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The trip home . . .
The weather was sullen and grey as the Hobbits trudged west toward the road that would take them to Tookland. The expressions their faces bore were even darker than the gloomy day. Even the ponies moved along with their heads hung low.
Madoc sat on the wagon’s seat watching the trees pass by as the ponies clip-clopped along. Daisy sat on the seat beside him, her eyes darting about at the shadows beneath the trees. He knew she was wondering what dangers lurked in the darkness. Worried himself, he kept his bow strung, his quiver on his back, and his cudgel leaning against his knee.
‘There are only four of us left,’ he thought to himself. ‘Four of ten brave Hobbits who started out together.’ He touched his cudgel, giving himself some reassurance.
They were all tired and wounded in some way from their encounter with the Orcs. Tom sat in the back of the wagon, Melody held close to him, wrapped in a thick quilt to keep her warm. She bore the most grievous of the hurts from the Orcs, and Tom was determined that she would remain safe and whole until they could return to their little village.
Along the way they stopped at the Inn’s that had taken them in on their journey to Bree-land. The Floating Log at Frogmorton welcomed them with open arms as did The Green Dragon in Hobbiton. At each the Hobbits shared what they could with the good folk of the Inns.
On their sixth day, they came to the little road that turned south to Tookland. The familiar countryside about them, their spirits rose a little. The end goal was almost in sight . . .
~*~
Tuckburrough at last . . .
This last week Madoc’s sister, Prisca, had ridden out to the crossroads every morning and late afternoon. And every day had ridden back with a heavy heart. ‘No, Mother,’ she would say as she opened the door to their burrow. ‘No sign of Madoc yet.’ Madoc’s mother would sigh and turning away from the door, returned to her rocker by the fireplace. Taking up her knitting, the needles would clack away row after row driving the worrisome thoughts away.
Prissy was about to turn away this late afternoon when she heard the whinny of ponies just around the bend to the north. Her hands trembling she flicked the reins against her own pony’s flanks and sped up the road. ‘Madoc!’ she cried as the wagon hove into view. The joyful reunion between sister and brother was cut short as Prissy looked about the wagon, wanting to welcome back the other Hobbits. Her face fell and her greetings died on her lips as she realized only three others had returned.
‘So few!’ she whispered, tears threatening along her lashes. Prissy hugged each of the others and clasped her brother’s hands. ‘What happened?’ she said softly.
Madoc tied her pony to the back of the wagon and tucked her in between him and Daisy. Prissy sat close to him, gripping his arm as he spoke about the dogs and the Orcs and the awful weather. ‘They died bravely, Prissy,’ he said nodding his head as he spoke. ‘Indeed they did,’ said Daisy. ‘They did what they could so that we could get through.’ She wiped away her own tears with the sleeve of her shirt.
~*~
It was late evening by the time they pulled into Tuckburrough. A young lad they had met along the way had been sent ahead on Prissy’s pony to alert the village. The meeting hall in the town square had been opened, the fires lit. And by the time the weary travelers arrived, most of the town had gathered there.
With faces glad and sad the returned Hobbits were greeted by their friends and neighbors . . .
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