A/N:

Dear Guest Reviewer: Thank you for being so understanding. I don't mind the lack of interest as that's to be expected with OC-centric stories and the main thing for me is that I'm enjoying writing it. I apologise for making all the characters unhappy. Dark time ahead indeed. Thanks as always for your support :)

Content warning: This chapter depicts a character having a panic attack. If that's something you would rather avoid reading about, the particular segment starts after the words 'walked away in a daze'. If you want to use CTRL + F to pick up again, the safe section begins with the words 'She could never recall'.

Everything had changed. What rebellious mutterings had run through social streams just a few days ago were silenced. Hobbits did not look at the Men that loomed over them when they passed each other on the road. Mothers kept their children close to their sides and there was no lingering to gossip with neighbours. With the anger stripped away the only thing left was fear.

The snow was turning to brown mush underfoot. Clover had gone down to Cotton's Farm to speak to the elder Tom Cotton, not sure where else to go. He was held as an unofficial leader among the working Hobbits of Bywater and Clover had always had the impression that he was the backbone of Warren's rebels.

She hated herself for not being on the Hill when the Mayor was taken. She should have been there. And yet… what else could she have done? Logically she knew that her presence wouldn't have made any difference. But still the feeling persisted that she had done wrong by leaving. This wasn't right. None of it was right. She had to do something. Just make sure you're not too visible. Who knew where the paths led?

She met Farmer Cotton coming the other way on South Lane. He didn't see her; walking past like she didn't exist.

"Mr Cotton," Clover said, changing direction and struggling to keep up with his broad steps as she followed him back the way she'd come.

He looked over his shoulder in her direction, but didn't see her until he glanced downwards.

"Was there another plan?" she said. "In case bringing the Mayor to Hobbiton din't work?"

"Shh!" He looked around sharply, and glared back down at her. "An introduction would be nice, young miss."

"I'm Clover Delver."

His gaze remained blank.

"One of Jon Delver's daughters," she said, weary with always having to identify herself as such.

"Ah. Never could remember how many of you there were," he said, scratching his head. As they continued to Bywater Road they passed two Men who were sat on a wall. Cotton remained silent and watched them, not fearfully but conscious that things could go very wrong. Clover did so too, wise enough to pick up on this at least.

"There's nothing to do for now, lass," he said when satisfied they were out of the Mens' hearing. "We need to work out how things stand afore we can see what's the best thing to do."

"But if we're going to act then now's the best time, when everything's uncertain," she pressed.

"You don't have dependants to think of," he said. "You'd be better speaking to Warren, he's not got any either."

"I don't hold with Mr Warren."

"Then that's up to you. The best we can do for the moment is quietly offer our help to those who need it. Sometimes that's the most you can do."

"But that's not enough! How can I help others when I'm still stuck here?"

Cotton stopped and looked at her hard. They were in the market now, surrounded by people and bustle and noise. For a brief moment Clover was overwhelmed with the scrutiny of Cotton and the reality of being surrounded by fellow Hobbits. Cotton knew she hadn't been on the Hill and knew she had made the wrong choice. Even though it was impossible, Clover felt he also knew why she had walked away. The shame stung. Someone else viewing her like that was far worse than her self-criticism and she found herself becoming defensive, like a cat caught in a cage.

"I'm allowed to protect my own interests," she said hoarsely.

Cotton continued his regard of her, making Clover's insides burn. "I've an engagement to keep," he said eventually. "Speak to Warren." He tipped his broad-brimmed hat to her, "'Afternoon," and strode past her into the crowd.

Clover looked around, not sure of what to do now. There was a proper place for her to be—there always was—and it was just a matter of working out where. There were two Men leaning against the wall of the grocer's. They appeared to just be smoking and talking about some unimportant matter but upon further observation you could see their eyes turning to the Hobbits that surrounded them. They were being monitored.

