Hilderith watched as the golden light played itself out across the wooden
floor. She felt as if she had aged a thousand years in one night. Smeagol
lay curled up and slumbering in a fresh sleep shirt. He had collapsed and
fell into a stupor. She had undressed her stricken grandlad, and with a
cool basin of water, gently wiped away the tears and muck from his
tremoring frame. She blanched when she saw his neck. Violet marks of
fingers ringed his throat, and she shuddered to note that they fit a
hobbit's hands exactly. Her eyes narrowed, as she sponged down the
bruised throat and Smeagol whimpered in pain,even at that slight touch.
"Easy, lad" she shooshed him, and continued, carefully and quickly to avoid wounding him even more. A cold fury flamed at those bruises, and she paled in shock at the sudden satisfaction she felt in knowing that Deagol was now at the bottom of the river after such a violent attack on her Smeagol. She dressed him in a comfortable night shirt after drying him, and gently urged him to drink a tumbler of sweet tea laced with sleeping herbs, then lay him down on the soft quilts and stroked his hair, and sang soflty, until he fell asleep.
He quivered, even in slumber, and called out Deagol's name in his dreams. She sighed, shook her head, too numb from weariness and shock to heed more than her grandlad at the moment. She settled back into her rocking chair and gazed at the fire, dozing off herself into uneasy dreams.
Her head shot up,suddenly, from her stupor, and her ears were pricked. She strained to hear.angry feet, pounding at the earth, the rumble of a crowd drunk with rage, and the hysterical cries and feet marching towards the doorway of her small hole. She scurried over the window, while lacing her bonnet strings into a crisp bow and she carefully peered outside.She quelled. A mob of hobbits, marching resolutely, baring torches over her hill that rose above the front door now flooded her yard, and gathered as if in ceremony around her dwelling. Resolute faces, grim faces, a few twisted with rage formed a circle at her door, and she could see their eyes shining in the dark as she watched. Hilderith drew a shawl over her shoulders, and glanced back to make sure Smeagol was at peace. She hoped the draught was strong enough too keep him asleep, and at least spare him of this ordeal.. She flinched when she heard the furious fist pounding at her door, so hard that it strained on the latches. She tied her robe securely, drew herself up. Hilderith heard another fist pummel the door,and she heard a chorus of shouts demanding Smeagol. She cringed when she heard a thundering boom from the shadow-cloaked faces, crying over the furious murmers, "Mistress Hilderith, open the door and converse with us, if you please! We know you are there, and we shan't be leaving until our questions are answered, Miss!" She shuddered. It was the voice of Amaric Bywater, Deagol's father. Hilderith hastily peered in at Smeagol and caressed the dark hair, kissed his pinched brow and whispered, " Sleep in peace, my boy. Do not ye wake!" She downed the candle, and bolted his door.. She paused, for a moment, brushed her curls out from her sleeping bonnet, and stepped out, her head high and her sharp eyes narrowed. Mistress Hilderith looked to the gentle hobbits, for all purposes, like a hobbit gammer unjustly roused from her sleep.
She was greeted by a ring of hobbits, their eyes now tinged with flamed, the torches quaking eerily in darkness around them. She crossed her arms over her chest, and eyed them all before her voice rang out, harsh and cold. "How dare you louts come crevassing across my land to disturb my sleep! Your mothers would be shamed, I tell you. Shamed!" She tilted her head to the side, lifted her round chin upwards, as she resolutely slammed the door. A few of the more mannerly gentle hobbits flinched and looked quite uneasy about rousing Gammer Hilderith. She turned to Amaric Bywater. Her scowl deepened the crevices of her narrow jowls, and she rose to her full dimunitive height. "Master Bywater," her voice was shrill with suspicion as she began," What is this madness you are babbling about? What is this business you have with my grandlad Smeagol? " Amaric's eyes bulged, and then he thundered at her
"Keep your tongue, matron! Me lad Deagol's been missing since sundown. Tisn't like my lad to be out past darkness." His scowl softened slightly, then melted to fear over his son's fate. "Mistress Hilderith." He bowed low, tried to regain his composure. " My apologies for disturbing you. Tis fear over what has happened to my lad's being missing, and not disrespect for you that made me speak so harsh."
