Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Heralded By Storms (#2610)
Author: SilverMoonLady
Chapters: 5

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: Summary: Trapped in a rainstorm, Saradoc recollects the circumstances of his and Esmeralda’s courtship & life together. Disclaimer: all that is Tolkien’s remains ever so, though perhaps a stitch or two upon the edges is mine. Big thanks to Ariel for the beta. Dedicated in part to those who requested more about Esmie and Saradoc, and Eglantine and Paladin’s situation in Moving Mountains. Thanks for waiting!
Published: 20 Mar 2006
Updated: 17 Apr 2006
Warnings:
Type: Drama
Characters: Saradoc Brandybuck; Esmeralda Took; assorted hobbi


Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: A Chance of Rain

Title: Heralded By Storms
Genre: Romance/Drama/Angst
Characters: Esmeralda Took; Saradoc Brandybuck; cameos by assorted family members.
Summary: Trapped in a rainstorm, Saradoc recollects the circumstances of his and Esmeralda’s courtship.
Disclaimer: all that is Tolkien’s remains ever so, though perhaps a stitch or two upon the edges is mine.
Author’s Note: Big thanks to Ariel for the beta. Dedicated in part to those who requested more about Esmie and Saradoc, and Eglantine and Paladin’s situation in Moving Mountains. Thanks for waiting!



Part 1: Rising Winds

Buckland, October 21, 1432


The sky held a sickly green tinge, and there was an ominous moan building in the wind. A storm was in the making and a wry grin momentarily chased the pained grimace from Saradoc’s face. After all, ill weather had presaged every other change in his life, good or bad.

“I know you enjoy such poetic parallels, but this borders on the ridiculous,” the old hobbit muttered, gazing vaguely at the whipping branches above.

The trees seemed unnaturally tall from his prone position, but Saradoc was thankful that at least he had been thrown in wooded high ground rather than upon the clear banks of the river. The thought of drowning on solid ground because he could not move to save himself from the rising waters of the flooded Brandywine was a nightmare he would just as soon not consider.

The distant baying of hounds was joined by the clear call of a horn, and for an instant it seemed imperative that he rise to answer its questioning echo. Pain streaked through him, mirrored by the crackle of lightning crossing the sky, reminding him that he would do no such thing.

“Ah, my boy… I do hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t wait too long for you. This looks to be the mother of all storms, the sort that opens up the heavens every now and again…”

A drenching rain loosed over the countryside, still lush in the first half of autumn, and Saradoc moved one shivering arm to shield his face from the downpour. The rain was washing away scent and track, and his snake-bitten pony had long ceased his thrashing. As the cold wetness added its chill to pain, his mind turned home, to Brandy Hall. Esmie would be worried by now, he had been gone a long time, and she knew the meaning of that desperate horn call as well as he. Thunder crashed above, and his thoughts sought out the memory of sweeter harvests from past storms…


*****

Chapter 1: A Chance of Rain

May 1374

The hounds bounded on ahead, racing to corner the fox that lurked the Green Hills near Pincup. Saradoc tightened his crouch over Mischance’s back as branches whipped by in his haste to follow. His people rarely mounted such hunts, but then, most small predators that yet inhabited these woods fled at a mere shout, or at worst after a thrown stone. This fox had turned vicious and clever, attacking several farmers and eluding all attempts at capture, and so he had been called out from Buckland with his hounds. This sleek, brown pair were the finest trackers he had ever seen, and he would bet his life upon their skill. He had in fact done so many times, following their sure noses back to the Shire in his tweenaged explorations, even from the trackless depths of the Old Forest.

But there was little thrill in this hunt, only grim determination to safeguard hobbits from the tainted animal whose scent they now pursued. Jester and Roam bayed once more somewhere nearby, even as the rumble of thunder announced the arrival of the storm the sky had threatened all through the day. Seconds later, drenching rain descended upon him, forcing him to a walk until he reached his dogs as they turned this way and that, searching for the scent stolen by the weather. Dismounting, he called to them and they obeyed, heads low and tails tucked in apology.

“It’s alright, dears,” he soothed, gesturing for them to join him in the shelter of a split oak.

The two hounds bounded in, bumping wetly against him in friendly consolation for the disappointment they shared. His pony looked longingly at them, hardly protected from the rain by the scant protection of the leafy branches above. Saradoc quickly relieved him of his saddle and spread the blanket over his back, wishing he could offer more. He returned within to sit upon the dry leaves that had accumulated in the hollowed base of the trunk, and Jester pillowed next to him. Roam nestled her soft brown head upon his lap, where they had once both comfortably fit together. They were fine and trusty companions, a perfect team he had raised from pups, and he hoped to get many fine litters from them in time as well.

But for today, their hunt was done; it had been a wet spring and he knew that the rain could continue for hours this way. Saradoc started to unpack the few provisions he carried when the sudden distressed cry of a pony shredded the rainy quiet of the wood. Leaping to his feet, he rushed into the downpour, listening intently. The sound came again, very near, and he sprinted in its direction; saddling Mischance would simply take too long. Hounds jogging at his heels, he splashed across a wide, but shallow stream that babbled down the low shoulder of a hill. The high bark of a fox and a hobbitess’s angry shout guided him into a small clearing and to witness dire happenings. His quarry, still marked by the ruddy score of a farmer’s pitchfork along one flank, had squared off with a bedraggled and mud-spattered lass brandishing a slender staff, which she swung with more force than skill. Her efforts had nonetheless kept the rabid creature at bay, but she was tiring, and the fox no longer knew natural fear. The fallen pony, screaming and kicking the air, had stumbled into a morass of watery mud and soft clay, a hidden mess fed by the Spring-swollen stream and concealed by the greening shoots and blossoms that peeked above the few inches of water.

