Tasana: Queen of Wargs – Part XV: Of Hobbits — The Legible Version

by May 15, 2003Stories

* * *

Gimli was not the only one exhausted from constant travel. Sam and Frodo had landed on the opposite shore far downriver from where they had last seen the company when they encountered a roaring waterfall. There was little hope of portage around the rocky falls with both their heavy gear and the boat to carry, so they abandoned the little rowboat and continued along the riverbank on foot, much to Samwise’s relief – and truth to be told, Frodo’s as well. Sam’s rowing skills had not visibly improved within the last day or so of rowing, and Frodo was a novice boater at best. Just getting the little craft through the rocky shallows had nearly worn him out.

The fact that the older hobbit still felt malevolent eyes watching his every move did not cheer Frodo’s weary soul, either. Frodo sensed the badlands were filled with malicious beings hidden behind the scrubby trees and under the rocks, hiding just behind the stone chimneys, all staring at him and awaiting the opportunity to steal his Ring. Ever since Gandalf had hurried him on to Rivendale, Frodo had sensed the burning eye of the Dark Lord upon him. The feeling was even worse after the wizard had died. The burdensome Ring felt heavier and more exposed to that eye with every step the hobbit took toward Mordor. Frodo could not focus on memories of happier days of rest, either, as they made him think all too much of Lothlorien. Lady Galadriel’s mirror with its visions of doom had only deepened the hobbit’s worst fears.

He could not fail in his quest, or else all that Frodo loved would be eradicated from the land. Yet how could a mere hobbit, whose strength was in literature instead of swordsmanship, succeed in this fool’s errand? Destroying the One Ring was suicide, Boromir in all his foaming madness had been right about that. But even if this mission took Frodo’s life, as it was very likely to do, it was better than sitting on his hands until Sauron and the Nagzül rode down upon Frodo’s childhood home of Bag End in the Shire.

The Ring bearer looked about the thinning trees. Surely it was merely his overactive imagination. Frodo scanned the surroundings more out of force of habit than from any specific fear of nearby danger, but he thought he saw something bigger than a crow move amongst the tree limbs, staring at the hobbit evilly. Frodo said nothing to Sam, but nudged his friend and nodded slightly up, subtly warning the younger hobbit that they were indeed being watched. Samwise clutched his dagger warily, his hand small and clumsy upon the oversize handle.

The creature in the tree froze as the pair of hobbits stopped in their tracks. “Come on, Sam,” Frodo said in an undertone. The air was far too quiet, and Frodo did not want to be the one to break the silence, lest all the demons that haunted his dreams come riding down upon him. He strode onward in what he hoped was an indifferent, casual manner, but his best friend was refusing to move.

“That’s Gollum in that tree, Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispered as the beast turned its glowing yellow eyes upon the hobbits. “Maybe Strider couldn’t keep up with that little scamp, but it ain’t never taken on Samwise Gamgee before.” Sam pulled his blade gauchely out of the leather sheath that was still stiff and reeking of tanning oils, and tapped it against his hand.

“Well, if he continues to follow us we’ll have to put him to the test, then, Sam,” Frodo turned partially to his friend. “We go into Eymin Muil tomorrow, and that is a maze few can hope to navigate.”

Sam still refused to budge. “I don’t trust him, Mr. Frodo. Best if we get rid of him now, whilst we got him cornered, and that’s a fact.” The younger hobbit stared disgustedly into the branches overhead.

“There was a time when I would have agreed with you,” Frodo said quietly, his gaze following Samwise’s into the treetops. “But I’ve been thinking about what Gandalf told us in the mines. Who are we to judge whether a being deserves to live or die?”

“I suppose you’re right, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sighed. “But that doesn’t mean I have to agree with you.” Moving along, Samwise glared up into the treetop, sliding his dagger slowly back into its casing deliberately in view of the shady tree branch from whence ragged breathing issued barely over the evening-songs of perching birds on the western shore and the silky slide of metal on its scabbard. As the hobbits staggered along their tired way, a tree branch rustled, and the soft sound of raspy breathing slipped away towards Eymin Muil.