She nodded curtly, trying to choke down the bile now churning in her gut. Amaric rose from his bow, and she blanched to see the tears forming in the hobbit's eyes. "Mistress Hilderith," She was shocked to see him snatch her gnarled hand and clinch it. Normally such impertinence would warrant a good slap aside a the cheek for such sauce, but she stood still, transfixed and anguished. He suddenly jerked his face upward, and the look in those desolate eyes struck her deeper than any elven forged blade. He produced a filthy scrap, marred by the river muck and tinged with an unmistakable scarlet.
"When my lad didn't come home, I roused my kin, and we searched high and low on the river for him, Mistress Hilderith. There was no sign of him at all, and we saw naught of your grandlad, Smeagol. My wife recalled that Deagol asked permission to visit young Smeagol, and the last I saw of my son, was him waving as he left to cross the hill to your dwelling. When he didn't come home at the hour I told him , my wife became alarmed, and nothing I could say would calm her. Indeed, Amythist acted as a lass in swoon., and she demanded that I search the river." Forlornly, his shoulders stooped, and the feverish fire in his eyes dulled, he raised the cloth between clenched and shaking fingers.
"I found this, Mistress Hilderith, at the river's banks. This is a bloody shredded, sullied tatter of my lad's favorite shirt. My Deagol's shirt.' He let the scrap dangle in front of her horrified eyes, and whispered, hoarsely, " Smeagol was with him, Mistress.He was the last to see my son, as far as eyes can tell. There were signs of a struggle..furrows in the ground, grass crushed afoot, and- blood-" His face and fingers clenched, as he forced himself to continue. "There was a long trail, as if a body had been dragged..and a trickle of blood, cold, leading to the river's banks. Twas there I found this."
Hilderith ceased to breath, for long moments, her eyes lingering on the cloth, and then she gasped dumbly. Visions swirled in her mind, Her gentle Smeagol, laying curled in sleep, the lad's weeping and hysterics, that pale throat now crowned with bruises as if somebody had strung him up by rope over a branch.. to drown not in the river, but dangling in the air..She put a palm over her heaving heart, and grasped at the door's latch to stay upright. She stumbled forward, and she heard Amaric shout a demand for water, as he sprang forward to catch the shaking old woman in his arms. Deftly, he opened the latch, and gallantly, he stirred her to the large arm chair, as he lowered her into it. One of his lads presented her with a tumbler of water and a low bow. Panting, dignity forgotten, she slurped, and tried to control her breathing. She fought to regain control of her shreds of sanity, and put her head in her hands as the truth finally pounded itself into her brain with the brass of a battering ram. Her lad, her sweet Smeagol-a MURDERER!! And this mob.had come to kill him. She shook with sobs and buried her bowed head deeper into her arms.
"Easy, lad" she shooshed him, and continued, carefully and quickly to avoid wounding him even more. A cold fury flamed at those bruises, and she paled in shock at the sudden satisfaction she felt in knowing that Deagol was now at the bottom of the river after such a violent attack on her Smeagol. She dressed him in a comfortable night shirt after drying him, and gently urged him to drink a tumbler of sweet tea laced with sleeping herbs, then lay him down on the soft quilts and stroked his hair, and sang soflty, until he fell asleep.
He quivered, even in slumber, and called out Deagol's name in his dreams. She sighed, shook her head, too numb from weariness and shock to heed more than her grandlad at the moment. She settled back into her rocking chair and gazed at the fire, dozing off herself into uneasy dreams.
Her head shot up,suddenly, from her stupor, and her ears were pricked. She strained to hear.angry feet, pounding at the earth, the rumble of a crowd drunk with rage, and the hysterical cries and feet marching towards the doorway of her small hole. She scurried over the window, while lacing her bonnet strings into a crisp bow and she carefully peered outside.She quelled. A mob of hobbits, marching resolutely, baring torches over her hill that rose above the front door now flooded her yard, and gathered as if in ceremony around her dwelling. Resolute faces, grim faces, a few twisted with rage formed a circle at her door, and she could see their eyes shining in the dark as she watched. Hilderith drew a shawl over her shoulders, and glanced back to make sure Smeagol was at peace. She hoped the draught was strong enough too keep him asleep, and at least spare him of this ordeal.. She flinched when she heard the furious fist pounding at her door, so hard that it strained on the latches. She tied her robe securely, drew herself up. Hilderith heard another fist pummel the door,and she heard a chorus of shouts demanding Smeagol. She cringed when she heard a thundering boom from the shadow-cloaked faces, crying over the furious murmers, "Mistress Hilderith, open the door and converse with us, if you please! We know you are there, and we shan't be leaving until our questions are answered, Miss!" She shuddered. It was the voice of Amaric Bywater, Deagol's father. Hilderith hastily peered in at Smeagol and caressed the dark hair, kissed his pinched brow and whispered, " Sleep in peace, my boy. Do not ye wake!" She downed the candle, and bolted his door.. She paused, for a moment, brushed her curls out from her sleeping bonnet, and stepped out, her head high and her sharp eyes narrowed. Mistress Hilderith looked to the gentle hobbits, for all purposes, like a hobbit gammer unjustly roused from her sleep.