In the few seconds of observation Saradoc allowed himself, the hounds had spotted their lost prey and leaped forward with a howl, turning the marauder’s attention from the hobbitess. He hurried close, missing for a moment the bow he had foolishly left behind, but it seemed that the momentary distraction was all that the cornered lass required, for she now seemed to pull all her fear and anger together, and the staff whipped down upon the fox’s head with a resounding crack.

“And stay down!” she screamed at it, dropping the splintered length of wood and wobbling slightly just as Saradoc reached her side.

“Steady, there, lass,” he cautioned, putting a supporting hand under her elbow as he ordered the growling hounds away from the fallen animal.

She nodded shakily, taking a deep gulping breath and putting a trembling hand to her heart. He drew her slowly away from the scene, calling Jester and Roam to follow. He doubted very much the unconscious fox would escape them now, assuming it ever woke again.

“Let’s get you out of the rain a little, Miss…” he said, steering her beneath the thick cover of two interlaced trees. He draped his light coat over her shoulders, for though it was slightly damp, it might at least keep her from further drenching.

“Esmeralda Took,” she said, introducing herself with a small curtsey. “Thank you. I am deeply in your debt.” Though she was fast recovering her composure, her hand still shook against his arm.

“Saradoc Brandybuck, at your service,” he replied. “Though it must be said I had little to do with your rescue. You wield a staff rather nicely,” he added with a slight grin as he gently chaffed her hands.

“And have cracked it entirely beyond repair! I’ll hang none of my work upon it today…” she said with a nervous chuckle. “Not that that is likely to matter much any more…”

She looked over his shoulder at her struggling mount and he could see imminent tears standing in her eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do about that later, Miss,” he nodded towards the animal. "Right now there's a more pressing duty before us."

With a last pat on her hand, Saradoc walked briskly towards the fallen pony, discretely drawing the hunting knife he carried. He saw clearly, beneath the concealing mud, the unnatural bend in the unhappy mare's foreleg and the rolling eyes, desperate with pain. He did his grim work quickly, with soothing words and hands, and a careful flick of the sharp blade, and she quieted into final rest. He saw to the fox in similar fashion, though with far less affection, and far more careful for his own skin; folk clawed or bit by such animals often fell deathly ill and he had no intention on being this one’s posthumous victim. For that reason, he buried the carcass as deeply as he could, save for the distinctive tail, which would serve to prove his task complete. Saradoc busied himself stacking the canvas wrapped rolls the pony had carried for her mistress beneath the trees. Politely ignoring the tears the lass was trying to hide, he left his dogs to offer their wet comfort while he set to worry free the saddle and bridle. Though much mended and presently filthy, he could easily see the quality of the leather, almost too fine for the tired old mount that had worn the tack.

“Well, Miss, I don’t believe the rain is going to let up, but there is a bit of shelter uphill a ways, if you would care to follow me,” he said, offering his hand to help her to her feet.

She looked up at him from her inspection of the befouled packages, as if considering alternatives to his proposal.

“I need to reach the Pincup Faire by day’s end, Master, though it may serve little purpose given the state of my work,” she finally replied, gesturing towards them. “But I must make a showing or face the derision of my rivals ever after.”

“It will take longer than the few hours we’ve left to reach Pincup on foot, I’m afraid.”

“I will pay you well for use of your mount,” she countered, grey-blue eyes glinting with a return of the will that had guided her to stand against the fox rather than flee.

Saradoc strongly suspected that this was not someone to be lightly crossed. Fondling Roam’s soft ears, he calculated the time it would take him, unburdened, to reach the village on foot. It was feasible; uncomfortable, to be sure, but certainly possible. Not that he needed the money, or more incentive than gentle manners to give the intrepid hobbitess aid, but he would hate to miss out on whatever confrontation she expected upon her arrival. Curiosity decided him, and he returned her frank gaze with a smile.

“Mischance waits upstream, and Pincup two hours beyond him,” Saradoc said, shifting the saddle’s weight against his shoulder.

“I think I’ve found plentiful mischance hereabouts, Master Saradoc,” she muttered, picking up three of the least spattered packages. Nonetheless, she turned to him, clearly waiting to be lead onward.

Saradoc grinned. “Well, that’s the trick in a name of that sort, Miss. I’ve found he’s only unlucky for others; he takes good care of his riders though, I promise.”




TBC


Chapter 2 - Rare As Lightning

C2: Rare As Lightning


A few hours past sunset found Saradoc at last entering Pincup. He skirted the music and light of the festival evening, making his way back to the inn where he had taken a room at the beginning of his hunt. Though they were no doubt reveling with the local lasses upon the beribboned green, he could tell from the gear strewn about the room that his brother and cousins had chosen to share the small chamber. Shoving off the assortment of clothes and such that lay upon the only bed, he fell into an exhausted slumber without another thought.

When he awoke to the babble of the morning crowd assembling in the nearby fair grounds, he saw that his inebriated kin were lying haphazardly upon the floor, still recovering from their night’s excesses upon whatever extra blankets they had scrounged. There were times that he dearly missed the freedom of his tweenage years, but the clear light of morning washing his face with pleasant warmth rather than stabbing pain was a welcome change. Taking pity on the overwrought, he drew the curtains closed and crept from the room with Jester and Roam at his heels. A quick survey of the stables reassured him that Esmeralda Took had indeed made it safely to her destination and Mischance had been well cared for in the meantime. Wandering the slowly rousing business end of the gathering with a fat pastry and an apple to break his fast, Saradoc made his way towards the judging tents, which he suspected was the destination the young hobbitess had been so desperate to reach. Entering the largest of them, he came upon the second of the two vicious menaces he had been dealing with this year, and once again, Miss Took appeared to be embroiled with their shared adversary. Sadly, a hard rap to the head would do nothing to solve his problems with Hortensia Twofoot, whether administered by him or by his chance acquaintance.

