Chapter Text
Mr Jaquin Hardy – known as Jake to those few who still saw him regularly enough to address him with that kind of informality – was not, by most common measures, an unfriendly hobbit. He was unfailingly polite in every conversation, possessing a natural charm and ease of manner which would lower the guard of even the most stalwart among curmudgeons. He treated everyone with respect, no matter how unassuming their background or unpolished their manners might be. As a matter of fact, the amount of grace he would offer a brusque or uncivilized approach stood in direct inverse proportion to the apparent importance and wealth of whoever he was speaking to, and if he ever was dismissive in his tone, it was a sure sign that he was dealing with someone whose rank far outstripped their basic grasp of common courtesy.
He was far from a shrinking violet, always ready with a hearty laugh and a companionable – though not overly familiar – nudge to dispel any shyness or hesitation in anyone he met. Yet while he was not reticent, he never burdened others with great, uncontrolled bursts of his own emotions, as too many are wont to do.
No, there was nothing unfriendly about Jake. And yet, there was this to be said about him: He simply preferred his own company to that of anyone else.
Such a disposition might, if one did not know him better, be attributed to an innate disdain for his fellows, which he somehow managed to keep well hidden from the criticisms of the world. But it simply was not so; Jake harbored no such ill will, and while he might at times resent those who trespassed on his solitude, the feeling tended to pass quickly. Soon enough, if given time to gather himself sufficiently, it would soften into remorse, and he would find himself wishing to make amends for his unkind thoughts – which he of course never voiced, and so left the injured party none the wiser – or, at times, for his very hasty departure.
Yes, amends needed to be paid, so that whichever friend, neighbour or relative he imagined he had offended would not hold his lapsing courtesy against him. Though perhaps not too quickly. Perhaps, he’d think, it could be put off to next fortnight, or possibly even next month… and so he would continue to think, until many months had passed, and he found himself running into the very same person by happenstance, and the same scenario would repeat itself once more. Each and every time, Jake would hold on to his conviction with the very best intentions, and as time went by, he’d come out of the encounter a little more flustered and ashamed of himself.
The truth was that Jake Hardy had no idea why he was born with such an unsociable spirit, and that the only resentment he ever held on to was the sort he harboured against himself for not being able to overcome it. But with time it became apparent to him that the ongoing cycle of anxiety, avoidance and remorse could only serve to slowly sour his disposition and alienate those he cared about, and he found this prospect intolerable. To his mind, there was only one solution: He had to find a place where his peace simple couldn’t be disturbed, and where his unfortunate shortcomings couldn’t cause any further offense.
In the end, he settled on a lovely plot of land right on the very northern edge of the Bindbole Wood. Of course at such a remote location, there wasn’t so much as a simple lean-to or shallow hole in the ground to shelter in to begin with, but Jake had more than means enough to have a lovely house built to his exact specifications. The beauty of the plan of course being, that while the journey down to his family’s ancestral home in Needlehole wasn’t too daunting, should he find himself wistful for their company, they were nevertheless unlikely to want to venture so far, just to visit his humble home at the back-end of nowhere. And should he find himself missing the comforts of more civilized parts without any family involvement, the trek down to Oatbarton or even up to Long Cleeve was no more than he and his faithful pony could manage in a day or two.
It really wasn’t a badly conceived scheme. His garden, though glorious and fruitful, would never be enough to sustain him on its own – not even when complemented by his infrequent passion for hunting and fishing, his formidable dairy goat Prudencia, or his handful of much doted-on chickens. Thus he was prevented from completely embracing the role of a hermit. He’d have to leave home at regular intervals to purchase such necessities as grain, oil and salt – and into this category he also naturally counted pipe weed and beer. Without such staples and little pleasures, life would no doubt quickly turn into more of a taxing struggle against scarcity than Jake was by disposition prepared to deal with.
Jake did not mind being portrayed by less charitable family members as something of a throwback who was not fit for polite society, or being viewed at times as an eccentric wild thing who was best avoided – he might even enjoy the inherent mystery and awe which his new life engendered. Deep down, however, he knew he was no true survivor, no rugged woodshobbit living off the land and his own wits. Nor was he even an honest farmer, hunter or fisherman, working diligently every day to earn his daily bread. He was simply a thoroughly awkward gentlehobbit, and he was taking to the woods to hide in relative comfort from the perfectly ordinary societal obligations which such a position in society entailed.
