A Land to Call Their Own RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time the Chubbs were clearing the supper dishes, a heavy fog had blanketed the entire camp, veiling the families and their belongings in an eerie haze. Harold had gone off to fill his family's leather water pouches. Everyone was camped beside a gentle tributary that branched off the Baranduin and then ran westward, one that the Hobbits had taken to calling "The Water"

Refilling the bottles and turning back to camp, Harold inched forward with some difficulty since he could see no further than a few inches in front of his nose. The Hobbit shuddered as he heard the screech of a hoot owl, but continued to tramp through the thick underbrush, although he was barely able to make out the path leading towards the camp. By this point, darkness had totally swallowed up the few brave stars that had earlier attempted to shine out from behind a heavy curtain of clouds.

Harold heaved an audible sigh of relief when he finally managed to find his way back to the clearing and saw Sarah seated on the ground waiting for him next to the campfire.. Marcho had already warned the others that he expected them to set out on the road very early in the morning. Most had gone to bed shortly after dinner.

Harold and Sarah were the only two still awake in camp. They sat hand in hand, quietly whispering to each other about the events of the day. Finally, Sarah stretched, yawned and stood up, indicating that she was going off to prepare for bed. Harold puttered around the campfire a few more minutes, extinguishing the last of the glowing cinders and throwing a bit of water and dirt onto the pit to make sure it was entirely cold.

Hastily retreating to the wagon, Sarah yanked a nightgown over her head. She stopped for a moment to unlatch her precious topaz necklace and carefully hung it on the nail that Harold had pounded into the sideboard expressly for this purpose. Soon both Hobbits were asleep in their bedrolls, the same as the other travellers. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Grandpa Fordo who had earlier that evening drawn the short stick and was now supposed to be on sentry duty. Grandpa was patrolling the perimeter of the campsite, armed only with his sharp wits and a cane. His sole companion was his horse Stout who trotted along comfortably beside him.

The day had been long, and Granda's eyes were growing heavy. He sat down for a moment in a comfortable patch of leafy ferns and tall grass, positioning his back against a massive oak. He intended to rise in just a moment to continue his inspection of the camp. But the grass was like velvet, soft and inviting; the crickets sounded their sweet serenade. In the distance, a great owl hooted again, this time in a much gentler tone. Soon, Grandpa's head nodded once and then twice as it fell to the side and grazed against his shoulder. The old Hobbit was sound asleep......


*************************************************


The Hobbit camp was arranged in three distinct sections. The Fallohide wagons were drawn together in a circle near the front of the line, on the side of the compound closest to the river. Landowners and forest dwellers, the Fallohides tended to own the larger and faster ponies, and thus had less difficulty keeping up with the line of march. Morever, their proximity to the river gave them the advantage of not having to go so far in order to fill their water skins and lug them back again. The few Stoors among the travellers were positioned in the middle, while the Harfoot families who made up the single largest group of Hobbits, remained at the rear of the procession, set back the farthest from The Water.

A dark shadow slunk in from the east and then squatted in the thick grasses and bracken that lined the base of the hill. Garlin Woolthistle, former citizen of Bree, a rascal and scoundrel to boot, was descended from a long line of burghurs that had once served as proprietors of the Prancing Pony. But that was in another lifetime. Garlin's overfondness for good ale and his well known dislike of the Little Folk had doomed him to failure as a barkeeper at the Inn. He had lost his reputation and most of his possessions, and was finally reduced to earning a living by thievery and other questionable means.

Dressed entirely in black and wearing a hooded cloak pulled low over his face, Garlin hid behind a boulder. He cautiously stood up and peered into the night, trying to get a better look at the long procession of travellers who were camped near The Water. He had actually been following the Hobbits ever since they had crossed the Baranduin River, but always being careful to stay out of sight.

Tonight, he decided, would be a good time to strike. He was very adept at what he did. Garlin reasoned that the stupid Little Folk would never know what hit them. They were all sound asleep and the only sentry on duty, an old man who apparently didn't carry a weapon, was also snoring as well. Garlin reached down and fingered the belt at his side, feeling the outline of his sword hilt and his two throwing daggers. He would rather depend on speed and stealth than brute force but he would use the weapons if it became necessary.

As the shadowy figure slunk into camp, he came to the rear of the procession where the Harfoot families were camped. Quietly he went from wagon to wagon, ransacking the chests and bags that the families had brought with them. He took a trinket or two out of each family's luggage: a brass candlestick, a shiny copper dish, a sharp dagger, a sturdy axe and a host of other small items, none of them terribly valuable. He dropped each one in a cloth sack that he carried on his back. Only when he'd come to the last wagon did he see something that attracted his attention. On a nail at the side of the wagon hung a lovely necklace with a gleeming topaz stone. He grinned at the sight of it. This would make his entire night worthwhile! He hurriedly stuffed it inside his pocket before retreating back to the river. He had confined his activities to the Harfoot families and had never gotten to the other parts of camp where the Stoors and the Fallohides were sleeping.....

***************************************

A little boy in the Whitfoot family stirred nervously in his sleep. He had been having a very bad dream. He bolted upright in bed and shook the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he shouldn't go very far, but he felt he would bust if he didn't get out for a minute. Quietly slinking out of his bedroll, he sprinted down towards the river, taking a quick drink of water and then immediately coming back to his family and slipping under the bedclothes.

The one thing he did not know was that Adelard, the biggest gossip in the entire camp, had spied him running back and forth and begun to wonder what sort of mischief he had gotten into....

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim felt a light familiar touch on his arm and he awoke with a start. At first, he did not know where he was but remembrance came quickly. I’m on watch, he cursed himself, and here I am falling asleep on the job! A welcome voice called out to him and he looked up into the suddenly bright night Where did the fog go? And what’s that full moon doing up there, he’s not due for another week? and saw Prim standing in the grass looking down at him with that lovely little smile of hers.

She was not as he had seen her before she went away, but young and lovely once more, with round cheeks like apples and that complexion like fresh cream. Fordogrim smiled like roses blooming. “Why Prim!,” he cried, “What are you doing here? Not that you aren’t a sight for my tired old eyes.”

Prim only smiled. “Hello, Grim my love. Are you well?”

“As well as can be, my dear, what with the journey that we’re on. Did you know…”

She laid her hand on his arm, cutting him off, and said, “Grim. I’ve been getting your letters, I know all about it. You’ve been very hard on young Marcho, you know, he’s only been doing what he thinks is best.” He looked down at the grass and mumbled something inaudible. Prim continued, “How are Harold and Sarah? And the children?”

“May and Henry are well, if a fine couple of trouble-makers. You should be that proud of Mayflower, Prim, she grows more and more like you every day. Such a spirit she has! Harold’s well, although he and I are having a bit of rough patch right now. He’s kind of stuck, I think, between home and where we’re going and I can’t help but wish that he were unstuck, and unstuck my way, if you know what I mean.” He looked up at his wife and saw that she did. He smiled. “We nearly had some words just earlier today, but he’s like you in that he knows when to hold his tongue and let his actions do his talking for him” his mind went back to the hug he had received from his son. “He’s not like his father in that way at all is he my love?”

“No, Grim, he isn’t. But he’s like you in other ways. Remember how he charged after the wolves with you? At least we know he’s as thoughtless and fool-headed as his father.”

“Maybe, maybe.” Fordogrim brooded a bit more before speaking. “I’m afraid that I was something quick with Sarah as well. She tried to speak with me today about things, but I was that bebothered and confusticated by Harold that I kind of snapped back at her and refused to speak with her properly. I’m afraid that she and I are just never going to see eye to eye on things.” He recalled with shame the curt words he had used in response to Sarah’s desire to talk with him about the family. She had chosen a bad moment – Fordogrim was still angry about the journey and feeling in a fouler and fouler mood with each day that passed. He didn’t want anything but a fight at the moment.

“You should try harder to get along with them, you know” Prim said. “They are your family. Sarah’s a difficult person, I know, but so are you! And she is our Harold’s wife, and look how much he loves her!”

“You’re right, I know, but it’s that hard for me to get along with folk, and it only seems to have got harder since you went away.” He looked up at Prim and marvelled at her beauty. “How did you get here my love? And why are you looking so well? You look just like you did the day we met, and I know that’s not possible…”

She smiled at him once more and cupped his chin in one hand. Leaning close she kissed him on his forehead. “Maybe you’re dreaming.”

“Aye, I think I am.” And with a start, he awoke.

[Kransha]

For the first time in days, Kalimac Whitfoot felt like he welcomed sleep. Even though he did not and would have preferred to be on watch instead of old Fordogrim Chubb, he accepted the heaviness of his eyelids. Sand filled his stern orbs as they shut reluctantly. There had been some minor mishaps recently, which had alarmed Elsa as he expected, but oddly enough, that bumbling ancient fool of a Harfoot had done something right for once and saved his own offspring from watery talons, if one could call them that. Kal wanted to make amends, but he still tried to convince himself that the Chubb had done all of this rescuing by accident. He’d never gotten around to giving Fordogrim a hearty thanks for his deed, but he assured himself that he’d do it eventually. Now, he was content to sleep and dream of better things.

Bree had always been beautiful to him, but this new land, a land that was at least partially his by right, would be so much greater and he knew it. He could see the vast land stretched out before him on a mental plane; endless greenery as far as the eye could see, rolling hills that dipped and sloped like oceanic waves, lush treed groves dotting the subtle horizon, a red-rimmed golden sun hanging aloft in the sky; it was the stuff stories were written about. Through hardships and woe, through mishap and mischance, the company if Halflings would come to a new home after a harrowing quest to be remembered eternally by hobbit kind. It was a story that his children, Crispin and Alora, would tell to his grandchildren as he sat in some billowing-cushioned lounge chair in a cozy study, smoking a pipe and watching wisps of smoke climb to his ceiling and expand out into the room’s warm air. He could hear the crackling fire and the birds chirping with their chiming notes from outside and the gentle yet rhythmic fluttering of their delicate wings.

His dream was vivid enough to give him that idea, at least. There were fields everywhere decked with flowery gardens and neat little houses all around. He could see the new hobbit abodes, and yet their shape was unperceivable to his sleeping eye, so he dismissed the contours of his new world and surveyed the landscape and the flowing rivers that severed the horizon in two. It was such a stunning sight, a golden hue covering the land offset by the natural green of the amber gardens. He saw Crispin, Alora, and Elsa, standing on the cobblestone path that lead through a great garden to what he knew to be his home. Unfortunately, there was now a rainy sheet coming down upon the area and the hobbit folk around fled inside. But still, it was so perfect: a quiet, peaceful, tranquil, uninterrupted paradise for his kind.