Miss Twofoot’s face, though always unnaturally flushed, was now a violent shade of scarlet, and her dark eyes flashed with ill-disguised malice, a sure sign that she had failed to wheedle, wring or argue a situation to her advantage. Just beyond the three elderly matrons he assumed must be the judges, Esmeralda stood, silently furious but restrained, arms crossed over her generous bosom.

“Just because you’re a Took doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be bound by the same rules as the rest of us!” Hortensia flung her accusation in barely civil tones, but to no avail.

“Miss Twofoot, please,” the roundest gammer pleaded. “Miss Took arrived in time to display her entry before sundown; very shortly before sundown, but in time nonetheless.”

Hortensia seemed to chew hard upon further recriminations, but she finally gave a dramatic sigh and pointed a sharp finger towards her rival with a darkening frown.

“You’ve just about run out of luck, Esmeralda Took. I wouldn’t count on too many more miracles, you mark my words,” she began spitefully, but Jester loosed a sharp bark that startled them all, and Hortensia stepped back, aggression spent by sudden fear.

“Jester! Down!” Saradoc called, setting a soothing hand on the hound’s dark head, as he stepped fully into the wide tent, which was just now coming ablaze with color as the sun climbed high enough to pour into the low-lying fair grounds.

Hortensia’s attitude changed immediately, displeasure and distemper disappearing beneath a simpering smile.

“Why, Master Saradoc, you do know how to make an entrance,” she said flirtatiously.

“Oh, Jester here is an excitable fellow, I’m just along for the ride,” he replied, giving her a tight smile.

Saradoc hated giving her even the slightest encouragement, knowing full well that any gesture of even common courtesy would be seen as an excuse for further visits from the female half of the Twofoot clan. Ever since he had come of age, Saradoc had felt rather like a prize hog on the auction block, and Hortensia happened to be the least appealing of the bidders.

He nodded his respects to the older ladies present and offered Esmeralda Took a wide grin. “I see you reached the fair without further incident,” he said warmly.

“Your Mischance is indeed wrongly named, Master Saradoc,” she replied.

Saradoc saw her eyes flick towards Hortensia and, with a barely concealed grin, she laid a long fingered hand upon his arm.

“You have all my possible gratitude,” she purred, drawing him further under the pavilion. “You must see what you helped to save.”

“Lovely idea,” he said lightly, catching a glimpse of Hortensia’s furious expression. He vaguely wondered if the incident would put her off the scent or simply heighten the stakes.

A few more steps took them among the many tapestries, dresses and other silken confections of needle and thread; Saradoc knew nothing of these arts, but he thought he might have been hard put to judge them against each other, as they were all full of brilliant colors and details either dizzyingly complex or stirringly simple. He looked to his fair companion, hoping for a hint in her expression of which was the work of her own hands, but he found only an air of wicked satisfaction he had to admit he shared.

“So, it is your habit to tangle with the crafty predators of this world, then?” he asked, and her sidelong glance told much of her response before she even spoke.

“I could say the same of you, Master Saradoc. Though it seems you are the prey rather than the hunter this time.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Hortensia is less subtle than your dear hound would be on a scent,” she replied, patting Jester as he paced between them. “I can well imagine that she would find you a welcome addition to her purse.”

“I would rather take old Jester to wife than her any day!” he chuckled. “But what has set her animosity upon you, Miss Took?”

“Esmeralda, please,” she insisted with a smile. “She seems to think I had something to do with my brother’s marriage to my best friend. Those Twofoots would just love to wed their way into the family, even if it is through as poor and broken a branch as ours,” she finished softly and with no little bitterness. But she quickly pressed on with a proud smirk. “Still, we Tooks can tell a full barrel from an empty one. My brother is no fool, thank the stars.”

“From your mouth to my mother’s ears! I’m afraid she’s quite oblivious to all Hortensia’s schemes.”

“I suppose I must now be twice as black in Horstensia’s book.”

“And twice blessed in mine,” Saradoc affirmed.

“I think I could live with that,” she said and stopped before a wide tapestry. “Here it is… The only one to survive that soak in the mud.”

Saradoc took a step back to admire the piece, a life-size trellis of eglantine and morning glory whose green arch led into a sprawling garden.

“This is well worth a trek through night and rain, Miss Esmeralda… It is quite beautiful,” he murmured distractedly. “You could almost step right in.”

“Mind you don’t, you’ll like as not be trapped inside by whatever magic she used to create it,” a gruff voice warned mockingly behind them. “She’s an enchantress, our Esmeralda!”

The dark-haired hobbitess whirled round, eyes narrowed, and glared wordlessly at the newcomer. Otho Sackville-Baggins grinned at her, leering boldly despite the presence of a youngster too like him in features to be anything other than his son.

“All the Took sisters are,” he continued, but the insult in the flattering words was clear in his tone. “It’s what comes of trafficking with Elves and the like.”

“A little magic brightens the everyday, I find,” Saradoc replied, taken aback by the mishmash of innuendo and folk tale in the robust hobbit’s comments.

“I’d mind this jewel, boy,” Otho cautioned darkly. “The glint hides a cutting edge to take the fingers from your hand.”

He swept off with a last disdainful look at Esmeralda, the boy in tow.

Saradoc glanced over at his companion, whose gaze still bored twin holes into the older hobbit’s retreating back. Esmeralda Took was still as much of an enigma as the first moment he had sighted her.

