Chapter 23
APPLES AND CARROTS
The hobbit spun his walking stick in one hand, twirling it effortlessly so that all could be seen of the staff was an unrecognizable blur. With a flick of a delicate wrist, the hobbit launched the short stick into the air and watched it spin high and free before making its decent back to the ground where first it was found. The hobbit eyed the stick warily, watching it fall, his hand flashing out at the last in such a way as to smartly snatch it from gravity's fingers.
As ever before, his finger's fumbled and the staff fell to the earth with a dull thud.
Kharutis hissed in pain and sucked on his injured fingers, all the while glaring accusingly at the discarded stick.
A light breeze ruffled his graying curls and with its calming presence Kharutis detected a musical note upon its wings. Laughter--a child's, light and carefree--smoothed the frown from the hobbit's features, bringing a smile instead, both to his lips and eyes.
"How fair you, my dearest of Carrots?" came a pleased and most pleasant voice from the woods.
The hobbit glanced around, knowing he wouldn't be able to spy the speaker even though he knew she was close. Closer, even, than he thought her to be.
"Finer now that I hear the voice of one long missed!" he replied merrily. "And you, of the golden fruit, how do you fair on this beautiful day?"
A shadow detached itself from a nearby tree. "As only an apple can when she is reunited with her carrot," and she grinned such a smile that her eyes glimmered majestically. It was a joke between them, one started by Atira when first she had met Kharutis. He had hardly come into his tweens when she had bumped into him in the wild that night so long ago . . . .
Either one fell over backwards, the girl only because she stumbled over a rock, the lad because of his stature--or lack of. The wood was as dense as anything; Atira was lucky she had spied the lad at all. It hadn't mattered though, for there hadn't been enough time.
She sat herself up in the mud (it had rained the night before) and peered over at the flailing hobbit. She recognized him as such at once, for she had seen aplenty on many occasion and had even befriended more than she could recall over the years. This lad, however, took her by surprise, for none could be found in this country; indeed, not for many miles away and it was a rare occasion when one of the small people could be found so far from home and all alone at that.
Her curiosity instantly peeked, Atira was about to inquire upon the subject. However, before she could open her mouth to say ought to the lad, let alone get to her feet, he was up and off as fast as anything, giving her hardly a glance.
"Wait!" she called out and at the last the lad hesitated, turned long enough to give her a shouted warning:
"Orcs!"
He disappeared within the trees' shadows.
Atira leapt to her feet, floundered a bit in the mud, and was after the youth barely before the first arrow whizzed past her flying legs. Guttural laughter was soon to follow and if the broad, black arrows hadn't identified the hobbit's pursuers then the harsh tongue that followed most certainly did.
The child's features twisted in disgust as she was able to comprehend their taunts.
"One for lunch, one for fun--we're gonna have ourselves a good time tonight!"
In the Common Tongue: "Food run fast, but we run far. You stop now, save time? Yes?" Harsh laughter followed.
Atira could now see the hobbit again and instantly knew the chase had been going on for some time. The lad stumbled and fell more than once (in just the time she spotted him) and she could hear his harsh gasps all the way from where she ran, a good distance behind him.
The poor lad, she thought mournfully.
Another arrow hissed by, missing her right ear by scant more than an inch. It imbedded itself into a nearby tree. She paid it very little mind. Creatures of Dark, she thought in disgust. They feed off fear as much as flesh. Before the night is through they shall have both from this wee one.
That is, if I haven't a say in the matter.
Quicker than it took for a single thought to form, Atira skidded to a stop and spun on her heels to face the creatures. Several stopped themselves, taken aback by this child's sudden unconcern and bravado. Most, however, didn't skip a beat and would have run her through with their spears had she not weaved the magic around a single thought and released it with an exaltation of that very word.
"Eru," she breathed and the magic exploded. It burned, scorched, marred, and maimed all not of the Father's creation. It did not kill however. Atira did not kill.
