By: Dana
Summary: The village of North-delving, almost in the Northfarthing of the Shire, and a dark year after another dark year.
Characters: Pippin, the hobbits of North-delving, and Ruffians
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gen with some dark elements, the acts of Ruffians
Author's Notes: Posted for my month long Birthdaypalooza, August 2007.
The first of my The North-delving Incident.
I wanted to write a Pipnapping for my birthday, so I did.
I might need to write something from Merry's pov, that has some bearing on the events of this story (or at least refers to it). What do you think?
Series Index: Roads Go On and Years Go By.
claim:
Prompt: Months (#09). Words: 4900
69/100.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Blotmath, SR 1420

He wakes with a groan, head pounding: for a long moment, there is no up nor down, nor proper reason, and Pippin can't tell where he is (or, his mind says, aching as it does, where he isn't). He opens his eyes, and the light that greets his vision is moor-grey, washed out, and the air is stilted. He coughs, and his head aches further. He tries to move, to sit up, and finds that he can't.

'Ah, our Lord Rat's awake,' a distant voice laughs. Pippin opens his eyes wide, breathes out, and clears his vision. He turns his head, far enough to see the Man sitting there, on his haunches: his knife is out, and he's picking at the dirt behind his nails, his hair black, stringy, his mouth grimace-wide. Pippin doesn't struggle, sits still, and quietly, instead. But this Man isn't alone, he notes, when he hears movement from the other side of the room.

So he turns his head, and his vision turns and his stomach does, almost, and he remembers being cracked upside the head, so no wonder it hurts.

The other Man is smaller, but his eyes are just as dark. 'Pretty get up you're in,' he says, fingering the edge of Pippin's cloak. Pippin steadies his breathing, shuts his eyes. He tries to wish himself away to dreaming, for they had run the Men from the Shire, they had.

'If anything, he'll give us good sport. Ged, go check on our supper. I don't know about you, lad, but I'm starved!' That's the younger, the smaller, calling the other lad. Just the two of them, and if Pippin can get himself untied – of course he can, he's managed it before – he can take them. Then the younger one laughs, looking down at Pippin. 'We'll need our energy, anyhow – really, it's been too long since we had proper sport.'

No sign of Trollsbane, though, but Ged has his long knife, a proper-sized sword for a hobbit, even one as tall as Pippin: and the smaller, he has a long club. The door creaks on its hinges, and they slam it behind them as they go out, laughing, jeering at their talk of having 'sport'. Pippin grimaces, wriggles, but can't free himself, bound so well as he is. They must not think him some soft hobbit, easily beaten – perhaps, if he had not came to North-delving as grandly as he had, they might still have thought him soft, easy prey.

It makes Pippin's blood run cold, but he has other things to worry about, now – he's caught either way, after all. His arms are bound behind his back, the cord so tight he can feel it cutting off blood. He tries to move his fingers, but they protest, feeling numb. He leans forward, but can't, not by far. There's cord about his neck, loose enough but pulled tight as he moves. And his legs are bound, at his knees, and at his ankles.

He'd gone riding on Thunder, with Trollsbane, as he often did – to North-delving, beyond Gamwich, almost at the southern edge of the Northfarthing. A pretty little village, in a rocky valley, with a cool spring at the south of it, a dark old copse of oaks at the north. A sheltered place, and...

His head feels split open, and Pippin shuts his eyes against the pain. He remembers, or thinks he does, the business that brought him to North-delving – he'd planned it with Merry, but Merry caught up at Budgeford, so Pippin went ahead, alone. But why? What business? If he had expected danger, he would not have gone off alone – or would he? A trap of hobbits, great and small, thinking oneself too big to be caught, but being caught by pride, instead.

Well, if he came to North-delving, then Merry's set on coming, too. He won't be here too long, then, will he? Still, he has no plans on sitting idle. He wriggles his hands, until he feels it biting into skin, and then he stops because his fingers can't take it anymore, numb and almost senseless. So he rests, and looks at his feet, frowning, and wiggling his toes.

