June 20

He awoke when the eastern sky was turning grey, and he headed back for the inn-yard.

Tad greeted him and rapidly introduced him to all the lads; they pointed to a pony saddled and tied in the back, and Bolco went and untied him, and mounted, and tied his pack to the back of the saddle. They all filed out of the inn-yard quietly, and were soon trotting over the hills toward Overhill.

Nobody asked him anything for quite a while, but he caught many glances rapidly dropped. He began to wonder whether Tad had gone back into the inn and recounted his previous night's discussion. He rather thought that he had, and he supposed he couldn't blame him. He was baffled by it himself.

Up and down hills they trotted. Snatches of songs floated about, and stories and laughter teased the outside of his mind, but his heart was turning over and over about those four months. What could have happened? He thought about waking up on the train; he thought about the moment of dizziness as Jake's bedroom faded and the Brandywine appeared. He didn't see where two years would have fit into either of those, but of the two, the train ride to him seemed the more suspicious. But no. It was preposterous. He had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire, and wakened on the train.

Four months. He was certain. Finally he trotted forward to catch up with Tad.

"Tad."

"Yes, Mr. Bolco, what can I do for you?"

Bolco chose not to try and decipher the attitude behind the response. Several of the hobbits around him exchanged glances.

"I was wondering about The Battle of Bywater, " Bolco said, trying to make the statement sound natural, but the words "Battle of Bywater" tasted very strange to him. "Why was the battle led by Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took and Sam Gamgee?"

"Why, they had just come back from their trip to foreign parts, " said Bob.

"Aye, " agreed Tad. "They came back dressed for fighting and fight they did. They roused everybody, the whole Shire. Mister Pippin rounded up all the Tooks, and Master Samwise rounded up all the Cottons, and then the word spread from there, seemingly; and Mister Merry masterminded the whole thing. "

Bolco nodded. "Where did they go on their trip?"

Many glances were exchanged again. "If you were in the lands of men too, you must have heard about it. A great big war, and the downfall of one kingdom and the rise of another, and a new king too. How could you not have heard about all that? How could you not have heard about them? There are songs about them in all of the kingdoms now."

The baffled look on Bolco's face did not satisfy them, and the group grew quiet.

"I never heard anything about any war. Not at all, " Bolco murmured, as much to himself as to them.

"That's why Mister Frodo has only nine fingers now, " said one of the lads, helpfully. "That's how the war ended."

"No, Bob, and that's just showing how idiotic you can be, now, " said another. "The war ended when Mister Merry slew the Lord of the Nazgul, that's what. You ought to know your story better than that."

"I thought it was when Mister Pippin slew the Troll in front of the black gates, " said another.

"Landed under it you mean, " said a third.

"You're all wrong, it was when Master Samwise killed off that spider and then routed all the orcs in that tower," said a fourth.

"It was the eagles!" cried a fifth, and a general argument erupted, each with a different version of how the war ended, and Bolco dropped his hands slightly, and the pony unguided began to slow down. Bolco faded slowly back from the pack, puzzling, but before he fell quite behind, he saw Tad's hard gaze fixed on him.

He held that gaze, wondering, for in it he saw resentment and mistrust, and he wondered what he had done to deserve those emotions from a hobbit he did not know. Tad eventually dropped his gaze, but not without a snort of contempt.

Bolco kept to himself for the rest of the ride. At breakfast, several odd glances were directed at Bolco's black nylon backpack with its zipper and strange logo. After that he took care to leave it on the pony and tie the pony outside of the group. At second breakfast, several hobbits tried to engage him in a discussion about the difference between a four-month trip and a two-year trip. It was becoming clear that they thought he was either dishonest, or worse than just confused. Bolco was reminded of all the times he had been laughed at for chasing elves. Only somehow this seemed more ominous.

