Not mine...:sigh:...Please read and review.
Before the cataclysm, when I was more tweenager than grown Hobbit, the hobbits of the Shire always saw the best side of me. I was the cheeky Brandybuck lad, always into mischief; always bringing trouble down on the heads of the youngsters who followed me about, true enough. I'll admit, I often fled Hobbiton, heady with laughter, listening to the yelps of the lads less fleet footed than I. Their mothers would catch them as they fled the scenes of our petty crimes, pinch them hard by the tips of their ears and propel them home to a certain lecture about the value of one's companions. But these same mothers would hide their smiles behind dainty hands when I happened by, and they could not hide the twinkle in their eyes. I would grace them with a deep bow and a dashing smile, knowing it would erase all wrongs. I knew the power of my face, of my name.
Being a Brandybuck carries with it a certain expectation of inborn supremacy, an intensity that comes with knowing who one is. Brandybucks are taught at our mothers' knees that we are different from other hobbits. We are high-born. We are expected to behave as such, carrying ourselves with pride. Brandybuck lads tag along at their father's sides as they tramp the countryside, surveying the wide-ranging fields that feed most of Buckland, and a fair portion of the rest of the Shire as well. We learn early the science of cultivating the best crops, the art of running huge estates of farmland. By the time a lad comes of age, he is expected to be well prepared to manage a plantation, and to coax from the land a yield that will feed countless mouths throughout the cold, dead winter months. It is a responsibility that crushes some, and they are relegated to the lower halls of Buckland, where they scratch away at papers, keeping accounts. Some even are carted away to farms far off, in the four corners of the Shire, so as not to sully the Brandybuck name with their failure. But most learn their lessons well, and are regarded by many Hobbits as fair judges and strong leaders.
Brandybucks do not abuse those in their care. Many lesser folk may treat their servants and employees as property, to be used roughly and tossed away when all value is spent. But those who work the fields for the Brandybuck clan are provided with cozy holes to settle in, fair wages for their labor, and a generous share of the crops with which to fill their larders. My father always says, "A happy worker grows the sweetest-tasting apples." He's right, after all. Our goods are esteemed as among the best that can be had for any price. "Kindness to those who labor for you pays tenfold in the work they return," Father also says, and, again, it rings true.
There are some who decry us as mere farmers who have forgotten our place in society. These proclamations come generally from old windbags like the Sackville-Bagginses and some of the Goodbodies, but they rankle nonetheless. The hard feelings are spread about mostly by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and they go back a long way. Before she was wed to Otho, back when she was still a Bracegirdle, Lobelia held quite a torch for my granddad, Old Rory. Rorimac was his right name, but everyone called him by Rory. Old Rory, he wanted nothing to do with Lobelia, for he could see she was naught but vain, selfish and greedy-eyed. She pursued him all over the Shire, batting her eyelashes and trying to win his favor with fancy frocks and velvet bows in her hair. But when Rory took Menegilda Goold as his bride, Lobelia was so jealous and furious that she never forgave him. To this day she says she cannot bear the sight of Brandybucks. I've even heard her say she can smell a Brandybuck coming from down the lane. Sancho Proudfoot once repeated that claim to me, which earned him a sound hiding and sent him home howling like a lass. I got a taste of my father's belt that night, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it, for he would have wanted to do the same thing, were he in my place.
We Brandybucks are also known for a bit of the wanderlust. We tend to be stricken with strange fits of restlessness, and a trip out of the Shire is the only real cure. Our family tree is full of adventurers and explorers, all the way back to Gorbehand Oldbuck, from before we were known as Brandybucks. The old folks mostly traveled out of necessity in the early days, looking for land that was suited for growing certain crops. The need for new land has since faded, but we still retain a bit of that spirit, that hunger that calls in the dark of night, beckoning us out to the deeps of the Old Forest, sometimes beyond. I've always fancied that Bilbo had some Brandybuck blood in him somewhere. Pippin insists that it is the Took line that brought out the adventurous side of the old fellow, but I still believe it somehow, deep down. At any rate, this odd tendency to be distracted by the sight of a distant hill causes some to think of us as unreliable, but the fact that they tend to say it when they are drinking ale made from our hops takes the sting out a bit.