'Don't mind her,' said Chrysocolla, in a way young sisters must all share. 'Her lad left for Tighfield, and he hasn't thought to write – he knows his letters, so he hasn't any excuse. Come, Captain Pippin, we've food and good ale, and we'd very much like it if you sat with us at supper.'

So he did, with three jewels and their mother – their father, Citrine said, was crippled, and dead just in autumn, and so wouldn't dance on attendance: she said it with such bitterness, Pippin felt his heart break, with Citrine's eyes so dark, so angry. He took her hand, gently, and he said that he was sorry. He knew loss, but he didn't say that – instead, Citrine looked at him, her mouth a grim line: and she said, 'now, Captain Pippin, that wasn't at all fair,' and he smiled, and she smiled in return.

They had no brothers, and theirs was a little smial, but it seemed cheery: and there was food, and there was ale, and Carnelian bid Citrine and Chrysocolla to bring out their flute and fiddle, and so they made a party out of supper, and Pippin couldn't imagine that danger would come to such a bright place, filled with such lovely hobbits. Then he thought he couldn't stand straight, and Citrine said, 'oh, Captain Pippin, I'm sorry, but they made us do it, they did,' and he heard their mother's weeping, and then he went crashing down. He remembered only pieces, after that, being dragged out, his vision blurring in and out, and he struggled and went for Trollsbane, but had put it to the side, when he sat in the house – and he reached, then, for his small knife, and the one who held him laughed darkly, pressed cruelly, and then cracked him upside the head.

Now Pippin sits in darkness, the far-off sound of dark voices, and he hasn't yet freed himself, though he's tried. He thinks of Citrine's pale face, the tears in her voice as she'd said 'I'm sorry', and it must have been a long time since he'd been taken, for his stomach was thankfully empty.

'Hey,' he shouted, and would have kicked his feet against something, if anything was near. 'Hey, come here.' He goes on, shouting until the door creaks on its hinges, and a dark face looks in, a lantern swinging from his hand, his face fully unfamiliar. 'I need to relieve myself.'

A bark of cruel laughter. 'Oh, Lord Ratling, we won't fall for that.'

Lord Rat, again – Pippin finds himself guessing that one of these fellows must be left-over from Bywater, one of the ones that had managed to run away. If they know who he is, then he hopes Merry gets here sooner than later, for he does not wish to suffer their idea of proper revenge. A ruffian doesn't give eye for eye, but rather two for one, and Pippin will not die here, he won't.

The door creaks open, and it's Citrine, her face pale and smudged, but not by dirt. She has a lantern, and a small bucket of water, and a bit of clean cloth. She comes in, on shaking legs, and she knees at his side. 'I am sorry,' she says, and she wrings out the cloth – the water is warm, and Pippin sighs. 'They'd have beat mam, and Chrysocolla, and I... I am sorry, Captain Pippin. You needn't forgive me, but–'

'I do.'

'What?' She blinks, but she doesn't stop – his brow stings, no doubt where he'd been struck.

'I do forgive you, Citrine. I fully understand.' And he smiles, and tears track her face in flickering light. But she doesn't free him, only cleans his wound, and leaves on legs now steadier than they'd been before.

He is half-exhausted, when the door next opens, when the young one, and Ged, come back with the third, the one that Pippin remembers from the night before (or the day before, or the whatever, for Pippin has no proper reckoning of time). The young one kneels, takes out his knife, and slaps the flat of it against his palm. 'I remember you,' he says, and Pippin studies his face, the long scar from cheek to brow, and over his eyes. 'I remember you, from Bywater, when you and your Lord Rat friend thought to run us from the Shire. Well, we did run, weren't caught up, and we settled here. And it's been sweet, let me tell you, though not so sweet when we had full run of the Shire.' He grins a little, turns his knife over, and he runs the tip of it down Pippin's cheek, from ear to neck. He doesn't press hard, just a prick of sharp metal, and Pippin holds himself still. 'Draining our cods, whenever it was wanted. Beating those that stood against us. Why, we haven't even a proper Lockholes, anymore, to do away with ungrateful rats.' He presses with the tip of the knife, and he's close now, breath hot.

