Up the hill from Staddle, Bree. Circa T.A. 2958
(***)
Amity stood in the doorway of the cottage where she lived with her father, blinking as a driving wind blew cold rain in her face. She looked down the hill, into the town and beyond, as far as she could see in this downpour. Low, gray clouds blanketed the landscape, as they had for the past four days. Her father could not drag a loaded cart up the steep hillside in this rain and the deep mud it had churned up. He was stuck in Staddle again, spending precious coin on an inn, no doubt. And she was here alone, for another cold, dark night. She considered bringing the goats into the house with her, just for the company.
The already dim day was growing darker as, somewhere behind the clouds, the sun began to descend. There was nothing for it. She couldn't wait any longer. The goat needed milking before Amity went to bed, and she clearly wasn't going to get a dry moment in which she could dash to the animals' shed without getting soaked through.
With a heavy sigh, the teenager gathered a thick wool cloak about her shoulders and picked up a metal pail. She stepped out of the door, gasping when the full weight of the torrent hit her, then hurried down the path, slipping in the heavy mud. By the time she reached the animals' enclosure, the hem of her dress was splattered with dirt, and she could feel water seeping into her seams.
"You'd best have something for me to be worth getting soaked to the bone," Amity said to the goat, which stood awkwardly in a corner, looking nervous. Its kid strained at the rope that kept it separate from its mother during weaning. Thunder grumbled overhead, threatening but never hitting. The goat skittered and the kid bleated.
"Woah, woah, it's ok," Amity cooed, approaching the goat carefully, her pail and a milking stool in her hands.
"I don't have anything," a low voice mumbled, then groaned.
Amity jumped, dropping her bucket with a clatter.
"Who's there?"
Another pained groan followed the first from the corner opposite from where the goat stood, glaring. The scratchy sound of someone shifting in the hay interrupted the monotonous drumming of the rain, then went silent again.
Amity considered running away, but whoever the person was - and it sounded like a man - was so still that she could not help but feel worried for him. She took a step closer, craning her head toward the corner. She gasped. A sword lay on the floor, beside a satchel splashed with blood. She stood, tense, halfway between flight and concern.
She crept a little closer, until she could see the man's foot poking out from behind a hay bale. It was frighteningly still. She tiptoed to the sword, nudging it farther from him with her foot, then turning so she could see who it was that had landed in her little stable in this horrid weather.
He was grubby, but his clothes were halfway dry, suggesting he'd been here for hours - and mostly unmoving. He looked like he'd collapsed into the hay and passed out. His eyes flickered open. He looked at her hazily, unable to focus on anything for more than a second. The back of his hair was matted with something dark and sticky.
"Did you hit your head?" Amity asked cautiously.
The man grunted and nodded, taking a sharp breath when he moved.
"Don't move then," the girl told him. "I'll, um, I'll go and get some help."
"No!" He gasped, moving sharply, then curling in on himself in pain. "They're looking…"
"Someone's looking for you?" Amity asked, her nerves sizzling again. If only this had happened when her father was home. What might her visitor bring down on her, alone on this dark night, when the sound of a scream would die in the rain's endless drone?
"I'll just get Mrs. Underhill. She's one of the Little Folk, the Hobbits, and as good a healer as any you'd get this far up the hill. They don't care about Men's business, so she won't say anything to anyone," Amity said, rambling with worry.
The man pushed himself up with one arm, then retched and fell down again, suddenly silent, his eyes closed.
Amity ran out the door and up the lane, flying through rain that stung her face and hands. She stumbled up the muddy road until she could see a light through a round window. She hunched and knocked on the door built directly into the hillside.
"Who's calling on a night like this and it's just supper time, innit?" Mr. Underhill's voice could be heard through the door.
"It's just Amity, from down the hill. It's just - my father's still stuck in Staddle because of the storm and there's a man in our stable. He's hurt - he struck his head and he's barely awake. He was sick. I don't know what to do," she cried.
A few moments later she heard shuffling and the door creaked open. The round, worn face of Mrs. Underhill looked up at her. She was already wearing a cloak though, as always, her furry feet were bare.
"Ah, lass, y'poor thing. Musta scared ye silly, finding 'im in yer barn, and ye all alone. Let's see what the storm dragged in, eh? My lad'll come with us. What with all three of us and 'im hurt, we oughta be able to handle 'im if 'e gives us trouble, eh?"
"Yes, ma'am, I'm much obliged," Amity said, shivering. Water dripped from her hair down her face.
"I forgot to milk the goat!" She added in sudden surprise.
"Well, that'll keep another hour," Mrs. Underhill said, reaching up to pat her on the arm.
Mr. Underhill and his son, Ralf, appeared in the doorway, ready to brave the weather. The old Hobbit held a large basket that smelled as though it held their interrupted supper. He twitched an oiled cloth over it before putting on a cloak for himself.
"I could hold that if you like," Amity offered. "Only, it looks heavy."
Mr. Underhill handed the large basket over without hesitation.
"Yer one of the good 'uns, lass," he said. He pulled his hood over his head, shuffling out the door into the cold night, following his wife.
The unlikely party made their way carefully down the slippery lane to Amity's shed. When they stepped inside it was dark. Amity reached for a flint and a rush light she kept near the door for just such moments, striking it until they could see.
The goat startled, yelling. Its kid had broken its rope and was suckling happily from its mother's swollen udder.
"Drat, that's half the milk. Greedy thing takes more than it ought," Amity grumbled under her breath, forgetting for a moment the more serious situation that still awaited her.
"Ralf, milk the goat, eh?" Mrs. Underhill said, shoving her son towards the bucket.