Other Men wondered around, talking loudly and brashly in a way that intimidated the Hobbits around them into silence. They laughed at the Hobbits that shrunk away from them out of fear. A Shirriff also stood at the corner of the market square but looked completely out of his depth and said nothing to the Men jeering at lasses and tormenting ponies.

Clover started to move through the crowd to make it look like she had a real reason for being there, hoping to appear as un-suspicious as possible. It wouldn't be a good idea to be seen in public with Cotton again. To her relief she spotted Meg in conversation with Lavender and Primrose Hobble and she purposefully moved towards them.

I'm just here to see my friends. Absolutely nothing rebellious about this.

"I heard that Lotho had the Mayor fed to the wild wolves," Lavender was saying. "Or else set him at sea in a boat."

"Don't be stupid. He's in Michel Delving," Clover said as she nudged her way into the group.

"I know that," Lavender said. "It's just what some folks are saying."

"So who's the Mayor now then?" said Meg.

"I suppose there ain't one."

"But there has to be a Mayor. There's always been a Mayor."

"If he's in the Mathom House, I wonder what they did with the mathoms," Primrose murmured as she stared at a trio of Men lifting sacks of grain off a Hobbit-cart.

"Is that really important?"

"Some of those things have been there for years and years. They had the walking staff that Marcho used when him and Blanco first led us to the Shire."

"They didn't," Lavender said, scoffing.

"Well that's what… someone told me. And… and even if the mathoms aren't as important as people, they still mean something. It was Marcho and Blanco that got permission from the King for Hobbits to come to the Shire in the first place. If Marcho's walking stick's been left to rot in the rain… that means something."

The silence that followed this was sobering.

"I'm not even sure Marcho and Blanco were real," Clover said dismissively.

"How can you say that?" Meg said. "Everyone knows it was Marcho and Blanco that found the Shire."

"I don't know it, I just know I've been told it by everyone else. And who knows who told them? I think it was a legend that got made up to make ourselves feel important." Clover wasn't entirely sure this was the case, but at the moment the idea that Marcho and Blanco had never existed was more appealing than the thought of Marcho's walking stick being disposed of. It didn't bode well for the future.

"But if they never existed," Lavender said thoughtfully, "does that mean the King never actually gave his permission for us to come here?"

Damn.

"Not necessarily…" Clover said, trying to think her way out of the corner she'd backed herself into.

"Some of us just like to believe these things, Clover, even if you don't," Meg said. She wasn't angry or reproving in her tone, just tired. "Give me a clear answer about how we got here and mayhap I'll believe that one instead."

Clover was too put out to give a rebuttal. Her attention was caught by a lad who had come out of the ironmonger's and was pushing his way through the crowd towards the cart the Men were still in the process of emptying.

"Oi! What're you doing?" he said, shouldering other Hobbits out of the way in his panic. "We've paid our tithe."

"The Chief's reclaiming it for the good of all," one of the Men said, though the careless tone he spoke with showed he knew this wasn't for the good of anyone but Lotho and the Men.

"But it's our wheat, we grew it, we need to eat," he said, trying to pull the Man's arm away from the sack. The lad's arms weakened and he fell to the ground. He looked to the Shirriff at the edge of the market, who was pretending not to see what was going on. "Why aren't you stopping it? You're just watching."

The Shirriff glanced up at the Men fearfully before reluctantly meeting the Hobbit-lads' eye.

"If the Chief Shirriff's ordered it…"

"There wasn't no Chief Shirriff last I heard!"

Meg leaned over so that her mouth was level with Clover's ear. "What Chief Shirriff?"

Clover looked at her from the corner of her eye. "Use your head, Meg."

The lad had gotten to his feet now. All of his anger was focussed on the Shirriff, either knowing that standing up to the Men would be useless, or feeling more hurt by the betrayal of one of his own people than by the mistreatment of the Men. "Lotho Sackville-Baggins tells you what to do and you lot roll over like lapdogs? You're meant to protect the people of the Shire. Give me that." He made a grab for the Shirriff's staff.

