~*~*~*~
Marrocs Tale
Chapter 13: The Trip
By Hippy Hobbit
Dedicated to Niph
~*~*~*~
One year came and went. Maggie, despite the predictions of the Healers, lived to see spring. And then summer and fall after that. It seemed as though when the weather got warmer and the flowers began to bloom, so did Maggies health and spirits. Or it just could've been the fact that Tarroc was back. Not only home, but also back to his nice, old self.
The fact that his father had finally gotten his head back together hardly seemed to pass through Marrocs head. He kept his distance, no matter how much Tarroc would apologize. He wasn't actually rude to his father, he just... detached, forlorn, dejected...any of those words would work to describe the little ones mood towards his father. He never spoke, only nodding if Tarroc were to speak to him first, but never making eye contact. He spent most of his time away from home, either out in the woods or along the bank of the Brandywine with his Brandybuck cousins, or sometimes, even journeying to Tookland to see Pippin. He no longer felt the need to be with his mother every waking minute of every single day, simply because of the fact that his father was home all day to take care of her whenever she might feel the slightest bit ill. He worked his shifts at night, patrolling the boarders of the Old Forest carefully and quietly, from the back of the fine young mare he'd bought upon his return to the Shire from a private pony-breeder. The beasts name was Storm.
Storm was a vicious, ornery creature. Her fur and mane were a dark, soulless ebony color, and her eyes seemed to glow red with malice if one were to look at them long enough. The whole thought of her made Marroc tremble- and he thoroughly avoided going into the stables now, keeping Butch inside with him (despite his mother's protests), as to not have to face this very embodiment of evil.
Marroc was now the proper age of seven years old. Not old, you may say, but not too young anymore, either, as his older cousins saw it. For some reason, he was now more liked by his Brandybuck cousins. Even Merry seemed friendlier towards him. He didn't know if it was because of his age (this could be highly doubted...they'd always thought him queer before...why stop now?) or if it was because of the infamous mushroom-prank, a story which would be re-told for generations of Brandybucks, but all-and-all, his cousins were a lot nicer to him whenever he managed to journey to Brandyhall to see them.
The weather was starting to get cold once more. It was now mid-autumn and most of the leaves had fallen from the trees. Old gaffers and gammas could be seen sitting on their porches, predicting when the first snowfall would come, with their scarves and shawls all pulled about them and sometimes a pipe in the mouths of the gaffers as they huffed smoke rings out into the cold air.
Marroc had developed a slight cough in the last week. He'd spent this time at Tookland with Merry to see Pip once again.
The Tooks were always very fascinated with the two lads when they came to visit. But it wasn't always a good sort of fascination. Some thought them silly Bucklanders, playing around in their boats and such. But others, especially the younger lads, were spellbound in a good way.
One of these hobbits was Tollibard Took, newest member of the Thains' escort. The two Bucklanders awed him incredibly, as he had never yet been across the Brandywine before. It interested him in the way they dressed, as it was far different from those of the Tooklanders- the wool was smoother and far more comfortable (it was taken from the front of the sheep, where the fibers are farther apart, giving more air room and making it smoother). Their speech was also different- they hardly pronounced their 'R's.
But he disliked the whole boat-thing, and at first, he flatly refused to take them across the Brandywine, though in the end, he figured that they might tell their uncle, and he would kick him off the escort. So, Tollibard Took braved the ferry for the first (but not last) time in his life.
As they finally entered the Hall, one of the maids rushed over to Marroc, 'Mr. Marroc, you're parents are waiting in the Masters Study for you.'
Marroc blinked, 'Why for?' he asked. He had planned to stay the night here, at the hall, as the journey was too long to go for such a little one during the night.
But the maid didn't answer him; she just bustled off to tend to some of the children who were up way past their bedtimes.
Marroc left Tolly and Merry in the foyer and went in the direction of the Masters Study. It was not far from the entrance, nor anywhere near the more residential parts of the hall, but positioned just right so that the large window in the study faced out over the top of the Hill, over the many fields and orchards owned by the Brandybucks, and down on to the Brandywine.
