By: Dana
Summary: What happened to Moro when he was taken to the Lockholes.
Characters: Moro Burrows, Mosco Burrows, Merry and Pippin, some Frodo, and many other Burrowses and Brandybucks
Pairings: Some Ilberic/Minto towards the end
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence, angst, bad dreams, some mild seeming slash towards the end
Author's Notes: The second half of the Moro in the Lockholes fic, which is actually the going-home part of the story.
All my thanks and love to sophinisba for the beta.
Series Index: In a Sunless Year.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

They spent the night and then three days after at Michel Delving, Merry and Pippin not wanting to head out right away. There were a number of prisoners who were too simply weak to travel, and it would do them best to rest and to also eat. Freddy Bolger was among those who were the worst off but he wasn't the only one, and Merry and Pippin led a number of hobbits to the east. It wouldn't do them any good, Merry had said, to take them all off when they were all in such bad shape. Mosco hardly felt like he had the worst of it, though he did want to get Moro home – well, he wanted to get Moro back to Buckland, where Mosco knew they'd both be safe.

Merry and Pippin had changed, and it wasn't just that they'd both grown a good deal. Mosco felt like he had enough concerns at the moment, what with Moro (and he didn't feel like thinking much about his own guilt). He had Moro to look after, and Moro to get home, and he didn't feel like he much had the strength to do it on his own. Their parents might have thought them both dead, and Mosco didn't quite know what to do about that.

The third day came and they set out, sitting together in the back of a cart that Merry had rented off a local hobbit, with the promise that it would be returned. Merry had no trouble convincing him, and Mosco sat at Moro's side in the back of the cart. 'It won't be long,' he said, but Mosco felt like it would be a while longer yet. 'We'll be back home before you know it, anyhow.'

'I never thought you liked the Buckland as much as all that.'

'Well, I daresay it does have its charm.'

Moro smiled at him, and Moro hadn't smiled at him in a number of – well, Mosco couldn't quite remember when that had been, imagined that it must have last happened before. He never should have let them go off on their own. He never should have thought there was something he could do on his own, for all he'd had his place in Hilly Boffin's rebel band. But they were on their way now, in the back of the little cart with other hobbits who couldn't make their way on their own, Freddy amongst them. It didn't sit right with Mosco, being there, but he couldn't quite leave Moro when he needed him most. Moro, who had been in something of a daze since they had come out, and he hadn't spoken much before that, but now... well, he spoke even less.

And time went on, them travelling to the east, and Merry and Pippin led them on. Mosco realised after a while that Frodo was with them as well, but Frodo also seemed changed and in ways that Mosco couldn't seem to fathom. Old and tired but he smiled and seemed glad to have made it back home. It made Mosco wonder, had Frodo even thought he'd see the Shire again? They would all stop and rest and eat and drink, and Frodo would sit with Freddy and they would talk. Mosco had never been close with Freddy Bolger, but he knew him well enough to know that he wasn't Fatty Bolger anymore. Frodo, who Mosco would sit and watch, and he remembered now – there had been a lot going on, after all – that Frodo had been there, at the Lockholes, too. He had led Lobelia Sackville-Baggins out on his arm, Lobelia, who Mosco knew had never been cheered in her life. But she had been cheered, when she'd been brought out of the Lockholes. And Mosco himself didn't know why, hadn't been there as long as some others and hadn't heard all of her story. Lobelia, he knew, hadn't quite known what to do with herself. But she had been one of the hobbits, old Will Whitfoot as well, who had driven off afterwards on their own.

Merry and Pippin, when they took their rest, would wander off and only come back when it was time to go on. They didn't talk much, but Mosco found he was quite all right with that. By the time they came to Budgeford, and Freddy went back to his family, Frodo told Merry and Pippin that he would be staying behind as well. That night, Moro woke screaming from his nightmare, and Mosco held him afterwards, Moro shaking and weeping but then collapsing back into sleep. He didn't seem to remember that, the morning after. Mosco spoke with Merry, after breakfast and then second breakfast, and told him how their family had been living in the Buckland these last few months. 'They need to know we're coming back,' he said, feeling out of sorts. 'I want them to know how Moro is – that he's alive, at least.' He didn't want them to know how troubled Moro was, but could hardly stop time from going on.

