You're My Light in the Dark

Chapter 19 : Moments of Passing Years — Autumn

September

The atmosphere of the bar was heady when I entered, dimly lit by chandeliers overhead, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and pipe-weed. I don't come to the Green Dragon very often as I don't really like the taste of alcohol much, but it's been a hell of a day. Other people must be having a hard go of it lately as well, for the crowd seemed rowdier than I've ever seen it before. Drunken hobbits were swinging around in sloppy dances between tables, tankards still in their hands, causing the ale to slosh over the sides and onto the floor as they turned and jumped about.

"There she is!" I could hear over the noise of the room, and after I wiped my feet on the entrance mat I looked up to see Merry and Pippin at one of the tables near the door, just a little to my left, waving me over. Keeping in mind the slick ale puddles on the floor, I carefully made my way over to them, weaving around the dancers.

Wham!

Light flashed behind my eyelids, my head hurt something terrible, and next thing I knew I was on the floor with dampness seeping through my clothes. I've made good progress on cleaning up my language in public, but I couldn't help swearing right then. "What the fuck?"

A hobbit lass with beautiful russet curls was standing above me, her now empty tankard directly over my head. She must've been one of the dancers and plowed right on into me. "Oh, my apologies," she said, though her tone was mocking — it was more than obvious she was feigning sincerity, "I didn't see you there." I don't think I've ever met this girl before, so the animosity was a little confusing.

Merry was over in an instant, eyes dark in his anger. He was quick to grab her by the arm, and it was rough judging by the girl's wince. "Bollocks you didn't, Priss," he said sternly, "Now excuse you and get."

He steered the girl toward the exit, but the girl wasn't leaving without a fight. She dug her heels into the floor. "It was an accident!" she kept insisting.

Merry just shook his head, having none of it. "You hit Kat in the head with your tankard. Pretty good accident if you ask me."

Pippin, meanwhile, held out a hand in my direction. "Come along, Kat. Can't have you sittin' on the floor all night."

"No, I suppose not," I agreed softly as he pulled me back up to my feet. It didn't take long for the room to start spinning.

"Oi!" he said in alarm and made a grab for my arm as I swayed. "Are you okay?"

"I'll live," I replied, but even as I said it I allowed him to guide me into a chair at their table. Only then did I notice that the rest of the bar had calmed down considerably, many people around the room watching us with interest. Older gentlehobbits at a nearby table were frowning behind their pipes, and I had to wonder what they were frowning at exactly. Was it me? Or was it the girl? Or maybe it was just the disruption in general? Whatever it was, the headache drumming a beat against my skull certainly didn't help matters. Merry and that girl were going at it still, but I couldn't get myself to listen to them or care much about it.

Lauren, clad in her Green Dragon aprons, was soon kneeling at my shoulder, hands fretting over the growing welt at the side of my head. "Son of a bitch," she muttered under her breath. Grabbing hold of my chin she gently nudged my face in her direction. Her pale blue eyes were searching mine, tongue poking out from between her teeth in her concentration, and it took me a second to realize she was trying to check for a concussion. "Pippin, go find me a candle. I need some light," she said. With a nod, the Took was off.

"What about your customers?" I pointed out.

She raised her eyebrows at me. "I think they can survive without a refill for five minutes."

"To think I've been thwarted by a glass. The shame," I bemoaned, trying to lighten the mood a little.

"Hardly just a glass. Those things are crafted metal – pretty sturdy. And she just about chucked that thing at your head."

"Still," I said. "This is kind of embarrassing."

Merry came back to the table then, sliding into the seat across from me to reclaim his ale. "What do you have to be embarrassed for?" he asked. "It's not your fault Priss is acting like a jealous cow."

I couldn't help but frown further at that. "Jealous? About what? I don't even know the girl!"

"Not likely that you would," Merry replied, "As her family resides in Buckland, on the northern end near Newbury." A lot of the hobbits out that way are older folk and tend to keep to themselves more than most. Or so I've heard. "What she's doing down here in Hobbiton is anyone's guess," he continued, "But my money's on tusslin' with you." Merry took another quick swig of ale, then sighed at my questioning glance. "Her name's Pricilla Bolger. Frodo and I – We used to play with her and her brother quite a bit when we were children."