'I remember you, and I'll cut you to pieces before I ever let you free. But don't think I plan on rushing myself, Lord Rat – no, instead, I'll have your screams, and I'll have you beg that I be so merciful, that I might just kill you.' Then he presses with his knife, twists the tip, and it must not catch more than a drop of blood, and Pippin holds himself still as stone. He feels the thumping of his heart, but this Man is garbage, a ruffian, and he will not show weakness, he will not.

But the Man laughs, not at all frustrated, and he puts his knife away, and he grips Pippin's chin, holds his face still. His tongue is hot and wet when he licks the blood from Pippin's cheek, and he draws back, laughing darkly, leaving spit on skin. 'Ah, strong as stone, you are. I think, what might break you – pain?' He shakes his head, shakes Pippin's head, too, for he still has a hold on his chin. 'No, you don't fear pain, at least, not against yourself.' He lets Pippin go, sits back, and he barks an order at Ged, laughing as he says, 'Ah, Ged, go pluck us a fresh coney – something young, and tender, with pretty red curls.'

Ged gets up, grinning darkly, and Pippin's heart thumps harder, for realisation comes on him, as Ged swings the door open, hinges creaking at the strain. 'No–'

A fist strikes him, cracks his head to the side, and Pippin's vision blurs, then straightens, and he lifts his hand. 'You wouldn't – you couldn't – if your business is with me, then I–'

'Ah, what?' A dark grin. 'Perhaps we're needing you in one piece, and as unspoiled as is possible – there's time for that, later on, once the ransom comes through. Don't think I don't plan on cutting you, still, on making you suffer. You, Lord Rat, will beg before you die.' He pets one hand back through Pippin's hair, grips a handful of it, yanks his head back, and presses a kiss, with his over-sized mouth, against Pippin – and Pippin feels the intrusion of tongue, and doesn't react quick enough. If he had, his teeth might have had a chance.

He lets Pippin go, and Pippin coughs, spits against the Man's chest – he thanks Pippin for that, with another blow to his face, and Pippin's world spins, and warm blood trickles from his nose.

'Citrine,' he mutters numbly, his tongue not willing to work. She shakes, and bows her head, and laughs a little, though seems forced. Though, as well, she doesn't sob – instead, she holds herself straight, and holds her head high, the cloth wet in her hands. But she crumples, then, as she draws breath, saying, in a voice that quakes, 'one of them, he came for Carnelian, and he beat her, and dragged her off. He...' She shuts her mouth, a hard grim line, and then she shakes her head. 'You will die here, won't you? But perhaps I could help you along.'

He isn't thinking straight, head dull with pain, but she reaches to her apron, and pulls out a short, sharp-looking knife. 'Citrine,' he mumbles, again, tongue thick, and she smiles, small, grim. He can't seem to wrap his thoughts round.

'They're taking sport with my sister – perhaps, I think, as they meant to take sport with you. Or did they mean to ransom you, bright Pippin, Captain Pippin? Or did they...' She shakes, and laughs, and it still sounds forced. 'They think, we won't stand against them, for fear of... oh, we heard stories, hobbits standing against the Men at Bywater, and how they ran them from the Shire – not just there, but all over. They must have hid well, to take roost, here. But we could stand against them, too. They killed my father, Captain Pippin, and we weren't the first to suffer. Now they've broken my sister, and I...'

He feels the press of the knife, for the blade touches skin – but she cuts his neck free, the rope slipping from her hands. Then she presses close, the scent of chamomile in her hair, her skin soft-looking, pale. She cuts the cord from about his wrist, leans back, then holds the knife out, waiting for him to take it. And he does, once he's worked feeling back into his hands, and he cuts his legs free. 'Do you have a plan?'

'Not much of one. But there's a number of us here, and the Men have... they pressed us so hard, thinking they might press blood from stone. And I...' She shakes, then shuts her eyes. 'But you, Captain Pippin – you, might you have a plan?'

He is rubbing his wrists still, flexing his fingers. 'Well, I need my sword – have you seen it?' He wonders, why didn't they find the Ruffians, the first they came through North-delving. Citrine, as if she's some gift of sight, says, softly, 'They came in autumn, fresh from battle, some bleeding, some sore-wounded – they took some captives, and took refuge in the old storage tunnels, the ones at the back of town. I remember it, the first you came through town, Captain Pippin, you and Captain Merry, and your bright shining lads. We didn't say a thing, we couldn't, for we... we thought... they would kill the ones they took. I hope you understand.'

