~*~*~*~
Marrocs Tale
By Hippy Hobbit
Chapter 11: Elves and Their Issues
Dedicated to Niph
~*~*~*~
It was nearly Yuletide.
Neither Gildor nor Lastirel had come to see their little hobbit friend.
This matter was depressing Marroc more and more as the days got shorter. His mother had taken to bed once more, and he was hardly ever allowed in to see her. Pippin and his family had taken their leave the day after the harvest feast, Pippin waving goodbye to him sadly, still sporting a crutch under his arm from the back of the wagon. Marroc had only once felt so alone, and he hardly wished to think back to that time.
Butch was still with him, of course. But Merry refused to talk to him since the mushroom incident.
He'd been in SERIOUS trouble after pulling that one. Saradoc had given him a whipping he wouldn't soon forget, and nearly every adult present had given him a lecture at the time, including the elderly hobbit who had been standing near Frodo and Merry at the time of the mishap, who was in fact THE Bilbo Baggins. Ever since Frodos parents had died, Bilbo had been in charge of the boys well being. Thus, Marroc could easily understand why he'd been the one to give him the longest of the 7 or so lectures- eating dung could hardly consist of being well.
Marroc had asked Merry if Pippin would be coming for Yule, but, of course, he'd received no answer. This dampened his spirits even more, causing him to have almost nothing to look forward to in the future. The winter seemed so long and dreary. To complete this picture of misery, he'd caught a sniff of a cold and was forced by his elders to stay inside, cooped up in his room with only Butch for company, staring out into the snowy grounds.
Marroc loved snow, and every year when it came, his senses seemed to go wild with delight. The sight of it, the feeling, the taste, the smell! Even the sound of it...or lack thereof- the cool quiet in the dead of night, when he'd sneak up to look out the front main window at his house and see the huge flakes falling down, piling up around the sill...sometimes he could fall asleep watching this display of beauty, and wake up back in his bed, his mother having found him in the night and brought him back to his room.
But this year, he wasn't allowed outside. Nevertheless, this could have made the lives of his elders easier, though it would make him sick. But with no doubt, this had crossed some of their minds.
His loneliness had almost caused young Marroc to go on a pranking spree, had he not remembered so well what had happened with his last one. So, instead, all he did was sit on his bed, sulking, or sometimes reading.
He wondered whether his elf friends had come to see him, but not finding him, had left, not to return until a later date, or perhaps ever. He wondered this a lot, that is, until one night, as he lay awake on his soft, goose feather mattress.
A tapping came to the window above his bed, jerking Marroc out of a sort of trance. He sat up and looked out.
The dove he had once saved sat upon the sill, snow piling up around it. It looked at him, expectantly, almost, as though he should've known that it was coming, and why it was coming. And suddenly... he did.
Lastriel was here.
~*~*~*~
He ran through the yard on his way to the Old Forest, bundled up as best as he could manage on his own. The dove fluttered ahead of him, leading him, though he knew where he was going.
It was so cold. His teeth chattered fiercely as he pulled the warm cloak around himself, the very points of his ears freezing and stinging. The bitter air seemed to bite through his skin and eat away his bones and insides. But the adrenaline pulsing through him was sooo pleasant.
He knew if he were to be caught, his mother would kill him. It amused him the slightest to think about which limb she would remove first in his mind as he ran, tumbling along after the little white flit.
The woods thickened gradually around him and the falling snowflakes got caught in his hair and long eyelashes, chilling him even more so as his head grew wetter and wetter.
His feet lead him to the well-known path to his secret grove, where the Fairy Tree was. And just below the long spindly branches sat Lastriel.
She was so beautiful, in her long robes of the exiled grey, snowflakes caught in her long, glorious hair as she stroked the rough bark of the old Yew, which seemed to be creaking loudly in the wind. She looked around just in time to be tackled in a massive bear hug by a tiny hobbit, though luckily she caught herself before falling over.
"Ah! There you are, my little one!" She cried, "Why didn't you wait here for me? I have been expecting you all day!" she ruffled his curls.