The first ray of sunlight struck Kalimac from his reverie, beaming almost through his shielding eyelid as the eye opened and bringing the new day in with blinding force. Slowly, the hobbit rubbed sand from his eyes and tried in vain to stand, only sagging into a crumpled heap of Halfling looking up at the wagon he’d fallen asleep leaning again. Yawning and groaning, Kalimac pushed himself up into a sitting position and smoothed the wrinkles in his dusty vest, grumbling under his breath. A new day had dawned, as Kalimac kept reminding himself. The night had soothed his racing mind, but now work had to be done again and more progress had to be made. Snorting with indignation at nothing in particular, Kalimac tried to stand again and failed just as quickly as he had the first time, landing where he had before.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold opened his eyes and sat up with a great yawn. He stumbled over to the wagon where his wife had saved a few taters for breakfast. Harold's stomach growled: he thought he could already smell the sweet aroma of the taters frying in the pan.

Glancing over to the sideboard of the wagon, Harold was shocked to note that his wife's topaz necklace was not its usual loation. He distinctly remembered her removing it from her lovely neck and placing it on the nail. Overnight, the necklace had completely disappeared. In a frenzy, Harold desperately searched all around the wagon . He overturned boxes and strewed utensils on the floor as he tore the family's belongings apart.

Just when he was about to give up his search, he heard his neighbor Lavender Goodbody shrieking in frustration at the top of her lungs, as she complained about the loss of her mother's heirloom candlestick. From another wagon, he heard a cry from someone who couldn't find his axe for chopping wood. Harold couldn't believe that all these Hobbits had suddenly become careless with their most important possessions. Yet at the same time he didn't want to think that one of his fellow Hobbits would do such a sneaky thing. But what other conclusion could he possibly draw? Whoever the thief had been, he must have been very experienced not to wake any of his victims. And of all the things he owned, this was the one he valued most because he had worked so hard for it, and it was a loving present to his wife. He vowed to catch the person who had stolen such a precious object.

Harold barked out a curt warning to his wife and father to get up quickly because Sarah's necklace was missing and had probably been stolen. Then he stormed off frustrated and angry in the direction of Marcho. Perhaps Marcho would know who had perpetraed this wretched crime. On his way, he noticed that none of the Stoor or Fallohide families had been visited by the thief. Harold thought that rather suspicious, but reminded himself that jumping to premature conclusions was not wise. Marcho was standing by his wagon as Harold arrived.

"Marcho, we've got a serious problem. Last night my wife set her necklace in its usual place on a nail in the wagon. Now, it's missing. I searched everywhere but couldn't find it. And thast's not all! Many of my Harfoot neighbors can't find their belongings either. I don't mean to blame you, but I'm very upset. Could we talk to everybody in camp and see if they heard any strange noises or saw something suspicious last night? Let me get my father who had watch duty. Maybe he knows something."

[alaklondewen]

Marcho was not pleased by the news brought by Harold Chubb. Missing property was one thing, but stolen property was a serious issue, especially if a hobbit among them was the offender. As the scout followed the Harfoot through the camp to meet Fordogrim, he noticed that no one among the Fallohides and Stoors appeared to be troubled. Could this be simply an attack on the Harfoots? Of course, it might be possible that a few things were misplaced, or one of the children was playing a prank.

When Fordogrim came into view, Harold went ahead of Marcho and spoke a few hushed words to his father. The scout saw the elder shake his head and look slightly confused.

“Mr. Chubb,” Marcho tipped his head in greeting. “You were guard last night. Do you remember hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary, Sir?” The Fallohide knelt next to the hobbit and awaited his reply.

[Memory of Trees]

May tossed in her hard bed in the wagon. It was too hot in here to sleep, and besides, she wasn't feeling sleepy anyway. Quietly, she got up and stole gently across the wagon bed and out into the cool night air. She padded down to the water's edge and sat down in the soft grass. For the first time that day May felt as if she could breathe.

It was a clear, cool night, and May turned her face up to the velvet sky. The stars seemed so close tonight, so real, as if she could reach up and touch any one of them. May tried to imagine what touching a star would be like. Cold, like ice, she thought, but it would burn and tingle, too. Fiery ice. May looked up at the sky and imagined strumming the stars with her fingertips. Just like harp strings, she imagined. They would probably make music, too, clear and haunting and ancient, just like the sky itself. Singing stars. May closed her eyes and smiled.

There was a noise from the wagon. Glancing over her shoulder, May saw her father leave the wagon. His lamp made eerie shadows in the grass as he strode off toward Mister Bolger's wagon. Wonder what he's up to? May thought.