"They are creatures of Dark," Atira had agreed with Gandalf a long while ago. "But they are also living, breathing things with souls of there own no matter how tattered their Self may be. They cannot help what they have become . . ." and she looked at him with as much pain in her eyes as Gandalf felt in his heart. "Olórin," she said softly, "I know some of them." And she did, just as everyone did, for the orcs had all at one time been elves. Now they were twisted, deformed by the thoughts and malice of Sauron.
The orcs fled the young Maia's magic.
Atira watched them in grim satisfaction. The sorrow she had once felt towards her lost friends was nowhere as deep as before--time eased the pain and made apparent the awful need to protect and defend against these creatures who, in another time, she had enjoyed the beauty of the world with. These creatures enjoyed nothing now. Only the misery of another could lighten their mood. They knew not save anger and pain.
Her mood did not lighten as they scurried away, if anything it darkened.
With a shake of her head, she turned aside. Atira had no worries that they would return, for orcs, by nature (if one could term it that), were a craven lot. They feared magic. They feared it because it was the core of their pain.
Sauron the Deceiver, she thought bitterly, Father of Lies.
A cry suddenly rent the air. It was then she recalled the halfling.
She found the lad entangled in some shoots and recognized them instantly as Snatchers. Hurriedly, she removed a dagger from the sheath at her hip and hacked mercilessly away at the vines. Before the greenery could lash back, Atira grabbed the halfling by his shirt collar and half-dragged, half-carried him a safe distance away. Atira more collapsed upon the ground than sat as she released her hold on him. No matter their appearance, hobbits were not light creatures.
"You have a knack for this don't you?" she asked after a moment, finally catching her breath.
The halfling watched the Snatchers in a horrified sort of fascination as the vines writhed upon the ground for a time seeking its escaped prey, before finally stilling, as though it had always been. It could wait. Something just as tasty was bound to come along.
Blinking, the hobbit glanced at his rescuer. "A knack for what?" he asked.
She wiped some mud from her cheeks, realizing too late that it also adorned her hands and she was accomplishing nothing save spreading the dirt further across her features.
She grinned. "For getting yourself in trouble. Orcs and Snatcher all in one day--what a feat!" She laughed.
"Orcs!" the hobbit youth cried, remembering the earlier menace. He had become distracted--
The lad leapt to his feet and made as if to shoot once again off into the woods.
"Wait!" Atira cried, before he could take two steps. He turned cautiously, his eyes darting behind the girl nervously, as though he feared the orcs would burst through the trees at any moment. Atira was afraid that with any movement on her part he would take off faster than a startled rabbit and there wouldn't be anything she could do to stop him. "It's alright," she assured him. "The orcs left."
"They left?" he asked suspiciously, not relaxing his stance in the least.
She nodded. "They gave up, I think," she said, somewhat truthfully, "Probably bored with the hunt. It's alright; they're gone."
The hobbit looked at her questionably and the girl merely nodded.
"Wouldn't they be here by now?" she asked pointedly and the hobbit seemed to think about this. "Would I still be here if they wanted my blood," she smiled and shook her head, "I think not."
The lad saw the logic in this and visibly relaxed. So much in fact that he slumped to the ground, but as she was about to crawl over to him to see how he faired she spied a relieved and grateful smile on his dirtied face. Atira smiled at him kindly.
"Are you well?" she asked.
The hobbit gulped in several large breaths of air before answering and when he did he could merely nod.
"Sorry about bumping into you like that," she said, "but I'm afraid I didn't see you. And in any case, I'm rather glad I did." And she was. If she hadn't, she had the sickening feeling that this hobbit would right now be spitted on a stick roasting over a crackling fire. Atira hurriedly banished the thought, fearful she would lose her meal.
"So am I, lady," the lad finally managed and smiled at her thankfully. "I owe you my life."
"Atira," the child offered the only name she gave to mortals. She understood most expected two names but she only had one to offer. The halfling didn't seem to mind.
