AFTER ALL

3018 T.A.

Brandy Hall, Buckland

"Where are you going, Merry?" She crossed her arms expectantly, her frilly, layered dress whispering delicately across the floor by the doorway.

Merry turned slowly from his hasty packing and looked to her, shrugging. He shook his head and pulled the drawstring on a linen sack. Shouldering it, he brushed past her and made his way out the door, stopping on the step below her. Their gazes locked, and for the longest time, all they did was stare.

"Will you be back?" she asked.

In response, he reached up and pulled the floppy straw hat hat from her voluminous curls and slowly covered her slightly parted lips with his.

"I don't know," he whispered, replacing the sunbonnet to its original position. He continued to walk down the path, looking back a few times and smiling at her before mounting his pony and disappearing around the bend in the lane. She didn't look away, the sound of brittle leaves skittering across the ground distant in her ears. The sun began to dip below the hills in the horizon, a gate creaked in the wind, a bird called from within the forest, and then, nothing. Nothing at all.

3019 T.A.

Budgeford Bridgefields, Eastfarthing

Her breath clung to the air as she ambled fumblingly through the forest. There was a path, but she had strayed from it. Her movements were stiff and exhausted, her bare fingers pale and numb as they clutched the handle of a sheathed sword much too large for her. Her hair was covered in ice and her now matted brown curls were nestled in a drooping bun at the base of her neck. Her cheeks were flushed red against her pale, dirty face smudged with unwashed grime and thin, blood-caked scratches.

Something hidden beneath the snow caught her foot and caused her to jerk dangerously forward, but she caught herself just before losing her balance. A small cry escaped her chapped, frozen lips, and they began to tremble against her already chattering teeth.

She stilled for a moment, the frigid air whisking around her. She cupped her hands in her mouth and coughed, bringing them down and rubbing them together roughly, shivering as the wind swept violently through the leafless trees. They stood, bare and tall, black stalks against the white hills. The sky above them was clear but pale and lifeless. A bird called from overhead, the only one she'd seen or heard all day. He too was black and scrawny and gave her the uneasy feeling of something ominous, like thunder.

Her eyes darted suspiciously, her surrounding seen only in quick, fleeting images as they moved from one scene to the next, but they all looked the same. Her ears perked as she listened intently for anything out of the ordinary. The bird ruffled its wings and departed, leaving behind a dead silence.

She shouldered her pack and shuffled her feet. Her going was slow as she trudged tiredly through the deep powder, but she would make it home by nightfall. Her only fear was that some Ruffian or Sheriff would arrive at her hole, making their rounds or scavenging for food and money, taking from those who could barely afford to give, and find her missing with a beating in order when she returned. She was not supposed to wander this far this late.

The wind died down a bit and she was suddenly aware of the faint sound of approaching footsteps. The rhythmic crunch of snow was unmistakable, and for a moment she thought she heard a pony bray, the sound echoing off the hills.

Her body stiffened in response. She hunched low and peered cautiously around her. Her grip on the sword tightened, and with unskilled effort she managed to clumsily but silently unsheathe it as she backed herself against a large tree. A few moments passed. The footsteps seemed to grow closer at first, but then stopped suddenly. It was all she could do to still her beating heart and shaking hands. At last she pursed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. Slowly, she craned her head and peeked out from behind her hiding place.

She saw them immediately, the approaching figures of a cloaked stranger and his steed. Even from a distance, the strangeness of their appearance was not lost on her: the steed, a pony, was ornately decorated, and its master stood shorter than a man, yet taller than a hobbit. Her brow furrowed as bewilderment began to cloud her fear. Unconsciously, she leaned forward, momentarily transfixed by this curious pair of interlopers-

Until the snap of a twig broke her spell.

She froze in horror as the cloaked figure's head jerked instantly in her direction. The blood in her veins turned to ice, for despite the shadow that fell across the stranger's face, she could feel his eyes going straight through her.

For a very long time, neither of them moved.

Then at last, something within her seemed to break. With a ragged breath, she drew up her courage and stepped from behind the tree. "Who are you!" she demanded, lifting the impossibly heavy sword before her with trembling hands. "What do you want!"