She laid back on the soft hill of dirt she was sitting on. As much as she'd tried to forget the day's events, the images kept playing themselves over and over in her mind. And Adelard's sneering face was right in the middle of them.

~~~

It had started after the forest episode. Adelard was in a nasty mood the next day (surprise, surprise), and determined that someone should pay for "dragging him off into the forest and injuring his innocent person." He demanded that whoever was responsible should be forced to care for him until his was sufficiently recovered from his illness. And yes, of course. Mayflower Chubb was entirely responsible for the entire mishap.

Or so Adelard was convinced.

And what could her mother and father do? She had been irresponsible, and she should be punished. Besides, the Proudfoots were a very wealthy family!

May was furious, to say the least. Any sympathy she had felt for the Proudfoot boy had vanished when his stood, face purple with rage, pointing an accusing finger at her, and yelling about what an injustice she had caused him. No, May was not pleased at all.

And right now May was quite convinced that she hated Addy Proudfoot. With all her heart she hated every inch of his fat, stuck-up self.

May got up and returned to the cart.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim was shocked to see the sun almost above the horizon when he opened his eyes. He felt immediate shame at having slept through the night and not waking the next watch. He hoped that nothing had gone wrong while he had been asleep. “Of all the woolly-pated, knuckle-skulled pumpkin heads in the world. Fordogrim, you must be one of the worst,” he railed at himself. Stout leant down his old head and nuzzled Fordogrim as though to assure him that there was one creature in the world, at least, who loved him as much as Prim had. Fordogrim’s scowl transformed into a smile at the memory of his dream. It had been so real that he cast about on the ground for signs of her footsteps, but there were none, of course. Harold’s shadow loomed on the grass before him and Fordogrim scrambled to his feet (with more than a little help from his son).

Harold quickly informed him of the apparent thefts and asked if he had heard or seen anything on watch last night. Fordogrim immediately thought of his vision but decided that was probably not the kind of thing his son was asking after. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t say as I did.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “But I wasn’t altogether…well…you see, I couldn’t have seen everything that happened last night for I, well…” Fordogrim never liked to admit when he was at fault, and given the gravity of his mistake, he found telling his son a difficult thing. He had never approved of the necklace, Useless gewgaw, but he knew how much it meant to Harold and Sarah and he felt bad that he had been the cause of its theft.

Marcho Bolger chose that moment to approach and demand (or so it seemed to the elderly hobbit) if he had seen anything suspicious. Fordogrim scowled at the scout and retorted sharply. “As I was just a-saying to my son, who’s already asked me that question, no, I did no see anything out of the ordinary, or in the ordinary for that matter. For I was, well, to be as honest as I’d hope any hobbit would be – I was asleep. I know that I shouldn’t a-been sleeping” he rushed ahead of Marcho’s recriminations, “but there it is: I was. Now, I’m not one to go about casting blame away from me as belongs to me, but if you leave an old hobbit whose been attacked by wolves and saving certain children from rivers to try and keep his eyes open, when younger ones than his get to close for the night, well, I think you can’t complain overmuch when those old eyes fail you.”

Marcho seemed on the verge of speaking but Fordogrim did not give him the chance. His temper had been on a slow boil for days, and now it had hit the very limit of the pot’s endurance. As he saw things, he’d been dragged from his home and lead through the wild to be assaulted by Whitfoots, threatened by wolves, and now accused by Bolgers – to make matters worse, the son who had taken him on this wild-brained, crack-headed fool-hearted venture now stood beside the very scout who had taken them into the wild and exposed them all to these dangers…and Fordogrim to the sting of his own guilty conscience. None of this, he reflected angrily would have happened if I’d been allowed to live out my life in my own hole! The elderly hobbit rounded on his son. “Don’t you dare stand there accusing me with that crack-brain Bolger scout. If we hadn’t come on this gallavant we’d none of us be in the dangers we’re in, and you and I would still be comfortable and happy in our hole! You should have a-listened to me, my son, and stood well enough alone! I know why you came out here, though! I know! It was your wife as led you to it! And you, squandering good money on a ridiculous necklace – a necklace that’s good for nothing more than puffing up her vanity and attracting the eyes of thieves! I won’t say I’m glad it’s been stolen, but I ain’t sorry it’s gone!” Days of fury and frustration, of anxiety and of feeling old, of the incessant pain in his leg and of the ache in his heart – all of it came out, motivated and set afire by his shame at having failed his family in his duty. “I know what you all think of me: ‘Useless old Grandpa Fordo. Good for naught but nagging word and to tag along at our heels.’ Well, it’s true, and I guess we’ve all seen it now!”

As he raged, the tears started in his eyes, and he longed for the calming presence of Prim. But she was gone now, and he was alone.

[alaklondewen]

Even in his comfortable straw bed that was covered with layers of padding, Adelard had not slept well. Every movement he made, be it small or large, made his injury throb, and so he lay awake most of the night in anguish. Now that morning had come round he was in a sour mood and feeling downright cantankerous. Looking around his camp he searched for someone whose mood he might ruin. There only seemed to be adult Fallohides up and busy at the moment, and he knew he would not get away will ordering them. He would just have to find May. She was supposed to be taking care of him and his injury now anyway.

Adelard told his mother what he wanted to break his fast, and then made his way through the hobbit camp. His family had stopped very close behind the Bolgers, so he still had to cross the Stoor hobbits before arriving at the Harfoots. As the Proudfoot neared the Chubb camp, he noticed Marcho and the Chubb men talking in hushed tones, but as he came closer old Fordogrim began shouting. Adelard ducked behind the nearest cart and listened.

“Don’t you dare stand there accusing me with that crack-brain Bolger scout. If we hadn’t come on this gallavant we’d none of us be in the dangers we’re in, and you and I would still be comfortable and happy in our hole!” Adelard heard the old hobbit crossly say to his son. Accuse him of what? The eavesdropper stuck his head out and leaned a bit closer to hear.

“I know! It was your wife as led you to it! And you, squandering good money on a ridiculous necklace – a necklace that’s good for nothing more than puffing up her vanity and attracting the eyes of thieves! I won’t say I’m glad it’s been stolen, but I ain’t sorry it’s gone!”

Adelard’s eyes widened and he sat back on his heels. Stolen?! But who? He looked around him accusatorily thinking of which of these indigent hobbits would be a thief. It was this moment that the Fallohide remembered seeing the young Crispin Whitfoot gallivanting about late after all others were sleeping. Adelard had immediately become suspicious of the lads actions, and now he knew why. The Proudfoot must have sensed the lad’s criminal activity. I’ve got to tell Fredigar, he thought and jumped up find the lawmaker. He might had stepped in and told Marcho what he knew, but Adelard thought the scout thought too much when obvious action was needed. He wanted someone to act now, not later. If Crispin Whitfoot was a thief, he needed to be punished…immediately.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Despite his father’s spirited rant, Harold detected an underlying ambivalence in the old man’s behavior and speech. Fordogrim seemed painfully aware of his blunder last night and didn’t want to be blamed for the theft, but was covering it over with a string of words. Harold sympathized with his father. He could imagine how guilty his dad must feel in failing to perform his obligation. Although, given the fact that his father’s aged eyes were not as sharp as they had once been, Harold wondered whether he would have seen the thief even if he had been awake. And maybe it was good that he had not been awake. Knowing his father, he bet that Fordo would have charged the infiltrator head-on and gotten himself injured or killed.

Upset and ashamed, Grandpa Fordo was now yelling at Harold about matters over which neither of them really had any control. Harold tried to respond calmly, determined not to worsen the situation further by inciting the already irritated Fordo.

“Father, you know as well as I do that I had absolutely no choice in moving. If I had my druthers, we would be back home in the fields outside Bree right now. But we’re not and I don’t see how complaining about our present situation helps. We were never given a choice, but simply told what to do. Believe me, I would rather be back in Bree, where my dear mother lies. But I fear that we must leave the Bree that we once loved behind and try to make a new life in the far downs. "

"No one is accusing you of anything. After a long day on the trail, all of us were tired. It's not your fault you dozed off, but simply the wear and grind of the journey. We just wanted to know if you'd heard any suspicious sounds that might point to the criminal. Perhaps we may learn something useful of this yet. And with some crazy fellow on the loose, it might be wiser to appoint two people for guard duty in the future so if one falls asleep; the other can wake them up." Harold glanced briefly in Marcho's direction and then went on.

"As for the necklace, I did not trade away so much of my milk just for the sake of Sarah’s vanity. It's a symbol of my great feeling for her and a display of my affection. Surely, dad, with how you felt about mother, you can understand that! You're the one who taught me that a wife can be the best friend a man can ever have. So don't begrudge her that little necklace."

"But, enough of that. This isn't helping anything. Dad, are you ready to catch the criminal? We could surely use your assistance and experience......"

[Witch_Queen]

My necklace... its gone? But it cannot be. Sarah didn't want to believe that it was stolen. Fordo should have seen something. I mean after all he was the watcher last night. Yet he says that he went asleep. I would not blame him, Grandpa is not as young as he use to be. Sarah walked over to where Fordo, Harold and Marcho was only to see that the words she overheard made Fordo mad. "Grandpa Chubb, has anyone got an idea about who it was stealing from the wagons last night." Sarah wasn't going to say it but she believed that there was a theif amongst them. She tried to keep her temper down since she heard Fordo's ugly remarks about how it was Sarah to blame for the Chubbs coming on the little "adventure."

I am not going to have a dim-witted old goat tell my husband what he can and cannot do. Harold is grown up now and does not have to have his father's permission. Especially if Harold feels that he wishes to buy me a gift like my wonderful topaz necklace. Which is still gone. I want it back and I will not stop until it is back around my neck where it belongs. No matter how hard Sarah tried to keep her temper down she couldn't. Grandpa had pushed her buttons too much and it was time for her to do something about it. "Grandpa you have said too much and done too little. I have tried to get along with you, which is out right impossible, but you persist in making everything my fault. Is it enough that you must criticize your own son about what he does for his family. Goodness, Fordo this must stop and it must stop now!" Sarah felt a little better about herself now that she had told Fordo almost everything on her mind. She had to keep some of it just in case Fordo should retaliate.

"So Mr. Chubb what do you wish to say about your behavior over the past years?" Sarah wasn't sure about Fordo liking her or not. She had the feeling that the fued was long sine overdue. It didn't matter to her anymore, Fordo was the straw that broke the cow's back. All Sarah wanted to do was give him a piece of her mind. Now she feared that it was too much.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Harold’s words went deep to Fordogrim’s heart – and cut a bit when they got there. He did know what it was like to love the woman in your life so much that you did crazy things for her: things that to outsiders must look like madness. He remembered back to the year of Great Tempest when he had spent much of the storm in the flower garden, staking up the sweet peas and gladiolas that his Prim loved so much when everyone else had been in the orchards trying to save the fruits of their harvest. He had seemed mad to everybody then – as his son had seemed to him now – but at the time he had not even thought about it. Prim’s happiness was simply more important than the crops. The old hobbit also had to admit the truth of Harold’s words about the move. There had been little choice. He began to see the Whitfoots in a wholly new light. For most of his life they had simply been his landlords; like the great stone in the middle of his fields, they were an uncomfortable fact of life that you had to work around. But perhaps his relation to them was somewhat different. He had always assumed that they thought about him in the same way – as a fact of their lives, but not a part of their daily existence. But the way they had treated Henry and May in their desire for babysitting came back to him. And Kalimac’s overbearing manner toward him in the ensuing fight. Perhaps the Whitfoots simply took the Chubbs for granted. His aged mind shifted and clunked into a new idea: Harold had not chosen to follow the Whitfoots as one chooses to accept a bad frost, he had been compelled to go with them on this crack-brained adventure.