Put like that, it did cast a rather pathetic sheen onto his supposed adventurer’s spirit – especially when one took into account that he was still living off the wealth of the very family he was trying so hard to avoid.
Such ponderings tended to render him dispirited and glum, however, so he tried his very best to avoid thinking about it. And to his questionable credit, he was very good at it.
On the day chosen by fate to drastically change Jake’s life, he woke up as early as ever, and gazing through his bedroom window, he beamed almost as brightly as the very first hint of gold kissing the tree tops outside. While the warm rays had yet to lift the grey mist which clung still to stems and branches, the day nevertheless promised to be as glorious as any early autumn day might. Parts of the surrounding woods were already wreathed in gold, while others yet held on a little while to their greenery – those parts, that was, which weren’t mostly occupied by pines, and so stood solemn and dark all year round.
Stepping outside to cleave some more wood for his stove, and drawing a deep and bracing breath into his lungs, Jake could only confirm his own prognosis. The air was sweet and yet sharp; high and clear as the sky would no doubt prove, once the mist cleared. The dew was undoubtedly cold on his feet as he went down the grassy slope right outside his back door, and followed the short path to his woodshed and privy, but he found the sensation to be refreshing. It only quickened his step and added further brilliance to the sparkle in his green eyes.
Unusual, that. Brown hair and brown eyes were after all the norm among hobbits, and on the rare occasion might a child be born sporting blue, grey, hazel or black. But by their green eyes and black hair, one could always tell a true Hardy – and, as someone of a less kindly nature would often add, by the teeth. Jake, however, had never been too perturbed by such talk, and to tell the truth, the overlarge front teeth somehow suited his face. One might perhaps not call them handsome, but they seemed to invoke something like geniality and honesty, and had in themselves endeared him to more than one hobbit maiden… and the odd hobbit lad, as well, something he to tell the truth had taken a lot more notice of.
Today, Jake decided as he hefted his ax and went to work, would be an excellent day to take a brisk walk around the surrounding woods and look for early mushrooms. There was a sunny meadow where boletes would often poke their brown, velvety heads through the clumps of dry grass, and a rocky hill where chantarelles would spring like little nuggets of gold around the sweeping skirts of the pines. The very last of last year’s yield was long gone, and yesterday he’d baked a loaf of bread which would taste excellent if dipped in a hearty mushroom gravy. Just thinking about it was enough to make him sigh a bit, and to rather hurriedly gather up his firewood and return to the house.
He ate a hasty but satisfying breakfast of eggs and cress on hard bread, made himself ready, and exited once again via the back door. Jake’s home was built in such a way, that it could be considered half a hole and half a house. The main part of the building was part of a wooded hillside, but on each side were built two short wings which stuck out of the ground and encircled part of his garden, which the front door faced. The “back” door was in truth the kitchen door, leading out from the one wing that was furthest from the road, toward the forest.
Thus it was that Jake did not yet notice the bloody, wretched figure who as even then lying smack in the middle of his weigela bushes.
Before the morning had dawned so hopeful and bright, the night before had been dark and starless, with a grim chill in the air of a sort which seldom troubled the these lands in September. The wind was from the north, and though he had not known why, Jake had shuddered at the sound of it, and decided to retire early to his bed. He had slept as the mist rolled in, beating like silent waves against his windows and covering the forest in a restless, impenetrable stillness. No owls flew that night, and every small animal cowered shivering in their holes or dens, counting the tortuous seconds until the sun would show her face once again.
Many leagues to the north, along a road which few now traveled, and never after dark, stood the bleak and sorrowful ruins of Annúminas. As the moon cast only a dismal light through the thick blanket of clouds, barely enough to outline the bones of the ancient city mired in cold fog, a bitter battle was fought on its deserted streets. Under the cover of many previous nights just as drear as this one, the forces of the evil that ever dwelt in the north had crept into the heart of the once-great jewel of Arnor. There, knowing that the Dúnedain would shelter there whenever they ventured this far west, they lay in ambush and fell upon the Númenórian descendants with bitter bloodthirst in their hearts.