Lauren, arms crossed over her chest, was quiet throughout Merry's explanation. "But why would she have a problem with Kat?" she asked.

Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed tightly together, Merry was clearly uncomfortable with the answer. But I couldn't tell if this was because the topic itself made him nervous, or he was just uncomfortable relaying it to us. "She uh—" he hedged, then cleared his throat slightly. "She rather fancied Frodo, when we were younger. And uh—"

"She must still like him to nearly crack my sister's head open," Lauren surmised, waving a hand and rolling her eyes.

"Aye, quite right," he replied, giving a quick snap of his fingers and pointing at her. After gulping down some more of his ale, he continued, "She'd gotten quite bold a few years back before you two arrived in town. Frodo, of course, hadn't been all that interested. Much to Priss' frustration. Spoiled and lacking tact — that's the way she's always been. I must say, while I didn't dream she'd actually do it, I'm not entirely surprised she's gone and taken her frustration out on you."

Pippin came back then, a dimly lit lantern swinging from his hands. "Sorry, this was all Prim had available," he explained, shrugging a bit.

Lauren made a quick grab for the lantern, gave him thanks, and then held the light up far too close for my liking. The heat was incredible, so I felt the need to lean back away from it. "Will you watch it with that thing?"

"Then stay still!" Lauren admonished shrilly. "I can't get a good look at you if you're moving." Her fingers prodded the side of my head and I saw stars. "What's your name?"

"Katherine."

"When's your birthday?"

"January 9th."

"Where were you born?"

I shot her a brief incredulous look. Really, Lauren? Of all the things to ask to check my memory! Mindful of Merry and Pippin sitting just a mere foot away, I answered softly, "The hospital down the street from our house — Parkland."

"Good. Now for the million dollar question: Where are we right now?" Her concern was obvious as her eyes scanned every inch of my face. That's when it dawned on me: she's afraid I might have forgotten our circumstances. That maybe I'd forgotten about who we were, who we are now, or even about the Lord of the Rings. We'd be fucked if that was the case. What little she knows about the story is mostly secondhand through me, due to my old enthusiasm… and most of the stuff she can remember easily now is only because it had been depicted in the movies. Only marginally helpful since we never did get to see Return of the King.

"The Green Dragon," I answered in a believe it or not sort of way, hoping to convey more meaning through how I said it, rather than the actual words used. "Just over the bridge from Hobbiton's town square, in Bywater."

"Oh, thank Christ," she muttered immediately and gave a sigh of relief, as if she'd been waiting with bated breath for my answer. Seemingly satisfied with my memory, she moved on to ask about other symptoms. "You got a headache?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Are you feeling nauseous at all?"

Well, I hadn't been, not until she asked. Then, as if my stomach was waiting for its cue from Lauren, it turned unpleasantly.

Ain't that just fucking wonderful.

As I promptly turned green in the face, Lauren shook her head, sadness written all over her pretty features. I've had a concussion once before – after missing my hands during a back handspring on beam, leading me to hit the beam head-first – so I didn't really need her to tell me that I probably had one. "Well, at least you don't have amnesia. Small miracle. But you are going to have to put your feet up for a few days. Even a week or two to play it safe."

I know she's right; that I have to err on the side of caution, just in case. But it doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.

What I wouldn't give for an aspirin, I thought grimly, hands cradling my aching, dizzied head.

Bilbo and Frodo's joint birthday party — for Bilbo's one hundred sixth and Frodo's twenty-eighth — was a relatively quiet affair. Sixteen hobbits were invited in all. Bilbo enjoys wordplay. So it was not all that surprising to learn that he enjoys playing with their combined ages to decide how many hobbits to invite. He quickly abandoned his usual large to-do this year for a smaller get-together — slimming down the final guest list by adding the individual numbers in both their ages. (2+8+1+0+5 = 16, you see.)

While only sixteen hobbits were invited, many more actually showed up to express their well-wishes. (And to try and finagle any sort of birthday present they could from the Bagginses, most likely.)

At this point I'd been resting my head for four long, terrible days. The near constant headache was one of the worst parts about it, right up there with the sheer boredom of doing nothing.