They arrived at Bywater in time for Elevensies. Several of the hobbits suggested that Bolco join them at The Green Dragon, but Bolco was uncomfortable, and hesitated. Some of the hobbits were friendly, but some were mistrustful, and he was no longer at home among them. The company that he was desperate for, was Lilac's. He was suddenly weary of everything else but her, and wanted only to see her face and hear her voice.

But the friendly hobbits grew insistant, and he found himself being hustled along towards The Green Dragon under a pair of friendly arms. He would rather have eaten another bagel and apple. He objected that he couldn't buy a meal, and they promised him that the meal was on them. He tried to relax but he was suddenly dreading another meal's worth of figuring out where the two years went.

Sure enough, the questions began.

"So you say that you were only gone four months, " one began. Several frowned, but several others leaned forward.

Bolco nodded, bracing himself. "I remember four, " he said. "Mid Frebruary; it was cold all right. And then March, with crocuses; April, daffodils; May, tulips; end of May, beginning of June-- Lilacs. And then I was back on The North Moors."

Several hobbits nodded and smiled when he mentioned lilacs.

A local from Hobbiton spoke up. "Miss Lilac had been hoping for some news of you from the four travellers, and was some disappointed when they hadn't seen hide nor hair of you the whole time."

Bolco met his gaze with his heart in his eyes and a dozen questions on his lips, but he froze at the open hostility he saw in the hobbit's eyes. He was too baffled to respond after that.

"Four months, " said another. "Four months would hardly get you to Gondor, unless you travelled on horseback, or so I'd guess. But you're saying you made it there and back again in four months. Which lands of men did you get to?"

"Acton, Massachusetts. On the East Coast."

"The East Coast, " Tad repeated. "The East Coast of what?"

"That's all I know, " said Bolco, "Except that it was near a place called Boston. The tracks ran from Boston to Acton, pretty much east to west."

"What tracks?"

"The tracks I followed once I got off the train."

"What train?" "What's a train?"

He tried to explain; that it was a metal-enclosed wagon or cart without horses that ran with wheels on a metal track; that it went very fast and was very noisy; and that you needed a ticket to ride on it, which he had not had, and that was why they made him get off.

"Sounds awful, " said one listener.

"Aye, " said Tad, "It does. It sounds bad. All machinery and wheels and metal and noise and all. Like that nasty new mill that the ruffians built. It sounds bad, all right."

"Aye, " said another.

"The buildings in Boston were so tall, " Bolco said, trying to introduce some humor, "that they frightened me just looking at them. I headed away from them as soon as I could. And there were no trees."

"No trees," nodded another. "That sounds like East, all right, " said another ominously. There were nods of agreement all around, and suddenly Bolco felt totally isolated. He decided to finish up the story as quickly as he could, and move on to the Festival at The Three-Farthing Stone on foot, and look for Lilac there.

"So I followed the tracks, which had trees growing near them, and ended up in Acton. And I stayed with a family there, for four months. I learned what I could about the Creator, and then... and then I arrived back on the North Moor."

"Just like that, " said a gaffer, sitting back and smiling.

"Just like that, " nodded Tad, and some laughed. Others did not. A few tapped their foreheads. A few looked angry. Several left, and Bolco could hear the clatter of hooves as a group headed away from the Inn. He wondered if they were headed for The Smials or The Festival. His heart sank.

"Perhaps I should leave, " he said quietly to those at his table. He quietly thanked the hobbits that had bought him his meal-- several of which looked away, and others looked at him kindly, but with real pity. He rose, picked up his pack, now being careful to carry it so that the university logo did not show, and walked out.

The door closed behind him, and through it he heard the conversation surge again. It was obvious who they were talking about. He walked away.

There were several unfriendly stares from hobbits lounging in the innyard, and one hobbit spoke up. "East Coast, eh? I wonder what you really do know about the war."

"Garn, " said one of his companions, making a fist. "Maybe he was in with the Ruffians, or worse."