"But Ma!" He said.
She pointed and scowled. The boy grumbled and walked to the bucket, which stood as high as his waist, and dragged it over to the goat.
A metallic sound scraped beside her - Amity looked to see Mr. Underhill dragging the sword closer to the door.
"One of them Rangers, I'd say," he said. "Can't be too careful."
"Come on lass, let's have a look. 'E's a big 'un, ye'll have to help me move 'im," Mrs. Underhill said, tugging Amity's soaked sleeve.
Amity and Mrs. Underhill approached the stranger cautiously, picking through the straw to stand beside him. Mrs. Underhill touched the back of his head, where his brown hair was dark and slick.
"Oh, that's a head wound, aye," she said with a whistle. "And 'e didn't fall off a ladder, I'll tell 'ee."
"He mumbled something about someone looking for him," Amity whispered.
Mr. Underhill made an unhappy noise in his throat. When she looked at him, Amity saw him scowling, the lines in his face deep in shadow.
"I don't like it," he said. "It'll bring trouble, right enough."
"Who would look for such a one 'ere?" Mrs. Underhill said. "What do ye suggest, leaving 'im for dead out in the rain?"
She turned to Amity. "Ye said 'e was sick, but it looks like 'e's kept 'is food down. 'E needs a good fire as much as 'ee do, lass, look at ye shivering, without a bit of meat on ye to keep warm! Can we bring 'im in the house, d'ye think?"
"There's the hay cart," Amity said slowly. "But… I'm all alone."
"Oh aye, we know, lass, we know. If ye'll have us we'll stay the night. Wouldn't want a girl of mine alone in a house with a strange Man, so won't yer da," Mr. Underhill said gruffly.
"Thank you," Amity said. "You're good neighbors to us. I know the Big Folk and Little Folk don't always get on but - I'm grateful."
"Ah, well," Mrs. Underhill said, smiling broadly. "Yer folk ain't bad yerselves. Yer da saved us a world of work hauling the big stones out when we cleared our new pasture. 'Tis only right."
"Ralf," Mrs. Underhill said, glancing sharply at her son. "If that goat ain't milked by now…"
"It's done, Ma!" The boy protested. "Pail's right heavy, though."
"I'll get it," Amity said quickly. "Thank you, Ralf."
"Come back for it, lass - and the food. Let's get yon giant into the house and a fire going, aye?"
(***)
The man woke with a groan, confused. He could remember crawling into the sheepcote, soaked and trembling with pain. He was meant to be running from someone - the one who'd given him the blow that made his head throb until his teeth ached. The rest was black.
He was dry now, in a bed, under a blanket. He blinked, wincing as the flicker of a hearth fire hit his eyes. His whole body felt like he'd been dragged across a cobblestone street. (Not quite - just through the rain in a wheelbarrow.)
He made himself look. When he saw her, he remembered the girl finding him lying in the hay. She was sitting near the fire now with three halflings, all of them tucking into something that might have smelled good - but his stomach churned. He cleared his throat and tried to move. He saw he was wearing someone else's shirt.
"Oh! You're awake!" The girl said.
"You lie still, sir," Mr. Underhill said. "Ye ain't in any shape to try any funny business and yer blade is still over with yon goat."
"Oh, hush," Mrs. Underhill said. She lit a taper from the hearth fire and approached the man. "Open yer eyes, I'm as close as ye'll get to a healer 'round 'ere. Ye've had a bonny knock to yer skull. Let's see 'ow bad."
He tried to keep his eyes open as she asked. She waved it from one side to the other. A brief memory skittered across his mind. In it Elrond waved a candle in front of his face in just the same way, when he was a boy and he'd fallen from a tree.
"Aye, as I thought. A bad knock indeed. Well, ye oughtn't sleep again until ye can keep down some broth at least," she said, confident. "I'll make ye some peppermint tea - that is, if yon lass has a bit to spare."
"Of course," the girl said, jumping up towards her larder. "The mint grows wild over the hill. I always keep some around for tea and such."
"Good lass," the Hobbit lady said.
Twenty minutes later, he was sipping a mug of hot mint water, with the halflings he'd heard the girl call 'Mr. And Mrs. Underhill' supporting him on one side and the girl on the other. His body kept wavering, his head nodding forward. He wanted nothing but to sleep. But there was something he was supposed to remember.
"Ah, no, ye can't sleep," Mrs. Underhill chided him. "Not for a while. Ye might not wake up if ye do."
"Are ye really a Ranger?" The halfling boy chirped, his eyes sparkling with firelit curiosity.
"Mmmhm," the man said, nodded lightly in agreement, then wincing.
"You'll have seen all sorts of wonders near and far, then. I've little to offer someone so well traveled," the girl whispered.
He watched her eyes shift around the small cottage, which he'd come to understand was her home. Why she shared it with halflings, he could not imagine, but then, he could barely think at all.
"Nothing better than a homely house. Not anywhere," he made himself say, his voice hoarse to his own ears. "Thank you."
"Good man," Mr. Underhill rumbled with approval. "We'll stay 'til yer da comes home, lass, but I don't think yon ranger will give ye any trouble."
The girl nodded, smiling shyly.
"What's your name?" She asked.
He breathed against the pain behind his eyes, but his fear was ebbing away by the moment. Wherever he was, he was safe for now.
"Strider," he said.
(***)
This was one of those little fics that came out of nowhere and wrote itself. I like thinking about what the Breelanders and Hobbits who live side by side must be like.
I hope it finds its audience - if you enjoy, I'd love to hear about it!