The battle was hard fought and hard won for the exiled sons of men, and would perhaps have ended in sore defeat if they had stood alone. But with them were the twins Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Half-Elven, as well as another warrior of pure Elven blood. No one knew his name, as he had asked merely to be known by the somewhat vulgar name of Dirk, and the heirs of Númenór knew better than to ask any questions. The North was often a place where the desperate went to disappear.
He certainly fought as if that was his intention; as if perhaps he hoped to see those hither shores of the West before his time was come to leave Middle Earth for good. The rangers, who themselves were not men to shy away from danger, watched with increasing alarm as he recklessly charged into fray after bloody fray, even after suffering injuries which ought to dismay even the first and eldest children of Ilúvatar. They cried to him to fall back, to allow them to cover his retreat and let someone tend to his wound, but even if he heard them, he certainly did not heed them. As he chased yet another foe down a row of jagged ruins which stood like broken teeth in the earth, they lost sight of him in the gloaming and the thickening fog.
When the battle was over at last, he was nowhere to be found, though they searched every cracked street and every darkened courtyard, calling his name until the first pale light of dawn. Frowing, Elladan turned to Elrohir, his dark hair casting a sharp shadow across his fair features. ”Never did I think we would find someone who harbours a deeper hatred for the loathsome servants of the dark than you and I, brother. And yet, to see him fight, I can see no other explanation.”
But his brother shook his head. “No, Elladan, I think you are mistaken. This elf who calls himself Dirk might hate the soldiers of the enemy, but my heart tells me that it is not this hatred which drove him tonight.”
To the unspoken question on his brother’s face, and to his waiting silence, Elrohir had nothing further to say. He merely turned his gaze to where the sun was climbing out of the dim East, as if perhaps she had the answers for which he could find no words.
Dirk knew he’d been a damn fool, but it was too late to do more than dwell on his mistakes and silently curse himself as he grimly placed one foot in front of the other. As reckless as he’d been, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the second ambush caught him in the middle of his pursuit. Amid the leers and mocking laughter of his foes, and the tearing sounds of their black arrows, cold hindsight came upon him at last. What was he thinking, rushing into danger in such a manner, as if he believed that his life was his to waste? Even if it was only to dwell for a while in the Halls of Mandos, how would he ever face his brother again, once he was allowed to return?
And was he so sure, if he threw away his life in such a careless fashion, that the Doomsman of the Valar would offer him his life anew?
Rearing his horse and gritting his teeth against the pain, he did the only thing he could think of in such dire straits: He fled.
His retreat back to the forces of the rangers was cut off, and if he was to be truthful, he was barely more equal to face their concern and their inquiring looks, than he was to face Daewe’s disappointment and hurt. So he rode south, as fast as his horse could carry him – and for as long as she could still run, with an orch arrow oozing bitter poison into her veins. When the faithful beast could not, and fell to her knees on the slippery scree of rocks beneath, he offered her whatever mercy that clean, cold steel and practiced hands could offer. The gush of her lifeblood and the gradual cool of her faltering heart had him bowing his head in shame, wishing that he had been more careful with her life, even if he could not muster the same care for his own.
She shouldn’t have had to die.
Then he simply wandered, blind with pain and exhaustion, unaware of how far he’d traveled or where he might be going. Hours passed and dawn approached, when Dirk found himself once again on a road where others must have walked before him, and which therefore must be carrying toward some manner of destination. Too weary to question his fortune, he crafted himself a crude crutch from a branch lying by the wayside, and kept stumbling resolutely forward.
When at last he reached a darkened building in the greyness of predawn light, with no other sign of any other living thing in sight, and bent almost double with agony and weakness, Dirk knew that there was no other recourse to be had. Heading for the round door, all he could do was pray that he would be offered compassion in his hour of frailty.
But as we already know, he was not destined to reach that door, nor was the inhabitant of that quaint abode awake enough to hear it when his knees gave out from under him, and he sagged helplessly into the embrace of the autumn-red leaves and thin branches of some manner of shrubbery. And there he lay, senseless of the passing hours of the day, the light of his life on this Middle Earth ever growing dimmer as the sun traveled along the arc of the sky.