"Kharutis Tôk," he offered, just as clipped. Atira was slightly surprised, as all other Periannath she had come across had given her both their full name and a title of some sort. Kharutis however didn't seem inclined. Oddly enough, this intrigued her. Something else did, too.
"Kharutis," she mused aloud, then giggled. The lad peered at her, mildly offended.
"Something wrong?" he asked suspiciously, defiantly and purposely leaving off the respectful term 'milady'. Atira noted this immediately and liked the halfling all the more for it.
"It fits so perfectly," Atira realized, noting his odd hair coloring for the first time. Most halflings, she had found, were commonly brown-haired or, more rare still, blonde. She had never, not once in all her travels, seen a Periannath with orange hair. It wasn't an orange-orange, per say, but more of a light brown with orange streaks. It was an interesting coloring. It reminded Atira of autumn.
"What does?" he demanded, crossing arms over his thin frame and Atira couldn't help but laugh aloud. He looked so ridiculous sitting in the mud, his face cast into a dark frown.
"Your name," she managed finally, a little ashamed at the way her amusement was surely coming across to him. "Kharutis sounds and awful lot like 'carrot' and what with your hair--"
The lad's frown turned into a scowl. "Oh," he said in an over-dramatized manner, throwing his arms wide, his voice etched with exasperation, "Like I haven't heard that one before." He got to his feet, turned and began retracing his steps back the way he had come.
"Like I'm the only one with an amusing name," he muttered to himself. "What kind of name is 'Ateera' anyway? Could be 'apple' for all the world cares. But it's not apple and mine's not 'carrot'. But does anyone care? Nope! No one cares that my . . . name . . . is . . . KHARUTIS!" he cried more to the world as a whole than to any one in particular. He was clearly exasperated with the entire business.
Atira could only stare. She had never seen anything like it . . . .
The name had just sort of stuck after that. . . and so had 'Apple'. Atira didn't mind. Olórin was allowed his names among the mortals, why shouldn't she have her own. Besides, Kharutis was given a sort of satisfaction by calling her 'Apple'. She wondered at it but never asked, for she suspected it had to do with his family and she had learned early on that this was a sore subject to brooch. All she knew of the matter was that he had left and had vowed not to return. There first meeting had been Kharutis's second week out on his own. She never liked to think about where he might be if she hadn't have found him, or where she might be for that matter. They'd been through a lot together.
Kharutis laughed aloud and Atira suddenly noted a roughness to his voice. Peering closely at her friend, whom she had not seen for a very long time, she noted with some distress that he had changed. His once smooth, youthful face had been worn down by time; laughter lines crinkled his eyes and were also evident around his mouth. His hair, too, showed signs of age, for it was graying most noticeably.
Atira wondered at the halfling's age and determined with quiet sorrow that he must be in his seventies, at the very least.
Despite this, the child hid the disquiet, for she would not sadden this occasion, one in which she had longed for for quite some time.
She knelt upon the ground and opened her arms wide and the hobbit embraced her in return. "I have missed you, my friend," she said, her words muffled for her face was buried in his cloak.
"It has been too long," Kharutis agreed, and then as an after thought, "For me at least. I'm sure it is not but a blink of an eye for one of the Elven Kin."
"A painful blink, my small friend," Atira said with a sigh, for though she was not of Elvish blood she looked to be and had never told her friend otherwise. He had never seen her use magic and since their first meeting she had never been forced to again. It was not a difficult lie to uphold.
The two stayed in the glade in which they had found each other, setting up camp some distance off the road--a road that was more of a trail than ought else. They talked long into the night, telling of things new and old, accounting travels apart and recalling adventures shared. Atira enjoyed the latter much more readily than the former, for it saddened her heart and gave evidence to how long they had truly been apart. It was not until the sky began to lighten with dawn that the hobbit's head began to nod and he finally fell asleep. With a smile, Atira unbuckled her own cloak and laid it gently upon her friend, then patiently waited the dawning of a new day.
