, too, at least one she extended to Diamond. And Diamond did wish to know her more. They were both sisters left behind, but Diamond did not want to leave Estella alone. At any length, Diamond found she knew that Estella looked afar, and she thought she knew what Estella looked at. If Estella up and followed after her brother and his band, even against his wishes, even after her brother had left her safe in Long Cleeve, then Diamond would go as well. And they left, put Oatbarton behind them, rode hard, and came to the Rushy Way as evening fell: as it was still ways to Long Cleeve, they made a rough camp of it, and slept out beneath the stars, the rushing river like laughing music. Morning brought them to Long Cleeve, and Diamond's father, on seeing them on their return, looked so angry Diamond thought she might go pale. But she did not, and held her head high instead, for she knew that she was still some long years from her own end. Diamond said, 'I don't see the point in it,' it being their hiding. 'They came just that once and anyhow, we kept to the north of the Rushy Way. The Ruffians don't cross the river, father, and I don't see them doing something so industrious, not now.' Still, father forbade them to go riding again at least, not so far away. Diamond conceded, for love of her father. She would show him this respect, at the least, when Tolly had been the one who had up and gone away.
XI. (Halimath, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) He could not remember the before of it with much clarity: instead, Lotho thought himself walking in a dream, and he woke as if waking from a terror of the night. He had been sleeping well, half-asleep, when Daisy had risen to leave. He had wanted to prove himself capable. But not this. Not this. He was accustomed to nightmares (and sometimes, the dreams he had were so dark, and simply that, darkness only). He had not thought so darkly (or had such thoughts press upon him) since they first had taken Bag End as their own. Now he lay in his own bed, the smell of sex and sweat in the air, and a pressure of darkness on his mind. A terror of ice, striking through him. The moment would not end. But when it did at last, it took him some time to rise. He saw his mother, once he'd cleaned himself and dressed again. Told her they would need to look into finding another housekeeper, for the Gamgee lass was an ill-trained brat and had run out on them both (he thought to say she'd gone off with the good silver, but somehow, feeling out of his element, he didn't have the heart). His mother heaved a sigh, and only said that she was not surprised. But at what? At Marigold leaving, or at Lotho being the one to run her out? He didn't ask her, and instead went from the room. He went to the kitchen, made himself tea. He stacked the dishes in the basin, and felt even more out of his depth. Everything had changed, would go on changing. He was straying too far from himself, had gone down dark roads where light had fled. He thought this his moment, that he might seize it, and turn from what he faced. He wanted to blame it all on Frodo, but couldn't see how he might. He went outside, and the sky was clear: but clouds came rolling from the north, some darker than others. The yard was clear. The garden was wilting. They had the same problem with gardeners that they'd had with housekeepers: they couldn't keep a one. He stood looking at the garden, at the sky, at the road that went winding: he looked to Bagshot Row, and he thought after Daisy, remembered the feel of skin, and thought (for the memory of it, of him pressing for what no hobbit should press), oh, he thought he might be sick. Instead, he sat in the shadow of a rose bush the blossoms all gone, the leaves all drooping and he buried his face in his hands. He would look for another housekeeper. And surely there was some hobbit who would still work for him: for they were in need of a gardener, too. He had thought he had a good hold on it, on all of it, but he found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. If it all fell apart, if he lost hold of it all, surely, he thought with what was left of his sense of propriety, it would all come back on him. The rosebush trembled in the cool autumn air. Lotho sat there, arms wrapped about himself, his legs drawn up close he felt utterly miserable, and not at all anything like the Chief of the Shire. The Chief of nothing. Again, he wished to blame it all on Frodo but Lotho knew, somehow, that he could not. On going inside (in time), his mother was cross at him for trampling the gardens as he had.