'I do,' he says, because he does. 'A year,' he says. 'A full year – oh, how I wish...' And what he wishes: that he hadn't thought to go ahead without Merry. Well, Merry will come, and soon enough. But two hobbits, armed, against... 'How many are there? What weapons do they have? The captives they took, are they kept still in the old storage holes?'

'Just five,' she says. 'And the captives... They are, and watched carefully – if you stand against them, they lock you up. We haven't... we couldn't...' Without thought as to why, Pippin holds out her knife, handle-first, and she takes it from him, clutches, tight. 'A year, after another long dark year – we won't sit no more, not for this. Instead, we'll stand.'

'Just you and I alone? Or, with Merry, if ever he arrives–'

'Oh, sir, I know,' she says, wringing her hands together – Pippin knows, her knife is tucked away, but well in reach, and her hair, mussed, must make her a fetching sight. 'My cousin, though, I want to see my cousin – you took him off, for cheek, it was said, and I want to make sure he's well...'

Pippin's hand wishes for the feel of Trollsbane's hilt, and he grits his teeth instead. But all around him, the bushes don't betray the slightest whisper, and Citrine walks forward, meek and shy, still wringing her hands. The Man doesn't know that death is waiting, and all she needs is a clear shot, and, oh, then they'll have him.

The Man makes a snatch for Citrine, and she gives a small shriek. Pippin almost jumps, but holds himself back – Citrine's back is rigid, straight as stone, and the Man's attention is so focused on her...

The sharp whistle of a rock, thrown, and it strikes his skull with a solid sounding crack – he looses hold on her, and then he falls, and Pippin breaks out of cover, then, catching Citrine before she stumbles. She grins at him, though her eyes are red, and then she turns, and gives the still body a hard kick. Some other hobbits come from the bushes, though, that they managed to talk into standing against the Men – then Pippin looks at Citrine, and she gives the body another hard kick. She's thinking of her father, and her sister, and the other hobbits who've been harmed. Pippin's vision blurs, for a moment, and he thinks, they must have drugged me better than I thought, for suddenly he finds it hard to stand.

A year, after another long dark year, and Pippin won't stand for this (just as long as he can stand). 'Mat, Largo, stay here – Citrine, you too.' He has lads with him, now, though none of them Bounders. He needn't put Citrine at risk, as she's put herself at too much, already... But she stands, and shakes her head. She turns, her eyes flashing with defiance – give a little resistance, and watch it grow and grow.

'No, Captain Pippin, no. I won't run, not now. I mean to stand to the end of this, on what feet I've been given.' She reaches for her hidden knife. 'I won't hide.'

All Pippin does is nod, for he understands. 'Well, alright. We've one down – Largo, Mat, bind him well.' Mat nods, and they truss him up well, with the length of tight cord they'd brought, and the Man, though surely out cold, grunts and groans.

Well, with that taken care of... he gives a cheery smile, and grins, wide and grim. 'Well, we've just the four left over. It seems our plan is coming together neatly.' He can do this, he knows he can – not just for Citrine's sake, but for these hobbits. They owe it to them, for having failed them – Pippin hasn't thought it, yet, but now he thinks this all his own fault. They should have watched, they should have been more thorough... a year, after an already dark year.

He thinks back, how Citrine led him through small, secret tunnels, from the back of the building, where he'd been caught, at first (and big enough for the Men to walk unhindered) – an old inn, but made the Men's chief place. Citrine's stronger than she guesses, he thinks. Maybe she'll see that, before the end.

He watches Mat and Largo, then nods at Citrine. Another wave of dizziness washes over him, and his vision blurs again – but he stands through it, and then they're off again, to catch the Men where they think they're chief.

'Matihild Twofoot, I'll box your ears for saying such a thing,' she'd snapped, standing tall and straight. Pippin, at the time, had grinned at her, for presenting herself as such – he thought, suddenly, of Estella. 'We can't go on like this, Mat, cowed and beaten – we'll stand now, or we'll lie crushed for all time. Which is it, Mat? Which shall it be?'