Marroc took his time walking there, in no hurry to see his father, as he ever was. He stopped every now and then, looking at pictures on the wall, or whatever else could capture his attention at the moment. But finally, the inevitable came to happen. He stood before the door of the Masters Study, staring at it, a bead of sweat on his forehead. In there was his mother... his beautiful, kind, sweet mother. And also his father. His cruel-hearted wicked father. He opened the door slowly and stepped in, taking a deep breath as he did so.
Saradoc was sitting at his desk, looking calm and cool. He had a mug of warm tea set in front of him and a few scones as well. Across from him in two comfy armchairs was Maggie and Tarroc, who were looking a little tired, but still happy. Maggie stood up from her chair when Marroc walked in and strode over to him, wrapping him up in a big hug.
'Hey Sweetheart...' she cooed, kissing his forehead. Marroc felt himself blush a little, but then remembered that none of his cousins were around to laugh at him. He smiled up at his mother, fondly and she mussed his curls.
'Come sit down,' Saradoc said, gesturing to another armchair, which was right by Tarroc. Marroc regarded the chair with a bit of a frightened look for a moment, before doing what he was told, though he scooted over a tiny bit afterwards. Tarroc pretended not to notice.
'Son,' he said, 'Your mother and I have decided to take a trip down to Tuckbourgh this year for Yuletide, and while we're gone, we want you to stay here, at Brandyhall.'
Marroc blinked. Well, that was nice. Leave me alone for the holidays. Thanks for caring, Father. He scowled inwardly, his bright eyes casting downwards. Though Brandybucks'd surround him for Yule, he knew that the lot of them would be spending the day with their immediate family- mothers, fathers and their children. That would leave Marroc alone all day until supper, which was spent in the Great Hall with the entire population of Brandyhall. His uncle must've caught the sigh because he immediately added in, 'You'll be with us all day, Marroc-Lad... Merry, Auntie Essy and myself... you'll not be alone, lad...' he said, in a mostly hopeful tone.
'Uhh... Oi think Oi'd like ta talk wit Marroc alone fer a moment...' Tarroc said quickly standing up. Marroc followed his father out into the hallway, nervously. He tried to stop shaking, but found it useless to try to stop. As Tarroc shut the door behind them, he looked at his quivering son.
'Marroc-Lad,' he said, firmly, 'Look, this is really important to yewr mother that the two of us spend this time together this Yuletide...Oi...Oi doubt she'll be here next year...' Marroc felt a sting in his heart, and for the first time in over a year, he spoke to his father.
'B-but... she looks better!' he cried, indignantly. Tarrocs eyes drooped to the ground, 'Oi know... but she's getting worse. The Healers say so... and everyday, she tells me...well, nevermind.'
'What does she say?' Marroc demanded. The tone of his voice astounded his father, and even frightened him. He started to stutter, until Marroc gave him a glare that'd break glass.
'It-it-it's really none of yewr business, lad...but... she thinks she is going to die...knows it, actually...'
Marroc stared at him and he felt his left eye twitch. He bit his lip hard. Tarroc stared back.
'Son... I...' he took one step towards Marroc, and the little Took turned tail and ran away from him. Away from everything. The pain. The sorrow. He ran.
(A/N: Ackk, I suffer from COS- Comma Overload Syndrome...also, I do believe Marroc has ADHD...
Niph: Good points. But there is a very specific reason Lastriel is that way, and you'll find out as the story progresses...
DaneGohan: Hmmm... well, as you can tell by this chapter, Marroc is not going to be an elf-hobbit... not now at least *evil laughter* Well, actually, I wasn't planning on it, but that would make a good sort of spin-off, wouldn't it? Hmm... all I have to say now is... MORE KIRK!
Elessar*Lover: Lol, Thanks! I'm glad you love it, but sometimes it takes a while for me to update 'cause I'm really busy all the time...
Sam the Comic Relief Midget: Thanks!
Please review...