His mind was still whirling with this when Sarah stood before him, her hands on her hips, and raged at him for his attack. At first, Fordogrim felt all of his anger well up at this affront to his dignity, but having just come to the realisation of his son’s position, Sarah’s words quickly followed Harold’s into his heart, where they stung deeply indeed. While there was truth to what she said about Harold, Fordogrim was not going to accept her accusations against him. His face grew red and he pulled himself upright. Harold placed a calming hand on his shoulder, and the gesture was so much like something that Prim would have done that he could have cried again. It did much to still his heart, but he could not hold back all of his words.

“I’m not easy to get along with, am I? Well, I’m an old hobbit and I’ve been around long enough to know the way I like things done, and there’s no denying that. Still, I’m not so old that I can’t see when I’ve gone and got something wrong, and I can see now that mayhap I’ve had this journey all wrong from the start. Mayhap it wasn’t that you and Harold had much of a choice in this. Mayhap it was others as I won’t go accusing here” but he looked pointedly at the Whitfoot camp “left us all with precious little choice. But you” and he pointed his cane angrily at Sarah, “you wanted to come on this here journey, and you can’t go as denying it! Now I’m sorry if you feel that I’ve been a-blaming you for all that’s gone wrong, as that’s just not how it is. There’s plenty of blame to go around” and he glared and Marcho, “and there’s far more of it than any one hobbit can bear. So I’m sorry to you for making you feel as though I hold you responsible for all, my Sarah, I really am. But as you’ve started this fight, I have to say that you’re no easy person to get along with either. There was a way of doing things about the hole that I’d been comfortable with for many years. Ways that I’d come to count on for when I gave over the running of the farm to my son, and all those ways were done and gone the moment you stepped across the threshold. Now there’s no way anyone could replace my Prim, and I don’t say as you should try, but as I said I’m an old hobbit and set in my ways and in my place, and I don’t take well to folk meddling with that. And Sarah – and I’m sorry to say this Harold, but she’s asked me for it – you are as meddlesome a hobbit lass as any I’ve met!”

[Witch_Queen]

"So that is the way you want to put it you..." Sarah couldn't think of anything to counter act what Fordo had just said. Sarah felt bad about assuming that Fordo hated her and that was the way it was going to always be. "I am sorry Fordo. I would never want to take Prim's place. I know that if I can't win you over with my cooking and how much I love your son then there is no hope for you and I to get along. Now seeing as you have decided to continue this perhaps I should point out to you that I'm not a meddlesome hobbit. I am as stubborn as you are. That is not a compliment either."

Sarah's words struck her hard. She wasn't use to being affected by her own words. Stubborn and hard headed as Sarah was she didn't want to argue with Fordo until the day she died. "Fordo you have to agree both you and I are stubborn and hard headed. Though you might deny it, I won't. That is why Harold and I get along so well. He is so much like his mother that I fell in love with his kindness and sincerity. Fordo I am glad Harold hasn't turned out like you 'cause heaven forbid me but I wouldn't last a day if I was married to you. No offense to you but I can see why Prim was the way she was. Prim was a great woman and no matter how hard someone might try. That is one hobbit that no one can replace." Though Sarah barely knew Prim, Sarah could tell why Fordo had loved her so much. Opposites attract.

"I am sorry Fordo." Sarah gestured back to where the cart was. "I do have a mushroom pie waiting for Harold and you back at the cart. That is if you will forgive me and take the pie as a peace offering. But let me warn you even though you might not like my means of making peace you have to admit I'm a killer when I'm in the kitchen." Sarah knew the way to Fordo's heart was through his stomach. That was the way all hobbit men were to her. She loved her Harold and wasn't going to jeopardize her love for him because of Fordo. "I'm sorry?"

[alaklondewen]

“Fredigar! Fredigar!” The Headstrong hobbit was busy rolling up his small bundle of blankets when he heard his name being wildly shouted through the air. “Fredigar! Wait, Fredigar!” Fredigar raised his head and look about curiously until his gaze found young Adelard who was flailing his arms as he ran toward the hobbit.

“Adelard Proudfoot, what are you doin’ runnin’ about and shoutin’ my name? Boy, what’s the problem?”

Adelard stopped running and paused to catch his breath, then began spilling all the details of what he heard Old Fordogrim Chubb say and how he saw Crispin Whitfoot causing mischief during the night. Fredigar could feel the heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “So, we have a thief, do we? Well, I’ll just have to do something about that.” With that the self-appointed Sheriff marched off to find the perpetrator.

Adelard stood a brief moment, smiling at his part in the action, and then quickly jogged to catch up with Fredigar. This was just the kind of commotion the young Fallohide had longed for…a real drama. He couldn’t wait to see the Whitfoot lad’s face when he realized he was busted. Adelard grinned again, and if someone had seen him at that moment, they would have said the lad had a sparkle in his eye.

Crispin was sitting quietly on the ground eating his small breakfast, when Fredigar and Adelard found him. “Crispin Whitfoot,” the law enforcer roared in as booming a voice as he could muster. “Where were you during the night?”

Crispin tipped his head to one side and answered honestly, “Sleeping?”

“Don’t you get smart with me, son. Adelard, here saw you out last night after everyone was sleeping. Now, where did you go, and what did you do?” Glaring as he spoke, Fredigar towered over the young hobbit and put his hands on both hips.

The lad remained silent for a few moments. He seemed to be trying to remember, or understand, what Fredigar was wanting. The Headstrong figured Crispin was just trying to think of a lie to cover his tracks.

“I got up to get a drink of water,” Crispin finally said. “I couldn’t sl…”

“You little liar,” Fredigar hissed through his teeth. “I know exactly where you were. You were thieving these good hobbits. You’re a dirty thief. Get up, you’re coming with me.”

Crispin looked confused and didn’t move, so Fredigar grabbed hold of the boy’s arm and yanked him to his feet causing his breakfast plate to tumble to the ground. “I told you to get up.” Fredigar growled quietly in the lad’s ear. “Next time do what I say, when I say it.”

“What is the meaning of this?” The lad’s father stepped up to Fredigar.

“Kalimac, you’re son, here, is a thief. He was up stealing from the Harfoots last night. Took a pretty little necklace from your employees. I’m takin’ him with me, so he can’t take anything else from our neighbors.” Kalimac began to speak, but Fredigar brushed him off and shoved the boy ahead of him. “You won’t ever steal another item from us again, you here me, boy?”

Despite Crispin’s loud complaints, and those from his father, Fredigar (with a tag-along Proudfoot) took the Whitfoot lad back to his wagon where he made an announcement to all the settlers that they were not to fear…he’d found and apprehended their thief.

[ArwenBaggins]

Crispin was extremely confused and angry, and he was sure to let it show. "I told you that I was just gettin' a drink'a water! I didn't steal a necklace- or, or anything! Hey! Nooooo!" Crispin was shoved into the back of Fredigar's wagon; he snarled at the smirking Adelard standing off to the side a ways.

"Now, stay in there... thief," He closed the wagon door flap and Crispin was sitting in a dull darkness, a look of both innocence and hatred on his tanning face.

He pulled a new piece of hay from his shirt pocket, munching and chewing on it in contemplation- of a way to get out and prove himself innocent. That stupid Headstrong wouldn' even let Papa talk. I bet he knows that Papa knows I'm innocent! He huffed and slammed his fist down on a bag of salt, making small white grains fall over his legs. He would make sure everyone knew that he wasn't the one that stole all of the items... but how? There was no evidence- for or against him.

[Kransha]

Again, it had been a good day. The sun rose afresh in the sky, its gentle yet solid glowing beams pouring over the land that would soon be in some part that of Kalimac Whitfoot. That same hobbit felt that he needed not to eat, since he seemed to be filled with something that might constitute food, but was probably just anticipating nervousness that fluttered about as butterflies would in his round stomach. Unfortunately for the prosperous Halfling, all was not to go as planned. As Kalimac strolled aimlessly around the Fallohide end of the camp, taking careful note of his family members tending to their breakfasts, he took immediate notice of a much more unpleasant site.

It was old, rough and ready Fredigar Headstrong, a hobbit who had never seemed very amiable or likable to Kalimac. Kal tried to give all hobbit’s a chance to make themselves more friendly folk to him, but Fredigar was doing something that had just shattered his good mood like so much fallen glass. The hobbit stood over Crispin ominously and grabbed him forcefully. Kalimac’s mind didn’t even have time to race as a deep rooted anger, kept dormant for some time since his last ‘explosion’ during the semi-battle with Fordogrim and Harold Chubb, swelling and pulsing within him. He barely heard any of the conversation, but arrived just in time to see Fredigar grabbing his son more roughly and yelling something at him. Kalimac, already rising in fury as he saw the other hobbit handle his child so ignobly, stormed over as he caught snatches of the conversation.

“You little liar,” Fredigar hissed through his teeth. “I know exactly where you were. You were thieving these good hobbits. You’re a dirty thief. Get up, you’re coming with me.”

“What is the meaning of this?” he roared, barely a question in his protesting tone.

“Kalimac, you’re son, here, is a thief.” Replied Fredigar icily, dragging Crispin along as he spoke to the boy's father, “He was up stealing from the Harfoots last night. Took a pretty little necklace from your employees. I’m takin’ him with me, so he can’t take anything else from our neighbors.”

A thief? It was surely a mistake. There was no way in all of Eriador that any child of the Whitfoot clan could be a thief. They already had money, enough for anything they needed, so why would a Whitfoot even consider stealing some valuable from a poorer family? It was all too outrageous to be believable.

“Thief? My son a common robber? That’s preposterous! There has to be some mistake!”

“No mistake. This boy here, young Adelard, said he saw your son doing the very deed.”

Kalimac found himself walking behind Fredigar, who was unceremoniously dragging Crispin Whitfoot to his wagon and speaking. That ignorant hobbit wasn’t even listening! He was ignoring Kalimac, which also degenerated from his fiery mood. Kalimac’s face looked flush as he hurried behind Fredigar and his son until Headstrong had forced Crispin into the back of his wagon. Kalimac continued his utterly confused protests, trying to think of some pathetic tirade he could start.

“But…no, that can’t be…I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.”

It was Adelard Proudfoot who responded, with a glib smirk upon his face. As Kalimac turned, he spoke dutifully as the time came. Kalimac watched the boy, a fully disgusted look paling his features, and turned to him slowly, trying to look remotely intimidating but failing. Adelard just spoke with a smiling ease, which further disgusted Kalimac as he realized, through the chaos that had covered this situation, what had just happened to him and his son. Suddenly, the overwhelming effect of this happenstance was gnawing at him, coupled with every other thing that had happened. He remembered his conversation with Marcho not long ago, in which he clarified his views. Was this all some cruel joke at his expense? It was a selfish thought, but that was the only thought rushing in him and fueling his surging anger.

“No sir, Mister Whitfoot. I saw it all myself with my own two eyes.”

That was just about it. Even though Kalimac had made a solemn promise not to lose his wits a second time, it happened. Unfortunately, instead of ending up in a brawl with a hobbit who was equal to size and strength with him, Kal found himself on the verge of tackling a Halfling boy. Ignoring Fredigar, Kalimac lunged at that irritating Adelard and grabbed him by the meager shirt collar, practically lifting him from the ground violently as he quivered with rage. His eyes nearly glowed with incendiary flame that wavered there.

“You little…you…you LIAR! You’re lying, you little scoundrel! Go on, tell the truth, tell Fredigar that it wasn’t my son that stole that necklace. NOW!”

[Arestevana]

Elsa wandered back toward the wagon at a leisurely pace, enjoying the freshness of the morning. She had just been down to the stream to wash up, and was considering making the children do the same. Crispin’s hair could use a trim, too. she mused. Arriving back at the Whitfoot’s wagon, Elsa discovered that Kalimac and Crispin had left. Mildly surprised, she glanced around. Seeing Opal Boffin run by, Elsa called out. “Opal, sweetie, have you seen Kalimac or Crispin?”

“They’re over at Mister Headstrong’s wagon. He got arrested!” the girl said excitedly. She ran off, leaving Elsa somewhat bewildered. Mister Headstrong was arrested? What could have possibly happened? Curiosity aroused, she hurried over to see. When she reached the wagon, she was confronted by a violent scene. Kalimac had hold of young master Proudfoot’s shirt collar and seemed about to strike the boy. Shocked, Elsa hurried forward, frightened by the rage she saw in her husband’s face.

“Kal! Kal, what’s the matter? Oh, please don’t hurt that boy, you know you don’t mean to!” She cried, babbling nervously. Kalimac was breathing hard but he released the boy, who surprisingly seemed more disdainful than frightened. He responded before Kalimac had recovered his calm, speaking with a pronounced smirk. “Crispin’s been arrested.” The lad said. “He was caught stealing from the folks at the other end of the caravan. Mister Headstrong has him shut up in the wagon.”