XII. (Halimath, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Number 3) Her tears were gone: but she was tired, cold, and her thoughts were wandering far and wide. She thought after Sam: she remembered something nonsensical, that Rosie had said oh, had it been in Rethe? When she had mentioned Sam, and his return, and with such joy. It was Halimath, now, and turning to its end. Marigold found herself thinking it more likely that Tom would sooner come home but even that was too difficult for belief. She heard the door, when Daisy came back. Marigold rose, scrubbed at her eyes (though she was long finished with her weeping), and she went out, saw her sister there, looking small and pale and lost, and she took Daisy into her arms. 'Thank you,' she whispered, and she hated herself, for saying it as she did. Then she put Daisy at length, smiled at her, and though her heart ached to, she did not ask Daisy as aught had turned out. Instead, she directed her to their little kitchen, put her to sit, and put on the tea: and she chattered brightly as she did that, warmed up something left over from supper, and then put that before her, and the tea, too. And Daisy smiled at her, and didn't speak much, and Marigold understood it, and wished her sister did not have to bear it: and she knew, just as she still felt it where Lotho had gripped her arm. He had lost himself, or at least was in the process of losing himself, and he was a terror already, but Marigold found herself guessing at all he might do. So Marigold looked after Daisy, for it was all she could do, and did not wish to think too much on what her sister had borne for her: she drew water for her bath, instead, and turned down her bed, and she had her tucked in safely, for Daisy was so worn, it seemed her one desire. Pale and small still, and seemingly younger, though she was the elder. Marigold stood at her bedside, watched her sleep, watched the tension fade from her face. Then she took up the candle, went to check on her father, and then, with tears in her eyes, took off to her own room, and there, once she'd put the candle to the side, she collapsed on her bed (familiar, comfortable, but hard now, cold), buried her face against her old stuffed pillow, shook as she wept. She wanted Tom. She wanted Sam. She wanted Rosie, and of those three, it was Rosie who might actually appear. Then: tap, tap, tap. She went to her window, and knew it was Rosie before she arrived she had hoped after it, after all. Rosie peered in at her, her eyes dark and the night so dark as well: but Rosie smiled, and touched the window with her fingertips. She mouthed something, something that touched Marigold's heart. Marigold eased her window open. Leaned against it. Kissed Rosie when she could, and then welcomed her in. She remembered another night like this when Rosie had come to her, and told her of Ted Sandyman but now Marigold tells her own story, though it is Daisy's as own, and perhaps Marigold shouldn't share it, in knowing that. But Lotho'd gone too far, and there wasn't anything that Marigold could think to do about it, against him, him and his Men, against his army, as it pressed on the Shire. So she told Rosie her story, and Rosie held her as she did: after that, Marigold, heart-worn herself, fell deeply into sleep.
XIII. (Winterfilth, SR 1419 Hobbiton, Bag End) The day after (that day being that one when Marigold had gone from Bag End, when Daisy had come, at least for that one time, to take her sister's place), Mr. White and his servant, Grνma though, as Mr. White had, Lotho had taken to calling him 'Worm' came to Bag End. (Lotho'd wanted servants. And he'd had them, though he wasn't very good at seeing them paid. He tried, and he'd tried to be Chief. Now the real Chief had come, and Lotho had been put in his own place. Or reminded of it, anyhow, and if Worm was Mr. White's servant, then Lotho was less even than that.) The day after that being when Lotho knew himself put in his place: that being the one where his mother had gone after one of the Men, for they no longer were Lotho's, and with her umbrella alone. For her troubles, she'd been dragged off to the Lockholes, he was told. No, not told, but knew. He wished to see her. At least once more. And another day, with that Grubb lad, for they had been in need of a housekeeper, and any body would do. And that other day, when Lotho had tried going out, only to find his way blocked. He heard that Bagshot Row had been dug up, and marveled at such destruction: Mr. White, at least, seemed pleased in the New Mill, and how it darkened the sky. That, he'd said, shall stay up. Another day, and Lotho thought that he might simply lose his mind. Or he might wish himself mad, for that would make this easier to bear. But was that his due? He thought of his mother, far off in Michel Delving, treated like some commoner, some prisoner, and Lotho wondered if he might find himself there as well. It had been days, long days, and he had lost count of them, since Mr. White had come to Bag End, since he'd come and made it his own. Lotho wasn't just losing count of the days, but losing track of himself, and he found himself a prisoner in his own home, half-mad and mocked openly, wishing for freedom, wishing to be saved but knowing, oh, knowing, that that wasn't his due. He was going to die. He knew it. (He'd seen it in a dream.) He knew that he would die, for Mr. White, telling only truth, had told him as much. It was all going south. He wanted to say that he was sorry. Wanted to write it all down. He still wished he might blame it all on Frodo. But he knew that he could not. Frodo would understand. And Frodo would know that Lotho had died a hobbit (a hobbit hated, but a hobbit at heart): and he was sorry. So very sorry. He couldn't tell him, and he couldn't write it down. But Frodo was Frodo, and Frodo was a Baggins. If there was anyone who would understand, then it would be Frodo. 'You're better than I ever was. Than I'll ever be.' And, just as he'd been told (just as he had guessed it) (no, just as he'd dreamed), the day came and he was dying, his eyes still seeing, even as the blood went from him, went from his neck. All Lotho wished for was to tell Frodo he was sorry. Sorry, so sorry. He hadn't wished for this. (Oh, he'd wished for something, but he hadn't wished for this.) Oh, he was getting just as was his due. Frodo would under (And then he was dead.)
