It was a convoluted tale. He felt shame and guilt all the same. And now he would commit it all to paper, so he could think and think about what he could have done differently. What he could do now.
But first he had wanted sustenance. Going to his kitchen he swiftly made two of his favourites, prawn sandwiches, and another hot cup of tea. They offered him comfort, familiarity in a World where he was no longer an honourable old Hobbit, but a cowardly betrayer of friends.
Back at his desk, he placed both food and drink with care, so nothing would spill on the mostly empty paper. 'Confessions of a Coward', he had titled it. Those words made him want to hang his head in shame.
It had happened like this: He had felt well and hale for a change, and the sun had been shining a little more than usual, and he had decided to go for a little longer walk to make the most of the day. He had packed himself a decent lunch and put it in his backpack, added a floral waistcoat over his shirt, put his pipe and a pack of Old Toby in his breast pocket, and headed out.
He had looked briefly at the bright and sharp knife he had been gifted by that dark haired wild Elf. Like Tolbold, Sarno, Henepa and Gaisarix, he had one of them special Elf weapons. And he loved it. He loved looking at it. Loved polishing it, and thinking how proud he was to have such a beautiful treasure. What he didn't like was the thought of using it. Blood and cuts and mess were not really his thing.
He had been brave in the past. He had joined the Bounders in his youth, and fought off many a wolf from livestock. He had jumped into a slow flowing stream to save two Hobbit children. He had chased off a bear from a picnic. He had twice been in a struggle against Goblins. But to actually stab and maybe kill a Man? That was hard to wrap his thoughts around. He wouldn't need the Elf knife, so he left it at home. That was his first mistake.
The walk had been most enjoyable. He had whistled a little as he went, feeling almost middle aged again. He promised himself a couple of pints at the Elbow on his way home, and maybe a light tea there. His sandwiches would not do for the whole day. He passed two of Lotho’s Bounders, and raised his hat and nodded to them. They didn’t look exactly thrilled, but doffed their hats in return all the same. There came a point when he did wish he had brought along his yew walking stitch, his feet ached more than he had expected, and so he sat down under the shade of a large oak, took out a kerchief and mopped his brow.
A sharp knife was at his throat. He gasped, his heart missing a beat. 'What in the name of all that was good?'
“Keep silent, or I will silence you forever, old fool,” a deep voice with a Breeland accent was at his ear.
“Let us at him, boss. We can get him to squeal.” A younger Man with the same accent spoke out.
He didn’t know what to do? No stick, no elven knife. Even if he had them, how many of those dratted Men were there? He heard a little rustling, booted feet in the grass. Four of them? He knew he stood no chance. Craning his neck for as good a view as possible, he wondered if those Bounders would be walking back that way soon. But he could see only an empty road.
The knife pricked his throat, drawing a little blood. He could do nothing about it.
“Now, we are going to ask yer some questions,” it was the Man with the knife. “And if yer answer well, we may let yer live. Or we may not. Depends how impressed we are. Got it.”
He mumbled assent, wondering what on Arda they wanted to know.
“We know yer friends with those others who speak with the Elves.” the knife pricked blood again. “They talk with yer. We want ter know what them Elves are up ter.”
He squirmed. The first thought that came to his mind was the others discussing ‘Go not to Elves for advice for they will tell you all sorts of long stories.”
“Yer hear me, Rat? What are them Elves just over the border up to?
He had no idea what they were up to.“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.
One of the other men punched him in the side of his head. It hurt.
“What are they up to?” the first Man asked again.
“I don’t know. The elves don’t talk with me. I am usually aslee…”
Another punch, in the same spot, while a second man stood on one of his feet. He could feel a bone snap.
“Yer locked away with them at times. It must be secret talks, and you are in on it.” The voice was sure of itself. Insistent.
He wondered for a moment how the Men could know that? They could not enter the Bent Elbow without being noticed. Then it came to him with a sinking sense of betrayal. ‘We have spy among our own folk. Or maybe one of Mr Lotho’s folk?’
There was a kick to his knee, another punch to his head. He could feel blood trickling down his cheek.
“I know,” another voice piped up. “These Rats like cake. I have half a chocolate sponge cake in me pack. We can stuff it in his mouth until he chokes?”
There was laughter.
‘Death by chocolate’ he thought in horror. But he had no idea what answer he could give that would make them leave him alone.
“Serious now,” it was the first Man again. He stunk to high heaven of not ever having a bath. Of not knowing what soap was.
“I don’t know what you want,” he tried, desperate to not whine, to sound petrified.
“Them Elves are planning something, and we are planning something too. Tell us, how many of them are there? Are they all warriors or are some just book worms and women? Do they always travel together or with guards?”
“I don’t know,” he wailed. “Some are … warriors, at least, one is. There is a Lady, though I think she can also fight. I don’t know how many more of them there are. The others just talk about three.”
There was more laughter, and a mention of ‘High Lord Parnard’. He knew that name.
“So they don’t have a patrol. Or a company of soldiers?”
“I don’t know. They have a demon though. He kills everything.”
More laughter. Can he kill two dozen of us?
He had no idea. From some of what he had heard the others mention the truth was ‘Yes. The Star Fin could easily do that. But he looked down in shame. Where were the Bounders?”
One of the men stuffed a large lump of Chocolate cake in his mouth, another stood on his foot again.
Laughter.
“Which Rats are their closest friends?” A new voice spoke out.
“The Elves don’t know many Hobbits.”
“Which..ones..do ..they know..?” There was a slap round his face.
“Tolbold, Sarno and Gaisarix. That's it.”
“No females?” Same new voice. One who knew what he was doing. “Tell me now and the rest of the cake is yours.”
“You tell him boss,” the others laughed.
“ Henepa,” he said, “They know Henepa.”
He truly was an old fool, selling out Henepa to avoid chocolate cake.