Elsa stared at him incredulously. Crispin? Stealing? Why would he do that? Surely he knows it is wrong… She thought about it for a moment, but could make no sense of the matter. Crispin wouldn’t steal, of that she was sure. So what is going on?

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold had been shocked to find his wife’s necklace gone and even more astounded to learn that several of his fellow Harfoots also seemed to be stripped of their possessions. He had brought this matter of thievery to Marcho’s attention eaerlier, but now the Whitfoot boy was being arrested. He just didn't seem like the type who would resort to stealing. On top of everything else, Marcho had been nowhere in sight when Fredigar dragged off Crispin.

Feeling slightly guilty for having initially spilled the news, Harold raced over to Marcho, bellowing out his news. "Come quick! Something's happened. Crispin's been arrested! Adelard claims Crispin is the thief and Kalimac looks as if he's about to blow his top."

Tugging on Marcho's sleeve, he hastily added, “ I just can't believe that. I’ve known Crispin since he was a little tike and he would never do something like this. Now that Adelard, on the other hand, I am well acquainted with as well, though not as favorably. He can be quite the embellisher when it pleases him. The lad’s not reliable in the slightest, if you ask me. I do think the real thief is out there and may well strike again. Believe me; I’m willing to help nab this fellow before he does anything worse.”

[alaklondewen]

As the wagons bumped along, Marcho silently brooded over the events of the last week. Crispin was still in the hands of Fredigar Headstrong, although his mother was permitted to visit him during breaks to ensure he was being fed. The accusations against the lad did not sit well with Marcho. He just could not envision his nephew as a thief in the night. Even though Marcho and Crispin had never spent a large amount of personal time together, the Fallohide knew his nephew had a good and honest heart. “How could this have happened?” He thought aloud.

“I do not know,” Estella answered quietly and placed her hand tenderly over her husband's. Mrs. Bolger had watched her husband toiling with his thoughts for days. “We must do something about it.”

The Bolgers remained silent for several minutes, each in his or her own reflection. “Marcho,” Estella began again, pausing momentarily to gather her thoughts. “Marcho, you must simply demand that Fredigar release Crispin.” Marcho opened his mouth to answer, but his wife cut him off and continued. “I mean it. You march over there and demand it.” Estella nodded her head matter-of-factly.

“It’s not as easy as that, Estella. You know that.” Marcho kept his eyes on the road, not looking at her as he spoke. “We don't know if he really did not…”

“What?!” Estella interrupted. “Marcho Bolger, you know as well as I do that Crispin would never have stolen that necklace…or anything else for that matter.”

“Yes, Dear, but Fredigar really believes that…”

“Fredigar Headstrong does not know his head from…from the underbelly of a goat. Hm…we can’t believe anything he says. Fredigar Headstrong…" Estella mumbled his name and shook her head negatively. “And Adelard Proudfoot!” Her voice rose in both pitch and volume. “That hobbit is the most spoiled…obnoxious, lying, rude, atrocious…hobbit I ever saw. We certainly cannot take his word as truth.” To make her point, Estella sat back and crossed her arms.

Marcho did not speak for fear of her temper. Estella was the most loving, sweet-spirited hobbit he knew, but when she wasn’t happy…well, let’s just say Marcho did not wish to cross her further. In his heart he knew she was right. Crispin needed to be released, but the scout was unsure how to go about it.

Another concern had continued to rise in his mind. If Crispin did not steal the necklace and other items…then who did? Harold had planted a seed in Marcho’s mind that he had mulled over since. What could they do to nab the real thief? This is surely what it would take to clear Crispin’s name. It didn’t help that nothing had been taken since the lad’s arrest, but if the thief was among them, then he could possibly be tempted and trapped.

During the travelers’ next rest, Marcho met with Kalimac and Harold and proposed they devise a trap for the thief. The trio sat huddled together behind the Whitfoots’ wagon and spoke in hushed voices. “Kal, do you have anything of value that we could make a fuss over to get some attention and then set out after dark?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Garlin moaned and hung his head, pressing his fingers along the top of his brow. The incessant pounding in his head was making it difficult to concentrate.

The last few days were all a blur. Immediately after his successful venture into the Hobbit's camp, he had disappeared with his prizes, looking for a buyer. He had managed to pawn a number of things to some travellers on the road in return for a large leather pouch filled with foaming ale. He'd spent considerable time enjoying the contents of that pouch. But now it was empty: he was left with a headache, and wondering what he should do.

Garlin still had the topaz necklace that he'd taken from the last wagon he'd visited. His plan was to sell it for a tidy sum of cash. But to do that, he'd need to find a place where there'd be more ready buyers than could be found here in the middle of the woods. He seemed to have just two choices. Either he could head east towards Bree and sell the necklace, or ride west again to make a second visit to the Hobbit camp and 'borrow' a few more belongings.

The sensible thing would have been for Garlin to call it quits and cash in the piece of jewelry. But he was not thinking clearly, and the idea of conning the Hobbits twice in a row was beginning to sound very attractive. He knew from his previous stint of spying that the Hobbit convoy was moving at a snail's pace. He could probably catch up with them by late afternoon. Shoving the necklace to the bottom of his saddlebag, Garlin hastily mounted his horse and began following the deep ruts of the wagon tracks that led westward on the old road.

[Kransha]

Days passed, but hardly drearily. The whole time, Elsa was frantically on edge, Kalimac remained poised to pounce of Adelard, Alora had no idea what was going on, and the Chubbs didn’t seem to comfortable with the situation either. Crispin’s arrest had stirred a great deal of unrest among the Halfling caravan. The hobbits didn’t seem able to give each other straight looks or engage in conversation as they all theorized about what had actually happened, all except Fredigar and Adelard, who seemed to be very sure of what had occurred that night not long ago. Kalimac had almost stirred to the breaking point when he was called upon Marcho to rendezvous with both him and Harold Chubb, to his great surprise. Still stewing and seething over what to do, Kalimac met with them during the next uneasy rest period.

Marcho’s plan took him by surprise, but he definitely wasn’t against it. The scheme seemed to be the only way to convince that buffoon, Headstrong that Crispin was not the guilty party. As Marcho concluded his plan, both Kalimac and Harold gave understanding nods while Marcho turned to Kalimac and posed a simple enough question. “Kal,” he said smoothly, “do you have anything of value that we could make a fuss over to get some attention and then set out after dark?”

“Well, Marcho, I’ve a great many things of value,” Kalimac almost boasted, but quickly simmered down, considering the dire aspect of the situation. He thought for a moment, stammering slightly under his breath and he contemplated both the proposal of his half-brother and an adequate answer to the question queried to him. He scratched his chin pensively and kneaded his weary, sagging brow for a long moment as he summoned up some thoughts about the many valuables he carried in his wagon.

“Ummm…I do believe any thief would want…a purse of gold…” he murmured on, his words jumbled but still understandable, “I’m not sure if you’d rather I came up with a trinket of some kind, but if I were a thief, I would most certainly salivate over a pouch stuffed with gold coins. If it is a trinket you prefer, I have all manner of valuable things, but a purse of gold would do just as well, in my opinion.

[alaklondewen]

“You’re exactly right, Kal. An experienced thief, as this fellow seems to be, would drool over a bag of gold. Snatching something like this would save him the step of having to sell it elsewhere.” Marcho sat back and rubbed the tops of his legs considering their next move. “We need some attention brought to the purse.” The scout rubbed his chin and looked at the two hobbits. “What about your children, Harold? Yes, and Alora.” Marcho smiled as his thoughts began to take shape into something that resembled an actual plan.

“Marcho, I don’t know whether I want my daughter involved in this. After what Crispin has gone through, I don’t think Elsa and I could handle another mishap.” Kalimac burrowed his brows and Marcho sensed his sincerity.

“Kal, I think if you will hear me out, you will see Alora will be kept from any harm.” Kalimac nodded hesitantly, and Marcho continued. “Harold, if Henry and May will participate, this could work.”

“I will do what I can, Marcho, but I will have to hear your plan first and propose it to them.” Harold was thoughtful in his reply, and Marcho understood that Harold would never put his children in unnecessary danger either.

“This is what I propose...” Marcho began; his voice was kept low to ensure no one else could hear him. “The older children will be watching Alora play in and around the wagon. They were caring for her and Crispin before, so that should not seem at all suspicious. Alora can pull the purse from the wagon and show it to Henry and May. Here a bit of performing can take place. Henry and May will speak loudly of the gold…very impressed by it. Or maybe…maybe your father, Harold. Fordogrim certainly has a way about bringing attention to him. Whichever, we need enough focus from others drawn that the thief will be aware of the purse, then Alora will simply drop it on the edge of the wagon…uncovered. Making it an easy target.” Marcho paused to let his words sink in, then continued. “After the bait is in place, we simply wait for him to try to nab it. Let’s put Fordogrim on watch again so the atmosphere will be the same as the first night. We, three, will not sleep tonight, but we will pretend to be. Once the thief comes out, we will wait until he has the purse in his hand…then he’s ours.” Marcho looked at the Whitfoot and Chubb trying to gain insight into their thoughts. “What say you?”

[Witch_Queen]

It had been many days since Sarah had last talked with Fordo. Sarah didn't like the fact that Crispin was the one arrested for stealing her precious necklace. All she wanted was to have it back. Once the real crimminal was caught everything would be better for her and the rest of the travelers. "Grandpa, can I talk to you for a moment?" Sarah had to talk to someone and thought that perhaps Fordo would listen to her and not try to bring up the arguement from the past week. "I know we have our differences, but could I talk to you please?"

Sarah thought she was going to die when Fordo talked to her. "Quit pestering me Sarah, I said I would listen so start talking before I change my mind." She thought she heard him mutter something under his breath but decided to ignore it.

"Oh never mind.." Sarah decided that perhaps her problems shouldn't be told to Fordo. "Grandpa is it ok that I am regreting my decision to even come on this journey. I know that I'm the only one of the Chubbs that wanted to come. Now I just wish we could have stayed at home. Everything would be better. You wouldn't have hurt your leg and well I would never of found the mushrooms. I think you get my point. All I want to do is go back home and see my family happy for a chance." Sarah's voice told her entire feelings. She was sad and depressed and it wasn't because of her missing necklace.

Sarah actually wanted to go home. She wanted to have her family together and happy even if it only lasted for a few moments. Sarah was tired of the everyday cart ride with the chickens. To her the journey seemed like it would last for all eternity. Sarah's daughter hadn't talked to her for almost the entire trip. It's all because of me that my daughter and son won't even talk to me. I have ruined everything. I don't blame Fordo for saying anything bad about me. I'm an evil person. All I want is to be happy again and to have my husband and children be proud of something I did once more.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold listened to Marcho's plot and hesitently nodded his head. He did not particularly relish the idea of drawing the thief into the camp a second time. Once had been quite enough! But he desperately wanted to capture the scoundrel, and he could not think of a better way to do so.

As a young Hobbit, Harold had been involved in planning numerous mischievous pranks on neighboring farmers, but never anything as serious as this. His concern for May and Henry made him even more reluctant to agree. He wondered if the thief was armed. However, Harold reasoned that they would be in no real danger because the cowardly thief dare not strike before everyone was asleep.

Both Marcho and Kalimac seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Best speak up.... Harold told himself.

"Marcho, I think that that your plan is a good idea. Unless my children have bitter objections, I'll encourage them to do as you've suggested. But I will ask one thing. Let's all have our weapons handy in case this fellow is armed. We don't know how dangerous this thieving scoundrel is."

Harold glanced over in Kalimac's direction, who seemed to be nodding in agreement.

With a sigh, the Harfoot continued, "Normally, I'm not one for grand schemes, but there comes a point when a Hobbit has to stand up for what is right. Thieving isn't right, nor is keeping a good lad locked up when there's so little evidence. And this rogue will not get off with my Sarah's necklance. We're going to catch him and punish him for taking from so many hard-working Hobbits. I'm ready, Marcho!"

Kalimac spoke up quickly, "We're all agreed then. Let's bait a trap to catch our prey."