XIV. (Winterfilth, SR 1419 The Lockholes) She wondered where she'd gone wrong, seeing all the times (or, at least, almost all of them, for they seemed so many, all throughout the long years of her son's life) where it might have been different. They might have raised him differently. She could think that, now, in this place beyond propriety. Dirty, a prisoner. She'd never see him again, her son, and perhaps that would be better for them both. Perhaps she was going mad. Perhaps she knew she faced her end. She sat in the darkness, her hands in her lap. There were other ladies in the cell she shared, all older hobbitesses such as herself, and all of them dirty, with bruises some dark, fresh, and some older, fading. Some of them had been beaten, and perhaps Lobelia was luckier than others. No, she knew she was, and she found she bore it better than others, too. Still, sitting in the dark of night (for it had to be night), one might hear far-off screams, but the weeping was much nearer. The screaming was frightening enough, but there was something even more chilling, those times she overheard some hobbit or another begging for mercy. Lobelia knew these Men well enough, for hadn't they been her son's? She knew they weren't ones for giving mercy. So she thought it again: where had she gone wrong? Lobelia had wanted Bag End all her life or at least almost all her life, which was more years than she felt inclined to count. And here she was, having had all she wanted, and having had it all taken away. She thought, again, of her son. She hoped that Lotho would see it as she now saw it. Frodo was better for Bag End, and better as its Master. She would die here she found herself certain of that. Oh, her son. Her son. She'd never see him again. He'd gone too far, and if there was anyone still in the Shire who could bear that blame, then it would be herself. Knowing Lotho, he would want to blame Frodo. But could he? Lobelia didn't even think that she could. She didn't even think that she could blame Bilbo, and she had blamed him so often, and for so few things from putting Drogo and Primula above Otho and herself, those who should have been his proper heirs, to putting Frodo before them, too. But Frodo had been a better Master for Bag End than she could ever have hoped for. Oh, would Frodo see that, too? Would he even come back? Perhaps, if he did, it might all fall back into its right and proper way. No, it was her fault, all her own. If there was any light left in the Shire, no, in all the world, then Frodo would come back: she hoped he'd understand. But for now, she was left in darkness, and the smell of it. One of the others were weeping, and Lobelia wasn't one for giving comfort, but rather taking what comfort she could, but she rose (though she ached all over), and went stumbling to that weeping. And then she knelt on the ground. They were all the same, here, high-born or low. And Lobelia did not even know this hobbit's name. She hadn't asked. 'Here, have a shoulder to cry on,' she said, and someone reached for in the dark, and wetness soaked through the thin cloth left at her shoulder. She was a mother, after all, and there was still some comforting inside her, though it seemed almost a foreign thing.
XV. (Blotmath, SR 1419 Bywater) Their Tom had only just come back to them. That put Winterfilth behind them, and them on into Blotmath. But it was only now the second. Empty window and broken hope. Well, Tom himself (being Tom the Elder) had not wished his children put in harm's way, would have stood against it, when his son went away. No wonder Rosie had been so worried, seemed too pale, and not just for Sam having up and gone off, but for their Tom having done the same. He had just tried to keep it all together, and that had been a trying task: not just for the sake of his family, but for those about Hobbiton and Bywater, not standing for what Lotho stood for. Though Tom, is his own way, wondered how any hobbit could stand for such, with things so wrong as they were. They all knew that Mistress Lobelia had been taken off: and Lotho hadn't been seen now, not for some time. More likely than not, he was dead. He had thought himself Chief, but the real Chief had come. And the New Mill stood, and Tom had heard from some fellows of his that the gardens at Bag End were in a ruin, tall ugly shacks where growing things should be. He wondered, if Sam did come back to the Shire, what pain that would do his heart. For having heard it, and not having seen it, well, it did a powerful amount of pain to Tom the Elder's heart. Well, it wasn't the end of things. They had friends to shelter. And there was work to do. If the Shire ever would be freed, then they could not stop. Not for anything. And then, just that day (for it was the second), Sam returned.