"Now, come," said a third. "He doesn't look bad. He's just had too much moonshine. Let him be. "

"Aye, let him be, " said another, shaking his head. "Poor lad." And so saying they watched him leave.

He headed due south, aiming for the Three-Farthing Stone. The hedgerows were all familiar, but he missed some trees. He supposed that had been ruffian's work, or perhaps some other casualty of the war.

The war. What war? About what? He still was at a loss. Somehow, Deputy-Mayor Baggins had come back with one finger missing; that's an odd one, he thought. And Master Samwise, Mister Merry, and Mister Peregrin-- he supposed he must call him that too, now, and not just Pip-- somehow they had become leaders qualified to mastermind battle tactics.

If Pippin-- Mister Pippin-- had become too important to explain things, he thought sadly, then certainly Lilac would explain. She would take the time, she would understand, she would listen. She always, always had.

He turned his heart towards the Creator. He told the Creator how baffled he was, how the War and the two years and the general suspicions voiced by the hobbits were bothering him. They thought I was crazy before I left, he thought; I guess now they are certain. He sighed. Really, had he expected any less? The Train story sounded wild even to him, and so did a dizzy spell moving one from a house to a Moor. He shrugged. The Creator had brought him back to Lilac, he thought; that's the important thing. We'll be together soon. The thought quickened his pace. The Festival came into sight in the distance, and he left The Green Dragon behind and thought only of finding Lilac in the crowded Festival.

He decided against introducing himself to anyone, or talking to anyone if he did not have to. At a festival this size it should be easy to blend into the background. The only face he wanted to see was Lilac's. He triple-checked all his clothes to be sure that he had not accidentally worn anything mannish, wanting to blend in as much as possible. Then he stowed his pack in a hedgerow, and immediately began looking for Lilac.

There were tents and tables and pavilions and kitchens and musicians and dancers and jugglers, and booths selling strawberry pies and cakes and jams and fruits. There were seamstresses and craftsmen and artisans selling their work as well. He checked every table and every booth, he inspected every tent. He covered the entire festival, and inspected every girl's face that was surrounded by brown curls, which meant most of the girls at the festival. He recieved many odd looks, and a few folk seemed about to recognize him, but he moved on hurriedly whenever that happened. It was teatime, and many hobbits were digging in enthusiastically, so the food provided a fair distraction in most cases, allowing him to continue his search uninterrupted.

He did not find her. He returned to where he had stowed his pack, and sat with his back to a tree, wearily, and decided to begin all over again. Maybe she came late. Teatime had now merged into Dinnertime, and he thought she, but most especially her father Isembrand, would not have been late enough to miss dinnertime. He asked the Creator to help him find her, and then he walked back to his starting point, and carefully, methodically worked his way through the whole festival again, looking carefully into every feminine face.

Those who seemed about to speak to him before studied him even more intently this time, but he could not deal with that now, and evaded them again, as before.

A second time through the entire festival, and still he had not found Lilac. Where, where was she? His soul and his heart ached as much as his body, and he realised he was exhausted both physically and emotionally. He would have to ask someone. But who? He sighed, and began making his way back to the main pavilion, where he had seen numerous Tooks.

As he arrived within sight of the main pavilion, with dinnertime winding down, Deputy-Mayor Baggins and Mayor Will Whitfoot emerged from it, and began walking toward the Three-Farthing Stone. Everyone left their tables (but not their plates of food) and followed them, and Bolco withdrew again. He supposed it was time for the speeches. He would be unable to move about unnoticed while they were speaking. He sighed, and found a place near a hedgerow to listen. He would gladly listen to any speech anyone wanted to give, if only, oh, if only he could find Lilac. He longed for the touch of her hand, for the shine in her eyes, for the music of her voice.