Harold added, "And if my guess is right, my father will be with us too."

The three shook hands on the agreement.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim stumped along the edge of the camp, muttering to himself grumpily. Stout snickered beside him as their breaths misted in the cool night air, and a waning moon glowed down upon them with enough light to cast faint shadows on the grass. The elderly hobbit tried not to look toward the small copse of trees behind them, but it was an agony of determination only that prevented him from doing so. After the children’s little play with the pouch of gold this evening, Marcho had disappeared into the woods and come back only after dark had fallen. At his hastily convened and secretive meeting with the Chubbs and the Whitfoots, he had confirmed that there was indeed a thief lurking in the woods nearby. The scout had not seen the Man – as he had judged him by the signs of his boot prints – but he had seen enough to know that their prey was nearby.

The elderly hobbit turned to his faithful friend. “Well me lad,” he said quietly, so as not to wake the others. “What do you make of all this? Think it has a cake’s chance at a party of working?” The pony merely nuzzled his face. “I guess you’re right old fellow; that Marcho Bolger might be a crack-brain and all, but he does seem to have some sense when it a-comes to catching thieves in the night.” He looked over to the dark shadows of the Whitfoot wagon where he knew Marcho was hiding. The scout was waiting for Fordogrim to feign sleep. Then, if things went according to plan and the thief co-operated, he would spring their trap. Harold had volunteered to stay awake with Marcho, but the scout had pointed out that anyone watching the camp would notice the extra guard, and had instructed the Chubb father to lay low in his cart as usual. As Fordogrim neared the cart, he could tell from the gentle sounds of breathing that his son had fallen asleep. Fordogrim looked down at his son and smiled warmly in the night.

It had been many a year since he had looked at his son this way, and doing so now took him back to the days when Harold had been only a baby, and Fordogrim would steal quietly from his bed at night and tiptoe down the hall to gaze at his lovely boy. He turned his back to the cart and settled against the wheel. As he laid his head back he knew that he would not need to feign sleep. He did not even think to try and stay awake to confront the thief, for the pain in his leg had grown much worse in the past few days and he would be useless in a fight. He was not concerned, for he knew that his son was more than up to the challenge before them.

My Dearest Prim, he began,

Well my love, that much has happened since I last wrote that I hardly know where to begin. I suppose the first thing as I ought to tell you is about our Sarah. What an eye-opening did she give me! First, she showed more grit than I thought she had in her. There were some hard words between us, but hers were shovels as did some use and mine were stones as did nothing but lay there. She pointed out a few things about me and her that I had never really thought about before, and that’s given me a lot to think on. You see, my love, I’ve missed you so awful since you went away that I seems to have turned it all on our poor Sarah for taking over your place in the house – as though it were her fault you had to go in the first place! Now isn’t that just the foolishest thing you’ve ever known? Well, of course not, as you’ve known me a good long time!

But as if that weren’t enough, our Sarah then comes round and says as she now regrets a-coming on this trip. But wouldn’t you know it, even there she’s gone and taught this grumpy old hobbit a thing or two. I’ve been hurt and angry about a-coming on this trip for my own sake, but her thoughts are all for the love of her children and family! She does love our Harold and Mayflower and Henry so much – well, I admit, I’m ashamed of myself that I never did give her the credit she deserves for it. It was a bit tough admitting to her as I'd been wrong, but I up and did it over dinner just this night. It would be difficult to make up for years of hard words with a few gentle ones, but I did my best.

As to my mind, though, I’m beginning to think that I might have had it a bit wrong about this trip. You should see our Harold: like a new hobbit. He’s still the gentle, soft-spoken boy you made him to be, but there’s an iron in there that I’ve not noticed before. Why, would you believe that he’s stood up to that Kalimac Whitfoot twice on this journey? And he’s even given me a good what-for when I deserved it. I think this new place we’re headed to, if it gives Harold the chance to stretch himself a bit more – why, that can only be good I think. I’d never really thought before how small and tightly-fit he was into our life at Bree. This wide open land will give him the room he needs to grow.

Well, my love, I can a-feel myself a-fading fast so I’d best leave it there. I hope that you are well and happy. I miss you awfully.

Your husband,

Grim

And with a contented smile, his head fell back against the cartwheel and he fell asleep.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

He felt a familiar touch on his cheek, and was instantly awake. Before him stood Prim, looking exactly as she had the day they had met all those long years – and distant leagues – ago. He smiled up at her and felt as though his heart would break with a joy past bearing. She returned the smile, and her cheeks were round like fresh apples, and her hair hung about her face like the new tendrils of the sweet peas that she loved. “I’m glad that you and Sarah have made things up at last," she said. "That will make our Harold so happy, my love.”

“Well,” he replied, “it took me long enough time to see it, but I’ve been awful hard on the lass for all the wrong reasons. I’m just glad that I’ve come to my senses in time to put things right with her. To be honest, I’m a-looking forward to spending more time with her.” Prim gave him an odd look: not sad, but thoughtful and sympathetic. He knew that look well. “What is it, my love?” he asked happily. “You’ve got something as you want to tell me, but you’re not sure of how I’m a-going to take it. Out with it, lass!”

Prim shook her head prettily and merely said, “I don’t think you’ll be able to spend as much time with her as you’d like my love. But that’s all right, she knows now how you really feel.”

“I won’t get time?” Fordogrim replied. “But why, Prim? Is something going to happen to her?”

“Why yes, lots and lots.”

“Not anything bad, I hope, Prim. Y’see, I’ve grown that fond of her, and she makes our Harold so happy.”

Prim held out her hand and helped Fordogrim to his feet. He did not notice at first, but the pain was gone from his leg and he stood upright without the use of his cane. “Some bad things will happen to Sarah,” she was saying, “for she has a long way to go before the end of her road. But most of what she finds on the way will be good, and the darkness of that road will only make the light of home seem all the brighter.”

“Why Prim,” he said with wonderment, “How strange you are a-talking. According to that Marcho Bolger we’re not far from our new home now!”

Prim smiled once more and turned Fordogrim about to face the East. “Not that road, you silly hobbit. I’m talking of a much longer Road – the Road that we all must travel before we can finally take our rest in our rightful home.”

“Why Primrose Chubb, what kind of Elvish talk are you talking…?” But Fordogrim stumbled to a halt for as he faced back over the road they’d travelled he saw the night give way to a new dawn, and instead of an empty land there lay before him and to all the horizons around a land full of busy hobbits, tilling the earth and turning their nimble hands to their arts. The land bloomed with life, as crops were raised and holes were dug, houses and barns were built and all the lanes and roads were filled with busy, sensible folk. Fordogrim turned to the West and stared open-eyed as he saw Harold and Sarah as two elderly hobbits, sitting in their easy chairs before their door, hand in hand, surrounded by their children, and the children of their children, and as though a mist had pulled back he saw after them generations upon generations of Chubbs living and loving the land and each other. And the land that they worked was theirs and theirs alone, and they were their own masters, and they held in memory with reverence their ancestors who had given them that chance.

“Prim,” he gasped, “Is what I’m seeing…is this…what’s going to happen?” He turned toward his wife and she smiled at him like springtime. “Of all the wonders,” he said. “Prim? What’s going on? Why do I feel so strange?” And he looked at his hands, and they were no longer lined and crabbed, but smooth and supple. And as he looked up once more, he felt youth and life flood back through his limbs and he laughed aloud for the joy of it all.

But of a sudden he grew sombre and silent, and turning to Prim he said. “I have to go now don’t I, my love?” Prim nodded. “But you’ll be there won’t you my dear?” And she smiled, and he knew that she would, and that they would never have to be parted again. He took one last look at his family. Harold and Sarah were asleep in the cart, wrapped in one another’s arms, and not far from them lay Henry and Mayflower. He wanted to say goodbye to them, but Prim took his hand and led him away. He cast one last look at Stout and his faithful old friend snickered happily in his sleep, stamping the ground. “Will I ever see them again?” he asked, and Primrose replied, “Of course my love, but not for a long, long time.” Fordogrim smiled, “Well, I’m glad of that,” he said.

They passed through the lands of the west and there was a journey as though they were being swept across the Sea on the wings of a great ship. And at last they saw a distant green land, and the mists pulled back and there were green fields and the sound of the most wonderful music came to them with the dawn. “Well, as I live and breathe,” Fordogrim whispered. “I could never have imagined such a place as that.”

“Maybe you’re dreaming,” Primrose suggested.

“No,” he replied slowly, taking her by the hand, “I don’t think I am.”

[Kransha]

He was sitting now, but propped up on his back legs as if ready to uncoil those legs and spring forward with catlike agility to pounce upon his prey. Night had fallen, though there was a crimson rim tinting the dusky horizon over the line of trees that halted further vision into the distance.

The hobbit glanced about with a pang of anxiety in his look as he focused on the small, weighty purse that hung precariously from the wall of the Whitfoot wagon, just waiting, even screaming to be taken by some villainous thief. Kalimac took a nervous glance at Fordogrim, who had drifted into slumber as planned, and then at Marcho and Harold, who leaned beside him, both putting on a much better show of being asleep than he. He couldn’t even pretend, though. There was far too much on his mind. All the memories of his contemplations stung at him as he leaned back, maintaining a threadbare façade.

The memory, resilient and firm, of the last sunrise and sunset stuck firmly in him.

He’d given more thought to the matter of the Chubbs after his meeting with Marcho and Harold. He had work to do certainly, but thinking to do as well, and soon if his brain could manage it. He weighed the plight of the Chubbs, a dilemma present in his mind for almost a whole week now, shoved aside just slightly by his concern for Crispin, but still very obviously present at his mind's front.

‘They’re really not so bad’ he had thought as he strolled through the camp, murmuring half out loud, ‘…Not bad at all…Harold is a hobbit better than I, no matter what I say of it. I’m a rich fool, and I would care greatly if my funds were lost. But he doesn’t care that it was something valuable he lost, I’ll wager. He cares about the necklace because it was a gift, a heartfelt gift, to his wife. By all the shadows in the Old Forest, I’m no more than a selfish oaf, a penny-pinching miser. That’s it; from now on it’s going to be different! And when this whole blasted thing is over, I’ll give Harold and his wonderful family what I should’ve given them years ago, indeed I shall! But, first and foremost, I’ll make sure this thief is caught and get Crispin out of trouble, then to other business. Let’s see then; that’s quite a lot of reparations to make. At least Harold and his young ones are less antagonized by me now. That only leaves…Fordogrim. Well, he’ll be gotten to and turn. I have my own family to worry about. Oh my, there’s so much to do and so little time to do it in. Best get cracking, I suppose. Workto be done, work to be done...’

Slowly but surely, Kalimac’s pace increased until he broke into an equestrienne gallop, plowing past wagons and letting his limbs dangle behind like numb wings which glanced off the shoulders and arms of so many. He soon fixed his keen, focused eyes upon the sight of his young daughter, who already had a melancholy air about her as she sat on the wagon side, her feet swinging limply beneath her as she stared glumly at the ground, probably displeased by the lack of a jovial older sibling to play with. Alora’s apparent mood just fueled Kalimac’s resolve. He ran over to her, recovering the use of his arms in full, and clasped her firmly by the shoulders, wincing inwardly as he realized how much he’d shocked her. He looked meaningfully into her eyes as he spoke, examining her gaze as it met easily with his.

“Alora, dear, I have something that I really need you to do for me.” She looked intrigued already, “It’s actually a game, one you must play with Henry and May Chubb for me, and it’s very important. You see, Alora, you have to do some acting and a little job. Before the sun goes down tonight, you must go off and play in our wagon.” She still looked enthusiastic about it, nodding vigorously after each sentence, much to Kal’s delight, “There will be a bag in there, which you have to ‘find’ in there, yes?” a prompt and energetically youthful nod affirmed her understanding, “Good. Then, you must take it out, still playing the game, and show it to May and Henry. Now, you must pretend that you did not know where the bag was, or what is in it. This may confuse you, but it is very important if we wish to get Crispin out of mean mister Headstrong’s wagon. You're a crucial part of the plan, Alora, and I know you can handle that responsibility, am I right?" she nodded further, "So, you understand?”