One of the Men who had been stealing grain stepped forward and with infuriating ease grabbed the lad by the back of his collar and lifted him up. The Hobbit made a tight strangled noise and flailed his limbs to try and get free. The Men who had been spying came over to help their comrade subdue the lad as he shrieked and struggled. When the lad's arms and legs were tied fast they threw him to the ground like a sack of wheat, a length of rope tied between his teeth to prevent him from crying out. He lay on the frosty earth, convulsing with panicked breaths and his eyes rolling like a mad horse.

"Put it in one of our houses," the grain-thief said. "We can have it sent Westwards with the next waggon."

"That was Ripon Westcott," Lavender said as they watched the lad being dragged away by the spies. She had gone pale and her fingers were plucking at her skirt repetitively. "He's just a stupid farmer's son. He couldn't hurt anyone."

"This is the end, isn't it?" Primrose said. The glassy sheen on her eyes showed she was close to crying.

"There's no such thing as the end," Meg murmured, but she stared blankly at the Shirriff, who was walking away with his head low.

This may not have been the end, but certainly something was ending. As much as she had hated the previous state of affairs, Clover wasn't looking forward to whatever was coming next.

To My Darlings,

I am sorry to my heart that I didn't make it home for Yuletide. I am feeling much better now, but the carriage can't make it over the snow. I did have an idea of trying to make the journey on foot but Ivy advised that I might not reach home if I did. So it seems I am to remain here for now.

Parties of Men have been arriving to try and talk the Thain into pledging his loyalty to Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Paladin shan't be moved though, and he has forbidden anymore Men from setting foot in Tookland. He's assigned our former search parties to patrolling Tookland to prevent any more Men from crossing the border. For the first time since leaving home I feel I am of use. Whatever my other failings, I am a good shot. My only regret is that I can't protect all of you as well.

The Thain has promised I might return to Bywater once the snow melts. I am restless with the thought of hearing your voices again and sleeping in my own bed knowing we are all safely under the same ground. I hope this will be my last letter to you for a long while. Please take care of yourselves, and I will hope for your safety.

Yours always,

Father

My Dearest Father,

I miss you. I have put off writing this letter because for the longest time those were the only words I could think to say. Every time I tried to put pen to paper there was nothing else in my head, like I had forgotten how to write anything but those three words. I do miss you.

Everything is strange and my head hurts. I feel as though I'm standing on the edge of the world with nothing before me and I don't know what to do. I keep wondering when things will go back to how they were before but every day is the same as the last. Even though I know everyone else is in the same situation as me I feel so alone. I have our family and I have Sango and that should be enough. I don't know why it isn't. Is this what being lost at sea is like?

I'm sorry if this distresses you. It's not my intention but I don't know what to do and could think of nothing else to write. I miss you.

There, I have written a full letter now. I hope this reaches you before you leave Tookland. Or perhaps it would be better for it to arrive after, as by then so much of my grief will have been lifted by your return home that my gloomy words here will have lost relevance, and you would need not be grieved by them. I'm sorry.

Your loving daughter,

Tiger Lily

It had taken Tiger Lily several days to pen the reply to her father. She took it down to the post office alone, knowing that if her mother ever saw the letter it would be censored to make it more cheerful. The line at the post office was longer than usual, inflated by the number of people wanting to find out how their relatives in other villages were doing under the new order. For those Hobbits that couldn't read that meant dictating their letter to the clerk, so the line went down only sporadically. Being surrounded by so many people set Tiger Lily on edge and she continuously fidgeted with her letter while she waited. By the time she reached the front of the queue the corner of the envelope was dog-eared. The inside of the post office was stuffy and uncomfortably warm in comparison to the freezing January air outside. The clerk behind the counter had glazed-over eyes with dark shadows beneath them.

"How can I help?" he said with the voice of one who had been at work too long and ceased to care.

"Hello. Um, I'd like to send this to the Great Smials, please," Tiger Lily said, fumbling in her coin purse for the postage charge. When she looked up the clerk had become more alert, looking at her like she'd just asked for postage to go over the sea.