The stranger did not reply. In fact, he did not move at all. He did nothing. And for her, it was the most unnerving thing he could have done. Panic rose in her throat like bile.

"What do you want!" she screamed hysterically. Her body began to shake uncontrollably, and a warm wetness on her face told her that she had also begun to cry.

At last, the figure spoke:

"Estella? Estella Bolger?"

The sound of her name nearly brought her to her knees. "Who are you?" she whispered.

The stranger pulled back his hood.

It was Meriadoc Brandybuck scouting the Bridgefields.

"I could be hanged for helping you," Estella said softly, heaving a spoonful of beans onto Merry's supper plate. She reached for a skillet and forked out two scrawny pieces of meat. "They'd arrange it in a heartbeat. They love a hanging," she gritted, "and when they can't get that, it's the Lockholes." She brought her knife down with more force than necessary and scrunched her face in an irritated manner.

"Lockholes?" he asked, looking up from his dinner.

"Michel Delving," Estella explained. "They've turned it into a prison for rebels. They took Fatty there," she added more tenderly. "I haven't heard a word from him since the day they locked him up."

"I heard," said Merry softly, pain evident in his own voice. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be. You'll end up being sorry for more things than you can remember. It doesn't mean anything anymore." She shrugged, seating herself at the wobbly table.

An uneasy silence passed as they both concentrated on their meal.

"What kind of meat is this?" he asked at length, mouth full.

"Mole," she answered without hesitation. "I've learned you can just about live off moles and beans," she said in a cheery, matter-of-fact voice. "If you can't," she paused to point a fork at him, "you had better learn how. Nothing left to eat anymore. Sharky and that Lotho Sackville round up whatever we grow, and for that reason, most of us don't grow anything anymore." She reached out for her cup and sipped the water. "Brandywine River's about dried up and everything went with it."

Merry paused in mid-sip and looked up, fiddling with his mug suspiciously. "Then what am I drinking?" he asked, lowering his cup to the table.

"Melted snow," she answered, whipping her mouth with her sleeve. She stood suddenly and walked over to what he supposed had once been a china cabinet. The wood was worn and aged, and the glass panels were either broken or missing all together. No expensive porcelain plates or silver spoons adorned its shelves. She opened a drawer, pulled out a threadbare burgundy sock, and plopped it on the table with a jingle and a thud.

"This is all we have left."

He looked at the sock and figured it couldn't be much at all. She picked it up again and returned it to the drawer.

"Don't know what I need it for," she thought aloud. "There's nothing left to buy from anyone." She looked down at him and smirked. "They took away all the pipe weed, you know—all our weed and all our ale."

Mr. Brandybuck fingered his pipe protectively, then shifted his weight and propped an elbow on her table, picking at his food skeptically. "How are you faring?"

"Some have it worse," she said. "Some have it much worse." A darkness clouded her hazel eyes as she slowly slid back her chair. She motioned to the hallway where faint candlelight seeped through a crack in one of the doors. "Mrs. Underhill," she began, closing her eyes and hanging her head.

"Her two boys had ranked up to Sheriffs around the time the Ruffians arrived. They had the chance to drop out, but they didn't know what they were in for, so they stayed. After a few weeks, they caught on to the scheme and decided they weren't going to fight for a cause they didn't believe in. They snuck out of their barracks one night and hid in the woods, then they made their way home the next morning.

"A few days later, Lotho passed a law saying that any deserters of our militia were to be turned into the authorities if found, and anyone who was harboring one would be considered equally guilty. Poor old Mrs. Underhill wouldn't give up her boys, so she and her husband hid them inside her smial for a month.

"After a while, people got to notice strange behavior: Mrs. Underhill wouldn't let anyone past her front door, and Mr. Underhill would sit out in the front garden with a sword next to his rocking chair and a pitchfork by the steps. Their clothesline had too many overalls for one man and the place stayed pretty nicely kept up, even though the Underhills were much too old to be doing that much work. It was just a matter of time before someone put the pieces together.