Deputy-Mayor Baggins began his speech. It was short and to the point; he was stepping down as Deputy-Mayor, and turning the duties entirely back to Will Whitfoot. There was polite applause. Citizen Baggins withdrew amiably and Bolco's thoughts wandered back to Lilac as Will Whitfoot spoke, enthusiastically and humorously discussing the good food, the unbelievably good harvests so far, the lovely season, and the feast that they would continue to enjoy. The applause was frequent, generous and long.

The speech ended as twilight fell, and the flow of wine and beer resumed, and laughter and music and dancing. But he knew he would not find Lilac in the midst of it, and so he withdrew. Who should I ask? he wondered.

Suddenly, behind him, in the twilight, he realised a quiet voice was singing behind the hedgerow. The delicate tune was piercingly lovely, and he shivered, chilled and moved to heartache. The song floated gently on the still air. There was power in the song, purity, ravishing beauty. He did not understand the words. He longed to.

He traced the hedgerow back towards the pavilion, and found a gap, and quietly but eagerly plunged through. To his astonishment, he saw Deputy-Mayor Baggins, pacing, singing softly. He listened and watched, and suddenly the Deputy-Mayor looked up and saw him, and stopped singing. "Yes, Lad? May I help you?" he said.

"Y-yes, please, sir. Keep singing, sir, " stammered Bolco.

Baggins smiled, rather shyly. "I don't often sing for others these days, " he said softly.

"Oh, please, Mayor, sir. Please, don't stop singing. I'm sorry I interrupted you."

Baggins smiled again, a little embarrassed, but he nodded, and gently said, "Walk with me down the hedgerow a bit." And as they walked, he very softly sang the song again, start to finish. Bolco was entranced. The beauty of the song overwhelmed his senses and he found it hard to believe that he was listening to a hobbit; he thought there must be something elvish going on.

The song was not long, and when he finished, Baggins fell silent.

Bolco struggled for words. "Sir, that was beautiful. Truly, absolutely beautiful. I-- it-- wh-- where did you learn it?"

"Rivendell, " Baggins said pensively.

"It's elvish then, " Bolco said.

"Well, yes, of course," Baggins replied.

"You went to live with the elves? You spent time with them?"

"I did." Baggins stopped and turned to face the young lad before him, and saw eagerness mixed with the weariness the day had given him.

Bolco, face to face with Frodo Baggins for the first time in his life, studied the older hobbit in turn. Bolco saw something pure, something true, something good, and he felt inadequate and young in the light of what he saw.

"Sir, I envy you that, that you saw the elves, " Bolco stuttered.

Frodo smiled. He turned, and led back towards the gap in the hedge. "Yes, I've been most fortunate to be able to spend time with them, " he said.

"I wish you had not stepped down from being Mayor, " Bolco said, suddenly vehement. "I wish you were still Mayor. You should be."

Baggins shook his head, smiling. "Will never stopped being Mayor, " he demurred. "I was only his deputy, temporarily."

"No, " said Bolco, now stubborn and unreasoning. "You should always be Mayor. You'll always be my Mayor, Mr. Baggins."

Frodo threw back his head and laughed, thoroughly embarrassed, and clapped the lad on the shoulder. "You baffle me. Will Whitfoot is as fine a Mayor as can be found."

"No, sir, " Bolco asserted, on fire now. "There's more to life than food and feasting and parties. There's beauty, and truth, and holiness. And you know what those are, sir. I could feel it in your song. You've touched them, you've tasted them. I would rather have you for Mayor than a hundred Will Whitfoots. And in my mind you'll always be my Mayor. Always."

Frodo said with another embarrassed laugh, "Now, look, lad, I've stepped down, and I'm not running for Mayor, not next year, nor the year after, nor the year after that. Mayor Whitfoot will handle the office just fine, as he always has. You'll have to settle for that."

"No, sir, " Bolco stated resolutely. "You'll always be Mayor to me. I don't care who gives the speeches at the feasts or who works at Michel Delving. I'll always call you Mayor, sir."

"You're a stubborn one, " Frodo said and turned his head, hoping that the twilight hid the blush on his flaming cheeks. "But if you want to give me a nickname, I suppose I can't stop you."