I don't do well staying idle for too long, so this whole do nothing but lie down all day business was, to put it in nice terms, for the fucking birds. No reading, no drawing, no games, no work, no chores, and certainly no exercise — doctors' orders. (Well... healers' orders.) With that prognosis, my immediate thought was flippant; I had to bite my tongue to prevent asking Healer Mayweather if I could at least breathe. He was an older, no-nonsense sort of hobbit. Somehow, I got the distinct impression that a bad attitude would get me nowhere. My displeasure was still written all over my face, no doubt, because while I hadn't said a word, he sensed my feelings on the matter regardless.

"Now, now, lass," he'd said sternly, shooting me a quelling look over the rims of his brass-framed glasses, "I know you're normally an active girl but you've got yourself a good injury here. Injuries need time to rest proper. And the mind controls everything, you understand? It's the most important thing you've got. If I hear you've gone swanning off across the Farthings before I give you the go-ahead, you best believe we're goin' to have some words."

Lauren, from her spot along the wall watching the assessment with teeth worrying at her bottom lip, had been quick to assure the good doctor that she'd keep me in line. And she's kept her promise.

Which is precisely why I was stuck in our bedroom, watching the sunset and the room grow dark, mocked by the sounds of the party going on down the hall without me. I strained my ears to try and pick up on conversation, a desperate attempt for any sort of entertainment. But alas, it was all futile. A couple of times I could've sworn I heard my name, but not much came of it.

Later on in the evening, toward the end of the party, after most hobbits had gone home by the sounds of it, a knock sounded at my bedroom door, opening to reveal Frodo and another hobbit I didn't recognize. The stranger looked a bit older, as if he'd already reached his thirty-third birthday, and was rounder in his middle than most young hobbits. His light brown hair was wild, hazel eyes turning somber as his gaze raked in my form, no doubt because I was wrapped up in an overly large quilt — and therefore looked very much like a sick person — when I opened the door.

"How are you feeling?" Frodo asked, lifting a hand to caress the side of my injured head. The fact he felt comfortable enough to show affection in front of this hobbit said a lot — that he's a trustworthy friend. Since while we may be together, impropriety makes tongues wag; so we've made an effort to be discrete in public and around others. Intriguing, that after all these months there are still close friends I haven't yet met.

"About the same," I shrugged in reply, giving the same answer I've been giving him the past two days.

He smirked at that. "Still bored?"

"You have no idea. Have you come to rescue me from myself? I've counted those ceiling panels five times now, at least."

He gave a small laugh, his expression brightening in such a delightful way. "Careful, now. Did the Healer say you could do that?" he teased.

Had it not been for the stranger, I just might've said, "Fuck what the healer said." Instead, I just rolled my eyes. To my annoyance, the motion made my head ache a little.

"I want to introduce you to someone," Frodo said, gesturing to the hobbit standing in the doorway next to him. "This here's an old friend of mine, Fredegar Bolger."

Fatty Bolger! A name easily recognizable from the Lord of the Rings; he'd helped — no, I reminded myself, is supposed to help — Frodo leave the Shire when the War starts and is to become something of a war hero during the Scouring. I took Fatty's offered hand gladly.

"It's a pleasure," I said as we shook hands.

"Likewise," he said, voice deep and with one of the thickest hobbit brogues I've heard yet. "It's not every day a dear friend gets engaged. These are happy days. I sincerely apologize for the incident at the Dragon earlier this week."

I was about to brush the apology off, make light of it — after all, Fatty had little to do with the incident — but the way Frodo was pressing his lips together in a serious expression gave me pause. Was it more than just a polite sentiment?

Catching my hesitancy, Frodo explained, "Priss is one of Fatty's younger sisters."

Ah.

"Headstrong and hotheaded, our Priss. Doesn't like when things don't go her way," Fatty said.

"Most people don't," I commented.

"Sometimes I wonder if she can help it," he added. "Not that it excuses her behavior any. We've been growing concerned with her lack of sense. It's indecent. And I wanted you to know our family hasn't condoned her actions in any way."