Merry nodded, and a rider went off, carrying that letter with him. 'He'll ride faster on his own,' Merry said, and Mosco nodded and wanted to understand. There was an air about Merry, now, and Mosco wasn't quite sure what to think about it. Not that it seemed he thought himself better than any other hobbit, but that he had seen too much.

He went back to Moro, to find Pippin sitting with him – Pippin, a head taller than Mosco remembered him. Moro smiled at Pippin, told him he was feeling quite well enough, could ride on his own. 'I'd noticed, well, the way you limped. I'd not want you to push yourself too hard.'

'Really, I am doing quite well. Better than I've felt in months, at least.'

And Pippin smiled at him, but the smile seemed shallow and almost muddy, and Mosco thought Pippin looked as though he might say something else, only he didn't. 'We'll get you both back home. And Cellie, well, wherever she is, I've no doubt she'll find her way home as well.'

'Thank you,' Moro said, but he sounded distant and he looked it as well. Pippin took his right hand and held it between both his own, and they sat there in the silence until Mosco felt it was time for him to interrupt.

And Pippin smiled at him, nodded, and stood. He looked at Moro. 'Well, I was set on leaving anyhow. I'll leave you both alone.' He looked at Mosco, after that, and nodded at him. It was funny, almost, how that nod was deep like the running river, that Pippin said more than he could with any words.

Mosco didn't quite know what to do after that, but he sat with Moro. Like Pippin had, he took Moro's hand. Moro smiled at him, and the smile seemed fond enough and real as well. 'You have done far too much worrying for one hobbit, Mosco,' Moro said, and Mosco couldn't quite smile in return.

'I can't say I've done quite a good job of looking after you, Moro, and don't say it's not my duty – you're my brother, my younger brother, after all. And...' He shook his head and wondered if the guilt would leave him, it currently crushing his chest. They would be at Brandy Hall, and soon enough. Still, he wondered how their parents were, Myrtle, and... and Minto, who he had worried over too much, since he'd been taken away. Mosco knew his youngest brother would blame himself, think he'd had a direct hand in when Mosco had been captured, brought in. 'We'll be home, soon enough. Though Brandy Hall's not home.'

'It is something,' Moro said. 'Mum and da are there, Myrtle and Minto, too... and I hope... I can only hope that Cellie's made it back.'

He spoke about her in a way that made Mosco's heart ache, and he squeezed his brother's hands. 'Still, it will be good to get back, and not just to know that. I am so terribly tired,' and Moro's gaze dropped like stone.

'You'll have to try walking on it more,' he told his brother, later on that day, after the Budgeford healer had at last had a chance to take a look at his bad knee. It was swollen, ugly and discoloured, but Moro had worse looking bruises on him that that.

He took his time, and Moro winced a number of times, biting at his lip as the healer examined the bad knee. He said a number of things, perhaps meant to lighten their moods. But then he looked at Mosco, looked at Moro in turn, and told Moro how in his apprenticeship he'd been told it was best not to hold back the truth. 'It isn't healing as well as it ought, and that' from how it was set. If you wanted, we could dislocate it once more, and then set it properly... but even if we did that, there's no saying it would heal any better. You'll keep that limp of yours either way.'

Mosco didn't speak, couldn't voice his own thoughts, but Moro spoke up after a moment of consideration. 'Well, if I'll keep it either way, I'll consider it a keepsake and nothing more.' He grinned, but that was faint, as he attempted to be cheerful about the matter. 'Not that I'd ever forget.'

'Still, lad. I have seen this sort of thing before, and you'll run the risk of it going out...'

'Either way, as you said before. I don't think that I could...' Moro shook his head and laughed a bit hollowly. 'No. I don't think I could face that all again. But thank you, Master Healer.'

The healer nodded, and considered the issue had dealt with itself. He gave Moro something else for the pain, and Moro was grateful for that. When he left, Moro sat quietly for a while and then told Mosco in some detail how he had no plan of feeling that again, that pain, wouldn't be able to bear it. ''Even if it was for the better, this time,' he finished. 'Not if there's no chance it might be better off. No matter what he might give me, I couldn't...'