~Hippy Hobbit))
Marrocs Tale
Chapter 13: The Trip
By Hippy Hobbit
Dedicated to Niph
~*~*~*~
One year came and went. Maggie, despite the predictions of the Healers, lived to see spring. And then summer and fall after that. It seemed as though when the weather got warmer and the flowers began to bloom, so did Maggies health and spirits. Or it just could've been the fact that Tarroc was back. Not only home, but also back to his nice, old self.
The fact that his father had finally gotten his head back together hardly seemed to pass through Marrocs head. He kept his distance, no matter how much Tarroc would apologize. He wasn't actually rude to his father, he just... detached, forlorn, dejected...any of those words would work to describe the little ones mood towards his father. He never spoke, only nodding if Tarroc were to speak to him first, but never making eye contact. He spent most of his time away from home, either out in the woods or along the bank of the Brandywine with his Brandybuck cousins, or sometimes, even journeying to Tookland to see Pippin. He no longer felt the need to be with his mother every waking minute of every single day, simply because of the fact that his father was home all day to take care of her whenever she might feel the slightest bit ill. He worked his shifts at night, patrolling the boarders of the Old Forest carefully and quietly, from the back of the fine young mare he'd bought upon his return to the Shire from a private pony-breeder. The beasts name was Storm.
Storm was a vicious, ornery creature. Her fur and mane were a dark, soulless ebony color, and her eyes seemed to glow red with malice if one were to look at them long enough. The whole thought of her made Marroc tremble- and he thoroughly avoided going into the stables now, keeping Butch inside with him (despite his mother's protests), as to not have to face this very embodiment of evil.
Marroc was now the proper age of seven years old. Not old, you may say, but not too young anymore, either, as his older cousins saw it. For some reason, he was now more liked by his Brandybuck cousins. Even Merry seemed friendlier towards him. He didn't know if it was because of his age (this could be highly doubted...they'd always thought him queer before...why stop now?) or if it was because of the infamous mushroom-prank, a story which would be re-told for generations of Brandybucks, but all-and-all, his cousins were a lot nicer to him whenever he managed to journey to Brandyhall to see them.
The weather was starting to get cold once more. It was now mid-autumn and most of the leaves had fallen from the trees. Old gaffers and gammas could be seen sitting on their porches, predicting when the first snowfall would come, with their scarves and shawls all pulled about them and sometimes a pipe in the mouths of the gaffers as they huffed smoke rings out into the cold air.
Marroc had developed a slight cough in the last week. He'd spent this time at Tookland with Merry to see Pip once again.
The Tooks were always very fascinated with the two lads when they came to visit. But it wasn't always a good sort of fascination. Some thought them silly Bucklanders, playing around in their boats and such. But others, especially the younger lads, were spellbound in a good way.
One of these hobbits was Tollibard Took, newest member of the Thains' escort. The two Bucklanders awed him incredibly, as he had never yet been across the Brandywine before. It interested him in the way they dressed, as it was far different from those of the Tooklanders- the wool was smoother and far more comfortable (it was taken from the front of the sheep, where the fibers are farther apart, giving more air room and making it smoother). Their speech was also different- they hardly pronounced their 'R's.
But he disliked the whole boat-thing, and at first, he flatly refused to take them across the Brandywine, though in the end, he figured that they might tell their uncle, and he would kick him off the escort. So, Tollibard Took braved the ferry for the first (but not last) time in his life.
As they finally entered the Hall, one of the maids rushed over to Marroc, 'Mr. Marroc, you're parents are waiting in the Masters Study for you.'
Marroc blinked, 'Why for?' he asked. He had planned to stay the night here, at the hall, as the journey was too long to go for such a little one during the night.
But the maid didn't answer him; she just bustled off to tend to some of the children who were up way past their bedtimes.
Marroc left Tolly and Merry in the foyer and went in the direction of the Masters Study. It was not far from the entrance, nor anywhere near the more residential parts of the hall, but positioned just right so that the large window in the study faced out over the top of the Hill, over the many fields and orchards owned by the Brandybucks, and down on to the Brandywine.