Having eventually brought home an impressive haul, Jake had pottered unhurriedly about his kitchen for a few hours, letting noon come and go as he meticulously cleaned the mushrooms and strung most of them up between the beams of his kitchen ceiling to dry. Some of them, however, he saved for himself, and once he was done he went about preparing the gravy he’d so longed for all day. Thus provisioned with excellent food, a bottle of fine dark ale, and his pipe, he felt quite prepared to tackle the task of digging up the rest of the beets, and maybe seeing if any of the squashes might have ripened yet.
Instead he found himself standing frozen to the spot in his doorway, staring at the horribly bloodied figure of a Big Person lying sprawled in his garden. Though he was mostly horrified – as any right-thinking person would be – at the state of the stranger, he nevertheless couldn’t hold back a brief wince at the state of his poor bushes, or stop himself from thinking wistfully of the sprays of pink blossoms which had delighted him so last spring.
Then he shook himself, and pausing only to carelessly set down his tray in a nearby flower bed, he rushed to offer whatever aid that it might be in his power to give. Of course, that might not be much, considering the alarming amount of blood in evidence, and if the stranger was in fact beyond all help or already dead… well, Jake honestly did not know what he would do then. Presumably this poor creature must have a family who would wonder where he’d gone and what had happened to him, but how was Jake supposed to find them? He’d never even seen a Big Person before. For that matter, he didn’t actually know what had happened to him, other than that he might have ended his days making a mess of his garden.
Then again, perhaps worrying about his family was a bit optimistic? When he got closer, Jake couldn’t help noticing that this fellow looked rather… rough, to say the least. His clothes were travel-stained and oft mended, and next to his slack hand lay a large and frightfully sharp blade of some kind. Jake certainly wasn’t an expert, but he’d eat his best hat if that thing had ever been used in a kitchen.
The stranger was also, beyond any doubt, the most beautiful being he’d ever lain eyes on, whether in waking or in dreaming. Even as he knelt next to him to look for any signs of life, Jake somehow felt awed by his very existence, to the point where he almost feared to touch him. His own broad, brown hand – toughened by work, but also clean and well cared for – seemed somehow too coarse to touch someone so impossibly lovely. It was as if the sun, which normally had the grace to shine equally on all living things, somehow got her rays caught in the stranger’s billowing locks of silver-fair hair, and bathed his skin in a glow so bright and warm, it seemed to radiate from within.
For a moment Jake almost pulled his hand back, but no, that was nonsense! Was he supposed to let a wounded person just lie there and bleed, because he’d suddenly decided to come off all bashful? Ridiculous. His grandmother would’ve been ashamed of him.
A quick examination showed that the stranger was in fact still breathing, and although his skin was cooler than Jake would like it to be, his pulse appeared to still be beating steadily. That was enough for him. Had he any other choice, he would never risk moving an injured person quite so recklessly, but he really couldn’t stay out here in the autumn chill any longer – especially when evening was already fast approaching. So there was nothing for it. Spitting on his hands and flexing his shoulders, Jake grasped the much taller figure under his arms and started to haul him back toward his door.
He was much lighter than Jake would’ve expected him to be, which was just as well, but nevertheless the sheer size of him presented a challenge. Breathing steadily, he told himself that it was lucky, really, that he was used to hunting, and so having to move the occasional large and unwieldy carcass around was nothing new. Then he apologized silently to his unplanned guest, for thinking such crass things about any poor soul whose life was still hanging by so frail a thread, and with no guarantee that he had either the skill or the means to stop it from snapping.
His threshold posed a momentary struggle, and Jake winced each and every time the wounded creature in his arms was jostled, but once he was over it and maneuvering across his polished pine flooring, the going got easier. Before long, the stranger was situated as comfortably as Jake could contrive, smack in the middle of his parlour room floor. He had considered and quickly dismissed the idea of bringing him into his bedroom; it was further down the hallway, and anyway, this Big Person was clearly far too tall to fit into his bed, even if he could manage to wrangle him into it.