But Moro didn't have to go on. Mosco understood.

They didn't leave for three days after that, and Mosco hated it, chafed at them being kept there like they were. Still, Moro needed it, the rest and the care, and it wouldn't do Mosco any harm either. But three days went by, and then Merry and Pippin gathered them up, intent on taking them back on their own. Mosco and Moro shared one pony, and Moro didn't say he was grateful but Mosco knew that he was. He needed the help, needed the support. He was doing better already, but there was still a good deal of care that he would need before he would... Mosco's thoughts wandered at that. He found it hard to think that Moro might ever be the same. He'd seen what they'd done to him, and he'd not been able to stop them, had screamed at them to stop until his voice was all but gone, his throat was aching, raw. And they had made Moro scream, had known Moro was his brother though Mosco hadn't ever told. Sense suggested that meant there was someone in the Lockholes that had known, that had used that information against them. Mosco felt it was his own fault, Moro having been hurt as he had.

They rested after they had crossed the Bridge, when they'd gone beyond the Hay Gate. They were in the Buckland, then, but Moro woke in the morning, screaming, crying, and he blacked out like he had when the Men had finished with him, and Mosco held onto him, finding it hard to breathe. The shock was almost too much, and Pippin made him let Moro loose and Merry took him, checked on him, and Mosco felt numb, cold. He didn't even know what he was saying, till Pippin looked at him, till Merry looked at him, too, his eyes gone wide.

'Oh, Mosco,' Pippin said, and he pulled Mosco into his embrace, and Mosco could hardly fight, went and let Pippin hold onto him. 'There now. We've almost made it to the end.'

He wanted to say, Pippin couldn't possibly know what it felt like, that Merry couldn't, either. But he couldn't believe what he had said, himself, and the words made his tongue feel like rot. Maybe it would have been best if they'd finished him off. It made him sick to think it, to know that he believed it on some deep, dark level, too. He cried, as he hadn't let himself cry, was sick with worry and with guilt. He didn't pull away, let Pippin hold him. And some time after that, he drew away.

'Don't.' Pippin grinned. 'You'll say you're sorry. But, oh, I do understand.'

He nodded, felt small and pathetic, and thought Moro looked that just as well. But he was awake and there was colour in his cheeks and he said he was sorry, but the dreams had been too much, too strong, and he hadn't been able to get away. Merry decided they would all rest there for a while, and Mosco nodded and then went off, down through the tall grass and beyond a copse of dark trees standing at the water's edge. There, he sat down and folded his arms across his knees, looked out at the water and then groped in the dirt until he found a pebble, threw it out and watched it hit the water's surface, shattering the calm, then sinking into the murky deep.

Pippin followed after him, after a while, sat down beside him though he didn't say a thing. Pippin, who had been gone such a very long time, wasn't the gangly lad he'd been before, and now he looked like a giant in foreign clothes. Mosco looked sideways at him, then looked out at the water, clutching at himself.

The sky was faded looking, grey, a bitter chill was on the air. Mosco sat and listened to the day, his own breathing and Pippin's, too. 'You couldn't – ' he started, didn't think that Pippin could possibly understand, but shut his mouth when Pippin put his hand down on Mosco's shoulder.

'It's easy to think that someone might not understand. Less easy to...' But Pippin trailed off. 'What I mean to say, is, well, it really is less easy to say one has suffered more than another, for that's no proper way to go and look at pain. None of us are the only one that's ever hurt, or had a loved one that's suffered, after all. Now, I apologize in advance for how I'll likely go on.' Pippin had a story to tell him, and from how he hesitated in the telling, Mosco could only imagine he'd not told it all before. But by the end of it, Mosco knew Pippin did understand. He sat there at Mosco's side, with little colour in his cheeks.

'Really, I hadn't thought we'd come back to all this. If I'd known... if I could have guessed at it, even. Well, we'd not have lingered as long as we did.'