"I had the sicky," was Marrocs reply, "An' my uncle wouldn't let me leave the house, so I had to sneak." He stared at her for a moment, in her light robes and cloth boots; her pale hands seemingly to be whiter then the snow, "Aren't you cold?"
Lastriel smiled, "Elves don't get cold."
Marroc tried to process this thought, as she surveyed him over him, eyeing the sling for a minute, "What happened with your arm?" she asked.
Marroc blinked, "Had a swword fight with my cousin, an' he stabbed me on accident," was the reply, but he continued, "But I'm so happy you're finally back! I missed you... I been so lonely. Me da got sent away 'cause he was roughin' me up, and Uncle Saradoc made him go away, and is takin' care of me and Mum, whos really sick still, and Merry won't talk to me no more, 'cause I tried to make him eat dung-filled mushrooms." He said all this in one breath.
The elf stared blankly at him, "You're father was beating you?"
Marroc blinked, then flushed, "It was only once. He hit me..."
"For no reason?"
"He...he was upset! My mumma was sick... I came in to kiss her goodnight...and he started yelling...saying she was gonna die if I didn't go away... and I...my eyes got wet... and he yelled at me even more, 'cause he said I wasn't supposed to cry..." Marroc felt his mind spinning... he seemed to forget where he was... why was he so cold? He was falling... falling... his eyes blacked out, suddenly, and he had no idea what was going on...
Sharp voices bit through his head
"Is he ill?"
"I dunno!"
"Hand him over to me. I know his father... I can take him home..."
"His fathers gone, he says. He was beating him."
"Tarroc? Beat his own son?"
"That's what he said! Been living with his uncle."
"Must be at Brandyhall. Give him over, Lastriel. I shall take him there."
"No, Gildor!"
"And why not?"
"He was not supposed to be out! They'll whip him, I'm sure."
"He'd deserve it. Awful little trouble maker."
There was a short silence before Gildor spoke again, "Besides, where would you take him? Northernways?"
"Perhaps."
"He HAS got family, you know. Whatever would they do if he suddenly went missing and never returned?"
"*I* could be his family! I could teach him everything he'd ever need to learn! He could be... he could be... an elf-hobbit!" Marroc felt her grip around him grow tighter.
There came a heavy sigh from Gildor, "Lastriel-"
"NO! Gildor! I will NOT let you ruin this! You ruin everything! YOU are the one who exiled my mother! YOU took away my brother from me!" She fell quiet for a moment, thinking, "Besides, Marroc is fairer and slenderer than most of his kind... he could easily be mistaken for an elf child... MY child..."
There was an even longer silence, before, "Lastriel... you know this is impossible. He is a hobbit. He belongs in the Shire. With his family.'
Neither said anything. Marroc was cold. He shivered in Lastriels arms, and she, this movement plucking her maternal heartstrings, held him tighter, and a cold, glistening tear dripping from her eyes. She held him tight just a moment longer, before outstretching her arms. Gildor reached out to take him, but she stopped.
"Promise me this first, Gildor..."
~*~*~*~
Marroc would never know how he happened to go out in Lastriels arms and wake up in his own bed at Brandyhall again. Perhaps it had been a dream? Perhaps she hadn't come...?
~No...~ He told himself stubbornly over and over in his head ~She was there... she was real... she held me and someone else as there... they were talking... I don't remember-~
But his thoughts were interrupted as the door creaked. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but found his whole body weak and hurting as he moved... ~What the...?~. His chest and ribs felt like someone far larger then he had kicked them repeatedly and with no mercy. His head spun and spun, until he felt his elbow give way and he collapsed, hitting his head on the headboard.
He seemed to be spinning even more...he whimpered, and the person who had entered rushed over to his side.
"Don't try an' get up, lad... you're too weak..."
He opened his eyes, and found his own father leaning over him....
~*~*~*~
A/N: Hahahahahahaha...hahahahahaha... boogers, I have to go.