"No, sir, you can't," agreed Bolco.

Just then a hobbit came through the gap in the hedge and called out. "Mister Frodo sir, it's time for Supper."

Frodo was stuffed, but he had been far too embarrassed by this young hobbit to feel comfortable around him at the moment, whereas the hobbit calling him from the gap in the hedge made him feel quite comfortable indeed. "I'm coming, Sam. Good evening, lad."

"Good evening, Mayor Baggins, sir, " said Bolco, halting, understanding that he had been dismissed. He watched Frodo leave, deeply envying the hobbit who had called him away.

"Who was that, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, Sam. Between his asking me to sing, and insisting on still calling me Mayor, I was so embarrassed that I didn't think to ask." Frodo rubbed his hot face, hoping the blush would go away soon.

"Why did he do that, sir?"

Frodo waved the question away. "I'll tell you another time, Sam. Let's get to supper now."

"All right, Mister Frodo. I'm ready for Round Three myself, " Sam smiled.

Bolco stood in the twilight for several moments, remembering the shining he had seen in Mayor Baggins' eyes and face, and hoping that he would be like that someday. He thought back to the times that he had trailed Mayor Baggins into the woods, hoping to find the elves that Mayor Baggins was reputed to speak with. He never had. But the elves had left their mark on Mayor Baggins.

Suddenly remembering Lilac, Bolco plunged ahead, through the gap and into the now lamplit pavilion, looking around for a familiar face.

"Fredegar. Fredegar, have you seen Lilac?"

Fatty looked up from his plate and choked on the mouthful of chicken. He recovered, took a long swig of wine-- apparently not his first-- gaped, stood, and suddenly roared, "BOLCO TOOK!" He leaped to his feet and seized Bolco. "You're ALIVE!"

The table erupted in pandemonium.

"Fredegar, hush!"

"YOU'RE ALL RIGHT!"

"Fatty, listen; listen!! Lilac, I need to know where Lilac is!"

"YOU'RE ALL RIGHT! YOU'RE NOT DEAD!"

"No. No, I'm not." Dozens of hands thumped his back and mussed his hair. "Fatty, tell me where Lilac is! Where is she?"

Fatty blinked. "Why, she's back at the Smials. She doesn't come to festivals anymore, not since you died. Disappeared, I mean."

"Right, the Smials! Thanks, Fatty, thanks!" He wrenched himself free from Fatty and turned, and found himself face to face with Tad from Needlehole.

"Not been to a festival since you died, " Tad laughed bitingly. "And now she knows that you didn't die. Just went to the East Coast, and turned into a lying traitor!"

Bolco paused, thinking of Lilac, his mind racing, puzzling about Tad's scowl. Tad's words did not even penetrate Bolco's mind.

But everyone else at the table heard what Tad said; the Tooks that heard it gasped and gaped. Bolco looked around, and saw face after face from The Green Dragon, glaring at him, accusing him. Numerous Tooks, baffled and still gaping, demanded to know what was going on. Answers were rapidly forthcoming, courtesy of Tad and his friends. Even Fatty began to frown. The glee that had erupted at the table when Fatty first spoke, now turned to conflict.

Thinking only of returning to Lilac, Bolco plunged back towards the edge of the festival where he had stowed his pack. As he went, Tooks recognized him; and as they did, witnesses from The Green Dragon seemed to be thoroughly scattered through the crowd, and the conflict spread. An uproar followed him.

But he hardly heard it, and was too tired to comprehend it. His mind was echoing what Fatty had said. She had not been to a festival since he had disappeared. She had not gone to the festivals without him. She had been waiting for him the past two years. She was waiting now, in the Smials; she was there. Waiting. The thought filled him ‘til he could think of nothing else. He arrived at the edge of the festival, by the hedge row; he seized his pack, dodged in the confusion through the gap, turned south toward the Smials and ran along behind the hedgerow, leaving the uproar behind him.