Sadly for me, I was afflicted a bit more with that ennui, that desire to see beyond the bounds of the Shire, to walk beyond the walls of Bree, to see what was hidden behind the gentle rise outside of Fornost, toward the North Downs. Though I was more well traveled than most hobbits could ever hope to be, my desire to glimpse the shrouded places of the world was grievous to me, for it could nearly overwhelm me. I would lie beneath a mound of winter quilts, staring out the windows of my room at Brandy Hall, willing my imagination to skim over the tops of the mossy trees of the Old Forest and down the Old East Road to the Trollshaws. I would screw my eyes tight shut and conjure the image of the Lonely Mountain, its face set to gleaming by the touch of dawn, with the deep-voiced singing of the dwarves moaning in the distance.
Mind you, I had never seen any of these things. Bilbo Baggins himself had told me of these places, entrancing me with his tales of the long road to the Grey Mountains. Many an afternoon I spent helping Sam Gamgee in the gardens of Bag End, hoping to earn a snippet of a tale from Bilbo over tea. Most of the other hobbit lads and lasses grew tired of Bilbo's tales after a few tellings, and would wander away to play Roll the Hoop or Skip the Stone, but not I. Pippin would tug at my sleeve to follow them, huffing his exasperation with me, but I would sit unyielding at the hearth, mesmerized by the sound of Bilbo's voice and the adventures he spun. Finally Pippin would let out a huge, gusting sigh of annoyance and leave me behind. Then, relieved of the unbelievers at last, Frodo and I would sit rapt, entranced at the thought of setting out without handkerchief or hat, following the road on to adventure and exploration.
Frodo and I were alike in that way. We got along splendidly as a rule. I was granted a standing invitation to stay long periods at Bag End, and I took full advantage of them. Bilbo even let me have a little barn cat that was born in one of his sheds, though she had to stay at Bag End. Father didn't approve of pets, indoors or out. So Rabbit, as I called her, lived with Frodo's cat Fatty in a cozy pantry behind Bilbo's kitchen. I have many memories of snuggling in a down quilt in front of the fireplace with that multi-colored wisp of fluff purring in my arms, listening to the scratch of Bilbo's quill as he wrote for long hours in his red book.
The book was a source of mystery to me. Bilbo kept it so close, so secret, and though I was allowed to read every book that lined the shelves in Bag End, that one book was locked tight in a trunk in Bilbo's bedroom. I made it a mission high on my list of priorities to read the Red Book. It wasn't easy, but one day Sam Gamgee managed to lure Bilbo out into the garden to plan the spring plantings. Once I saw Bilbo disappear around the hill, I stole into his bedroom. I pulled a pile of quilts off of the trunk, being careful to keep them folded just so. I had lifted a set of my father's keys, which I took care not to jingle. A few tries with different skeleton keys, and I twigged the lock of the trunk. The book was wrapped with great care in a cloth to preserve its soft leather cover. The pages were covered with Bilbo's meticulous, tiny script, and he had made careful maps, and beautiful intricate drawings. I was mesmerized by the sense of history in that tome. Bilbo's illustration of Smaug, drawn in golden and scarlet inks, made my hair stand on end with wonder. All too soon I heard Bilbo coming up the lane, complaining loudly, with Sam's frantic voice following quickly behind, and so I packed the book quickly back into the trunk, and made a sprint for the pantry. So far as we knew, Old Bilbo never discovered that I had seen the book, and I held a touch of smug, though unspoken, pride at being the only Hobbit beside Frodo to have done so.
I never intended to be swept up in the War of the Ring. Sometimes I think that had I known then what would befall, I would have hidden beneath a bolster in Brandy Hall and refused to come out. But deep down I know I still would have gone. I would not trade for anything the sight of the lands I saw during the journey. I can still conjure the memory of watching the dawn rise from the dais of the Golden Hall, seeing the first touch of the sun upon the peak of Starkhorn shatter into thousands of points of light on the snow. I can recall with crystal clarity the smell of the thick green grass at Wellinghall, and the sound of the falling spring in the quiet of evening. Behind closed eyes I can see the carpet of lilac flowers upon the grass in the gardens of the houses of healing, and can remember their gentle scent.
