Nel had been cold and damp for so long, she wondered how she felt it any more. Yet she did feel it, as she felt every gritty step over the rough stone floor. She could almost imagine where she had worn tracks in it from her feet, tracing over and over again the same steps. She shivered, hugging herself. It was always cold in the Lockholes, but even here, hidden from the sun, she could feel the season turning. Autumn was settling in. The summer had leaked away beyond her sight. Now she faced an even bleaker end to a dismal year. She wondered if she'd survive.
She plucked her cloak more tightly around herself. The ruffians had shown her this much kindness; they'd let her keep her own clothes. Of course, the dress was ruined beyond repair after months of her sleeping in her clothes. The cloak was equally shabby. Both had been designed for the lighter weather of spring, not the penetrating cold of winter, to be endured in a stone cage. As she drew the tattered fabric close, she was too conscious of its sour smell, and the overripe stink of her body. The stench of this place permeated her clothing and hair even as it fouled the stale air. She never had water enough to clean herself. She attempted it after her monthly courses, but the cost of this minimal basic hygiene was thirst.
She inquired constantly, of course; every new prisoner who was brought down their row was interrogated by their nearest neighbors, their information passed along the line in whispers. Ned Stoakes of Bywater, dragged in for "hoarding" food; Bella and Ruffo Headstrong, of the Upper Smials, brought in for sheltering hobbits without leave; Folcard Hornblower, taken from Whitwell after he violated curfew. Nel's heart contracted when she heard his name and village. She contrived to send a message back to him: Was Pervinca safe? Did Vinca and her new husband receive Nel's warning in time, or had her sacrifice been worthless, leaving her closest kin to languish in some distant cell?
The answer healed her heart. "Escaped to Tookland," was the message passed along to her from the Goodbody family, confined in the cell beside hers. Nel bent her head, feeling tears burn her eyes.
That Spring, she had learnt quite suddenly that her sister had become a target, for the Chief hoped to use her capture to force Paladin's hand. This intelligence, which had reached her by way of a messenger inbound to the Great Smials, had sent her hastening to Whitwell, where Vinca had moved to live with her new husband. Abandoning the group with which she'd been tilling Tookland's scanty fields (the hilly area the Tooks commanded contained little arable land), Nel cut straight across the sentry lines toward Whitwell. Her pony had been stopped at dusk by ruffians at the outskirts of town. She had shouted her warning to the amazed hobbits who had come to their doors to find out what the commotion was.
"Vinca Took!" Nel had shouted, as a pair of Men dragged her from her pony. "She's married to Willy Whitfoot. The Chief's men mean to seize her. She has to get away!"
Then the biggest brute caught her by the wrists. He had gripped her so tightly, she wore the bluish marks on her skin for weeks. She was certain the bone in her right wrist had fractured; it swelled up after her capture, and she fashioned a bandage for it out of her underclothes. The pain diminished over time, and function gradually returned. That first night, however, she had cradled it to her breast, terrified of having it reinjured. The chief scoundrel bellowed at her, hoping to frighten a confession out of her.
"Who sent ye? Paladin Took?"
"I came on my own," Nel answered.
"Who are ye? Where do you live?"
"My name is Nelly Proudfoot. I'm a farmer from Tookland." The dirt on her clothes made this an effective lie. The ruffians must never learn that she was the emissary sent from the Smials to coordinate the sowing of the few fields safely within Took borders. Were her identity discovered, she would become the pawn she had tried to prevent her sister from becoming.
Vile as the ruffians were, they were not clever. They had believed Nel's story, so patiently repeated, and dragged her off to the Lockholes. Once there, she had tried to locate the old mayor, Whil Whitfoot—now her kin. She was confident that news would have come to him if Vinca and Willy had been taken. However, it seemed he was being held in another part of the storage holes. The sheer number of hobbits detained fueled her fears; if her sister and brother-in-law were taken, would she even know?
The iron gate at the end of the long tunnel squealed; someone was coming. Faint voices drifted down the hall—light voices, quick voices, not the deep grunting of the Men. Nel drew near to the little grate in her door, and listened. There was a great deal of clanging up the hall, some weeping and exclaiming. Faintly beyond it, she thought she heard cheers.
The news reached her in the normal way, from Old Marta Clayhanger in the neighboring cell nearest the door.
"It's hobbits!" she called in her wavery voice. "Hobbits has took over the Lockholes! They're letting everyone out!"
The hobbits in the nearby cells let out a cheer—some weakly, if they'd been here long. Nel clutched her throat, hardly daring to believe such good news. Surely the ruffians would set upon the rescue party before they could set everyone free. Even if they got out, how could the prisoners hope to evade any search parties, as weak and exhausted as they all were? Nel's heart skipped rapidly. Now that deliverance was at hand, she couldn't allow herself to feel it. She was trembling all over just from the notion. If hope, so long delayed, were snatched from her now, could she be able to face the vile hole in which she was imprisoned?
The hobbit working the keys came swiftly down the row. Door after door was thrown open, the occupants within softly but swiftly greeted. It was all a muddle; in the wake of this first hobbit, there was a murmur and shuffle of hobbits being helped outside; beyond that, dimly, a great din of cheering. Nel breathed quickly; certainly any Men in the area would hear such an uproar. Was it possible? Had the ruffians been… driven away?
The door next to hers flew open. A soft voice murmured, "Please make yourself easy, Madam. Someone will be along to help you out in a moment."