Stars were blazing as he breathlessly plunged through the north side backdoor of the Smials. Except for meals and the dinner at Bywater, he had ridden or walked, or run, from sunup to starlight on the longest day of the year, and he was bone weary. And he had thought of one other thing on the way from the Festival to The Smials: I'm twenty-seven years old today, he thought, except that everybody else seems to think I am now twenty-nine. But if I'm twenty-nine instead of twenty-seven, then instead of having to wait six more years, I'm only four years away from proposing to her now. I'm two years closer to being able to marry Lilac than I thought I was.

The thought was incredibly sweet.

On the way to Lilac's room he passed his old room. He paused there, and thought of opening the door, but heard voices, and stopped. Of course. No room in the Smials stood empty for long. A jab of regret went through him, and he wondered when another room would open up. It didn't happen very often. So he would need to find another place to live, he thought.

Well, that was to be expected. But his real heart's home was in the southern tunnels anyway. She was minutes away, and as completely exhausted as he was from his day's travels and the controversies and the confusion and his long run from the festival to the Smials, the thought of Lilac lifted him, and he went through the tunnels toward her door with a steadily increasing lightness and spring in his step borne of hope and delight. He told the Creator that he was grateful to be here, to have come home, to be seeing Lilac again, and lapsed into praise and thanksgiving. He passed a few cousins that greeted him with surprise and delight; he returned their greeting joyfully, but pressed on towards Lilac's room. He could have danced at her doorway, but she was waiting on the other side of it.

He knocked on her door. "Come in." His heart leaped at her voice, and he stepped through the door wild-eyed and bursting with joy.

"Hello, Lilac, " he almost sang, dropping his pack by the door and springing towards her. But he saw no welcome in her eyes, and halted. "Lilac, I'm home. I've missed you so much." He looked into her eyes more deeply, and did not see the loving welcome he had so confidently expected. She was distant. He looked again, astonished; and a third time.

"I missed you so much, Lilac. It's so good to see you."

She stared at him, tight-lipped, waiting. He came forward and touched her hand; she brushed him away. He stepped back instinctively respecting her wishes.

"Lilac? I've come home, " he faltered. "Lilac."

The anger in her eyes froze his soul. Now after everything he had rehearsed, he found nothing to say. She waited, and grew impatient, and finally spoke.

"You've come home. Yes, I see that." Her tone was icier than her eyes. "So. You've been to the lands of men."

"Yes, Lilac, I have, " he said, with difficulty.

"What was the place called?" she asked.

"It was called Acton, " he replied. "In Massachusetts."

"Where is that?"

"On the east coast."

"What east coast? Do you mean that you saw the ocean on the other side of the world?"

"N-no, I didn't see the ocean. But I was told it was not far."

"Who told you?" she asked, flippantly.

"Jake. One of the brothers I stayed with. They... they taught me to swim..."

"I see. You went to the far side of the world to learn how to swim. Buckland wouldn't do," she said softly. She was only getting colder. "And what else did you do?"

"I-- I studied about the Creator, and his people."

"The what?"

"The Creator. The powerful being who made Middle-Earth, Arda, Ea. All that is. That Creator."

"What is that, some sort of elvish legend?"

"Well, they-- yes, they do have poems and accounts of it, and of him. They call him Iluvatar, and Eru, and--"

"Local versions of the legends wouldn't do at all, I suppose. And this took you two years."

"Lilac, I wasn't away for two years."

"Oh, I know, you were only away for four months. The whole town knows that you were only away for four months. The whole Shire knows that you were only away for four months." Her anger grew steadily. "What were you really doing, Bolco? What really took you two years and four months to learn? Do you really expect me to believe that you stayed away for two years just to swim, and learn some elvish legends?"

