Author's Note: Another gem from my blog, written about four years ago.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to the Tolkien Estate, and I make no profit.
Silence
He was Mayor, she was the Mayor's wife. They had many fair-headed children, all with friendly temperaments. Many called them frightfully perfect.
Of course the Mayor heard talk, of how their family seemed spared the trivial battles of Shire life - no fights among the lads or lasses, no shortage of pipeweed, no lack of flowers in their gardens.
Of course the Mayor's wife heard talk, of how pretty their garments were, how presentable and fine a figure their families presented when gathered. Of how the table she set was legendary, and no hobbits ever went without mathoms at birthday parties.
But no whisper would carry the screams the Mayor screamed, of blood and battle fought but not won, nor the trembles of his wife when she heard heavy footsteps that she only walked to Market with her closest friend and never alone.
Rumor would never hint at the eldest, fairest daughter carrying with her at all times leaves of kingsfoil, just in case her parents struggled visibly. Only those closest to the family knew she never left the hole without her satchel: the leaves, two mugs, and kindling for a quick fire.
Neither would the Red Book tell of the children themselves suffering silently the jealousies of tweenagers or the gossip that described their parents as unworthy of being Mayor and Lady.
Some scars were left unseen, a wise Elf once said to the Mayor as he recovered from the War.
Some fears go too deep, said her Ma as she bathed her daughter after too may heavy steps came visiting.
(After the Mayor and his Lady were buried, the red poppies stopped blooming outside Bag End.)