Again, a gleeful nod from his daughter came. For the first time in two weeks, Kalimac smiled genuinely at anyone. Only luck had it that that someone was his saddened child. She seemed strangely spirited by the idea, which she gave her father credit for. Still grinning soothingly, he let go of her shoulders and backed off carefully, responding to her nod with one of his own as he turned and sprinted madly off, like a Halfling possessed into the mass of wagons in the caravan.

Now the trap was set, the job had been done, all was ready. But, one thing had to be done before the arrival of that thief. The acting of May, Henry, and Alora had been done, superbly in Kal’s opinion, but that could not be brooded on. Something had to be accomplished before the knave’s arrival. Shaking Harold’s shoulder reluctantly, Kal turned to the Harfoot as he was jogged from his false slumber and looked quizzically at Kalimac. “Harold, this has been, if you’ll hear me out, my hardest few weeks ever. The strain of this journey has done a lot to both of us, but the greatest hardship to come will not be, for me, the capturing and punishing of our thief, but what I am about to do and say.”

Harold still looked confused as Kalimac whispered, his soft voice still overshadowing the clicking noises that hiccupped every so often from the roadside. The words didn’t come easily as Kalimac forced them doggedly up his throat, stammering madly as he tried to hold eye contact with the Chubb in his employment. His mouth sagged, bouncing up and down and projecting no sound until nervous, stuttering, shuddering, shivering Kal Whitfoot began to speak, choking back half the syllables of his oration before they were emitted.

“H-Harold…I’m…I’m very sorry…about attacking your father and blaming your children for the incident in the woods, really. I had no idea…then, at least, that there was so much more I should be thinking of. I didn’t realize how selfish and stupid I was acting, and what you said a week ago really made me think. I’ve treated you well, but not well enough over these years, for which I again apologize, most profusely, Harold. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been dying to tell you this, since I never realized I had to. Now I’ve told you, and I hope you can accept my apologies…along with a decade’s back-pay for all the funds I deducted from your pay, to be paid now in full, with interest.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold could hardly believe what Kalimac was telling him. First, an apology for the misunderstanding they'd had and, now, a generous offer to reimburse the Chubbs for all the rents and fees they'd paid out over ten years..... What a difference that money would make for his family in getting a new start!

He stared the landowner squarely in the eye and tugged at the brim of his cap, "Mister Kalimac, you're too hard on yourself. You've always been a fair man asking no more than your due. Not like some others I've Known. But I certainly won't say no to your proposal."

"Truthfully, I've been wondering and worrying how we'd come up with the things for our new home. I am good with my hands, but there are times when it would be nice to hire someone with skills to make a new bedstead or a sturdy table. This will make it easier for us!"

"Now, if you'll excuse me for just a moment. Before we nab that thief, I need to make sure my father is safe. He was standing guard on the hill and needs to lie low till the prowler leaves. I'll be back in just a minute." With that, Harold wandered off.

Harold's real reason for going to find his father was actually more complicated than that. He wanted the old gaffer to stay safe and sound, but that wasn't all. Harold wanted to share his good news with his Dad. It was his father who had drummed into his head that work shouldn't be slipshod, and that you must always try your hardest. Harold wanted to be the first to tell his Dad that these wise words had finally paid off, not only in personal satisfaction for a job well done, but now also in a little something extra.

Harold sprinted up the hill, just like when he was a child and went looking for his father who was out in the fields working hard. But this time Harold would be the one bringing the good news!

Walking towards a small wooded copse, he saw Fordo resting on the ground. Harold smiled. Once more, his father had fallen asleep on watch. How tired he must have been.

Harold sighed. He's worked plenty hard all those long years and deserves some rest. This money will help do that. But as Harold knelt down in the soft grass, he quickly saw something was odd. His father lay so still, quieter than Harold had ever seen him, and his face looked amazingly peaceful. The young Harfoot reached out his hand to stroke the sparse gray curls. Fordo did not stir or respond in any way.

For an instant Harold wondered why his father didn't wake up. Then, he gripped his shoulder and softly shook him. Still puzzled, he noticed his father wasn't breathing. At that moment, Harold could hear every sound about him: the crickets, the frogs, and the hoot of a distant owl. Most of all, he heard his own heart thumping.

He's gone. He's gone away, and I can't follow. A single tear slipped down Harold's cheek as he sat mesmerized on the ground holding his father's hand. But this isn't fair! This can't happen now. Dad just made up with Sarah, and we have money for an easier life. Everything was going to get better.

And how can I leave my father and bury him in the middle of nowhere? I took him from the place he loved, and couldn't even get him safely to his new home. Harold choked back his sobs, afraid that the prowler would come by and discover the two of them together. I just won't go on. I'll forget the necklace and Michel Delving. Let other people deal with this scoundrel, and risk their own necks. I've had enough. I'll go back to Bree with my Dad's body. A Hobbit can only take so much!

Then, out of nowhere a voice whispered inside Harold's head. Is that what I taught you? To pull out from your friends and neighbors when life gets too hard? You'd best go back right now and do your duty with Marcho and the others.

But I can't leave you here in the dirt!

Harold thought he heard a familiar chuckle. What kind of thinking is that? What better place for a Hobbit to be than warming a little piece of earth! Bree, or Michel Delving....or out here on this wooded trail, it's all the same. The place isn't what matters, Harold....it's the people in that place. It's our family: Prim and me, you and Sarah, Henry and May... Prim and I may be off down the road, but we're still part of that family. So go off, and do the Chubbs proud!

Blinking back tears, Harold struggled to his feet. He'd leave his father here till he'd finished the job, and then they'd find a spot under the trees to bury him. He slipped down the hill towards Kalimac and Marcho.

"Your dad alright?" Kalimac asked briefly before they set off on their errand.

"I reckon he is. I just reckon he is..... But we can talk more on that later."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Garlin was at least a bit more sober than the last time he'd stumbled into the camp. He'd reached the convey by late afternoon, and had hidden under the cover of the surrounding trees, scanning the camp with weary eyes to locate a prize worthy of his attention. He'd caught a glimpse of one or two interesting things in the section of the camp that he hadn't investigated before: the horses and wagons near the front of the procession. He made a note of several rich items in his head, promising to come back later.

But there was one group of children whose words and play caught his attention. They were poking their fingers into the side of a hefty bag that gave off an enticing jingle, presumably because it held their father's store of cash. One-by-one, the children stuck their fists into the pouch and came away waving their hands gleefully in the air, their fingers curled tightly about one or more precious coins.

Garlin's jaw dropped in amazement. The treasures they were holding were not coppers, or even silver coins, but gleaming pieces of gold. It was all Garlin could do to stop himself from instantly leaping out of the bushes and seizing the bag.

Garlin made his way back into camp under cover of nightfall, retracing his path to the same spot where the children had been playing earlier. The fools had left the bag in clear view on the front seat of the wagon. He reached down and grabbed the bulging bag, hoisting it up into his arms and then tucking it under his ragged jacket......

[alaklondewen]

Marcho heard a faint rustle nearby, and he barely opened his eyes to watch a shadowy figure peaking around the front of the Whitfoot wagon. We have him! The scout’s breathing became rapid and his heart began to pound in anticipation. The figure leaned into the wagon and lifted the great purse. At this moment, Marcho had a troubling realization…That’s no hobbit…that’s a Man!

He watched as the burglar tucked the purse under his shirt, and then with as loud a shout as would wake the dead, the scout leaped from his bed. With cries of similar magnitude, Harold and Kalimac joined Marcho, and before the Man knew what had happened he was surrounded by three armed, stout, Halfling men.

“Villainous thief!” Kalimac shouted and pressed the point of his crude knife against the man’s belly threatening him to try to run.

“Give us the purse and surrender and we will not hurt you,” Marcho spoke firmly, but calmly. His sword was also drawn and raised.

The thief look bewildered and as he turned quickly to run, Harold jumped upon his back and knocked the fellow to the ground. While still perched upon his back, the Chubb searched the man’s clothing. It was soon that he found that for which he searched. Harold leaned back and then slid off the man, holding a delicate necklace aloft.

As soon as Harold was off the thief, Marcho and Kalimac pinned him and waited while Sarah brought a coil of good, sturdy rope. Within minutes the hobbits had the thief tied and sitting in the back of the Whitfoot wagon.

[alaklondewen]

The morning air whipped around and through the hobbits as they congregated in the center of the camp. They were all packed and ready to leave for another day of traveling, but they had some unfinished business that needed attending before they could get back to the road. Marcho stood before them on the back of one family’s cart. In front of him stood Garlin Whoolthistle, the apprehended thief, who had found himself perched atop a crate surrounded by the traveling hobbit population. The Man was apparently uncomfortable with the attention as he fidgeted and a wild look was in his eye. Yet, he dared not try to run for Harold Chubb and Kalimac Whitfoot stood at his feet, and he remembered all too clearly the brunt of Harold’s weight that knocked him flat.

Marcho spoke loudly to the hobbits and told them what had happened the night before, although most already knew because of the commotion that was made during Garlin’s capture. The scout publicly cleared Crispin Whitfoot’s name, causing many (especially his own family) to clap and shout enthusiastically. Fredigar stood to one side looking almost as uncomfortable as ol’ Garlin.

Marcho presented the evidence against Garlin to the crowd and then announced his punishment. “Mr. Whoolthistle must know what it is like to loose those things which he has worked for. Since he has sold or traded all of the items he stole from the hard working Harfoot folks, each of his victims will come forward and take something from his person as compensation for their loss.” Now Garlin only came to the camp with an empty pouch, saddle bag, and the clothes on his back, so as each of the Harfoot families stepped forward there was naught to take but his old clothes. Very soon Garlin stood before the hobbits fidgeting even more as he tried to cover his bare flesh, and although Marcho stopped the folk from taking his drawers, the man appeared to be extremely embarrassed and humiliated by the actions taken against him.

~*~*~*~*~

Regin's Post

Regin had been glad to see the necklace returned and the thief captured, but he didn't have the heart to stay longer than that. Before Marcho dealt out a just punishment to the thief, Harold went to tell Sarah and the children what had happened to their Grandpa. Together, the family walked slowly up the hill to say their final goodbyes.

Arriving at the grove, they gathered round the spot where Grandpa lay. After burying her head on her mother's shoulder, May looked up with a sad smile on her face, "It's the first time I've ever seen Grandpa not have a word to say to any of us. I shall miss him. He was as honest as they come. He said what he meant. There was no fooling around or hiding the truth." Everyone nodded. Then they sat quietly, talking and comforting each other.

News of Fordo's death spread quickly through the camp. Families made their way to the grove to pay their respects to Fordo and the Chubbs, first stopping to drop off gifts of food at the family's wagon.

Harold picked out the spot where his father would lie so that the rocks could be gathered there. It was just on the other side of the hill, and under the shade of a friendly beech. The site looked out over a rolling field. Just the sort of place for good farming. Harold reflected. My father would have liked it. Then he and Henry, along with the sturdiest Hobbits, scoured the nearby countryside to find the stones and boulders they would need to construct the barrow.

Fordo's body was laid gently in the tomb and Marcho got up to speak. He talked solemnly about Fordo: how he hadn't wanted to leave Bree, but when his family made the decision to move he came with them and did the best be could. How he'd worked hard for his family so many years, and how terribly he missed his good, sweet Prim. And now husband and wife were together again.

Then Harold got up to talk, "Marcho tells me all the land you can see around us is part of the King's grant. Today there aren't very many of us. But maybe someday, there'll be more. There may even be families living and farming on this very spot where we stand. I don't want to lose my father. Sarah and I, and the children all grieve his loss. But I think my father would agree. It's better that the first death in this new land should be an older Hobbit gently passing on rather than having a young lad bludgeoned to death in battle or skirmishing with a no-good thief."