“You have a rare number of enemies, Miss…”

“Rare as lightning in August*,” she said as she walked away, head high.



TBC

~~~~~~~~~~



*’Rare as lightning in August’: In those parts of the world I have lived, August, and the end of summer in general, sees many thunderstorms. Hence the implication that lightning is not rare in that month and neither are Esmeralda’s detractors, or so she believes.


Chapter 3 - Rivers Will Flood

C3: Rivers Will Flood

Whitwell, August 1374
(several months later)


“Well, there you are!”

Esmeralda heard her father’s reprimand above the rhythmic clacking of her loom. The soft notes of harp song had ceased a moment before, but the sounds of the storm had buried the knock upon the door. Leaving the brightly lit room where she worked, she made her way through the smial, listening all the while to the odd conversation, of which she could only hear her father’s half.

“Well, come in from the rain, lad, or have you as little sense as punctuality? Time is a precious thing, and I’ll thank you not to waste mine!”

Esmeralda sighed and quickened her pace.

“That’s a poor excuse for being late, and on your first day too!” Her father’s sonorous voice filled the room as it seldom did anymore, but the bewildered object of his censure would likely little appreciate that fact in the face of the strange ferocity Adalgrim had always used to first impress his students. It had been decades since anyone had come here for teaching, but the past and present mingled all too often in his distracted spirit.

“Late for what, sir?” a youngish male voice responded, confusion evident in his tone.

“If you mock all your teachers this way, it is no wonder your father despairs of your education!” the old hobbit snapped, slamming the door in the stranger’s face just as Esmeralda reached the kitchen.

“Da! What is going on?” she demanded.

“Just a young cockerel in need of learning proper manners, my dear. A little rain will cool his cheek and do no harm,” he assured her, green eyes gleeful and intent.

Snow white curls grown too long brushing shoulders once broad but now bent with age and self-imposed hermitage, he was like a dim reflection seen through a cracked glass, with the kernel of greatness still in his heart, but muffled by the sleeping giant of his grief. In moments like these, Esmeralda wasn’t even sure if he truly saw her, or if fantasy overlaid her face with her childhood self, or even perhaps the memory of her mother. She shook her head, the speculation irrelevant to the present situation, and she faced him, expression firm.

“You cannot simply leave guests upon the doorstep in a summer storm, not in my house!” she scolded, turning to open the door, and she found there a pleasant surprise.

”Why, Master Saradoc! I begin to suspect you enjoy wandering in the rain,” she said, genuine warmth chasing the mingled contrition and irritation that had claimed her expression a moment ago.

“It seems to yield pleasant surprises for the most part,” he replied with a short bow.

Esmeralda laughed, glad her recollection of his forthright and forgiving nature seemed accurate. She waved him into the small kitchen, where her father now sat, a look of vague affront on his face as he distractedly plucked at the harp strings.

“Da? This is Saradoc Brandybuck, the gentlehobbit that loaned me his pony on my way to Pincup last May,” Esmeralda said, ignoring his frown. “Master Saradoc, my father, Adalgrim Took.”

The old hobbit looked up, intent gaze upon the newcomer, assessing, considering, and Esmeralda waited for his next words with bated breath.

“Another young Brandybuck, eh?” the old hobbit finally said. “Any relation to that rascal Rorimac?”

“Ah, uhm, well, yes… He’s my father, actually,” Saradoc replied with a slight blush.

“Hmmm, thought so… Well, I suppose you’ll do well enough, if you can sit still any longer than he could,” Adalgrim muttered as if doubting his own words.

“Da!” Esmeralda interrupted with an apologetic smile at her guest. “He has only happened here by chance, driven in by the storm.”

“I’m afraid I would make a poor student, Master Adalgrim. My voice is suitable for little more than tavern bawdies, when the audience cares more for enthusiasm than art,” Saradoc said.

“Humph! You’ll certainly not amount to much if you think so little of your gifts,” the old hobbit chastised.

“Be that as it may, Da, he’ll amount to little at all if he catches his death because he stands dripping in my kitchen,” Esmeralda said firmly, and he turned sulkily to tuning the harp upon his knees. “Come,” she continued, turning to her guest, “I will find you something dry to change into while we await the end of this rainstorm.”

She left him in her workroom to change while she refreshed the guest bedroom, wondering at his presence all the while. It would have been a lie to say she had not thought often of the dashing young gentlehobbit who had rescued her that Spring, and Esmeralda chided herself for hoping he had done the same. Walking quietly back to invite him to the kitchen, where her brother and his wife already busied themselves with the evening meal, she paused a moment before entering to listen in. The loose floorboard beside the loom creaked and she pushed the door open on silent hinges. He was standing between the loom and the tapestry frame, examining the unfinished piece as he absently dried his hair with a soft towel, and the light brown strands curled wildly against his borrowed shirt. The light linen stretched a little tightly across shoulders broader than her brother’s, and she saw that he had rolled the cuffs up to shorten them a bit. Esmeralda grinned, thinking with some amusement that there was more than shirt size to differentiate the two of them, and she had to admit his easy-going temperament was a welcome change.

“It is meant to be the Brandywine,” she offered from the doorway. “I do hope it looks alright.”

“It does indeed, Miss Esmeralda,” Saradoc replied, startled from his observation. He quickly recovered his composure though, and smiled as he continued, “Though in truth, there is a golden depth to it you won’t find in most rivers, particularly at its heart.”

She came to stand beside him, considering the bright threads that picked out cloud and sun on wood and water, washed out by the thin light from the window. Perhaps a touch of amber among the broken flashes of sunlight just there…

“I’ll have to take it under advisement, Master Saradoc,” she finally said and turned to look him up and down with a measuring eye. She shook her head and sighed. “Well, it’ll have to do till morning when your own things dry out. Come along, supper will be on in a little while,” she said, gathering his wet clothes and leading the way.