"You've not heard?" he said.

"No…?" she said, wondering what she'd done wrong.

The clerk broke eye contact with her and rubbed the back of his neck. "There was some… trouble in Tookland a couple of days back and now there's Men camping around the hills, not letting anyone through. We haven't been able to get the post waggon down there since Friday."

Tiger Lily waited for a further explanation but the clerk just stared, waiting for her to say or do something.

"When will you be able to get there?" she said.

The clerk shook his head. "The Men've been attacking anyone that goes near the boarders. We've not been having any post through from Tookland either…"

Silence again. Prickles travelled down Tiger Lily's back. People in the queue behind her were murmuring and panic set in. They must have been bemoaning the strangeness of Tooks, whose wild ways had caught up with them at last.

"But my father's there," was all she could say. The clerk's face was blank. Tiger Lily waited for him to say something more, some assurance or words of hope, but none came.

"Did any Tooks get shot?" she said.

"I don't know. Sorry."

That was it. There was nothing else to say. Tiger Lily picked the letter up off the counter and walked away in a daze.

The bustle of the street registered as incoherent background noise behind the thumping of her heart as Tiger Lily passed between the people in the town. She was only vaguely aware of the other Hobbits around her, no more solid than snowflakes. She reached home without even realising that was where she was going, her lungs filling and emptying exhaustingly fast and out of her control. When she got there Sango was standing stately before the fire in the morning room, hands folded behind his back. She saw him look at her, his lips curving, but it didn't mean anything, like he was smiling in a language she didn't understand. The smile disappeared when he looked at her. He might have said something but she wasn't sure.

"He's trapped," she said.

"What?"

"He's trapped, he's trapped." She was shaking now, her legs weak and her skin burning under a layer of sweat. She didn't weep, but found herself gasping for air while Sango folded her in his arms and asked her what was wrong over and over again. His presence didn't calm her as it usually did and all she could do was choke the word 'Father'. Unmovable in her mind was the image of her father shot and dead on the frozen ground of Tookland, far away from the home and people he loved.

She could never recall what exactly happened after that. She only became coherent of her surroundings when she found herself curled up on the sofa with her head in Sango's lap. She took things in one at a time to remind herself of where she was. The fire had burned down in the grate and from the way the light fell into the room she knew it was later in the day. The clock was ticking. One of Sango's hands was in her hair, gently stroking her curls down. Turning her head slightly she could see he was staring forward blankly, his face troubled. That wasn't right.

She sat up slowly. Sango lifted his arm out of her way as he pre-empted her movements.

"Where's my mother?" she said.

"She's in the drawing room with your aunt and uncle. The doctor thought you should have quiet but you wouldn't let me go, so…"

"The doctor?"

"Mr Brownlock was here, he gave you something to send you to sleep. You don't remember?" he said, surprised, but perhaps not as surprised as he should have been.

"Why did they call the doctor?" she said, feeling foolish for her lack of memory and not wanting to address it.

"I did. You were shivering and crying and you wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I didn't know what was happening or if you were in pain. I've never seen you like that before, Tills."

"Sorry."

He shook his head, turning his eyes downwards. "You've always cared about people. Your uncle asked around and we managed to find out about everything in Tookland… I'm sorry."

Tiger Lily turned her eyes downwards, recalling now the events that had led to her spiral. She gripped the cover of the settee tightly, fighting the impulse to dissolve again. "I'm so tired of being scared." She gripped Sango's arm. "We need to get him back."

He started away from her in surprise. "What?"

"We need to do something, we need to get him out of Tookland and bring him home. Just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it."

"Tills, there's nothing," he said. "It's dangerous, there are Men everywhere, if it got to Lotho that you were trying to get to Tookland…"

"But all I need is for him to come home, it's such a small thing, there must be a way I can make it happen."

Sango put his hands on her shoulders. "Tills, you can't put yourself in danger. If the Tooks have managed to defend themselves against the Men then Tookland is probably the safest place for your father to be."

"But he might be dead," she said. "He could have been shot."