* * *

At long last, The Uruk Hai conceded to the smaller orcs’ griping and stopped for the sunlight to pass, lying in wait under the trees. Falling to the ground and massaging his tried, bleeding feet as best he could with his bound wrists, Merry was not going to complain about the rest. Of course, this meant the goblins were now able to devote their full attentions to their favorite pastime: torturing their captives.

“We’ve gotten nothin’ but flagit* moldy bread for the past six flagit days, one of the Morian orcs carped. Why can’t we just cut their legs off? The lulgijak* little rats are just slowing us down anyway.” He poked at Merry with his scimitar. After what felt like an eternity of being prodded, whipped, kicked, and otherwise hit, Merry simply curled up into a ball and ignored his latest aggressor. His back was numb to any new pain; it was already crisscrossed with scars and bruises in various states of healing. Sooner or later this orc would get bored and find something else to vent its endless anger upon if he didn’t scream.

“Shut up, snaga,” the Uruk captain cuffed the Morian. “Saruman wants `em whole and unharmed, then Ugluk and his Uruk Hai bring `em whole and unharmed. If you want meat, go catch your own pargijakun meal, or steal it from the crows, if that ain’t too hard for the likes of a lulgijak sissy carrion-eatin’ slave like you.” Merry risked looking up in time to see the Uruk draw his own knife. “Now go ahead and talk back. We Uruks have been runnin’ in the sunlight without meat for six days, too, and I’d love to have an excuse to gut you, pig.” It looked like it was going to come to blows yet again. Merry began to scoot surreptitiously away from the brawlers as the other orcs surrounded them, eager to get their own strikes into the fight.

“Idiots! The stupid little rats are gonna escape while you’re fighting. A merry troop of fools you’ll look like when you try to explain to Saruman that you were too busy paying attention to your bellies to watch over your captives!” Merry hadn’t been as sneaky as he had hoped. Auspiciously the orc who had taken him in hand was the one who usually carried Pippin, and had his fill of violence for one day, or at least enough that he would not try to kill the hobbit. “The lookouts say they’ve spotted a herd of straw-heads on their pargijakun* horses. We’ve gotta start moving if you fools wanna keep your flagit stomachs inside your flagit hides and not carry them over your flagit shoulders.” At this, the goblin threw Merry over one shoulder and picked up Pippin, who was moaning inaudibly in his fevered sleep, and threw him over his other shoulder.

“Butharubat* the straw-heads. I’m tried of running,” the Morian who had instigated the fight sat down, his arms crossed petulantly. “We’re safe in the woods. The straw-heads don’t dare ride their horses in here.”

Ugluk, the captain of the Uruks, snorted evilly. “With all those fires your group built? Why don’t you just go yell out where we are, snaga? I’m not sure the stupid straw-heads have noticed us yet.” His fellow Uruk Hai snickered scornfully at this witticism, as various Morians began to draw their weapons threateningly.

“A lot of those fires are from the Mordor orcs, ye cowardly zangruiuk*,” the smaller goblin spoke up. “You’d best learn not to confuse your betters with slaves.” This comment brought the third main group of orcs into the fracas, and the battle started all over again.

“Merry?” Pippin groaned. The poor young hobbit had been passing in and out of consciousness for the last three days. Merriadoc would not shake his cousin from that soothing fog if he could help it, as there was little hope left for the two smallest members of the fellowship. Pippin was the one who had the greatest plans for escape if he could shake off his poisoned fever, but Merry was ready to give up hope and could only wish to fall under the same happy delirium that saved Peregrine from the despair and pain of the journey.

“What is it, Pip?” Although he could never be sure that his younger cousin heard a word he said through his fevered dreams and nightmares, Merry decided to answer him this time, if only to distract himself briefly from the excruciating pain of his every joint and bone and the curses of the malodorous orcs.