Nel's hands flew to her face. She knew that voice; it was the very same, though roughened by time or strain. She staggered back from her own door, as the key turned in the lock. The door swung open. A silhouette familiar to her dreams stood outlined in the entrance, backlit from the soft white light coming from far up the hall.
"Good afternoon, Miss. Are you strong enough to walk? There are… Nel."
They stared at one another through the gloom. She nodded once.
A hobbit bustled up beside her liberator. It was Sigismond Goold, of Tookbank. "Does this one need help, Frodo?" He glanced at Nel without recognition; she must be very changed, for him not to know her.
Frodo handed him the keys. "I've got her. Do you go on."
"Right." Sigi disappeared, and Nel heard the lock rattle on the door next to hers. The murmur of the eager Goodbodys blended with the commotion in the hall.
"Nel. Thank goodness you're safe." Frodo stepped, hands raised as if to embrace her. Nel shrank back. She was deeply ashamed of her state and appearance. What would he see, once he stepped inside? The vile pot in the corner that was her privy? The filthy blanket upon which she huddled every night, shaking so fiercely from cold on the hard floor that she could scarcely sleep?
But Frodo did not look about him. He paused upon her drawing back, then slowly extended one hand. He clasped her forearm gently; his grip was warm. Nel began trembling violently; she lowered her head, as painful tears crowded behind her eyes, constricting her chest. She whispered, "Vinca?"
"Safe," said Frodo. "Safe at home. Your warning reached her in time."
Nel sagged with relief. She blotted her eyes with a filthy sleeve. "Is she… is she well?"
"I assume so. I haven't seen her. Pippin learnt of your capture two nights ago, when he rode to Tookland to get reinforcements for the rebellion."
Nel looked at him quickly, through her tears. "Then, you really are fighting the ruffians?"
"The fighting is over. They are all overthrown: ruffians, Chief… Sharkey." His voice hitched.
Blinking away her tears, Nel looked at him closely for the first time. It came as a shock to see that he had been ill. Perhaps not ill—but there was something about his face, a pinched look that had not been there before. That disturbing discovery was succeeded by others. She had been used to consider Frodo as well-preserved as ever Bilbo had been; in all his years at Bag End, Frodo's face had never changed. Only the gradually growing waistline had given any hint of the passing years. Otherwise, he always looked just as he had done when he'd first come of age: young and handsome, a hobbit fresh out of his tweens.
The hobbit who looked at her now had aged. Silver flecked his raven hair, faint lines clustered round his eyes. It was as if, during the past year, all the aging he had neglected to do over the course of his lifetime had caught up to him at once. It was the more disconcerting to see, because his figure had returned to the slimness of his youth. She stared at him in puzzlement. "Were you… were you captured, too?"
Something flickered within his eyes, some door that instantly shut. "For a time," he said quietly, "and very far from here. But I know what it is like." He took her arm, and this time she let him draw her forward. "Come. We must get you outside. Pippin is anxious to find you."
She kept her head down as she stepped into the corridor. She much preferred for the moment to be some anonymous lass that Frodo was escorting, like so many other detainees, up the long hall. Dark silhouettes obscured her view to the outside: ranks of former prisoners being supported or carried. The open door beyond was a painful blur of white.
"You made it back," Nel murmured. "I'm glad. Father believed you were all dead."
"I know. Pippin told me. I'm very sorry about that. None of us suspected that the Shire would be in danger after we had gone. We tried to set things to rights as quickly as possible."
Nel halted and stared at him. "You! You started the rebellion!"
Frodo smiled sadly. "Well, it was Merry and Pippin more than me. But Sam and I were certainly in the party."
"Oh, Frodo." Nel felt herself wanting to cry again, although she wasn't sure why. Because he was as wonderful as she had ever thought he was? Because he was so wounded and wise and kind?
"Here, none of that." One of his arms went round her, and she leant into the embrace gratefully. "You have your father and Pippin to thank, really. Without support from Tookland, the rebellion would have failed hardly before it began."
"I'm sure you did your part."
"Not much of one. They're calling Pippin a captain now—he and Merry. But I did not strike any blow."
Nel looked at him sharply. She saw it again: pain so sharp in his face that it hurt her even to look at it. She asked, doubtfully, "You didn't fight for the Shire?"
He would not meet her eyes. "With everything I had. But it was not my part to raise arms, nor will it ever be again."
She gazed at him, bewildered. A shadow fell across her. "Nel!" She found herself caught up in a mighty embrace, someone huge and strong with a deep voice. "Oh, Nel! Everyone at home was so worried. Thank heavens you're safe!"
He loosened his hold, and she could see his face against the glare of the open door. Her eyes widened. "Pippin?"
He laughed and hefted her lightly in his arms. She gasped at finding herself lifted as easily as a faunt. She clasped her hands round his neck for balance. "Pippin. How did you get so big?"
"Thereupon hangs a tale," he said. "But first we must get you some proper food and rest. There's a whole army of helpers outside, eager to do for you whatever you need done."
Nel looked back at Frodo. The contrast between him and her brother struck her heart. Pippin had grown—larger, louder, more joyous. From her fresh vantage point, Frodo seemed to have shrunken more than ever; in the better light of the hall, it was easy to discern his new marks of age.
Pippin took off with a stride. "Let's get you outside. The goodwives have clothes for you, and I imagine you'd kill for a bath."
"Yes, yes, I would." She looked anxiously over his broad shoulder, but Frodo had already turned away. She caught only a glimpse of his narrow figure, passing between groups of newly freed hobbits as he disappeared into the dark.