"We haven't heard anything about any Tooks being shot. Nothing at all," Sango said. His smile, intended to convey comfort, was becoming increasingly desperate. "There's no reason for anyone to think he's dead."

Tiger Lily bent forward, covering her face with her hands. "I'm so tired," she said. "I'm frightened all the time and I don't know how to stop. How do I fix myself, Rowley? How do I make myself be happy?"

Sango winced like he'd been dealt a physical blow. He put a hand on her hair and ran his thumb over her cheek. "I wish I had all the answers for you, sweet."

Kneeling forward on the settee he put a devastating kiss on her forehead.

"I'll get you something to drink," he said.

When he had gone Tiger Lily leaned forward and buried her face in the cushions. Turning her head she found herself staring at the family tree above the mantelpiece, her eyes drawn inevitably to her father's place.

Aferbold

1349

She tried to remember the last time she had been honestly happy. When she had been young, probably; before she had realised that other children looked at her strangely and she had learned to be ashamed. When her grandparents had been alive and all eight of the Bywater Tooks had lived together in the same close, protective unit. Grandfather had told her stories of the sea from musty and well-aged books. The smell of Grandmother's lavender soap. There had been hydrangeas in the garden.

She would marry a gentlehobbit. They would have children. She would give everything she is to please them and would be happy. She would have to be happy. She would have to make herself be happy because that was all there was. There was nothing else.

"But it's not fair!" Abelia screeched at the top of her lungs.

"I know it's not," Young Mrs Grubb said, trying to placate her as calmly as she could. "It's not fair on any of us. But it's my job to keep you safe and I can't in good conscience allow you to go up to Overhill in the current circumstances. When things calm down with the Men and the Shirriffs—"

"You can't keep me here without Rico!"

"Master Boffin is not my concern."

Clover was sat on the floor, polishing a citadel of brassware laid out on the tea table. She was trying not to make eye-contact with anyone, a strategy used by underlings everywhere when in the same room as a conflict they're not paid enough to deal with.

Abelia fell onto a settee and started crying as Young Mrs Grubb left the room. Dalgo lifted himself from an armchair where he had been ensconced with a book. He went to sit beside her and awkwardly patted her on the back. "There there…"

"Don't pretend to care," she choked out between sobs.

"I don't like seeing you hurt," he said.

She noisily blew her nose into her handkerchief.

Dalgo pressed his tongue to his top row of teeth. "Perhaps I could ride up to Overhill with you."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You hate Rico. And riding."

"Nevertheless."

She scrunched her face up, torn between getting what she wanted and distrust of her brother.

"I don't need to be patronised by you," she said, rising from the settee and flouncing from the room.

"You tried," Clover said, up at Dalgo as Abelia slammed the door of her room, the noise vibrating through the floor.

"I can hardly blame her," he said, sighing and leaning forward onto his legs. "It's of my own making. How's your family coping?"

She shrugged, setting down a shining candlestick as gently as she could. "As well as any of us, I suppose." She ran a tongue over her top lip. "They're a little short of late, on account of Yuletide." She picked up another candlestick to give the appearance that she wasn't watching his reaction.

Dalgo regarded her for a moment before rising out of his seat and sitting on the floor next to her. He picked up a large fruit bowl and, without comment, started polishing it with his handkerchief.

"When do you think it'll end?" Clover said. "All the stuff with Lotho, I mean."

"How could I know?"

"You know things. I don't have anyone else to ask."

"I don't know that, I'm afraid. Sorry."

Clover lapsed into silence. Of Lotho's actions were wrong. There was no question of that. But if she fought and was unsuccessful… then what? She was worth more than being sent to the Mathom tunnels in Michel Delving.

"Mayhap I could just leave," she murmured to herself.

"What was that?" Dalgo said.

Clover snapped back into reality and tried to cover herself. "If we can't get out from under Lotho's thumb we could just go somewhere else. Make a new Shire. Marcho and Blanco did."

"We?"

