When Bracegirdle Needed Him
Arnor, spring, Third Age 2981
A Bracegirdle, I am. Foderic Bracegirdle. And never let it be said of a Bracegirdle he was too proud to go seeking after help if it was to be found. I have my old mother to look after, and little Dod who will never look after himself. These old days have taken a sore turn, but Bracegirdles care for their folk, even when the world is going to cinders.
Rangers, they call themselves. The Grey Company. Good solid lads not much given to mischief in spite of the rumors that have swirled for years (and still do, though now I've taken to telling those tongue-waggers to hush).
We roll East. An unnatural, Brandybuck direction, East is, sits strange in my gut (like most things these days) but the Shire is up in smoke behind us and these fellows tell us of a safe place rivers away. So we go, and them with us to beat off the goblins.
Paladin's lad hares after them like a beagle pup, he does. Solid chaps but let's not get too familiar, they're still Big Folk and strange and foreign in their ways.
Still, old Donnamira has no answers for me, and the… condition only gets worse (and this road-grub not helping). I'm on the tightest hole of my belt, am I, and if that's natural then I am a Took. It's her who says mayhap I should ask that Ranger healer. He's an Elf! Don't know if he even speaks a civilized tongue but Donnamira seems to set great store by the wisdom of them fairy-folk.
I had to leave Helvetica and the girls, so I don't even have a dozen eggs to take him for his service. I bake him up a brace of scones in my cast iron instead (it's in dire need of a good seasoning but these crackly little campfires are no stand-in for a piping oven). I've seen what this Grey Company calls vittles and its nothing to help keep one's spirits sharp in the step.
Usually I would have smouched one off the edge, but I have no appetite. That's what finally makes my mind up for me. Like a cat off its cream, I am. Away I go with the scones in a teatowel to where the Rangers who aren't on guard have their fire on the edge of the camp.
He's easy to spot with that pale sash on his arm. He even stands to return my bow, like someone proper-raised. They grow them tall in the East. I say it nice and slow (in case he's short on the Common Speech), "My name is Bracegirdle, at your service."
"Elrohir, son of Elrond," says the Ranger, without so much as a foreigner's lilt, "at yours, and your family's."
"Well. Yes. Indeed."
"A fair day."
"It is, yes. Though I suspect it will come on to rain."
"It may."
"Settle this dust a bit."
I scuff my toes into the very stuff. They're bonier than they oughta be, and the hair hasn't been proper combed since we set out on this road. But even those Brandybucks who usually turn out sharp are looking a little threadbare around the edges, so I suppose there's nothing for it. All of us together in one lot.
He says, crossing to the fire to pour out a cup of something there from a pot, "An old family, the Bracegirdles, isn't it?"
"Very, sir. And quite well-thought of, it must be said."
To my surprise he extends the steaming cup to me and says, "It's a sorry excuse for a shared table, but it takes the edge off the chill."
There is a bit of bite to the breeze, now that he mentions it. I shiver and accept his offering and sip a hot, bitter brew. Not much to my liking, if I'm honest, and the ol' stomach clenches, but I can't fault him for shoddy vittles. None of the rest of us have much better. Then I remember my scones and bring them out and say, "Not much to add to it. Not even a dice of ham to throw in!"
There's something merry in his strange eyes (they're like a clear, far light in a nighttime window and I can't look right at them very long) but he thanks me with proper gravity and sets them on a stone with a word about sharing them with the fellas.
Well. The imbursement has been made. Here I am, might as well get my scones' worth.
"The mistress there says you are a physician, sir."
He nods.
"She thought you might be persuaded to provide your… opinion."
"I am at your service, master hobbit."
I shan't expound the medicament particulars (though I daresay these Elvish fellows have a gentler touch than Madam Donammira Sandburrow, the old sawbones) but at the end as I'm buttoning up my waistcoat those bright eyes have gone somber. Never let it be said of a Bracegirdle he was afraid to face ill news head-on. Still the ol' guts twist a little harder when he kneels down to look me level in the eye.
"Master Bracegirdle, do you know what a cancer is?"
Ah. Well. "I know it isn't something you'd invite in for tea."
"Sometimes it comes in, invited or not."
"Right you are."
"This one is after a part of you called your pancreas. Has to do with turning what you eat into what keeps you up and running. When the lesions develop there, we end up with what you have here. These troublesome symptoms."
"They are that."
"Sir, I would be remiss if I did not tell you that this kind you have does not resolve itself, but will likely only worsen."
My mouth opens but no sound will come so I close it again.
"There are things we can do, when we reach our destination, to try and slow down its advance and ease your discomforts in the meanwhile. But I have precious little with me here that we might make good use of."
"Quite."
"If the pain gets to be more than you'd prefer to grit your teeth about, you come right on over. That I can help with."
"Just so."
"That stomach trouble is a sore turn. Whatever food you can manage, in whatever amounts. I know there's not much around here to tempt your appetite, but it's a long road."
"'Tis indeed, sir." He has been very courteous. I manage a grin at him. "More to go round for these little ones, I reckon."
He returns it. Bless me if I don't feel a little warmer when its gone.
"I am truly sorry. I wish I had cheerier news."
"Nothing for it. You've been more than kind."
He grips my shoulder and leaves his hand there a moment longer than he might and maybe I'm fanciful (tale-folk sweeping right in to spirit us out of those horrible flames, all manner of strange goings-on these dark days) but as I walk away the ol' abdominal feels about like it would stand a little salt pork, perhaps a dab of honey in the tea, and maybe a biscuit, if there's one to be found.
Must have been that second-rate Ranger coffee, settled my stomach a piece.