“You know what they’re after, Merry. Maybe if we give it to them, they’ll let us alone.” The elder hobbit wriggled in the orc’s grasp to give his cousin a hard look. No fever could account for such a suicidal statement, even for someone as obviously thickheaded as Pippin. Fortunately the orc had been edging away from the ruckus, and was probably the only one who had heard Pippin’s insane utterance. Their transporter as well was staring at the fevered young hobbit, but rather than Merry’s look of absolute disgust, the giant goblin had a look of rapacious covetousness that could hardly be mistaken for any lesser greed.

“You’d best give it to old Grishank then, you little rats,” he growled.

“Why should we? Gollum,” Merry countered, playing upon his cousin’s gambit. At least, Merry hoped this was a gambit. “The other orcs would kill you if you tried to search us. And you know the precious will go to Saruman, not Grishank, if you let us be run all the way to Isengard.”

“You want a deal, snaga?” The black orc threw them roughly down into the forest leaves, drawing a scimitar that appeared much larger and sharper than Tasana’s to Merry’s frightened eyes. It wasn’t really dripping poison, he tried to reassure himself, but Merry did not want to think of what else might soon be dripping. “You little rats want a deal? I’ll give you a deal you won’t soon forget, you bloody little rats,” the formidable, agitated tormentor growled, brandishing his sword in the hobbits’ faces.

“Cut our legs free,” Pippin spoke up audaciously. “Then let us go, and we’ll give you it, gollum.”

“I’ll cut your legs, rat,” Grishank lifted his scimitar to do so, but the sound of hoof beats caused the goblin to start in surprise. He had brought his captives too far to the edge of the wood. The “straw-heads” his companions had cursed and made fun of were now riding down upon Grishank. The orc’s cry of mixed anger and fear was cut off into a gurgling scream as the pale-haired horseman drove the sharp steel point of his lance into his throat, summoning a mob of Uruk Hai from their unorganized camp further north into the fracas.

Merry, however, noticed very little of this, as he and Pippin were attempting to get deeper into the forest before they were trampled by horses and fighters. To his complete surprise, the younger hobbit, who had appeared to be suffering from a fever since shortly after the orcs had captured him, grabbed Merry’s arm and guided him through the tangle of legs, dropped blades, and dying bodies into the forest. “Pippin!” Merry tried to whisper, but Peregrine’s free wrists caught him off guard after the two had been tied up for so long. A whisper probably would not have been heard over the battle cries and screams of the dying, anyway. “How did you get free?”

Pippin said nothing, but drew a small knife from under his shirt. “I stole it from him while I was pretending to be sick,” he added after sawing at his cousin’s bonds, pointing his thumb toward the dead orc lying on the still-raging battlefield. “Actually I was sick, but I’m feeling much better now that I don’t have to smell Grishank’s hairy armpit.” A sly grin, tempered by the horrors he had experienced, flickered briefly over Peregrine’s face, and then the youngest member of the broken fellowship appeared as he ever had, happy-go-lucky and slightly clueless. From his cousin’s expression, Merry might expect the rest of the company to appear from the trees: Frodo worried to half to death over this latest prank, Samwise spouting his gaffer’s words of wisdom, Legolas and Gimli arguing merrily over the proper way to feed a pair of hobbits while Strider slipped them fruit from his pack with a rough smile, Chev’yahna fussing over their scrapes and bruises; Merry could even see Boromir and Gandalf for a minute in his mind’s eye, glad to see that they had not laid down their lives in vain. “Do you have any food Merry? I’m hungry.”

Shaking a developing tear from his face with a short nod, Merry passed him the crumpled remains of a loaf of lembas, still more or less wrapped in its leaf. After they ate, the two hobbits forged on, under the watchful unseen eyes of Fangorn Forest.