Marroc took his time walking there, in no hurry to see his father, as he ever was. He stopped every now and then, looking at pictures on the wall, or whatever else could capture his attention at the moment. But finally, the inevitable came to happen. He stood before the door of the Masters Study, staring at it, a bead of sweat on his forehead. In there was his mother... his beautiful, kind, sweet mother. And also his father. His cruel-hearted wicked father. He opened the door slowly and stepped in, taking a deep breath as he did so.
Saradoc was sitting at his desk, looking calm and cool. He had a mug of warm tea set in front of him and a few scones as well. Across from him in two comfy armchairs was Maggie and Tarroc, who were looking a little tired, but still happy. Maggie stood up from her chair when Marroc walked in and strode over to him, wrapping him up in a big hug.
'Hey Sweetheart...' she cooed, kissing his forehead. Marroc felt himself blush a little, but then remembered that none of his cousins were around to laugh at him. He smiled up at his mother, fondly and she mussed his curls.
'Come sit down,' Saradoc said, gesturing to another armchair, which was right by Tarroc. Marroc regarded the chair with a bit of a frightened look for a moment, before doing what he was told, though he scooted over a tiny bit afterwards. Tarroc pretended not to notice.
'Son,' he said, 'Your mother and I have decided to take a trip down to Tuckbourgh this year for Yuletide, and while we're gone, we want you to stay here, at Brandyhall.'
Marroc blinked. Well, that was nice. Leave me alone for the holidays. Thanks for caring, Father. He scowled inwardly, his bright eyes casting downwards. Though Brandybucks'd surround him for Yule, he knew that the lot of them would be spending the day with their immediate family- mothers, fathers and their children. That would leave Marroc alone all day until supper, which was spent in the Great Hall with the entire population of Brandyhall. His uncle must've caught the sigh because he immediately added in, 'You'll be with us all day, Marroc-Lad... Merry, Auntie Essy and myself... you'll not be alone, lad...' he said, in a mostly hopeful tone.
'Uhh... Oi think Oi'd like ta talk wit Marroc alone fer a moment...' Tarroc said quickly standing up. Marroc followed his father out into the hallway, nervously. He tried to stop shaking, but found it useless to try to stop. As Tarroc shut the door behind them, he looked at his quivering son.
'Marroc-Lad,' he said, firmly, 'Look, this is really important to yewr mother that the two of us spend this time together this Yuletide...Oi...Oi doubt she'll be here next year...' Marroc felt a sting in his heart, and for the first time in over a year, he spoke to his father.
'B-but... she looks better!' he cried, indignantly. Tarrocs eyes drooped to the ground, 'Oi know... but she's getting worse. The Healers say so... and everyday, she tells me...well, nevermind.'
'What does she say?' Marroc demanded. The tone of his voice astounded his father, and even frightened him. He started to stutter, until Marroc gave him a glare that'd break glass.
'It-it-it's really none of yewr business, lad...but... she thinks she is going to die...knows it, actually...'
Marroc stared at him and he felt his left eye twitch. He bit his lip hard. Tarroc stared back.
'Son... I...' he took one step towards Marroc, and the little Took turned tail and ran away from him. Away from everything. The pain. The sorrow. He ran.
(A/N: Ackk, I suffer from COS- Comma Overload Syndrome...also, I do believe Marroc has ADHD...
Niph: Good points. But there is a very specific reason Lastriel is that way, and you'll find out as the story progresses...
DaneGohan: Hmmm... well, as you can tell by this chapter, Marroc is not going to be an elf-hobbit... not now at least *evil laughter* Well, actually, I wasn't planning on it, but that would make a good sort of spin-off, wouldn't it? Hmm... all I have to say now is... MORE KIRK!
Elessar*Lover: Lol, Thanks! I'm glad you love it, but sometimes it takes a while for me to update 'cause I'm really busy all the time...
Sam the Comic Relief Midget: Thanks!
Please review...
~Hippy Hobbit))