"And sure enough, one afternoon, Lotho and a gang of Ruffians showed up and met Mr. Underhill at his front gate. Mr. Underhill said they had no business on his land and to get off, but Lotho… Lotho just laughed and had his throat slit." Her voice began to quaver and she leaned heavily on the table for support.

"Mrs. Underhill came rushing out of her hole to help her husband, but poor sole, they had her neck strung to a pony an threatened to run it all the way to Bag End if her boys didn't show. Next thing you know, they came running out of that barn crying for their mother." She paused. "And that was that."

Shaking the memory from her mind, she motioned again toward the door in the hallway. "Freddy and I found her sobbing on the steps. Her boys were face down in the yard, and her husband was propped up beside the fence. We carried her to the wagon and brought her here," she finished. "Lotho bought out the Underhill Estate and everything in it. She hasn't said a word since."

Again, the silence was unbroken.

"Lost my father," Estella started, attempting to keep up a conversation. She missed having conversations with other hobbits, especially with Merry. "They stuck him with a poisoned arrow. It was earlier on, back when the taverns were still opened. I was working late and he had come to pick me up. We were the only ones left when these two Ruffians came to the door with orders to raid the kitchen and take the kegs. Papa wouldn't have it, so he put up a fight. Didn't last very long—once the arrow was in, I pulled him to a back room and did my best to clean it. He died the next day.

"We could go to the cemetery, and I could show you his grave, but there're so many there now we'd not likely find it." She passed her glance by his face, studying it carefully with solemn interest. The candlelight flickered across her features as she leaned across the table on her elbows. "Whatever you think you have lost on your travels—on your battlefields and in your heart—has here been lost a hundred times over."

He then realized then that as she had told him these things, the innocence her voice had once, long ago, been marked by was disturbingly absent. Gone was the adolescent aristocrat with frilled dresses and brimmed hats. Abandoned were her delicate mannerisms and adherence to formal etiquette. Her once glossy curls and tanned complexion had been lost. Her eyes and indeed, everything about her, seemed darker.

When she had finished speaking to him of the occupation, and he, in turn, told her of his travels. As she listened, her head bowed and she took to staring at her own hands clasped numbly in her lap. For she suddenly felt small and submissive in his presence: he had managed to come home an honorable war hero with shining armor and endless tales of heroism adventure while she had lost almost everything. A sensation of smallness overwhelmed her for the rest of their conversation, until at last he announced that it was time for him to go.

She rose slowly from table and walked him to the door. Once there, she leaned against the paneling, crossing her arms and watching her breath crystallize as she sighed into the night air. He adjusted his cloak and walked down the steps, then turned to face her but didn't say anything, just stood there with his hands in his pockets.

"Was there something you wanted to say to me?" she asked.

He thought a moment, and then nodded. "Thank you for supper," he said, bowing slightly.

She nodded back and offered him an almost smile. "It was nice," she said softly, "to have company, I mean. And..." she hesitated, "and...after all that's happened...to see you again, because I thought I never...that you wouldn't..." Her eyes flickered to his face briefly before falling to the ground. "But you are..." she whispered, her voice cracking, "and you did..."

She felt the warmth of his touch as he took her hand in his. They both watched as he stroked his thumb softly over her small fingers. For a moment it seemed as though he were trying to say something. And then all of a sudden, he had pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. She let out a choked gasp and clutched her own arms firmly about his waist.

When at last his hold began to loosen, they both stepped back, and without touching or looking at each other, walked in silence to where his pony stood tethered at what was left of her front gate. Estella watched with crossed arms and growing reluctance as Merry prepared to depart.

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Brandybuck," she told him.

His looked up, and his eyes met hers. The corners of his mouth curled into a small smirk. "And you," he said quietly. "Miss Bolger."

He continued to watch her, a small smile playing on his lips, his pony's reins resting limply in his hand. She in return continued to watch him, her own arms wrapped tightly about her small frame, gazing up at him with soft eyes. And they stood like that for some time, as though drinking in the sight of one another, allowing the unspoken to pass between them.

At long last he turned to leave, and only when his figure had faded into the darkness did she too turn away. At the doorway, she found Mrs. Underhill waiting with a candle. The older hobbit smiled warmly at Estella as she welcomed the young lass into their home.