* * *
[Orcish guide – vielen Dank to Nienna for the info]
[*Butharubat- sod [someone]
Flagit- foul
Lulgijak- sissy
Pargijakun- bloodstainded; bloody
Zangruiuk- she-elf ]
[And now… (can I get a drumroll please?) for your enjoyment, the expanded edition of Bilbo’s Birthday, the second part of the first chapter of TQW]
* * *

The party had been long in the planning of festivities, tedious in the making of a guest list, and a bit of an annoyance in the constant visits of relatives, but it had all been worth it to see the look on good old Uncle Bilbo’s face. It had hardly been a surprise party – it was impossible to hide all those pavilions being set up the Shire Commons – but not Bilbo, Bilbo’s nephew, Frodo Baggins, nor Sam Gamgee, Frodo’s best friend, had expected such a spectacular turnout for such a wonderful birthday party. The night was cool, but comfortable, fireworks sparkled and banged overhead, and even the presence of Bilbo’s insufferable cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses, was ameliorated by that of Gandalf the Gray, the ancient wandering wizard who had gone with Frodo’s uncle on his adventures so long ago.

Frodo lazily turned from his table, which was all but creaking under the weight of so much food. Normally, even the greatest feast of human proportions would have disappeared immediately in the presence of so many individuals, double quick considering the great majority of them were hobbits well known for their vast appetites. At least half the population of the Shire was attending the party celebrating Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventh birthday. Yet even Frodo’s teenage cousins, who were always eating, making trouble, or both, had not yet made a significant dent in the display of Bilbo’s birthday party extravagance.

Not that Merridoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took hadn’t been trying, Frodo smiled, catching sight of the youngsters up to their elbows in dishwater with Gandalf standing watch dourly over them. Lobellia Sackville-Baggins’ raucous carping could be heard from across the party field, although fortunately for Frodo, her exact words were lost in the happier noise of the celebrations. The sour old hen looked as if she couldn’t decide whose ears to twist first: Pippin, Merry, or Gandalf, so Lobellia had settled for gesturing wildly at a smoking, broken down tent that Frodo deduced to be the scene of the crime. From the mess of soot in their hair, Frodo assumed the mischievous pair had tried to light a few fireworks of their own. Although the younger Baggins was sure he never wanted to see another piece of food for the rest of his life, even should he live to be as old as Bilbo, he decided he ought to take pity upon the boys and bring them some fruit after Gandalf and Lobellia finished punishing them. Having to listen to Old Lady Stink-Bug, as Frodo and his friends had called her behind her back as children, prattle on like that was more punishment than anyone deserved. Pippin was staring longingly at Bilbo’s birthday cake as he scrubbed plates, and better that they were given food than having Merry come up with some harebrained scheme to steal it.

Following Peregrine’s gaze, Frodo silently began trying to count the candles once again. One hundred and eleven. It was hard for Frodo to believe his uncle; the only paternal figure he had ever known, was this old. He barely looked sixty, much less a hundred; as he stood atop a table to make the speech the crowd was heckling him for. It was not hard for the adopted hobbit to see his uncle as the adventurer the elder Baggins had been infamous for becoming, even at this fully seasoned age. Bilbo still appeared hale enough to accompany mysterious wizards or lost heirs to secret dwarven kingdoms who might approach him after the party for the aid of Bag End’s most celebrated burglar.

“Today is my hundred and eleventh birthday! I hope you all are enjoying yourselves as thoroughly as I am!” he shouted above whistles and joyous cheers. “First of all, I wanted to tell you how immensely fond I am of you all. Eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such wonderful people. I don’t know half of you as well as I should like and I don’t like half as you as well as you deserve.” Most of the clapping stopped as the party guests ruminated over Bilbo’s last statement, trying to decide if this was a complement. “But unfortunately, my friends, I’m afraid my time with you has come to an end. Frodo shall come into his inheritance today. For I am leaving tonight. Immediately. Goodbye.” With that, Bilbo slipped on the ring he had been toying with behind his back and disappeared utterly from view.


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