"I never thought you would," I assured, a bit surprised at his earnest tone of voice. It was almost as if he was pleading for me to take his words to heart. But I spoke the truth: I didn't think anyone would find it acceptable. The assault was a punishable offense, after all. I'd been too busy dealing with the Healer to press charges — I don't know if I would've wanted to anyway — but it was a shock to find out that I didn't need to; apparently some witnesses from that night had gone straight to the Sheriff to demand comeuppance.

It flew in the face of what I knew about justice, so different from what I'd grown up with. "Safety for one is safety for all," Frodo had said when he'd filled me in on the new developments. "We take care of each other. Did your people not do that?" His sadness in that moment had cut me to the bone. "It's no wonder you always try to do everything yourself," he had whispered. I hadn't had it in me at the time to better explain myself or how the police and courts handled similar assaults. Not that it was important in the grand scheme of things anyhow.

Fatty was holding out a coin purse in my direction. He shook it at me, coins clanging loudly when I didn't accept the money right away. "Come now," he said, voice gentle and tinged with that same sense of desperateness as before. Frodo watched on, expectant look turning to one of sad pity when he came to realize this exchange was far out of my comfort zone.

I'd been injured, sure. But not by Fatty. Or his parents, who no doubt sent him with coin to make amends on their daughter's behalf. I know this must be how they do things here — with these types of matters being family affairs rather than personal. Even still, though, it didn't feel right to take their money.

"I don't want your pennies," I explained, voice soft. I can already imagine the earful I'm sure to get from Lauren when she finds out — "You refused their money? What are you, insane? Have you forgotten how many home visits you've had from the healer? All that costs money, you know! And we're not exactly swimming in it!" — but even still, I found that I couldn't in good conscience accept. So I shook my head and turned away when he tried insisting.

Fatty frowned, pulling his arm back to clutch the purse against his chest. "What will it take to make things right between us, then?" he asked, sounding a bit bewildered.

It didn't take me long to think of something. "An apology," I replied.

"I'm sorry?" Fatty said in a confused beg your pardon sort of way. Frodo shared his friend's puzzlement, brow knitting together and wrinkling his nose at me as if I'd made some sort of faux pas.

They undoubtedly saw this exchange as the attempt at an apology. And here I was, thumbing my nose at it.

I flashed them a small smile. "No, you see, I don't want an apology from you or your family. I was always taught to take responsibility for my own actions. And no offense, but an apology coming from you on her behalf doesn't quite stand up the way an apology coming directly from her would."

Not an unreasonable request. Or so I'd thought. But by the way Frodo scrunched his face up further, understanding seeping into his expression as the wince melted, it was all too clear he considered my request naive, even if he began to recognize my reasons for asking.

My society was one of individuals. This society is one of families. Perhaps I am naive for requesting matters be handled any differently.

It was Fatty's turn to shake his head. The motion tousled his wild hair all about. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, lass," he said. "That might very well be how the Big Folk handle things, where you've traveled. But this," he said, gesturing to the purse, "Is typically how things go 'round here. This be our way of apology. Won't you please accept it?"

He sincerely meant: please accept the apology for what it is, I know. But somehow I also heard: you're in the Shire now — can't you just accept our customs for what they are?

My throat tightened as sudden homesickness washed over me. Sometimes life here feels almost impossible to navigate. Especially when the morals, principles, and manners drilled into me as a child don't always line up the same way in this hobbit life.

Clearly, this was a lost cause. Out of all the differences in our cultures, this was not going to be the hill I died on.

So instead of fighting it any further, when Fatty again held the purse out to me, I took it from him with as heartfelt of a, "If you insist," as I could muster.

November

It took three weeks for the doctor to give me the all clear to go back to my full daily routine. It took two more for Frodo to stop looking worried every time I left the house.

"Take it easy, will you?" he'd call out whenever he heard me gather my keys and coat at the front door. He took to doing things to make sure I couldn't be out for very long: he started setting dates for us, taking me out to local inns for dinner and tea far more often than before, or asking me to do him little favors around the house.

I'm almost certain Bilbo was also in on it, as he started to make up all sorts of easy chores that suddenly needed to be done around Bag End — the sorts of things that haven't been done in an age or have never been done at all in the history of ever. (Like dust every bottle in the wine cellar.)