Mosco had made guilt a welcome enough companion, and Pippin in that moment looked young and tired but also very old, and too deeply troubled by all that was going on. 'Pip,' Mosco said, put his hand on Pippin's, where Pippin's hand was still settled on his shoulder. 'Don't go on like all that. It's hardly your own fault, and it's good you've all come back.'

Mosco wondered how Pippin could act so easy about all of it, give so little thought to it and even be able to act cheerful as well, when it was clear that he and his friends had suffered a great deal. Mosco thought on that just a bit, didn't spare it as much thought as he might have. He wanted to see his parents, he wanted to see Minto and Myrtle as well, but he felt like it was too much and too much trouble, to keep going on. 'I didn't take very good care of him. It's my fault, you know, that he's as bad off as he is.'

'Now, you can't go on like all that,' Pippin said, and Mosco wiped at his eyes then laughed at them both. Then, in silence that felt more comfortable than it had been before, they sat there together at the water, until Pippin drew up onto his long legs and told him he'd see him back at the ponies.

After that, it was still two days more until they saw Brandy Hall. And there they were, and it didn't feel like it had taken too long at all, and Mosco could hardly bear it and Moro winced but smiled as he limped and Minto wouldn't look at either of them, or at least, Minto wasn't looking at them whenever Mosco looked his way. There was a number of things that Mosco wanted to do, wanted to say. But his mother hugged them both, and it should have been enough, but Mosco felt empty inside, the guilt eating at him, the guilt and all of the shame.

He was tired, very tired, hardly felt as glad as he should have, having made it to the end.

For all it felt as if it all should have ended, time kept on going on. There they were, back, and Mosco didn't feel as good as he should have. He told his parents that it hadn't all been as bad as they thought, as if they couldn't tell, as if they couldn't see the bruises he sported, or the bruises on Moro's face. As if they couldn't see with their own eyes how Moro limped, how Moro hardly spoke. But they didn't push, didn't try and intrude, and Mosco was glad of that and thought Moro had to be as well. The family was all together, then, and they had a meal together, just the six of them – no, seven, as Ilberic was there as well. Ilberic, who had stuck at Minto's side and who had often held his hand. Ilberic, who tried to beg off being included at their first private meal together, but father wouldn't let him leave, smiled at him and told him he was as good as family, now.

Then Minto embraced him, and Moro as well, and Mosco felt some lightness in his heart. Still, Minto seemed tense, and Mosco resolved to speak with him at some length. Celandine arrived at some point after that, when they had all sat down again, and though there were tears in her eyes, she smiled.

Moro stood to greet her, faltered on his bad leg but didn't let that stop him. Celandine took a gulping breath and she opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, but Moro told her there really was no need for all that.

'Still, I'm sorry. Dreadfully so.' She looked him in the eyes, and her smile was tentative. 'I wanted to thank you, too. You... well. You know, I suppose. You did a good job of saving my life, and I should at least say something in return.'

Then, Moro smiled at her, smiled in a way that Mosco had frankly found himself thinking Moro couldn't be capable of, brighter than he'd smiled out in the courtyard, and Mosco knowing he was only putting it on for show. Moro hugged Celandine, and Celandine gasped and hugged him tightly, though she didn't cry against him, not as she might have. And Moro, Mosco found himself thinking, would be quite all right, for there was someone who loved him, even if he felt certain enough that Celandine didn't know, that Moro also didn't know.

And Celandine was as good as family, too, and Mosco tried to speak with Minto but Minto wouldn't let him.

He let it go, though he didn't want to. He wanted to push Minto until he broke and spoke, told him what was in his heart and in his mind, told him and then perhaps Mosco would be able to put that guilt to rest. But he did let it go, hoped it wouldn't fester. Some time after that, the hall healer came to have a look at Moro, though she didn't say much that the healer at Budgeford hadn't already said. When she offered him a draught to soothe what aches he might still have, he shook his head and said there was no need for that, that he was doing well enough on his own.

And life, if you could call it that, had been a horrid enough routine for a long enough time, and it fell into another routine, though Mosco could hardly call it horrid. There were baths and clean clothes and meals at regular intervals, with whatever he might want in between. There was a clean bed that he could use whenever he wanted – strange, though, that he hardly felt he fit.