"Hobbits," she said simply. "Or just me on my own. You can come with me if you like. Bring your grandmother."

He snorted. "Wheeling her over grassland. She wouldn't let me live for putting her through that indignity."

"She'd be happy as long as you stop for tea every couple of hours."

The question of whether Clover would be able to stand the thought of people suffering unjustly while she was somewhere in the wilderness. Her family in particular.

"I wish there was some way to keep us safe," Dalgo said. "To know for certain that we're safe."

"Nowhere's completely safe." Clover rested her elbows on the tea table. "You just have to create your own securities where you can."

He scoffed. "I wish I knew how to do that."

"You'll have already done it a little, probably without realising," she said, pretending to be distracted by an engraved message across the bottom of a candlestick.

"How's your reading coming along?" said Dalgo.

"Oh… well enough," Clover said.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing. Only that I've run out of paper so I haven't been able to practice much of late."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Dalgo was surprised, but his hand instinctively reached into his pocket. "I can certainly lend you some. But I thought you bought your own?"

"To be frank with you I'm a bit short after Yuletide."

"Ah. Yes, of course," he said. He went across the room to the writing desk in the corner and brought out a sheaf of paper, placing it on an empty spot on the tea table.

"Thank you so much, sir," Clover said, trying not to look smug. "I'm so sorry I've had to ask this but you've helped me so much with learning my letters and I didn't think you'd begrudge me." She laughed in a way she hoped affected humility. "I need to get better at keeping my books."

"How well do you understand arithmetic?" Dalgo said, settling on the settee and looking genuinely interested in her answer.

"I can make 'em bigger by adding and smaller by taking away."

"Addition and subtraction."

"If you say so."

Dalgo tapped his forefinger against the back of his other hand as he thought. "If you like I could give you some help with learning arithmetic."

Clover drew in a deep breath, doing her best to look surprised. "Are you sure, sir? I wouldn't want to impose on your time."

"It's not an imposition." He looked at her so earnestly, so comfortable in himself that he didn't seem like the same Dalgo Grubb that she had first met. Then his expression clouded. He got up from the settee, turning his back on her and pressing a hand to his forehead. "Actually, Abelia had better teach you. She's as good with numbers as I am."

"Miss Abelia hasn't offered," Clover said desperately.

"Then you should ask. She likes you, I'm sure she'd be obliging."

Clover hesitated, wondering if she should push further, but ultimately judged it unwise. "I'm sure."

She had finished her polishing now. She put the candlesticks in the fruit bowl to more easily carry them out of the room.

"Wait."

She turned in the doorway. Dalgo stood and, putting his hand in his pocket, held out a small pouch to her. From the way the fabric stretched under the weight of its contents, she could tell it held coins.

"For paper," he said. "And an abacas."

Clover smiled and took the coin pouch, relishing the weight of it in her hand. "Thank you, Dalgo."

He nodded and turned away, more telling than anything he could have said. Clover moved to her room, in case he changed his mind, and stashed the coins in the drawer of her bedside table where a few other coins glitter treacherously. She closed the drawer quickly, even knowing that no one else could see.

There wasn't yet any way of knowing what long term punishments would fall upon any of Lotho's enemies. Will Whitfoot would certainly never been seen again while Lotho was in power, but what of less consequential rebels? Would they be put in chains and forced to do the bidding of the Men? Would they be sent South with the pipe-weed? Would their names be put on a list of undesirables and they would be forced to wonder the streets hungry for the rest of their lives, unable to find work and shunned out of fear? Clover knew she was too good for any of those fates. What it came down to was the chance of any rebellion being successful and at the moment that seemed unlikely.

What was happening wasn't fair to anyone. But that meant it wasn't fair on her either. You couldn't rely on other people. No one else was going to fix the world and she couldn't do it on her own. So all that was left was to try and fix her own circumstances. That meant she was allowed to do anything she could do to see herself safe and comfortable. If other people would step on her to get where they were going, she was allowed to do the same to others. After all, who else would do differently?