Despite it all, though, I couldn't get too upset about it. Their hearts were in the right place, after all. But after more than a month of rest, enough is enough. I'm ready to start training again.

Lauren insisted I meet her out in the fields for a surprise for my first official day back at the grind. The surprise, it turned out, was weapons. We were on the far side of the lake, hidden in the tall winter wheat fields of the Brownlock farm next to the raggedy scarecrow. Piled up at my sister's feet were an assortment of hobbit-sized weapons — swords, bows, arrows, and slingshots. "What's all this?" I asked, motioning to the weaponry.

"I think we have to up the ante," she said, surprisingly serious. "The War isn't going to just go away. And, well, with you being out of commission and all, I've been thinking… we're athletes. Not warriors or soldiers. Just that one hit and you were down for a good long while."

I found myself nodding. She has a point. I've never been in a fight. Hell, I can't remember even slapping someone before. Our skills involve strength, endurance, flexibility, and body awareness. We may know how to get our body to move the way we want, but we sorely lack experience when it comes to physical altercations — for both attacking and defending.

"There's only one problem, Laur. We have no idea what we're doing."

"We'll figure it out… somehow."

"Fantastic plan," I said, sarcastically optimistic.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Lauren replied, taking the sass in stride.

"Where did you get these, anyway? Do I even want to know?"

She pinned me with an unamused glare. "Why do I keep on having to remind you? We're not juvenile delinquents, you know! We didn't steal them!" she huffed at me. "Merry and Pippin helped me collect them. A lot of this was actually in the Great Smials, hidden away gathering dust in storage. Except for this club," she said, pulling a foot long club of thick, dark wood out from the bottom of the pile, sending a bunch of arrows scattering to the ground around us. "Apparently this was what's-his-face Took's club. The one that invented golf."

"Bandobras," I reminded her.

"Yeah, him. Anyway," she continued, waving a hand about, "According to Pippin, this club's been hanging over one of his fireplaces for a number of years now. Pippin was rather excited when I told him we were going to try some acrobatics with it."

I was speechless for a moment. Of course, of course she'd go telling the two troublemakers that. Too late now, though. "You do realize that club's something of a legend, right? Pippin's ancestor used it to defeat a goblin king by knocking his head clean off, or so the story goes."

Her face lit up, interest renewed in the club as she held it up with something akin to awe. But it seemed she was more interested in the violent possibilities, not in having respect for the old weapon's history. At my less than pleased expression, she only shrugged. "What? It means it'll serve us well, yeah?"

I gave a weary sigh, knowing nothing I said would change anything. "Pippin's parents didn't mind you carting this stuff away?"

"I don't think they realize it's even gone, in all honesty."

I rolled my eyes, not believing it for a second. But as I watched her try to twirl the club like a baton — then proceed to hit herself in the head with it — I couldn't help but give a small laugh as I snatched it out of her hands. "Easy there, killer. We can't afford any more concussions. We'll have to build up to stuff like that."

Not expecting my sudden agreement, she almost did a double take. "Really?"

"Yes, really," I affirmed. "I agree with you: we do have to change how we approach our training. But it doesn't mean I have to like it — it's going to be the blind leading the blind."

She clapped me on the shoulder with renewed determination. "We can do this, Kat. You'll see. I mean, what about all those special gymnasts with the props? Hula hoops and bouncy balls and ribbons — that's all easier than what you used to do, right? How's this any different?"

"Oh God, no," I said, a little horrified at the suggestion. "Rhythmic gymnastics is a whole other beast and ridiculously difficult in its own right, but that's beside the point, really."

It was her turn to sigh exasperatedly. "Come on, Kat, you know what I mean! Everything we've been doing lately is cardio, strength training, or straight up parkour. Handy in their own rights, but limited. And what's a weapon, really, if not a prop?" Blue eyes alight with excitement, my sister picked up one of the blunt arrows and twirled around, waving it in the air about her, mimicking a rhythmic gymnast with a ribbon. She pointed the arrow in my direction as she finished her pirouette and stared me down. "We need a little less parkour and a bit more Cirque du Soleil in our lives, don't you think?"

I gripped at Bandobras Took's club with both hands, appreciating the weight of it — it's history and potential — as I mulled over her words.

