[piosenniel]

Durelin’s post

It felt as if several overweight cats were pouncing around in his stomach as Dury took a step forward. His legs wished to give way beneath him, but he locked his knees and tossed his head, shaking it clear of countless unwanted thoughts. So many eyes were on him, more than had been in quite a while. And one set belonged to a very certain hobbit: Peregrin Took. Dury had heard the stories of this hobbit, and knew he had been gone a year from the Shire, suddenly returning alive and well with Meriadoc Brandybuck, his cousin. And Dury had seen what Pippin wore, what he still wore: metal and fine clothes, with a sword at his hip. A sword! And here he was, rallying all these crazy relatives of his and Dury's to fight. It was just more proof of how the Tooks and Brandybucks had so few brains! All these crackpot ideas...the whole resistance had arose from them, and now...now it went so far as...

"I-I..." he stammered hoarsely. He paused a moment to swallow. His throat burned. "I'll need a...a sword or any...weapon. But I don't think I'd be read to manage a bow and arrows..." He glanced around, feeling strange standing there, and feeling strangely confident. When had he felt confident before? When had agreeing with his forgettable relatives felt right? That hobbit, in his shiny metal and his wonderful clothes of Men, smiled at Dury. Peregrin's face had always looked so cheery, but now it took a smile to make it look so. Dury was not the only one who had changed on his adventure. And surely the Took had experienced so much more. Dury wished he could sigh. Why did everything have to change?

"Dury Greenhand." The smile had faded, and Pippin had returned to solemnity. "You are a hobbit of honor, of valor, of a good, strong heart. You will save your Shire, resisting in a way never done before. For your bravery, all will be rewarded."

For a moment Peregrin looked at Dury with that severe, but calm, face. Then all starkness was broken by another smile, and he continued, "Now that that little speech is over, we can see about that sword." He called to someone and that hobbit went running of. Then he turned back to Dury. "I truly meant all that, but..." he paused searching Dury's eyes. "...I believe you know that." Dury was taken aback, and his eyes widened a bit in surprise. That Took spoke of more than just his 'speech.' But what else did Dury know? His thoughts were interrupted by the return of Pippin's errant. Pippin took a sword from the hobbit, examining it. It looked much like the one belted around Pippin's waist, with a white tree embroidered onto the sheath and a black handle and pommel. Dury was handed the sword ceremoniously, and he pulled it from its sheath. Down the center of the blade ran a twisting vine, which sprouted into a star formed by eight separated points.

"It is a blade of Gondor. I believe you will be worthy of it."

Will be... This hobbit's words had been scrambling his brain, sending his thoughts into a maze of confusion, much too often. There were so many things that could be meant by what was said, and so many things that were brought to mind by them. Things that did not necessarily have anything to do with the original thought. Will be worthy of it? So, he was not now? Then why was he being given this blade?

"For now, you are borrowing. After you fight, you will be keeping a gift. That is why you have been given it. Soon you will have need of it."

Dury looked at Pippin, realizing he must have spoken his last thought aloud. "Yes, I'm afraid I will." He was not truly certain to which 'will' he spoke. Perhaps it was meant for both.
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Pio’s post - at the Battle of Bywater

Assiram hoped never to see those damnable Shire rats again! His legs were sore from holding his injured cheek off the saddle as he rode north. The paths over the Green Hills were rough at best, and he could not avoid a frequent jolt to his behind that sent an arrow of pain coursing from seat to shoulder as he tensed up his muscles to stifle it.

He had nearly used up his entire, and extensive, vocabulary of epithets and choice curses when he caught sight of a band of Men on The Great East Road, just west of Bywater. Ruffians, Sharkey’s men as he learned, were tramping towards the center of the rebellion, Bywater and Hobbiton, to take care of mutinous Hobbits that had risen against them.

There were close to a hundred of them that had come up from Waymeet, and along the way others had joined up with them. Brazen in their disregard for the rightful owners of the area they passed through, they came along with great flaming torches, setting fire to the grasses and croplands as they passed, terrorizing the few Hobbits they found along the way.

Assiram was glad to join them. Here was his chance to get back at the yellow-bellied vermin that had shot him. He dismounted, as they neared the Bywater Road and turned up it. Drawing his blade, he joined those in the rear of the band as they made their way between the high banks topped with hedges through which the road passed . . .