The quarters they had at Brandy Hall were nice enough, and there was a sitting room that had been their grandmother Asphodel's. Mosco would often find Moro and Celandine sitting in the dim, the drapes thrown wide but the ever-present gloom of winter throwing in pale grey light. They would talk about nothing or everything, and Celandine would always make Moro smile. Even with the things he did manage to hear, Mosco wondered if Moro told Celandine how terrible it had been, or if he only told her that he was glad she had come through, and mostly unharmed.

They'd not be heading back to Overhill for a very long while.

Minto was growing up, and he had Ilberic who looked after him very well. And Moro had Cellie, though that hardly kept Mosco from worrying after both of his brothers. At times, Myrtle would tell him that he fussed too much, but Mosco would only smile at her (and it felt like a real enough smile). He'd hug her and kiss her on the cheek, and she'd scowl at him when she pulled away but then she'd hug him again. 'I have you to worry about too, you know,' he said. 'Now, are there any lads about that I should know about? I'll not have my little sister walking out alone.'

Still, that didn't stop Moro from having his dreams, and Mosco knew each morning when that had happened, when Moro looked pale, as if he'd not slept. But Moro would go on and not speak about it, and Mosco wasn't even certain he wanted to hear it, though he thought it might do Moro some good to say it out loud. Minto was not always there, so often off with Ilberic, but he seemed fascinated if disgusted at the same time (though perhaps that was too strong a word). Minto wanted to know, but he didn't want to know. Mosco knew how that felt, couldn't begrudge Minto for it, either.

Mosco's sleep was troubled, also. For all he hadn't stopped them, when they'd hurt Moro, it could have been worse and his mind knew it, that was just what the dreams showed him, night after night.

He went at some point to speak with Minto, before Minto went back to River Lane and Ilberic. 'You mean to stay, don't you?' he said, looked at Minto. Minto nodded, looked at him.

'You'll all go back home but I think I might... I mean, it isn't that Overhill won't be home, still, but I'll not leave Ilberic. He's somewhat accustomed to me being around,' and Minto smiled faintly at that.

'And he wants you? Well, of course he does, that does seem clear enough, and I'm glad of it, I am. But I still want to know whether or not your Ilberic knows what you plan on doing?'

'No, not quite. Or not at all, I can't be sure. No matter what he does know, or doesn't, I imagine it will be come as enough of a surprise and I don't even know how he'll react. I have spent enough time here and with him, and I... I suppose it is better to go about it all in a more official manner, or at least as official as we can make it. And it isn't that I don't plan on seeing you all, and often enough. I – '

'It's quite all right, Minto. You need to do as your heart wants you to. I can't say you could find a better hobbit. He... he does seem to love you, and you do need that.'

'Now, it isn't...'

But Mosco hugged him, didn't speak again, wondered if Minto understood. They never had that talk that Mosco had wanted to, but he wondered if they needed. He knew... knew, and didn't think about it much, what Folcard had done to him, what Folcard deserved because of that. But he wouldn't tell Minto how to live his life, wouldn't push him like that. He knew Minto had been hurt, and Folcard had used a choice word or two to let Mosco know what he'd thought of Minto.

And Mosco thought that he'd been very patient, but thought he might have reached his patience's end. Still, Mosco thought he understood how Minto was so completely hesitant – if anything, it still frightened him, and Mosco understood Minto's fear and would not push him,, knew Moro wouldn't have wanted that either. Minto'd not want to face that pair of Bracegirdle brothers again, not even if it meant they'd be brought to their justice. So, for all he'd been very patient, and his patience was coming to its end, Mosco did understand. But he had been there, as well, as Folcard had led the Men who marched Mosco the Lockholes, only to find out that another of his brothers was already there. Minto might have been frightened, still, but Mosco had had enough of it, and had travelled far away from his fear.

He had other things handle, now. The Men might have been run from the Shire, and Moro wouldn't be hurt again. But there was something else that still needed to be done.

So, he went to Saradoc himself, said that he would bear witness against Folcard and Faro if Minto wouldn't. Mosco knew it was the only thing he could do, knew Minto wouldn't go to Saradoc himself. And the Master had been surprised, had considered the task set against them. It would take some time, hunting down two hobbits who had quite obviously gone into hiding. But Mosco had something to do about that, as well.

