He sat at his old, carved wooden desk, a small elderly Hobbit snuggled in amongst bone-easing cushions. Pen in hand, he had been scribbling away in his neatest manner, carefully dipping his feathered pen (his father's, handed down to him,) in the ink pot, and blotted it so that it would not drip. He was a careful sort of Hobbit. He liked his home to be tidy, but lived in.
His house, for he had enough coin not to live in a basic Hole, but not enough to have a Gentry style Smile, was more wood than brick, with a small chimney and a thatched roof. It had been a real home once, with a wife and three jolly daughters all spoiling him, and baking, and roasting, and doing the back garden. He had been happy then.
But years pass. His Maybell was gone a few years back, and his daughters had wed and moved to other parts of the Shire. They had sixteen children between them, sixteen grandchildren for him! The House was certainly not large enough on the rare occassions they all came to visit.
He loved seeing them though. His heart swelled with thankfullness at the life he had been granted.
But most days it was just him. He didn't even have a dog anymore. His favourite walk was from his house, ten minutes along the road to the Bent Elbow, where he would have breakfast, and later lunch. The food was good and plentiful. Henepa ran a tight ship, (not that he would ever go on a ship) and service was swift. He would have a pint or two of ale, never too much, he was no longer young enough to keep up with the Bounders. He would have a pipe after breakfast and another after Midday. Pipe weed was his failing, and he didn't mind admitting it. But mostly he went to chat a bit with others.
That was how he had fallen in with Tolbold's group! Now Tolbold Taterfield was his nephew, his sister's son. He was rather fond of the lad, which was convienient, as he too lived in Tighfield. He watched with pride as Tolbold grew out of his Tweens into a responsible and caring adult. He also grew into enjoying walking, (earlier it was long walks, and they had walked together. Now they only walked to the Taven together at times.) Tolbold was an Assistant Chief Shiriff. A respectable position. He was also a grand gardener and keeper of animals. He set a fine Sunday afternoon tea, the sort with scones and jam and cream, and chocolate cake and lots of small sandwiches with the edges cut off. And there was always plenty of tea to drink.
He appreciated his nephew greatly.
As it happened, he had taken to sitting at a side table, with Tolbold, his assistant Sarno, and Sarno's younger brother, Gaisarix three times a week. Sometimes he nodded off. He was eighty two, and had a good excuse. Sometimes he woke when they started laughing at something, or woke to jibe Tolbold when Henepa came to speak with them. But more recently the group had been in talks about Brigands, a group of rough Bree Men hiding out in nearby ruins. And soon after that, they had been talking about Elves. His ears had perked up. He had seen an Elf a couple of times. Oh yes, and mightily awed he had been. Older than him by far, those beings of grace and light had drifted around his thoughts since his own youth. Now, it seemed, Tolbold was friends with some of them. A Lady with red hair, a High Lord, and some demon killer. They didn't quite fit his childhod images, but Elves were what they were, and that was mysterious.
And that led on to why he was sitting at his desk, penning his thoughts.
Now he was one of the few Hobbits in Tighfield who could read and write. His father had been a farmer, but his mother came from a slightly more wealthy and learned family. He had benifitted, as had his five sisters, now all gone. He liked a good book. He liked to see others ideas, up to a point. But he loved being able to set down his own thoughts when happy or sad or, as he was at the moment, worried.
The issue now was, some Elves had been kidnapped. Henepa and Gaisarix had been kidnapped. And he was overwhelmed by guilt that it was all his fault.