When it comes to fighting in the War of the Ring, no one is going to think much of our little hobbit group. With Lauren and I being hobbit lasses? We're probably going to be written off as easy prey almost immediately. But if we can actually somehow learn how to use a weapon to defend ourselves, we just might be able to utilize that false sense of security to knock our adversaries off-guard. To use an unknown fighting style on top of that? The unpredictability might very well save our lives.

"It's worth a shot," I allowed. Lauren did a victory dance around me at that, letting out loud whoops of joy as she pumped an arrow-clutched fist in the air, a shit-eating grin pulling at her lips the whole while.

I love my job. There's something about it that's incredibly freeing. Just me and the open road, a knapsack strapped to my back. When I had heard about the mail service in the Shire, shortly after we'd first arrived, I was so confused why Angelica saw fit to provide me with a job. But alas, it turns out the mail service messengers only carry letters, not packages. Angelica, no doubt hearing the rumors about the world traveling lass, put two and two together when she saw me. A traveler to fill the delivery gaps.

As word around town began to spread, we started receiving orders far and wide by post. Angelica isn't the only tailor around by any means, but judging by the increasing number of orders I've delivered this season — even despite my concussion sick leave — gives the impression that her popularity is growing.

The increasing demand for delivery requires quite a bit of traveling throughout Hobbiton and the surrounding Shire, and sometimes I even go as far as the sleepy farming town in the southmost section of the Southfarthing – a good two-day walk from Bag End, if not more. I especially enjoy the days I travel farther, for I incorporate it into my training by running as much of the distance as I can. Many of the customers I deliver to are older hobbits who are finding it increasingly more difficult to trek around the Shire; though there are quite a few younger hobbits that opt to use the delivery service for the sake of convenience as well.

Today was one of the last days of the shop's delivery season, as it is likely to snow any day now. (Angelica doesn't feel comfortable sending me out in the harsh winter weather, you see.) And due to my sick leave, with the backlog of deliveries, the day was an extraordinarily long one. It involved several stops, including a trip to the Marish to drop off a few fancy party dresses for Farmer Maggot's two young girls. It was an interesting visit since it was my first time meeting the Maggot family, and I found it difficult to look those good, honest people in the eye knowing the kind of trouble my sister, my friends, and I have given them on occasion.

It was just getting dark as I passed the gate into Hobbiton. The air was growing crisp as twilight settled on the horizon, but I still had one more stop to do: the Gamgee's.

This is one meeting I'm looking forward to yet dreading at the same time. Sam has a great sense of intuition, as he still senses that there is something not quite right about Lauren and me. The only way I can probably fix that is to show him how responsible, respectable, and friendly of a hobbit I can be. But proving myself has been more difficult than anticipated, especially since we've been seeing less of Sam at Bag End with the chill of winter just around the corner. It's to be expected; he is the gardener, after all. With the cold and incoming snow, there is very little for him to do as far as the property is concerned, and according to Frodo, the Gaffer has been keeping Sam quite busy around the Gamgee's home as of late.

As I made my way up the walk, I wanted to kick myself for staying at the Maggot's for so long. Now, knowing my luck, I'm going to catch the Gamgee's at supper. 'Oh yeah, that'll help Sam's impression of me for sure,' I griped to myself. Being late, dropping off orders after dark – back in New England I probably wouldn't have thought twice about dropping off the package. But now…

Laughter sounded from inside, pretty high-pitched trills, no doubt coming from his sisters. My hand hovered over the door, and no matter how much I tried to brace myself and just go for it and knock, I couldn't bring myself to disturb their family time. So I didn't.

Shouldering my bag, I smiled a bit as I glanced back at the Gamgee's hobbit hole, it's yard clean and devoid of fallen leaves, the property obviously well cared for. Most yards are, as it's very rare to see a hobbit's yard in a state of disarray or with shrubs left untrimmed. It's a sense of pride for hobbits, who so love to tend to nature. Such habits reflect their lifestyle, which is so peaceful, and much slower than it ever had been with humans in my other life. Even after a year of living here in Hobbiton I still find I have to remind myself to slow down every once in a while. The important thing is to enjoy life while we still can – before things go to hell.

It's amazing how much life can change in a year.

The package can wait until morning.