He tried to protest, but her fury stormed over him. "No word to me, no message, in two years. No letter. No word at all. Nothing to let me know that you were alive, that you were safe, that you were just studying poetry," she raged. "And now you come back, and expect the whole Shire to believe that you were only gone a little while, a harmless little jaunt away and back again, nothing worth noticing, and now you're back and all is well."

She stalked towards him. "What did you really do, Bolco? What are you hiding from all of us? What are you hiding from me? What really took you two years to do? And what made you forget about me all that while? And what makes you think that I will believe your absurd lies, and take you back as if nothing had happened? "

The accusation roused him out of the numbness, and he replied with more heat than he knew he had within him. "Four months, Lilac. No longer. From February to June I was gone from here. Measure it how you like. I saw four months worth of days and nights, mornings and evenings, and no more. I stayed with a family that taught me to swim and to seek the Creator. I studied about the Creator. And I did nothing else. Four months."

She stood back, measuring him, studying him. He met her gaze. They both shook, she with anger, and he with indignation and surprise.

He took a deep breath. "Lilac, I thought of you constantly. If there had been a way to send you a message I would have. I love you. I only wanted to come back to you."

Her eyes narrowed. He prayed desperately and held his breath.

"There was no way for you to send me a message."

"I didn't even know where the Shire was in relation to where I was. I wanted to get home, but I didn't know where to go. I didn't know how. It wasn't on any of the maps. Nobody knew where it was."

"Oh. Well, nobody here does either. No-one knows anything about an east coast. Anything that far away would have taken a year just for the journey out. But that's impossible. You were only gone for four months."

"I didn't walk there, I didn't travel there. I just woke up there. And I didn't walk back, either."

"Oh. I see. You just woke up there." She nodded, and looked aside. For a brief moment, he began to hope she was starting to believe him. She watched the floor.

"Lilac..."

She looked up. "Get out."

"Lilac, please. Let me tell you what happened."

"You already have. It's preposterous. Get out."

"Lilac, don't do this."

"Don't do this!" she blazed. "Who are you to tell me what to do! Don't you ever darken my door again! You deceitful scoundrel, you liar, you disgust me. Get out. Get out!" The door opened, and Isembrand entered. Bolco shot him a beseeching look, but he stepped coldly aside and gestured at the door. Bolco had just enough presence of mind to walk towards it. The room began to turn dark. As he passed Lilac, he paused and met her gaze. He saw rage, mistrust, disgust, and contempt. The rage he could deal with. The mistrust, contempt and disgust, destroyed him where he stood. The moment seemed to last for minutes, and her contempt grew as he watched. He could bear it no more; dazedly he turned back to the door. Isembrand handed him his pack; he shouldered it as he walked out. The door closed behind him.

He was met by a sea of faces. Half the Smials was waiting, watching. Without thinking he bolted, knifing northwards through the crowd, deaf and half blind and thinking only of solitude and escape. He made for the nearest backdoor, ran out into the twilight and sprinted blindly toward the orchards. A few hobbits followed, calling him, until they saw his fevered pace, and then they gave up. Once in the orchards, he cut through several hedgerows, and headed north. He looked back twice, and sure that there was no one in pursuit, he ran all the way to the far north fields, cut through a hedgerow beside a very noisy stream and dropped himself face-first on the bank. His lungs and his legs were on fire from the run, but he cried himself hoarse anyway.

His thoughts turned towards the Creator. He had no idea what to pray. He could only cry, growing more hoarse, his lungs burning still, his eyes aching. He hurt all over and that added to his misery. Finally he sat up. The stars were brilliant. He didn't care. He hurt everywhere. He crawled towards the stream, found a sandy section, and rolled into it.

The icy shock numbed some of the pain. He lay there and let his body stiffen in the cold, not caring; he lay back under the water holding his nose, and let the salt wash off his face. When he was deeply chilled, he crawled back up the bank, rolled onto his back and lay still. He fell asleep, and his dreams were hopeless and full of suspicious, accusing faces.

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