He remembered the day Marigold had come to them, distraught, weeping the day that the Men had come, had forced them out: Tom and his sons went, took what they could, but Rosie stayed behind, to look after Marigold. They came back to the farm, with some things of the Gamgees' that they had managed to secure some things that had meaning for them, a favourite cooking-pot of Sam's, something of Marigold's that had been her mother's before her, something as well that meant something to Ham, though he would never speak of his sentiments. All these things, they brought with them, though it was hardly enough. Daisy had gone to Underhill, and was away: but Nibs went carrying a message for her, though he would go by night, in secrecy. 'Sam will come home,' he heard his daughter say, against Marigold's curls, dark and mussed, arms wrapped about her tightly. 'Oh, he will. It won't be long.' He wanted to think she knew what she was saying. For then it might all go back to being right. Not that day, not in Winterfilth, when the days were growing colder. Nibs came back, and the day after, Young Tom did as well.
So here he stood now, new hope in his heart for it had been trying, to manage this all, one life and another, father and family head and rebel supporter as well and it had been a difficult thing, to hold to hope. Rosie, though, had held to it, somehow, all along. And Rosie bold and flashing, as ever, though no doubt she would go look to Marigold, after, and bid her good news, for Sam had returned oh, his Rosie said, 'You haven't hurried have you?', Old Tom found himself thinking, well, he might have asked the same thing.
XVI. (Blotmath, SR 1419 Hobbiton to Bywater and then Back) It had been a sad blow indeed, them digging up Bagshot Row as they had: but, for all the wrong, queer things that had gone on, through all the long months since his Sam had gone away, none seemed so wrong as this. And him left without a proper home. He went to Bywater, as he could, for his Marigold was staying with the Cottons and doing her fair part of work, of course, for Hamfast was still himself, and he would not want one of his children staying on without doing her fair share. The hobbits he'd helped raised hadn't been lazy ones, and he wouldn't want any other hobbit thinking that of them. And it was good to see his Marigold taken care of, for the Cottons loved her as they did their own daughter. And Young Tom loved her more than that, though he had never thought to speak out. Of course, his own Sam had done much the same thing. There were few things that Sam had spoken of as he had of Rosie Cotton Bag End's garden, and Bag End's Master, were counted among those few. Oh, and him left without a proper home. A lean-to shack weren't nothing as was proper, and Hamfast would have words, if he thought himself out-spoken enough. And he was, if only the topic were right. He knew too many hobbits who had been hurt: he considered his own safety, though only for his Marigold's sake. The Cotton lads had come, at times, to see to his well-being for they were well-meaning lads, and they were missing a brother, just as Hamfast was missing a son. And Daisy, oh, she was the proper healer in the area, (and Hamfast wasn't pleased with that, at all. Only he knew his lass loved helping, and so, for Bell's sake, he hadn't stood in her way) and she came looking after him, too. Then, one day (and with all the days did somehow run together), his Sam came home. No, not home, for this was not home, and he was with Jolly Cotton, who had led him. Sam looked at him, his eyes big, brown and glistening, as though he might weep. Hamfast, who wasn't much one for sentiments, drew his son into his arms, and could not speak, for the moment was too much, too heavy, and he thought words might ruin it, somehow. 'He managed it, then,' said Hamfast. 'He brought you home.' 'That he did, Dad,' said Sam. 'Well, I'll have words with him still,' Hamfast said gruffly. And words he did, though not the ones he might have for, no matter what he'd seen what little he'd endured, he hardly thought it his place. And anyhow, Mr. Frodo had done as he was meant to, and he had brought his Sam home. Well, they would need to look to having a proper home again. And this was just the start of it, this cleaning, this home-coming. They were doing the sensible thing, and walking in the right fashion, and in the right direction. No doubt, with a start such as this, they would walk back as was proper. And Hamfast never said, it went ill when you went away. Truly, there were some times where words would only ruin a thing most especially, if they were the wrong words. But his taters would grow again. And Bag End's gardens would grow again, too, and Sam no doubt would have a hand in that. That was enough to be good and right, and Hamfast thought it a proper end.
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