[piosenniel]

Child and Pio’s collaborative post

I have kept my counsel to myself . . .

Mithadan’s arm was clasped hard in the Elf’s grip. ‘Take a breath, Piosenniel!’ he ordered gently. His quiet chuckle broke the gloom that seemed to wrap round them, as his fingers eased hers from their grasp. ‘I, too, am hopeful that Cami’s thoughts on this are the same as ours.’

The first few words, though, that began the next entry caused them both to frown. And Mithadan circled her with his arm, drawing her close, their heads just touching, as they took turns reading the words that flowed down the page.

~*~

Today I have bittersweet words to set down in this journal . . .

It is a tale that’s messy and hard to understand—--really not much different than life itself. There are parts filled with sadness, and others with joy. I can’t pretend to understand the meaning behind all these events. The most important point is this: my family is back. All of my family. Back in my crowded burrow, tumbling and sleeping and jostling one another. Squabbling and working and building memories. It’s all that I can ask.

I have pieced this story together bit by bit, questioning those who survived the Orc attack and attempting to fill in the holes where the course of events was uncertain. The tale given below probably leaves out many things, but it is the best that I could manage.

First, our own party of hunters was not the only group traversing the wilds of Greenwood. A band of Stoors was cutting through the woods on their way down towards the southern reaches of the Anduin in hopes of enjoying a milder winter. It was a large family group---mother, father, young lads and lasses, even a tiny miss in her mother’s front sling. I do not know the name of this family but dearly wish that I could discover it.

It is clear that the Orcs attacked these poor folk in their camp, late one night in the foothills of the mountains. Seemingly, no one was left alive. The Orcs took what they wanted from the carnage, but left several of the hobbit bodies lying untouched on the forest floor.

The story does not end here. Within a few hours another traveler came wandering down this same path, a tall hobbit in the prime of his years with silver hair and grey eyes who had no memory of where he had come from or what errand had been entrusted to him. He stumbled upon the bloodied encampment and immediately sensed what had happened. There was something in his mind that understood this kind of thing, as awful as it was.

Since it was daytime and he knew the Orcs would not return till late that night, he set out to construct a simple cairn. When he came to lift the mother’s body and lay it gently within the grave, he was startled to find a tiny child nestled in the mother’s front sling, a chubby toddler with blond curls whose heart still beat. As he raised the babe up to have a look, she whimpered and began to cry. He took the living child, cradled her to his body, and found her food to eat
.
This is how the Greenbottles and their companions found my own dear Maura and Holly late that afternoon in the very same campsite near the base of the hills. Maura had no memories of where he came from or who his family was. He gave his name as ‘Merimac Zaragamba’, and this is what the Greenbottles called him and my own sons as well. Later on, Gamba told me he thought he’d met him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place him. Only Rose and I seem to see him with true eyes.

That night the same scene repeated, with three Orcs attacking the camp, expecting to wreck havoc and come away with their dinner, leaving only bloodied bodies behind. But this time, they were mistaken. Although a number of the ponies were slain at the base camp, Merimac hastily led the lads on a wild chase up the slopes to a treacherous rocky ledge where they’d constructed a number of obstacles and traps. Only nimble hobbit feet could navigate this precarious spot. In the end one Orc was killed and two fled in terror.

The victory came at a price with many of the nine hobbits grievously wounded. How they managed to drag themselves higher up the cliff, I cannot imagine. Unable to travel any further, they hid in a protected cavern, hoping that aid would come their way before the depths of winter. Gamba still has a cracked rib and Asta has a shoulder wound that’s healing nicely, but Roka’s leg was broken and the pain is considerable. It was beyond my skill to set, although Legolas did the trick very neatly. Even so, Roka will probably walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Only Merimac escaped with no injury.

Oh, Pio and Mithadan and Bird, how I wished you’d been there! Not only to share in our family’s joy, however tempered it may be, but for a very practical reason. We could have used your muscle and bulk to help us return home. We had an assortment of injured hobbits to care for, most of whom were unable to walk. We built sledges so that the ponies could drag those most grievously wounded back towards our settlement, but others needed help walking and Holly was still so frightened that I carried her in my arms.

I said that Merimac escaped with no real injury, but that is not actually true. There are injuries to the body and others to the mind. And it is the latter that has stricken Maura. Whether this came from the dangers of Greenwood, or some time before, we cannot say. He remembers nothing, absolutely nothing about what happened to him in his earlier life. When I say the name 'Zira' or 'Ban' or mention 'Tol Fuin', his face shows no recognition. All his Elvish language and lore has vanished, his knowledge of the Valar and Eru, and even his ability to read the common speech. Most frustrating of all, he does not remember me. Sometimes it tears at my heart to see him this way, yet he himself seems to accept this puzzling situation with singular grace and composure.

Yet it is not so bad for me either. He is still Maura, the same gentle man I knew. If he does not know the Powers by name, he still does their bidding in his heart. He is patient and loving to me and already I can see that his feelings are still there, even if he does not fully understand them. While it may sound cocky or overconfident, I am certain that he will choose me for his own very quickly, just as he chose me in Beleriand, and again in the Shire. And this time, there will be a child, perhaps more if Elbereth smiles on us.

Gamba idolizes Meri as a great Orc killer and already the Elders are saying what a fine military leader he will make if the Orcs continue their incursions into the area.

Whatever happens, I am well content. I asked for a chance to make new memories and that is exactly what I have been given. The old ones are gone. Whether or not they will return, I do not know. But I will not sit around fretting and fuming. I have been granted enough strength to turn the page and go on.

It would be a grievous thing and impolite to accept such a blessing without a nod of thanks to Bilbo and, even more importantly, to the Power who granted our plea in whatever form or fashion. And to you, my distant friends, on Meneltarma and Eressea and, most of all, in Minas Tirith, I wish that you were here to laugh with me…..nay, with all of us. We will not forget.

Written in joy before my warm hearth, this 30th day of Blotmath