She was greeted by a ring of hobbits, their eyes now tinged with flamed, the torches quaking eerily in darkness around them. She crossed her arms over her chest, and eyed them all before her voice rang out, harsh and cold. "How dare you louts come crevassing across my land to disturb my sleep! Your mothers would be shamed, I tell you. Shamed!" She tilted her head to the side, lifted her round chin upwards, as she resolutely slammed the door. A few of the more mannerly gentle hobbits flinched and looked quite uneasy about rousing Gammer Hilderith. She turned to Amaric Bywater. Her scowl deepened the crevices of her narrow jowls, and she rose to her full dimunitive height. "Master Bywater," her voice was shrill with suspicion as she began," What is this madness you are babbling about? What is this business you have with my grandlad Smeagol? " Amaric's eyes bulged, and then he thundered at her
"Keep your tongue, matron! Me lad Deagol's been missing since sundown. Tisn't like my lad to be out past darkness." His scowl softened slightly, then melted to fear over his son's fate. "Mistress Hilderith." He bowed low, tried to regain his composure. " My apologies for disturbing you. Tis fear over what has happened to my lad's being missing, and not disrespect for you that made me speak so harsh."
She nodded curtly, trying to choke down the bile now churning in her gut. Amaric rose from his bow, and she blanched to see the tears forming in the hobbit's eyes. "Mistress Hilderith," She was shocked to see him snatch her gnarled hand and clinch it. Normally such impertinence would warrant a good slap aside a the cheek for such sauce, but she stood still, transfixed and anguished. He suddenly jerked his face upward, and the look in those desolate eyes struck her deeper than any elven forged blade. He produced a filthy scrap, marred by the river muck and tinged with an unmistakable scarlet.
"When my lad didn't come home, I roused my kin, and we searched high and low on the river for him, Mistress Hilderith. There was no sign of him at all, and we saw naught of your grandlad, Smeagol. My wife recalled that Deagol asked permission to visit young Smeagol, and the last I saw of my son, was him waving as he left to cross the hill to your dwelling. When he didn't come home at the hour I told him , my wife became alarmed, and nothing I could say would calm her. Indeed, Amythist acted as a lass in swoon., and she demanded that I search the river." Forlornly, his shoulders stooped, and the feverish fire in his eyes dulled, he raised the cloth between clenched and shaking fingers.
"I found this, Mistress Hilderith, at the river's banks. This is a bloody shredded, sullied tatter of my lad's favorite shirt. My Deagol's shirt.' He let the scrap dangle in front of her horrified eyes, and whispered, hoarsely, " Smeagol was with him, Mistress.He was the last to see my son, as far as eyes can tell. There were signs of a struggle..furrows in the ground, grass crushed afoot, and- blood-" His face and fingers clenched, as he forced himself to continue. "There was a long trail, as if a body had been dragged..and a trickle of blood, cold, leading to the river's banks. Twas there I found this."
Hilderith ceased to breath, for long moments, her eyes lingering on the cloth, and then she gasped dumbly. Visions swirled in her mind, Her gentle Smeagol, laying curled in sleep, the lad's weeping and hysterics, that pale throat now crowned with bruises as if somebody had strung him up by rope over a branch.. to drown not in the river, but dangling in the air..She put a palm over her heaving heart, and grasped at the door's latch to stay upright. She stumbled forward, and she heard Amaric shout a demand for water, as he sprang forward to catch the shaking old woman in his arms. Deftly, he opened the latch, and gallantly, he stirred her to the large arm chair, as he lowered her into it. One of his lads presented her with a tumbler of water and a low bow. Panting, dignity forgotten, she slurped, and tried to control her breathing. She fought to regain control of her shreds of sanity, and put her head in her hands as the truth finally pounded itself into her brain with the brass of a battering ram. Her lad, her sweet Smeagol-a MURDERER!! And this mob.had come to kill him. She shook with sobs and buried her bowed head deeper into her arms.