********

It came out over supper that rather than an intentional visit, Saradoc had indeed been driven to their doorstep by weather and conniving Fate. Making his first tour of deliveries alone, he had inquired after a shortcut and soon lost his way among the many little lanes that crisscrossed the farmlands between Tuckborough and Michel Delving. His wagon had become stuck in a washed out portion of the road at the bottom of the gently sloping hill that was part of their property. Paladin and his wife had noticed it on their way back from a day visit to Eglantine’s parents, and it had seemed well and truly stuck.

“Well, I think we shall leave the problem to the morrow, as the sun is setting and, given the season, the rain isn’t likely to let up before the middle hour of the night,” Paladin announced as they all rose to clear the table. “You are, of course, welcome to stay the night.”

“My thanks,” Saradoc nodded. “If you will excuse me, I must check to see Mischance is behaving himself in the kind comfort of your stable.”

When he returned, a bottle of Buckland’s finest under his arm, Esmeralda made herself busy in the kitchen, but with an ear to the conversation taking place in the parlor across the hall, where he and her brother and father had retired. Eglantine gave her a long considering look and smiled, hands deep in the hot water in the basin before her.

“So… This is the famous gentlehobbit in the wood. I think I might remember him too if he rescued me,” said the dark-haired hobbitess, with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Well, it’s only proper I be grateful for his kind service,” Esmeralda replied lightly.

“Grateful, yes…” Eglantine murmured.

Esmeralda tried hard to look offended at her best friend’s insinuation and bent to give the already clean table a furious scrub.

“Oh, come on, Esmie… It seems to me I recall ‘dashing’, ‘charming’ and ‘brave’ in the lists we whispered to each other of a summer’s night. There’s nothing wrong with liking what you see in this lad,” Eglantine said, laying a soft hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tinne! I barely know him at all and him a Brandybuck, of all things.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous? I never knew you cared about the old familial prejudices.”

“I don’t. But I’m not about to jump into the arms of the first hobbit to lend me his pony, either.”

Eglantine just smiled, returning to finish her task. They worked in silence a short while, listening to the intermittent conversation in the next room, where brandy was drawing the usually taciturn Paladin into friendly conversation with their guest.

Absentmindedly drying the wide salad bowl, Esmeralda wandered closer to the arched doorway, not noticing Eglantine’s quiet departure, or her knowing smile. Between the alternating song of her brother’s soft-spoken words and Saradoc’s warm tones, she could hear the crackle of the fire and the faint scratch of her father’s quill. She took another step closer to better hear their conversation.

“I must thank you again for taking care of my sister last Spring,” Paladin said, and Esmeralda could practically see his awkward smile; he always took so much upon his own shoulders that she had once feared he would lose that pleasant expression altogether. “It is my fault, really,” he went on. “I could not escort her there and could not convince her to stay.”

“It seems to me that your sister does as her spirit calls, whether anyone would have it or no,” Saradoc replied.

“I hope you can forgive her forwardness.”

“I think very well of your sister,” he said, and she blushed brightly in the dim light of the hallway, the cloth and dish in her hands entirely forgotten. “I think… I think she is beautiful and clever and brave, and unlike any lass I have met in my life.”

“My daughter is my most prized jewel, young buck, and you’d do well to remember it!” Adalgrim spoke suddenly from his deep-cushioned chair. Esmeralda heard the small inkpot shatter as he rose, striding from the room without another word.

All was quiet for a long moment, until Paladin set down his glass with a sigh.

“Time to turn in, I suppose…” he said softly, rising from his chair.

“I need a moment more to find my legs. I’ll be off in the morning.”

Leaving the room on quiet feet, her brother turned down the curving hallway towards the bedrooms, his worried frown illuminated for a moment by the brightly lit kitchen as he walked by without seeing her.

Slipping into the darkened parlor, she found the young Bucklander kneeling beside the fireplace, picking glass from the puddled ink at the edge of the hearth’s gray stone. She debated for a moment the wisdom of trying to explain her father’s strange behavior, but there truly was nothing to be said that could do so; she could only hope the young hobbit was as well-bred as he seemed and would ignore the strange outburst rather than embarrass her further.

“I hope you will not let my father’s protectiveness scare you off, Master Saradoc…” she whispered. “I have too few friends as it is.”

He looked up at her with a crooked smile. “I’m not easily parted from friends, miss, but I would stay in your father’s good books if I can.”

“I suppose that is the wiser thing to do…” Esmeralda said, bending to clean the dark spatter off the floor.

“Take care, there may yet be a few shards I missed in the poor light,” he said, dropping the pieces into the bowl she had carried in with her.

“Trying to save me again? It’s becoming a habit,” she chided teasingly.

“Seems like a full time occupation for someone.”

Esmeralda couldn’t be sure if his sober tone made promise or excuse in the wavering light, and his eyes were firmly fixed upon their ink stained fingers.

********

The next morning arose clear, the sky a high blue to rival any she had ever seen, but Esmeralda couldn’t find it in herself to enjoy it. She had slept ill, uneasy dreams and half-waking thoughts torturing her imagination, and she woke later than was her habit. She came upon Eglantine in the kitchen, clearing the breakfast dishes and she understood from her friend’s apologetic silence that their guest had already gone. She took a cup of tea and a sun sweet peach back to the workroom, gazing at the tapestry as she ate, lost in thought. Unable to make more excuses, Esmeralda finally opened the large trunk whose many tiered trays held a wealth of colored thread, from hair-fine strands-of-gold to thick velvet-soft hanks of umber. She needed to find the right shade of pale mead to add to the Brandywine’s autumnal course.