~Hippy
Marrocs Tale
By Hippy Hobbit
Chapter 11: Elves and Their Issues
Dedicated to Niph
~*~*~*~
It was nearly Yuletide.
Neither Gildor nor Lastirel had come to see their little hobbit friend.
This matter was depressing Marroc more and more as the days got shorter. His mother had taken to bed once more, and he was hardly ever allowed in to see her. Pippin and his family had taken their leave the day after the harvest feast, Pippin waving goodbye to him sadly, still sporting a crutch under his arm from the back of the wagon. Marroc had only once felt so alone, and he hardly wished to think back to that time.
Butch was still with him, of course. But Merry refused to talk to him since the mushroom incident.
He'd been in SERIOUS trouble after pulling that one. Saradoc had given him a whipping he wouldn't soon forget, and nearly every adult present had given him a lecture at the time, including the elderly hobbit who had been standing near Frodo and Merry at the time of the mishap, who was in fact THE Bilbo Baggins. Ever since Frodos parents had died, Bilbo had been in charge of the boys well being. Thus, Marroc could easily understand why he'd been the one to give him the longest of the 7 or so lectures- eating dung could hardly consist of being well.
Marroc had asked Merry if Pippin would be coming for Yule, but, of course, he'd received no answer. This dampened his spirits even more, causing him to have almost nothing to look forward to in the future. The winter seemed so long and dreary. To complete this picture of misery, he'd caught a sniff of a cold and was forced by his elders to stay inside, cooped up in his room with only Butch for company, staring out into the snowy grounds.
Marroc loved snow, and every year when it came, his senses seemed to go wild with delight. The sight of it, the feeling, the taste, the smell! Even the sound of it...or lack thereof- the cool quiet in the dead of night, when he'd sneak up to look out the front main window at his house and see the huge flakes falling down, piling up around the sill...sometimes he could fall asleep watching this display of beauty, and wake up back in his bed, his mother having found him in the night and brought him back to his room.
But this year, he wasn't allowed outside. Nevertheless, this could have made the lives of his elders easier, though it would make him sick. But with no doubt, this had crossed some of their minds.
His loneliness had almost caused young Marroc to go on a pranking spree, had he not remembered so well what had happened with his last one. So, instead, all he did was sit on his bed, sulking, or sometimes reading.
He wondered whether his elf friends had come to see him, but not finding him, had left, not to return until a later date, or perhaps ever. He wondered this a lot, that is, until one night, as he lay awake on his soft, goose feather mattress.
A tapping came to the window above his bed, jerking Marroc out of a sort of trance. He sat up and looked out.
The dove he had once saved sat upon the sill, snow piling up around it. It looked at him, expectantly, almost, as though he should've known that it was coming, and why it was coming. And suddenly... he did.
Lastriel was here.
~*~*~*~
He ran through the yard on his way to the Old Forest, bundled up as best as he could manage on his own. The dove fluttered ahead of him, leading him, though he knew where he was going.
It was so cold. His teeth chattered fiercely as he pulled the warm cloak around himself, the very points of his ears freezing and stinging. The bitter air seemed to bite through his skin and eat away his bones and insides. But the adrenaline pulsing through him was sooo pleasant.
He knew if he were to be caught, his mother would kill him. It amused him the slightest to think about which limb she would remove first in his mind as he ran, tumbling along after the little white flit.
The woods thickened gradually around him and the falling snowflakes got caught in his hair and long eyelashes, chilling him even more so as his head grew wetter and wetter.
His feet lead him to the well-known path to his secret grove, where the Fairy Tree was. And just below the long spindly branches sat Lastriel.
She was so beautiful, in her long robes of the exiled grey, snowflakes caught in her long, glorious hair as she stroked the rough bark of the old Yew, which seemed to be creaking loudly in the wind. She looked around just in time to be tackled in a massive bear hug by a tiny hobbit, though luckily she caught herself before falling over.
"Ah! There you are, my little one!" She cried, "Why didn't you wait here for me? I have been expecting you all day!" she ruffled his curls.