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The rest, of course, is history.

Assiram did not, he would not, and in fact could not, follow Merry’s command to step back twenty paces . . . and sit down. He snorted as some of the ruffians did sit down, and he surged forward in an effort to lend his blade as others tried to assail the wagons which blocked their passage. The mass of Men held him back as they halted in surprise when six of their fellows were shot and the rest of that group broke rank and scattered in the direction of Woody End.

Assiram was in the fourscore that stormed the barrier, then, and the banks. With his brutish companions he pushed through the Hobbits that held the west side, killing one. The Hobbits wavered and were about to give way at this assault when two tall Hobbits came charging across from the east and rallied them. Assiram, desperate to escape the rabid Hobbits who brandished sword, knife, staves, and sharpened pitch forks, thought to slip through the shadows of the tall bushes while his fellows engaged the now fully roused and angered Little Folk.

He had just about made his escape, when he heard the thump of quick, running steps come at him from his left side and just behind. He turned, but not quickly enough as the hard blow of a blackthorn cudgel smashed against his knee, bringing him down. His eyes went wide as the figure who had assailed him stepped from the bushes, breathless from his exertions.

‘You!’ sneered Assiram, seeing the hard face of the Hobbit who raised his cudgel once again to subdue the man. The ruffian thrust his blade at the Hobbit, piercing him deeply in the belly. He struggled to get up as the Hobbit fell, only to be laid low with a hard blow to his head and the feel of a blade slipping between his ribs, piercing his lung. With a gasp of surprise, Assiram was gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brass, stumbled and fell to his knees, as Dury, by his side, laid the ruffian low with his blade. ‘You’re wounded!’ cried Dury, as he knelt by the Shirriff. Brass nodded weakly, saying the skirmish before this one had seen one of the ruffians get in a lucky blow with a sword to his left arm. He pulled a smile from the grimace of pain that crossed his face, and motioned with his chin to the fallen Assiram. ‘Not too hurt to take care of that one, though . . .!’

Dury helped his companion to his feet and they walked to where Hob had fallen. He was beyond their aid now, and they bent their heads as they knelt beside him, tears tracing little runnels through the grime on their cheeks. Hob had passed quickly, bearing a soft smile on his face, they noted, as they laid his cudgel next to him. Standing, they bade him farewell and made their way down the hill to the triumphant Hobbits below.

In the hazy noon light, in the quick breeze that had sprung up to carry the stench of smoke and blood from the Shire, the little green and yellow hair ribbon that Hob had tied about his wrist, a parting gift from Cami, fluttered . . . a pennant of celebration and of victory . . . edged in sadness . . .

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Durelin’s post

Sitting in his favorite, cushioned chair by the fire, bouncing a happy little Mirdy who screeched with laughter, Dury puffed happily on his pipe, laughing with his two-year-old daughter. Waves of sweet smells floated from the kitchen. A loud clatter brought a pause in the little hobbit's laughter, but it quickly started up again after "Dora!" was heard.

Dury glanced around the room at surroundings he could see without his eyes. All was where it had been for years, where it should be. All, except for what now decorated the mantle. That had been there for just three days, as it had been three days since he had earned his sword of Gondor. He could no longer hear the laughter coming from what bounced upon his knee, as it blended into a peaceful silence. He was all too aware of the comfort of his cushioned chair. He felt so at peace, even as he looked upon what he had earned. It surprised him, but surprises such as that were always pleasant. Soon the laughter and the silence were separated.

Mirda, her face flushed red from the heat of the oven, bustled into the parlor. Perhaps she had a purpose to bustle, but Dury knew his wife had come to move quickly most anytime she moved. Dury was not disappointed. Mirda came over to he and Mirdy, smiling down at them, basking in the bright happiness of others. His Mirda was a beautiful person. Dury stopped bouncing Mirdy, and managed to quiet her. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he smiled back at her. For a moment they seemed to share thoughts, then Dury spoke, "There is something I'd like to read to you, Mirda." Niluial had kept Dury's note, doubting with all her heart that she would have to give it to Mirda. Her doubts had been true, and Dury's hopes had been fulfilled.

"My Dearest..."

[ October 28, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]