A soft knock upon the open window startled her from her search and she saw him standing just outside, an uncertain smile lighting his face. Esmeralda came close, still holding the small bobbin of amber thread she had just picked up.

“I could not in all justice leave without saying goodbye,” he said. “Thank you for your lovely hospitality.”

“It was very pleasant to see you again.”

He was quiet a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, or perhaps his courage. At last, his grey eyes met hers.

“Do you think that I might be permitted to call on you again, later in the season?” he asked.

“I don’t know… My father…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what he will think of you the next time. But he would never turn away a hobbit driven here by ill weather or mischance.”

“I shall wish for rain every time trading takes me through Tookland if there is no easier way to see you again, Esmeralda,” he said, and the promise in the words and the sudden flash in his eyes made her heart beat faster.

“Then I fear the River may flood its banks before season’s end…” she whispered. “Yet I too will hope for rain and dream of rivers amber in the sun. Fare you well on your road, Saradoc Brandybuck.”

She started to draw away from the window when he leaned forward, catching up her hand, and he set a burning kiss upon it.

“Rivers in flood have moved mountains before,” he said, turning to climb over the fence to cut across the fields to the lane and his waiting wagon.

Esmeralda watched him go, savoring the feel of that bold kiss and the strange excitement that now tingled through her. She had little doubt that this Autumn would see unprecedented rains.


Chapter 4 - A Touch of Sun Among Clouds

C4: A Touch of Sun Among Clouds

Whitwell, October 1374




“It seems to me that you get very little done on rainy days anymore…”

Eglantine’s teasing voice was light at her shoulder, but it startled Esmeralda from her daydream nonetheless, and she withdrew her hands from the cooling wash water.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing… I just wondered whether you intended to finish the breakfast dishes before we sat down to elevenses is all,” her friend said with a smile, reaching past her to pluck a chopping knife from those already cleaned.

“Don’t be silly! I am simply having a time getting rid of the mess you made of the skillet this morning,” the tall hobbitess replied with a touch of irritation. With a last swipe, she set the offending object onto the counter to drip dry and turned firmly away from the window. “There. Done. Now will you stop your needling?” she announced, drying her hands on the dishcloth and dropping it carelessly atop the drying tableware. Her grand gesture of defiance knocked the utensil cup into the basin with a splash, splattering her with dirty wash water, and she leaped lightly aside with a surprised squawk.

Recovering quickly, Esmeralda started to protest her friend’s merry laughter, when with sudden inspiration, she turned and smacked the wavering water, sending a spray of oily droplets at Eglantine instead. Dropping knife and potatoes upon the counter, the little hobbitess returned the wet volley with a mischievous grin. The exchange degenerated somewhat, until soaked and giggling, they both sat down upon a bench and wiped their dripping faces.

Eglantine reached up to swipe a missed dribble upon Esmeralda’s cheek and smiled.

“Oh, sister-mine… Whatever shall I do with you now?”

“Buy me ribbons and bows to soothe my offended wardrobe?” Esmeralda joked, untying the apron that had done its humble best to protect her dress from their drenching play.

“I should think you have someone better than me about to do that now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Esmeralda asked, trying to pretend she didn’t understand her friend’s words, though the blush she could feel rushing to her cheeks revealed all it needed to.

“I would have to be blind not to see how you wait on rainy days, my dear, and after all these years of watching you look down your nose at the lads that happen by, I would be a fool to mistake why.”

The tall hobbitess fought herself a long moment, then looked to Eglantine with a brilliant smile.

“He came to me before he left, right outside my workroom window, and said he would like to visit again,” she admitted. “I told him Da would not turn away any traveler in ill weather, so…” She shrugged and grinned. “I’ve had a few letters from him since. He is… interesting. And dashing and charming…”

“And handsome and brave! And not the least bit likely to be impressed with names and reputations and all that silly nonsense, right?” Eglantine interrupted.

“I do hope so!” Esmeralda added fervently. “It would be such a nice change! Although…” Her mood fell at the thought that had just entered her mind. “Buckland is a bit far…” she said, staring down at their hands, entwined, between them. “That does put a snarl in the thread, doesn’t it…”

“Not at all,” Eglantine said, giving her fingers a firm squeeze, and Esmeralda looked up into her eyes. Her friend’s gentle features were set in an expression she had come to recognize as determination as unyielding as granite. If Tooks were stubborn, this Banks had well learned to match her hard-headed new family when her gentler nature did not suffice. “Don’t you trouble yourself about that sort of thing, Esmie. Every chick leaves the nest, if they know what’s good for them, and it is long past time you followed your path to whatever life is holding for you. I’m here now; you are free to fly where you will.”

“But, I… Da…”

“Is in fine hands and wants you happy quite as much as I do. Or don’t you trust me to handle these two on my own?”

“I suppose that depends on how much honey you have on hand…” Esmeralda quipped, trying to steer clear of the suddenly very earnest discussion of the repercussions of her possible marriage. Her duty and her life were here, with her father, and to a lesser extent with her brother, and Esmeralda had never given anything else serious thought because she simply had never seen it as an option.

“I’m just glad you are not waiting on a daft stranger with no thought of returning,” Eglantine said softly.

“Oh, I’m not yet that foolish! Saradoc is still a stranger, really, and a little bit daft, if you ask me…” Esmeralda replied, enjoying the shape of his name on the air, spoken aloud at last.