"I had the sicky," was Marrocs reply, "An' my uncle wouldn't let me leave the house, so I had to sneak." He stared at her for a moment, in her light robes and cloth boots; her pale hands seemingly to be whiter then the snow, "Aren't you cold?"
Lastriel smiled, "Elves don't get cold."
Marroc tried to process this thought, as she surveyed him over him, eyeing the sling for a minute, "What happened with your arm?" she asked.
Marroc blinked, "Had a swword fight with my cousin, an' he stabbed me on accident," was the reply, but he continued, "But I'm so happy you're finally back! I missed you... I been so lonely. Me da got sent away 'cause he was roughin' me up, and Uncle Saradoc made him go away, and is takin' care of me and Mum, whos really sick still, and Merry won't talk to me no more, 'cause I tried to make him eat dung-filled mushrooms." He said all this in one breath.
The elf stared blankly at him, "You're father was beating you?"
Marroc blinked, then flushed, "It was only once. He hit me..."
"For no reason?"
"He...he was upset! My mumma was sick... I came in to kiss her goodnight...and he started yelling...saying she was gonna die if I didn't go away... and I...my eyes got wet... and he yelled at me even more, 'cause he said I wasn't supposed to cry..." Marroc felt his mind spinning... he seemed to forget where he was... why was he so cold? He was falling... falling... his eyes blacked out, suddenly, and he had no idea what was going on...
Sharp voices bit through his head
"Is he ill?"
"I dunno!"
"Hand him over to me. I know his father... I can take him home..."
"His fathers gone, he says. He was beating him."
"Tarroc? Beat his own son?"
"That's what he said! Been living with his uncle."
"Must be at Brandyhall. Give him over, Lastriel. I shall take him there."
"No, Gildor!"
"And why not?"
"He was not supposed to be out! They'll whip him, I'm sure."
"He'd deserve it. Awful little trouble maker."
There was a short silence before Gildor spoke again, "Besides, where would you take him? Northernways?"
"Perhaps."
"He HAS got family, you know. Whatever would they do if he suddenly went missing and never returned?"
"*I* could be his family! I could teach him everything he'd ever need to learn! He could be... he could be... an elf-hobbit!" Marroc felt her grip around him grow tighter.
There came a heavy sigh from Gildor, "Lastriel-"
"NO! Gildor! I will NOT let you ruin this! You ruin everything! YOU are the one who exiled my mother! YOU took away my brother from me!" She fell quiet for a moment, thinking, "Besides, Marroc is fairer and slenderer than most of his kind... he could easily be mistaken for an elf child... MY child..."
There was an even longer silence, before, "Lastriel... you know this is impossible. He is a hobbit. He belongs in the Shire. With his family.'
Neither said anything. Marroc was cold. He shivered in Lastriels arms, and she, this movement plucking her maternal heartstrings, held him tighter, and a cold, glistening tear dripping from her eyes. She held him tight just a moment longer, before outstretching her arms. Gildor reached out to take him, but she stopped.
"Promise me this first, Gildor..."
~*~*~*~
Marroc would never know how he happened to go out in Lastriels arms and wake up in his own bed at Brandyhall again. Perhaps it had been a dream? Perhaps she hadn't come...?
~No...~ He told himself stubbornly over and over in his head ~She was there... she was real... she held me and someone else as there... they were talking... I don't remember-~
But his thoughts were interrupted as the door creaked. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but found his whole body weak and hurting as he moved... ~What the...?~. His chest and ribs felt like someone far larger then he had kicked them repeatedly and with no mercy. His head spun and spun, until he felt his elbow give way and he collapsed, hitting his head on the headboard.
He seemed to be spinning even more...he whimpered, and the person who had entered rushed over to his side.
"Don't try an' get up, lad... you're too weak..."
He opened his eyes, and found his own father leaning over him....
~*~*~*~
A/N: Hahahahahahaha...hahahahahaha... boogers, I have to go.
~Hippy