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6 Fourth Age: In Michel Delving; [ Hobbits Only ]
Topic Started: 24 Sep 2008, 10:17 PM (340 Views)
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Age of Arda: Third
Year: 3019
Location: Michel Delving, The Shire


The Big Folk had come for him eventually. Milo Brandybuck had known it was only a matter of time until they did, but he’d not stopped what he was doing. With going on thirty years of map-making in the Shire, he knew more about this land than any of the Big Folk could hope to learn. If ever a Hobbit heard the Big Folk were coming after them, it was Milo Brandybuck in Bucklebury who could find them a place to hide.

Hide them he did. In abandoned Hobbit holes, storage caches along the road, forgotten huts in copses of trees, and even right under the Big Folk’s nose – or over it, he should say – among the roots of the tree that grew out of Hobbit Hill right on top of Bag End. But they’d figured it was him in the end.

They’d come to his cozy home in Bucklebury, where he could see the swirling Brandywine through his study window, and dragged him from his home to Michel Delving clear across the Shire. The mathomhouse was not as welcoming on this trip. Crammed with Hobbits, windows sealed off, it had become a veritable dungeon.

Milo rested against the curved wall and tried to imagine the highly polished wood against his back. He’d been given little food in the month he’d been down here, and it was hard for a Hobbit to concentrate with such an empty stomach. It was hot too, far too hot. One always thought of prisons as cold, he mused. There were too many Hobbits stuffed into this one long, narrow room. Body heat and no ventilation made them all uncomfortable.

A tiny part of Milo wished he’d just given into the Big Folk and offered them all his secrets. This little voice kept recurring. Then the door would open and another Hobbit thrown inside, a Hobbit whom Milo could have got to safety, had he been free and left alone in his little house by the river. He’d repent of his thoughts, but they would come around again.

“Tell us a story, Milo,” a voice called out.

He recognized it as Ned Greengrass, a gentlehobbit from Bywater whose only crime could have been overwatering his flowers. Milo begged off, but once the suggestion was floated, no one would hear of Milo not spinning a yarn. Eventually, he gave in and climbed to his feet.

Staring into the darkness, he could almost make out the shapes of other Hobbits. He imagined he was standing before a roaring fire in the Party Field. The memory was so vivid Milo could almost feel the breeze kiss his face.

“Once, and not too long ago, there was a Hobbit called Buttercup, and I won’t lie to you, she had a fair bit of Took-ish blood in her …”

Milo could hear the Hobbits up and down the narrow room shifting in delight. Several Tooks let out whoops of joy. There was no story Milo told better than wild tales of foolish Tooks rushing off on adventures. Every story ended with them coming home as heroes.

The Brandybuck almost wanted to change the ending tonight—or was it daylight out?—to fit the mood, but he could not bring himself to. There was still one Took out of the Shire on his own adventure. Maybe, just maybe, Peregrin Took would come back a hero like the Hobbits in Milo’s stories and rescue all the prisoners from Michel Delving.

“ … and with the furious snowstorm pushing her back down the valley …”

The Hobbits shifted again. They could all feel the wind smacking their faces and howling around their ears. Milo paused, wondering how his storytelling had gotten quite that good. Then something sharp and metallic crashed against his head.

“Shut up, you idiot Hobbit!” one of the Big Folk yelled through the open door. “You’re here for punishment! Not entertainment! Another word, and I’ll cut off your hairy feet!”

Milo sank back to the floor, his head cradled in his hands.
 
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