“He may well be daft, but at the least he has a sense of the proper way a thing should be done,” Paladin announced, striding into the kitchen. He pulled an envelope from the shelter of his coat pocket with a small smile.

“Whatever do you mean?” Esmeralda asked, repressing her curiosity, though she could scarce take her eyes from the letter.

Her brother gave her one of his rare smiles and sat down on the other side of the kitchen table. She could now see that the letter was addressed to her father.

“Don’t be coy, Esmie, it doesn’t suit you,” he replied before seemingly turning his whole attention to readying his pipe, the envelope still neatly pinned beneath one elbow.

“Paladin, dear, don’t be so cruel to your sister and tell us what this is about,” Eglantine commanded softly, settling her hands upon his shoulders.

He reached up to clasp one of her hands and laid his cheek against it. “Oh, alright…” His gaze held a pleased and mischievous sparkle that Eglantine knew Esmie could not see from where she sat. He turned back to his sister, straight-faced as he could manage.

“You’ve a proper suitor at last, little sister, and one clever enough to go about things the right way. I bumped into Saradoc yesterday at Great Smials, and we talked a while.” He pushed the envelope to the middle of the table with a smile. “He’s written to request conference with Father on some obscure matter of tradition. Assuming he has the patience to weather such a winding discourse with some grace, you may not have to send any more secret letters through little Buttercup Hornblower.”

“What letters…?” Esmeralda asked, feigning innocence.

“Esmie…” he warned, frowning.

“Oh, alright!” she snapped. “So I’ve had a few letters.”

“And…”

“And I answered them.”

“And…”

“And what!?”

“Good, so you’re partial to the match as well then. He’s a fine gentlehobbit, with a good reputation, and he looks to be making a good living for himself rather than waiting upon his inheritance.”

“And just how many brood hens and sheep shall I fetch you for bride price, brother-dear!?” she demanded sourly, picking a fight to hide her soaring hopes.

“Oh, for all that’s good, what have I said wrong this time?” Paladin grumbled, looking to the ceiling in bewildered frustration.

“You’re both being silly. Have some tea and be happy,” Eglantine interrupted, setting the teapot down between them, just as Esmie wound up for a scathing retort. “Our Esmie has found herself a caller, and you’ve found a likely business partner; everybody wins. If your father can be brought round, that is.”

*********

October 1374

“And that, you see, was the crux of the problem and the reason for that particular convention,” Adalgrim finished, gruff tones softened by the warm smile he directed towards Esmeralda as she entered the parlor with a laden platter. “Thank you, my dear, your timing is exquisite, as always!”

Saradoc shared a quick grin with her while the old hobbit’s attention was taken by the selection of a generous number of pastries. The sweet aroma of the fruity fillings rose warmly from the golden tidbits to tempt his appetite, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn his eyes from her where she stood. The buttery light of late afternoon that blazed behind her from the airy kitchen across the hallway haloed her dark curls with copper fire and added a sultry glow to her skin that recalled summer sun on ripening peaches.

A faint blush and quirk of a smile as she moved to the other side of the table to pour him tea reminded him gentle manners and he fumbled for the sugar bowl to cover his embarrassment. Daring a quick glance, he thought she looked discretely pleased rather than offended, an impression somewhat confirmed by her next words.

“Would you give us the pleasure of your company at supper, Master Saradoc?” she asked.

“I would not want to be any trouble, Miss…”

“Oh, no, no trouble at all. A table is as easily set for five as it is for four,” she replied, and they both looked to Adalgrim, who was stirring his tea with an air of distracted absence.

“Da?”

The old hobbit looked up, seeming to notice them for the first time, and dismissed them with a vague glance and a wave.

“Go on off to the kitchen, lad, lesson’s over for today,” he said to Saradoc, mind and heart already a hundred miles away. “Meribell will surely need your help with supper.”

The young Bucklander started to question the old hobbit, puzzled by the strange words of his host, but Esmeralda shook her head, silently urging him to follow her from the room. He noticed that she had scooped up his teacup and plate, leaving behind no trace that he had sat to tea in that parlor for the past three hours.

Wordlessly settling a wrap about her shoulders, she beckoned him out into the courtyard, to the bench beneath the broad branches of the peach tree that stood sentinel over the gate. She swept aside the fallen leaves that had gathered upon its painted surface and sat down with a deep sigh.

“New faces confuse him,” she said bluntly, as Saradoc sat gingerly beside her. Her blue-gray eyes glinted in steely challenge in what remained of the afternoon’s light, daring him to deny the mortifying truth, in some ways worse than well-known rumor.

“I daresay strangers can be disconcerting to most of us, under some circumstances.”

“That is hardly comparable to this situation,” she snapped back, frank gaze searching his face for malice or mockery. “Will you really pretend you have not heard what is said about my father?”

“I have heard them, but I never put much stock in gossip.”

“Then you must at least believe the evidence of your own eyes,” she insisted.

“Yes.”

Her gaze dropped to the dusty ground, mouth drawn in the tight line of a bitter smile.

“You are free to leave when you please, he will not remember to expect you for supper,” she said, rising to stand with straight-backed dignity.

“Then I shall have to stay a month, at the least, unless you show me the door any sooner.”

“What?”

“I am not easily parted from friends, Esmeralda, regardless of loose tongues or misfortune’s mark. While it may be true that your father’s uncertain state of mind is known, so is the tragedy that caused it… And it is his gift for song that is most remembered, at least among those whose opinions have any weight. If others have failed to see that, it is no fault of yours. Indeed, I would count myself unworthy and no true gentlehobbit if such a small thing turned me from my chosen path.”

“Small thing? My father lives in a time and place of his own imagining, forgetting even my name, and this is a small thing?” she asked angrily.

