East Road - Foothills
You are not too far from Bree now, as looking east you can see rising smoke from the chimneys in the community. You stand at the top of a rise, amongst a jumble of foothills which scatter up fron the southwest. There lie the Barrow downs, and the comforts of Bree are much more attractive than passing such an infamous and dangerous place. But continuing west you will eventually reach the Shire, where things will certainly be peaceful and easy.


An interminable night uncoils, sullen and sodden and utterly devoid of moonlight. Not even the faint pinpricks of distant stars find passage through the heavy clouds. Only in the last quarter hour has the soaking rain slowed and pattered out, leaving black mud, knee-high in places, along the path.

The muted light of a dirty lantern swings into the dim, uncovering a gloved hand, snatches of cloak - but obnoxiously little by way of helpful illumination. The keeper of this lamp stalks squelchingly towards Bree, two slighter figures in tow.


For much of this miserable trek through branches that slap at skin and deliberately drip fat cold raindrops through slits in clothing, the towees have made no protest. But now, as they near Bree, Toby begins to slow. Each footstep comes more reluctantly, and his face (what can be seen of it in the relentless blackness) slowly exchanges sullenness for fear.

A little ahead of him, one small fist clenched fiercely about a bit of wrinkled cloth and leather, his sister shadows Drystan's every movement. In her other hand, a knife blade glints occasionally in the swaying fickle light of the lantern.


The path, as it were, winds about the dark shoulders of a hillock, shale and pebbles alternately loosened and mired in the muck. And on ascent, their stonily silent guide's foot slips and promptly sticks, beads of rain scattering in a broad arc as he flings out a balancing arm. Drystan breathes a grimacing curse, and casts a glance back to the erstwhile children.

"Take a breather here, shall we?" Bent sideways, he lifts the lantern, studying the pair. "You're too thin. And soaked through."

There is a sickly kissing sound as he steadily works his boot free.


Tathar is shivering steadily beneath a cloak that once was scarlet; now a muddy greenish brown. Brown eyes dart up to the man's face and then fall to study the mud with intent concentration. Not once this entire time has she opened her mouth nor does she now. But her head shakes just a little from side to side. No.

Toby's jaw juts out. "It's raining," he says and clamps his teeth together, only to unclench them a minute later and ask unwillingly, "Where are we?" A thin chill wind whistles past them, carrying a burden of dampness with it, though no actual rain just at the moment and the boy hunches his shoulders against it and glances anxiously at his sister. Imperceptibly, he edges closer to her.


"Not far from your home."

Suddenly freed, Drystan straightens his cloak and steps carefully to what seems to be sturdier ground, squinting at the featureless horizon. "... I think." He works a flask from damp-shrunken leather, absently extending it to Tathar. "Drink. And you, Toby."

And his gaze turns to the boy, impassively measuring. "Your own hearth and bed before the morning."


"No!" Toby's head comes up abruptly and he looks around, brown eyes so like his sister's darting from twisted gloom-ridden tree to mud-filled hollow to soggy disspirited grass; all shrouded in a darkness that almost seems malevolent in its blackness. Tathar's hand, thin and white, has reached out for the flask and she tilts it back to drink obediently, when the boy's voice freezes her mid-movement. Wide brown eyes stare at her brother around the drinking vessel and then move timidly, silently, to Drystan.


"No," Drystan echoes, looking rather as if he is unaccustomed to hearing the word. The lamp gutters as it swings in his grasp, threatens to sputter out - gathers determination again, casting strange, muddled shadows over all their faces. His glance flicks to Tathar, coolly studying the bruising along her face. To her brother, he wonders, "What have you done?"


Toby's gaze slides towards Tathar as well and then away. "Nothing," he mutters. Hesitantly, unexpectedly, Tathar says, "He stole something, I think." At the sound of her own voice, small though it is, she flinches a little. Her brother looks up, his eyes wide and startled. "You knew?" he asks incredulously.

Those five words seem to have broken some dam of silence, and despite a half-frightened glimmer in her eyes, Tathar says, "Yes. Anyways, I knew you'd done something bad. Mother was crying and Father threw a hammer." Defensively, she adds, "You're my brother. I wasn't going to leave you off there by yourself." The forgotten flask hangs loosely in her hand.


"What did you steal?" Drystan asks with mild interest, as rain drips from his cowl, pings hollowly from the lamp and vanishes into steam. His chin tips towards Tathar, with a soft addition. "Drink."


"Some money," Toby says sullenly. "I wanted..." but he doesn't finish. Instead, the thin lips clamp themselves tightly shut.

"You should have told me," Tathar scolds him. "I didn't have very much, but I'd have given it to you." Her arm lifts automatically, carrying the flask to her lips again. The cloak slides down a few inches, baring a bony wrist striped darkly. Shadows? Mayhap.

"You didn't have enough and besides, I can't always be taking your money." Toby's truculent face is a pale watery oval in the wet dark night.


The fitfully visible glitter of Drystan's gaze lingers with the boy as the piercing whistle of wind winds about them. "You wanted," he repeats thoughtfully, but not as though prompting. It seems answer enough. The clattertrap of their quarreling voices falls disregarded beneath his reverie; but Tathar lifts the flask, and his free hand darts suddenly to take her arm.