Mosco might have tired of his rebel's life and not just because of it being what had led him to the Lockholes, but he'd made connections in those months that wouldn't soon end. When he sent out word that he wanted them found, he had word back in less than a week from other hobbits who had lived life as he had, hobbits that had gone back to their homes and their regular lives since there was no longer a need for rebels: Folcard and Faro were hiding out in Cottonbottom, the far south of the Southfarthing. Mosco's mother had been hesitant, but he promised her that he'd be back: he'd go riding out with Merry and Pippin, who Saradoc had dispatched to bring the almost-ruffians in.

Merry and Pippin had no problem in subduing Faro, not with their size and the experience they had gained in the long months they'd been away. Folcard, outraged and frightened, had reached for a long club but hadn't had a chance to use it, not when Mosco bore down on him, punching him hard in the face. Folcard went down hard on the ground, reached for his nose and the blood that leaked out. Then Mosco knelt down, grabbed Folcard by the hair and jerked his head up.

'That,' Mosco whispered, but Folcard had no trouble understanding him, 'was for calling my littlest brother a whore.' There was fear in Folcard's eye, fear and dread, and he trembled. Mosco drew one fist back, but then held his arm still. Folcard was on the ground, clutching at his nose, blood dripping down his chin. He looked like he meant to say something, but chose not to, and despite the pain he was in, he grinned. Mosco thought of something he hadn't considered before, and it made sense now how the Men had known that Moro was his brother. He was looking that traitor eye to eye.

'How...' He couldn't finish that, couldn't ask him how or even why, just drew his fist back again and hit him once more. There was a satisfactory pain in his own knuckles, and he grinned back at Folcard though with little mirth.

It now looked as though Folcard had been put in his place, or at least he had enough wits about him to know when there was no good point in him putting up a fight, not when it was clear that he'd be hit again. And Mosco could have, but he didn't. Not when Folcard was there and on the ground and outnumbered, and clearly on the loser's side.

He couldn't strike out at the Men who had hurt Moro, couldn't do as much as he wanted or even as little as he should. This wouldn't fix anything, this wouldn't make it all better, and he hesitated for a moment and looked at the blood on his knuckle. He felt his gut twist, felt he might be sick. He rubbed his fist off against the leg of his trousers, knew he'd given Folcard at least part of what he deserved.

'Ease off,' Pippin said, and Mosco heard the disdain in his voice and knew it was for Folcard. 'They'll see justice, Mosco. You've my word.'

Mosco nodded, felt very weary, lowered his fist and let Folcard go, didn't hit him again as he had wanted to, and then he bound him up himself. After that, the brothers both secured, they all rode off to Buckland at a slow gait, Folcard and Faro following behind. It was known throughout the Shire, by the time their trial was finished with and done, what hand they had played in Lotho's turn of bad business. When they were taken to the North-gate, with nothing on them but their own clothing and a handful of coppers in their pockets to see them on their way, there was not a kind face there, not a face that wept as they were sent away.

Mosco didn't know if he had done the right thing, but it seemed certain that he'd done the best that he could. Minto had not been there at the North-gate, but he had come to Brandy Hall before the hobbits all returned. He had been with Moro (Moro, who had stayed behind as well, and Celandine and Ilberic had been in their company as well) and Mosco went to see them all when he was finished with that business. He'd not tell Moro what hand Folcard had played in all this, didn't think Moro could bear to know. But Mosco hoped that Moro would somehow sleep better, since they had come to the end. He hoped that Minto would sleep lighter as well, and that he'd not think too much of Folcard – and if he did, that he'd not let the thought of him bring him down.

He couldn't tell if there had been truth in Folcard's words, all those months and months ago. But Folcard had delighted in them, nonetheless. Things could have been worse that they had, but now they all might be better. Mosco felt he had thought too much, and Minto told him to sit and Mosco nodded and then did. Here were two of those he loved best, and he hadn't been able to take good care of them and this really didn't make it all better. But still, he'd done what he'd had to do.

Mosco would sleep better, anyhow.