“No,” he replied with quiet force, getting to his feet to face her. “No, that is no small thing but a great burden for you and your family. What is small is the courage of those who would turn their backs on you because of it. Let me be a friend to you, Esmeralda…” he finished softly, offering his hand.

She stared long into his face, uncertain frown slowly smoothing away to reluctant smile, until she nodded, though she did not reach for his extended hand.

“You are daft,” Esmeralda said, lips quirking up in a one sided smile. “But I suppose that can be a good thing sometimes, especially in a friend.”

He gave her a small bow and gestured towards the kitchen, whose curtained window now glowed with an early candle.

“Daft I may be, but I would in addition be dry tonight, if you please. A rainstorm is approaching.”

In fact, the darkening sky had lowered while they spoke, clouds scudding across the reddening sunset, and they ran to the door, even as the first gusting winds ruffled their clothes. As Saradoc opened the door for her, she smiled up at him, cheeks glowing and eyes a-spark with merriment once more, and he felt his heart skip a little. What a fair tempest of a lass she was, he thought; what fools forgo such a smile for the sake of appearances?


*********


Chapter 5 - Rain Unlooked For

C5: Rain Unlooked For

Whitwell, September 1375
(a year later)


Little Pearl cozied in her arms, Esmeralda settled beneath a shady tree and Saradoc sat down next to her. Roam and Jester nosed in curiously to welcome the newest wee hobbit to enter their world. Brandy Hall was a noisy haven of multigenerational life, with never fewer than a dozen children filling its every corner with the joyous sounds of their presence, so the birth of Eglantine and Paladin’s first babe had seemed to the young Bucklander a most auspicious turn of events. Over the last year, he had continued to visit every time the trading route he rode allowed, and he had gotten to know the quiet family, watching their growing anticipation of her arrival with protective fondness.

The wagon had this time carried a special cargo of gifts for the child and her parents tucked away among the casks of brandy and the little luxuries from Outside. But the strange pall that had greeted him this morning was alarming, to say the least, and Esmeralda had almost immediately ushered him from the small smial, the gurgling baby bundled in her arms.

“She seems a sweet child, Esmie,” he said as the little lass was handed to him. He brushed a gentle finger against the infant’s round cheek and her slate blue eyes tried to focus on and follow the movement, though her attention was soon caught by the dappled shadows upon her aunt’s sage green dress.

“She is indeed… A rare Pearl of great price,” Esmeralda murmured, unnaturally subdued, and it was that odd shift in her demeanor that worried him most. Though he well knew how thoroughly a fussy newborn could drain the sprightliest caregiver, there was more than simple weariness in his companion’s face.

“Esmie…” he started, intending to uncover the trouble that shadowed his love’s heart, but she turned despairing eyes towards him, no longer holding back the tears her pride would have denied. He pulled her close against his shoulder, pressing chaste kisses to her hair and cheeks. “Ah, now, lass… What’s got you low today?”

“All that should be well is ill, and there is no reason for it!” she murmured against his shoulder. “I would give anything to have my dear friend back from her strange spell, but I’m afraid that smial is well and truly cursed…”

“Now, love, it can take a while to get used to the first babe in such a quiet home as yours has been ‘til now. Why, I remember my cousin Prim crying her dear eyes out when her little lad wouldn’t let her sleep for a stretch. All it takes is time…”

“That’s just it, though,” Esmeralda replied, frustrated anger bobbing just beneath the surface of her voice. “Eglantine sleeps! And sleeps and sleeps, on and on, and even nursing Pearl seems to bring on a flood of tears and little joy. I don’t know what to do.”

“It seems to me you’ve likely done all you can, my dear. You look exhausted,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “It will pass, as all spells do…”

She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, sagging against him. “Sing to me, Master Saradoc, something dreadfully bawdy and unsuitable…” she murmured.

Eyeing the skies above, mercifully swept clear of cloud and the potential for rain, he started an old favorite, but soft and slow, to not disturb the infant now drowsing in his arms or the lady whose eyes he’d never seen so filled with sadness. As the last verse strung to its scandalous end, he could hear their sleeping breath under the sounds of summer’s end.

“You have a strange sense of proper speech before the innocent, young buck,” Adalgrim said quietly, appearing from between the flowering hedge nearby.

“I’m sorry, sir, Esmie…”

“My daughter does as she pleases, as ever,” he replied, settling upon the grass, the ever-present harp across his knees. The tavern song’s simple melody rose from the strings, his fingers traveling their intimately familiar span without his attention.

“Yes, sir, she does indeed. I would be a fool to deny her, even in this small thing.”

“Love is grand that way, like music and the course of a river. All their wanderings and surprises are not to be negotiated by those that choose to follow their path. Happiness lies in surrendering to their power…”

“Esmeralda would not believe you if she heard it, sir. She might well be the only one I know could turn the Brandywine’s flow northward by force of will alone.”

The old hobbit grinned suddenly, rising more swiftly than Saradoc had imagined he could. “There’s hope for you yet, it seems, my lad!” he said, disappearing through the hedge once more, though the harp’s song resumed, still rippling through lilting variations into the high blue sky.

Letting his head rest lightly against Esmeralda’s sun-warm curls, he allowed himself a small smile.

“I’m not entirely sure, darling,” he whispered, though she slept, “but I think I may have at last got your father’s blessing… Though I’d never have thought it would be won by an ill sung bawdy.”

Sun chased through sky, golden on the fields and feather-light on the babe’s sweet face, charged with the promise of bountiful years, if only they could prevail; against time, against misfortune, against prying eyes and wagging tongues, against the course others would set for them.
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