The trouble is that I can also remember the taste of the orc draught I was given in the gullies at Eastemnet. I can recall the sting of whips upon my back, and the searing pain of the wound upon my forehead. At night my arm still throbs and aches, sending shivers of pain up my spine. In sleep I am often assaulted anew by the memory of terror and despair. Many nights I choose not to even retire to bed, preferring instead to while the night away wandering the hills of Buckland. The sight of the stars over the rolling fields gave me some measure of peace, some reminder that despite my continuing pain, the world was safe, and that all over the Shire, Hobbits were sleeping sound in their beds, having been spared the terrors that had befallen me and mine. No one will ever be able to understand the feelings that the four travelers have fought for these long years. There are nightmares, and fits of cold sweat and creeping anxiety that come over me at odd times. I have found myself in the pantry with the shattered remains of the crocks about me, having no idea what had happened or what I was doing there.
The others have suffered as much, I am certain. Of course, Pippin, my dearest cousin, seems to have fared best. His cheery nature never fails to astound me. At feasts and festivals, he is the most sought-after hobbit in the Shire, as young tweenagers track him down to hear his tales, which he never seems to tire of telling. But there have been moments, in the longest nights, when I have seen the darkness that still lingers deep in his soul. He has not forgotten either. He speaks at times of the battle at the black gates, of the despair that washed over him at what he thought was his last moment. He was fortunate to find a wife, Diamond, who takes great care of him and makes his life so comfortable as to mostly forget the memories of darkness.
Frodo, of course, spends most of his time closeted in Bag End, writing. It seems he is driven by some strange compulsion to put down all the events of the war, as quickly as he can. He spends long hours with each of us, urging us to tell and retell our tales, as he scribbles madly in the Red Book. There are nights I spend at Bag End where I could hear him in his room, moaning and crying in his sleep, calling for the Ring. He once told me in pained tones of his nightly dreams in which he searches in vain for it, groping through darkness filled with unnamed horrors. He said that in his dreams he sees the Fellowship, his friends and companions, torn to pieces before his eyes, yet he can feel no compulsion other than to step over them to continue searching for the Ring. As he told me this, I was struck painfully by the guilt in his eyes. It was then that I knew that Frodo would never again be whole. None of us will. But for Frodo it is worse. Dear Frodo will never again be truly happy. It took me a long time to come to terms with that thought, and I spent a tremendous amount of time trying to change the fact. But after many long talks with Gandalf and Aragorn, I finally accepted it, and now I only try to make Frodo as comfortable and carefree as I can.
Sam is lucky in that he wed his one true love, the beautiful Rosie Cotton. But Frodo is lucky in Sam's choice as well. Before Rose came to Bag End, it was filled with shadows and cobwebs, with the grim darkness that Sharkey brought there. Frodo was preoccupied and Sam had his hands full as the newly elected Mayor of the Shire. But Rose swept into Bag End, a whirlwind smelling of lavender and clean laundry, and she made the old hole livable again. The hill is once again filled with sunshine and fresh cut flowers, with butter biscuits and hot tea whenever one chooses to drop in. She also seems to always know the right thing to say to soothe poor Sam when memories of the Dark Journey trouble his heart.
After returning to the Shire, I went through a period of terrible darkness and gloom, feeling that I would never find someone with whom I could share the darkest memories of the journey. To that end, I am most greatly blessed to have found a best friend and a wife in my dearest Estella, whom I have known since we were both tweenagers. Her brother, Fredegar Bolger, had a deuce of a time in the Lockholes during Sharkey's rule, and he was a long time in recovering, during which time he and Estella lodged at Crickhollow. My visits to Fatty quickly became a pretense for visits to Stella, for she was easy to talk to. But somehow Estella, with her stout heart and soft hands, can draw out the most horrid thoughts and visions. She never quailed when I ranted with rage and horror, when the memories were just too near, the pain still too close, that I could not suppress them. There were many nights that I woke, awash in sweat, reeling from nightmares, and I would make the ride to Crickhollow. We would walk silently together in the starlit garden, watching the sky. Long I struggled, wondering why this lass, this strong, smart, lovely lass, would rise from a warm bed in the dead of night to walk with someone so damaged, so broken as I. She would sit in the grass for hours, listening to me as I went on about things that she could never understand, and I never wanted her to understand them, for I feared to sully that quiet, strong spirit with the pallor of lost hope. But in those moments, Stella always knows when to draw me into her arms, and when to leave me to myself. Were it not for her, I do not know how I would have gone on through those dark days. But as we sit together in the moonlit night I have to stop myself from wondering what I have done to deserve such joy and love. For this Captain of the Shire, this Knight in the service of the King is still, in my deepest heart, the lad that ran wild through the Shire.