"May our lives in the Shire be as peaceful as the end Grandpa had, and may we never forget the sacrifices that he made to help get us here. Sleep Father. Stay close to my mother, dear Prim, wherever she is. You and she are still part of our family, only separated for a while. And whether we're here or in Michel Delving, that will never change."

With that , the Hobbits made their way down the hillside to their bedrolls. Only Harold remained behind for a few moments, sitting peacefully beside the barrow.....

~*~*~*~

Once the funeral was finished and Garlin was left with nothing but his underpants, Marcho signaled for all to proceed to the wagons, and soon the convoy was bumping along once more down the road.

[alaklondewen]

The week after Fordogrim Chubb’s funeral was a long, dreary one. The settlers were already in a thoughtful mood as they dealt with the loss of one of their own and readied themselves for their arrival in the White Downs. The weather seemed to grieve with them, raining for four days off and on. The journey was a heavy weight that lay across their shoulders, and they wished to be through it.

On the seventh day the land began to slowly rise and fall once more, and spirits rose slightly as these small hills marked their entry into the White Downs. If only the weather was more agreeable, they could have celebrated. A grey rain pelted down once more and the ponies and wagons were having a difficult time climbing the hills. More than once a wagon or cart slipped and several hobbits would have to help push it back on the road or up one of the increasingly steeper hills.

The convoy rode late into the night before camping, and then was back on the road just after sunrise. No one complained because they knew that this was the day…the day they would see their home.

With each rising hill, Marcho came closer to his dream, and the Fallohide was more than a little anxious. The moment of his arriving in this place had played over in his mind for many years, and he struggled now to grasp its reality. All of the hard work and time spent away from Estella was paying off before his eyes.

As the day wore onto the afternoon, the hills became smaller and soon Marcho could see their end. They would stop at the slopes’ feet and from there they would cultivate and populate the land. The rain stopped as they slowly ascended the last hill as though nature understood the importance of the moment. When the Bolgers reached its peak they stopped their wagon and let their fellow travelers and neighbors crowd around them. Then as though it was a sign from above, the dark clouds parted and a single shaft of light slid down and lit all the land at their feet.

Marcho was overwhelmed by its beauty and a single tear slipped down his cheek.

[Arestevana]

As the wagon pulled to a stop at the top of the hill, Alora and Crispin clambered up to the front of the wagon with their parents for a better view. Elsa gazed, enchanted, at the land stretching away before them. The family observed their new homeland in silence. Crispin, sitting on his father’s lap, was chewing on a piece of hay again. Elsa noticed, but she was unwilling to shatter the moment, so she said nothing. She was feeling a good deal more sympathetic toward Crispin anyway, ever since his arrest.

As the last few wagons and carts pulled up to the crest of the hill, the caravan shared an unarranged moment of silence. Then the hobbits broke out into hearty cheering. Shouts echoed between the hills, and it seemed almost as if the new land was shouting back, welcoming them. Several children jumped from the neighboring wagons and threw themselves down the other side of the hill, laughing as they rolled through grass still sodden from the rain. “Well, go on!” Elsa said to her children. Alora and Crispin did not need to be told twice. They clambered over the front of the wagon and were gone.

Smiling, Elsa gazed again at the land, its beauty overwhelming her. This land-- our land! It’s what we’ve been working for. We’re finally here! This is the land where we can live away from the big folk. This is our new home! She jumped down from the wagon. The ground looked strangely blurred, and she had a suspicion that she might be crying. Reaching down, she gently pushed aside a tuft of emerald grass and scooped up a handful of dark earth. Standing up she let the rich soil run through her fingers. A homeland; a land to call our own.

[ArwenBaggins]

Crispin jumped from the wagon happily and rolled down the soggy hill. The almost-teenage hobbit left him for a moment as he tumbled through the lush green grass sprinkled with little blooming clovers like a young boy.

He watched Alora slip to the bottom of the hill and stand, followed by the lovely Daisy Boffin. The girl smiled as Crispin stood next to them and wiped his wet bottom, Alora laughing and pointing at his exceptionally dirty trousers. 'She should look at her own skirt!' He thought to himself.

Crispin had grown close to the Boffin girl over the period of the journey. She had visited him everyday while he was held in that baffoon's wagon; yes, she was shy and a bit... odd , but that wasn't anything Crispin couldn't get used to over time. He quite enjoyed her pleasant company.

Presently, he bent down and grabbed a handful of clover. The hay he continously chomped on dropped to the ground, but he was too preoccupied to pick it up. "Alora! Crispin! Come back to the wagon for a minute!" Elsa Whitfoot called to her children from the top of the hill. Crispin told Alora that he'd catch up in a minute.

"Daisy?" He poked the girl's shoulder gently and she turned away from the other hobbit lass she was talking too. She then turned and blushed, kicking her bare feet around in the tall grass.

He too blushed, his tanned cheeks turning a bright shade of scarlet. "I... I wanna give these to ya... they're purty, like... you," he handed her the mass of uneven clovers. He then did something totally impromptu, without any consent until that exact moment. He kissed her left cheek, and then her right, hugging her tight.

While he was very embarrassed and a pink wave flew down to the tips of his toes, Crispin was extremely happy. Daisy smiled and giggled, taking hold of his hand and dancing around in circles. They started walking back up the hill together, toward their wagons. 'It may take a little getting used to,' he thought, a content smile on his face. 'but I'm finally home.'

[Kransha]

Beautiful…it was simply, utterly beautiful. Land as far as the eye could see, stretching and rolling and sloping and dipping all around. The light of the sun peeked gracefully and majestically through the clouds, shining down in slender beams on the new land of the Halflings of Bree. The grass seemed to bend in submission beneath the revolving quartet of wheels of the Whitfoot wagon, allowing it to pass smoothly and easily into the depths of the family’s land. The sky was calm and ever tranquil, the clouds billowed like a solemn but welcoming smoke that swirled around the single beam of unbridled light that shone down, wreathing it like wispy laurels surrounding a shimmering golden crown, radiant with light.

Though the week had been melancholy, leaving Kalimac to commit somber thought to the loss of Fordogrim Chubb, life would go on, the hobbits would prosper, and all would be well. Kalimac Whitfoot had long sat, with Crispin and Alora hovering above his knees, about the hardships of that journey, the sadness and the chaos. It was all for the cause, the mission that was now completed as the White Downs played out on every side of the wealthy Bree hobbit. Now, Kalimac looked on, a smile plastered eternally on his face as a single tear rolled down his cheek, something he was most unaccustomed to feeling as the crystalline droplet fell from his chin and calmly hit the ground, watering the thick, sturdy layer of soil beneath waves of bending grass. Soon enough, both Alora and Crispin were off in a flash at their mother’s serene behest, off to frolic and play on what the tall grass if the hilly slopes. Kalimac, laughing to himself, hopped nimbly from the wagon, landing like a bird alighting beside his wife as she stooped to take something from the earth she stood upon. He walked beside her and calmly laid his arm upon her shoulders, sighing with relief.

He could see it all again, playing out in front of him like a dream...

His little home, not necessarily little, but still cozy in its place, nestled between grassy mounds of rich, ready earth. A flattened roof, covered with ripe ivy, a picket fence rimming the yard in a semicircle, painted gleaming white that seemed to glow in the sun's light streams, a winding path of cobblestones that wormed its way from the swinging fence gate to the small, rounded door of the home, and, of course, a garden of plants and flowers, brimming bushes of herbs, masses of thick, evergreen foliage, multicolored sparks of flowery petals, each dazzling in their unique gentility as the litter the garden and yard, vines working their way calmly over the fence and outside. He saw, through eyes blurred in dreams, thin, curling plumes of smoke like those from a pipe swirling into the sky from the house's puffing chimney. Perfect...

And there, in the yard, where hobbit children, many. He saw a head of frazzled auburn, of dangling golden gurls, of unkempt black fuzz, and neat brown trim. He saw faces lit with the flowing energies of youth, feet dancing across the cobblestones with young agility. He saw too older folk, Halflings too, and his face sagged inevitably into a wide smile as he recognized his son Crispin and his daughter Alora, now adults each, scurrying through the tall grass and spread of flowers after their own children, his grandchildren. They played new games, sung new songs, told new tales, and ran about madly, gleefully yelling to each other...all but Crispin and Alora, who looked at each other knowingly. Just as he was thinking of them, they were thinking of him, and his heart sang as he came to the realization that not only would he prosper, but his family would prosper, and all hobbit's would prosper, because of this journey, this day, to this land.

There he was too, sitting in that lounge chair he'd always pictured himself in, his hair tainted a calming white with grey strands dappling it. He smoked his pipe in silence, letting the tufts of pipe cloud waft around him and evaporate into the air of his home. Beside him, in another chair, sat Elsa, her face as wizened as his in age, but rife with experience and widom. Around them, the sturdy, cushioned chairs all gathered in a circle in the light that peeked in through a window's glass pane, where an older Marcho, the oldest of them all, leaning forward and contemplating, and both Harold and Sarah Chubb, holding hands in the same silence. For one brief moment, all five eyes met at the focal point between them and they remembered...they remembered what they'd done...what Kalimac and his kind were doing right now...finding this new home.

Slowly, still smiling, Kalimac took Elsa’s hand in his own as their four eyes looked out over the home soon to be theirs. His fingers closed gently around hers, feeling the remains of the soil she held and smiling further as he glanced at her happily before turning back to the White Downs, “Elsa, I think we’re going to like it here.” He said, his voice at last calm, devoid of the journey’s gnawing stress, and filled with a jovial relief at the journey's end and sparkling wonderment, “I really do.”

[Witch_Queen]

Sarah was relieved that she had finally reached her new home. Though she was heart broken since Fordo had died on the journey. She didn't see any reason to make a mushroom pie anymore. It was because of him she had made them.

She didn't know what else to do now with him gone. Her life had an empty place in it. She still had her family. She was finally happy for a chance in her life. Even if her father-in-law had died only days ago. Sarah still shed a tear for the loss.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold sat contently gazing out from the front step of his burrow onto his family’s fields as he rocked back and forth in the old oak chair. A slight breeze tickled his chin and swept through the rolling hills of green. The afternoon was sunny and warm and the time was drawing near to harvest. He sat in front of a snug burrow that had a round yellow door and a few smaller circular windows. Daises, roses, and sunflowers lifted their bright faces and sprang up all around the garden surrounding the burrow.

Three years ago he had arrived in the Far Downs, part of a parcel of land that had since been renamed the Shire. At first, Harold had been completely opposed to leaving Bree, the land he had known all his life. On the way to their new home, the Hobbits had encountered wolves, thieves, and many other dangers, but were able to keep together because of their determination as well as the guidance of their leader Marcho. Harold was certainly glad that he never had to use a scythe for anything other than cutting grain again.

When they first arrived in the new land, Harold and his family had very conflicted feelings. On the one hand, they did not have to journey anymore and could begin their new life. On the other, they still did not have any land of their own, and held a lingering sadness from the death of old Fordo. Perhaps the journey had been too much for him. Maybe, Harold reflected, if I had stayed in Bree, he would still be with us. But my family did not decide to leave Bree: the Whitfoots decided for us.

The hardships of the journey had forced the three groups of Hobbits to band together in order to survive. Harold had begun to feel more responsibility to the community as a whole, rather than just his own family or the other Harfoots. Apparently, the Fallohides had felt the same way; Kalimac and Marcho had discussed the matter of land with the others and they had agreed to grant small farmsteads to the Harfoot families.

Although he still missed his father dearly, Harold no longer felt that the journey from Bree had been a waste. If only his father could see the Chubbs now, thought Harold. He would have been so proud. After working for the Whitfoots their whole lives, the Chubbs had finally gotten a farm, “a land to call their own.”

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~