The parlour was nice and big, and at least there was a soft rug there for him to rest on, a thick sheepskin to put under his head, and a roaring fireplace for his cold limbs. In an hour or so, Jake would cover him with a blanket, but he didn’t want to trap any lingering chill under it before he’d had a chance to warm up properly. Besides, he had work to do first.
Unflinchingly, he set the work removing the stranger’s clothes. The breeches and boots he could simply slide off, and his short cloak came undone easily enough, but he couldn’t figure out the straps of his light armour, nor did he wish to wrestle the tunic off his body, so those had to be cut. That left only his underthings, which could stay for now, since they wouldn’t get in the way.
Jake hissed softly between his teeth, shaking his head. There were many smaller cuts and plenty of bruises, but two of the wounds were far more serious. One was a long gash which ran diagonally from armpit to groin, and which had clearly been bleeding profusely for many hours. The other was a dark red puncture wound which had bitten deep into the stranger’s thigh, and although it did not look any older than any of the other wounds, it was already oozing. The smell was foul; not merely the pungent whiff of rotting flesh, but something much more sharp and deadly and… evil. There was no other word for it. The liquid appeared oily and was dark brown, almost black in colour.
“This isn’t right,” he muttered to himself. “This isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. I don’t know what could possibly cure something like this.”
Even so, it would be unthinkable to give up now. So he set to work with all the knowledge his grandmother had passed down to him. He hadn’t always been the most attentive pupil, and it was many years since she passed away, meaning that since then he’d only ever had to patch himself up now and again, and that had never been very serious. The worst ailment he’d dealt with was a bleeding foot, when his ax slipped on a knot in a stubborn piece of wood. His fingers, however, seemed to remember more than he would’ve expected, and the ointments she’d taught him to make were all made from tried and true recipes. He washed and he bandaged and he stitched skin to skin, carefully examining each wound to gauge its severity and figure out how best to mend it.
Finally, there was only one wound left to deal with; the worst one, though the bleeding there seemed to have almost stopped. To tell the truth, Jake thought that he would’ve preferred a gush of blood. There was something far more unwholesome about the slow and steady trickle of whatever-it-was, and the way the skin around it seemed so clammy and pale, as if the very life within it had stagnated, growing cold and still.
Some wounds, his grandmother had once cautioned, are of a different sort. There are things in this world which are capable not just of rending flesh, but of wounding the very spirit within it. Some creatures posses such a darkness innately, but it’s also possible to forge weapons of a similar evil nature. Her eyes had grown very distant when she said this, and Jake, young as he’d been, had not known what to say. He would’ve called it nonsense, just a fanciful tale spun to scare a young and impressionable hobbit, if it wasn’t for the way she’d said it. Her voice had been so calm and quiet, as if she was talking half to herself, and rather than inventing some fantastic horror to send shivers down his spine, it was as if she was gazing within herself and recalling something half forgotten, or perhaps merely buried deep, where it could do no harm anymore.
Then she’d patted his hand, and handed him a sprig of the most unassuming plant, crowned in tiny white flowers. “This might help,” was all she’d said, before getting up off her chair and going to see to the whistling kettle.
Digging frantically through his store of dried herbs, Jake was ready to despair when he remembered. He’d never actually picked kingsfoil to use for healing, but when he came across it he’d occasionally put it into little sachets and place them in his linen closet, because it had such a fresh fragrance and seemed to keep moths away even better than cloves or cedar. After a hasty trip into the dining room, he returned triumphant with a handful of brittle leaves and stalks, which he quickly mixed with enough hot water to make it into a thick poultice. Then bathing and cleaning the wound as best he could, he finished by wrapping the kingsfoil mixture in a piece of gauze and securing it in place with a bandage.
He had no idea if it would do any good at all. But the clean and sharp smell of the herb had at the very least managed to settle his nerves, and steadied his hands as he worked. It was almost as if his grandmother was there with him, sitting in the rocking chair right by the fire and puffing on her pipe, and if he only turned his head he’d be able to see her smiling at him and nodding her approval. That’s right, my boy, she’d say. I’m glad you listened. I’m glad you remembered.
He did not turn his head. He knew she wasn’t there. But even as he brushed the tears from his face and sat back up, it seemed as if some colour and life had returned to the stranger’s face.