Black brows knitted, Drystan studies her wrist. Then lifts his eyes to her brother, speaking softly. "Did you do this?"


The abrupt snaking motion of Drystan's hand catches the corners of Tathar's eyes and she flinches again. The bones seem to stand out in her suddenly white face, eyes huge and panicked. For a moment, she jerks frantically at his grasp, the dagger in her other hand coming up; before present realities over-rule memory and she subsides.

"NO!" Toby all but shouts the word, hushing himself abruptly. "I wouldn't do nothing to hurt her, not ever," he continues insistently, earnestly, more quietly. "Never. I was making her come home."


His hand slips from Tathar's arm to her dagger-wielding fist, gently pressing it down even as she calms. Drystan looks at her for a moment, as though she has spoken a strange, unfamiliar word. "Who did this?" he demands.


"A..a man," she whispers. "I don't know... maybe he's dead." Toby stands beside her now, tall and thin and decidedly protective. "I don't know," he echoes, scowling. A distant howling echoes across the cold dark hills. "I wasn't there." In contrast to the wild eerie wailing, his voice is low and rough; and an unaccustomed anguish slides across the sulky planes of his face as he looks down at his sister. "I wasn't there..."


The boy's obvious sorrow wakes no sympathy in the man. His leather-clad fingers tighten about Tathar's fist, and uncurl. And in a quick flurry of mud and scattering water, Drystan snatches the boy up by the back of his collar. "You left her?" Dangerously soft, with a single violent shake: "You left your sister alone. It must have been important, Toby."


A gargled noise works its way through the strangling hold. Both the boy's hands go to his throat, "I.." he manages, before Tathar jumps for Drystan's arm. "Don't!" she cries. "It wasn't... he didn't... we had to eat and they hit him," she finishes, somewhat incoherently. Her hair, curly as ever in the dampness, hangs limply about her face; some strands plaster themselves blackly across the pale blue-white skin.


"Who." Drystan tips slightly under her weight, the strong fingers coiled within the fabric of the boy's shirt loosening. He pushes him ahead, unapologetically gruff. "Where? Come on, move before you freeze where you stand. And Tathar, either drink that or give it to your brother."


Tathar looks down at the flask she is holding (still) and at long last takes a sip before holding it out to Toby. He ignores it, stumbling a little as he is shoved forward. "South," he says, jerking his head towards the low hills that loom only a little blacker than the sky. "I don't know who, I didn't see. Tath was behind me." He turns his head a little, shrugging one shoulder. "Somebody coshed me on the head, I didn't see nothing." They are moving again, Tathar just behind her brother. "Didn't hear them neither," Toby admits grudgingly. "Tath, you go on with him here; he'll take you home. You're all right now." His saturated boots squelch into the mud as he steps aside and stops. "I'm not coming."


"Oh, aye you are." Drystan stands bridging the pair with steadily thinning patience. It has, after all, been an exceedingly trying night, and his underclothes are clinging and wet. "She will not stay in safety with you in the wild. You will not go home, nor allow her stay in your dubious care." He extends his free hand as he speaks, silently crooking his fingers for the flask.


A raindrop splashes on the flask as Tathar hands it back to Drystan; splashes, rolls down the side and falls heavily to the sodden ground. She shudders once, convulsively, and looks cautiously over her shoulder before returning her attention to Toby and Drystan.

Toby himself stands in mute silence. The wind catches at branches, slapping leaves against bark and scraping limb against limb. After some minutes, he mumbles, "I can't. Pa says I got to pay it back and I can't." Unspoken is the resentment and anger he still harbors, the dread of humiliation; but perhaps the red stain that darkens his cheeks tells this - if it can be seen.


The flask is taken, the depth of her horror marked without expression; but his arm outstretches further. The damp folds of Drystan's cloak unfurl, like the heavy wing of a great black bird, open, invitation to shelter. And as Toby stands in pensive silence, he whispers, "I would have more of this tale later, child."

The boy speaks, he lifts his head, almost idle consideration given his words, their timbre. "...I can help," the man says, after a time. "I'll take care of it."


One step sideways, then another and Tathar huddles within the protecting circle of Drystan's cloak. His whispered words draw her gaze to his face and it almost seems she hears nothing of her brother's confession, but for the rise and fall of thin shoulders in a soundless sigh.

Toby's head jerks and he stares at Drystan, confusion slackening his mouth and creasing his forehead. "You will?" he says... squeaks almost. Visibly goes on the fight now in spasmodically clenching fists and distant eyes: to go home, ragged, shamed, but in safety for himself and his sister; or stay in the wilderness... The night has been long for him too, long and wet and nerve-wracking. "I'll make it up to you," he says at last. "Pay you or something."


The lantern hangs by Tathar's shoulder now, lending the illusion of health to her drawn face. He folds her in to his body's warmth without a word, steady gaze wrapped about Toby as the unfathomable sky shifts its shadows.

"Or something," Drystan agrees, with a faint sigh. He studies the gangly boy a moment more, and extends the ale. "... Come, children. Mother and father are waiting. Your adventure has ended."


It is still a moment longer before Toby nods wearily and turns towards Bree. Tathar lifts her head from Drystan's shoulder and takes a step to follow him; and some time later (now minus their companion), a door to a small house opens in the darkness and light blossoms in the window.