Mat glared at her, tall and straight as well – but then he slump, the fight gone from him, but something new lit his eyes – a hope, and a chance at freedom. 'What must we do? There's more of us, that's for certain, but they've hurt so many, and killed some, too. What can we do?'

'First, we'll see that the captives they took are set free – Captain Pippin and I, we've planned that, already. Then, we'll...' And it had gone from that, to whispers, for Citrine had not wished their voices to carry. And they had got Mat's agreement, that he would stand with them, and he knew Largo would, too, and them the best of friends. It wasn't difficult, getting Largo, but there were some who wouldn't dare think of standing against the Men – five of them, and by the time they had made their way to what houses, and smials, they had only gathered six against that five. Well, with him and Citrine, that made eight – and eight was better than none, and better to stand and fight, anyhow. Better than lie down, and simply die.

So, there was the scene at the storage holes. The Men's chief place was the old inn, at the heart of North-delving – and it was late now, but beginning to light. They had gathered up what they could use as weapons, shovels and pitchforks, and one of the lads, Fili, even had an axe. Oh, but Pippin's hand longs for Trollsbane's hilt.

And here they are, now, sitting in the bushes, talking in low voices. 'I'll go out, again,' Citrine says. 'As proper bait.' That worked once, but Pippin doesn't think it will again.

'No – it's me they want, and surely they know I've gone. I won't put you at risk again, Citrine – let me do this for you, please?'

She glares at him, eyes hard and angry – but then she nods. 'Do take care.'

'I will.' And he stands, grits his teeth against his blurring vision and his aching head, : determined to stand, and so he stands. Then he takes the path the leads up to the front door. It must have been a cheery place, once, he thinks, but no more. The first light of day brightens the window, but that does little to lighten the mood.

He takes a stone, a good-sized one, and throws it hard against the door – then he takes another, and hefts it in his hand. And then the door opens, mere moments later, and it's Ged who comes out, hand on the hilt of his long knife. He sneers, and he says, 'ah, but you came back, stupid rat. What fer?'

He hurtles the stone, grinning, saying, 'for my sword, you silly fool,' and Ged doesn't act or think fast enough, for the stone makes contact with the front of his skull, another satisfying crack. He falls back, his great bulk slamming against the wall. Then Pippin grins, and the leader comes out, their chief. Pippin puts one foot back, but doesn't run – instead, he smiles wide, and says. 'I should not have run off without thanking you for your hospitality,' he says. Then, his vision does more than blur, and two long steps brings doom two steps closer, and as Pippin feels his head split opens, he falls into darkness, and then feels no more.

His head is aching still, his vision so blurry he thinks they must have drugged him once more – and he laughs, as he rolls onto his side, thinking, for how his head aches, it might just be easier to die.

Now, the leader seems to be in a mood. Pippin thinks back, remembers Ged's fall. Two down, and only three left. The leader is shouting, and Pippin probably should pay attention to him, but he's feeling so very wretched – the leader ought to understand.

He doesn't think to free himself, lying still, and aching, and listening, at least as well as he can. His head pounds, and it isn't much that he hears. But the more he listens, the more he thinks that some good turn of luck has come to them, for why are they holed up here? They should ought be punishing errant hobbits, thinking to stand up for their freedom. He realises, with an ache in his heart, that Merry has come. He sinks again into unconsciousness, but it is pleasant, this time.

'Pip,' he hears his name, and he doesn't open his eyes for, no doubt, the light is shining too bright. But, a familiar hand on his face, familiar breath on his cheek. 'Oh, Pip.'

'Shut up, Merry – please,' he says, and shuts his eyes tighter. 'My head hurts, and I... oh, Merry.' He opens his eyes, even though his head hurts, and he hasn't seen anything so wonderful, ever (and he has seen a number of wonderful, and miraculous, things, in the full length of his short life): than Merry, there, with sunlight in his hair. Pippin gives a tired shake, and feels wetness on his cheeks, though he hadn't thought to weep. 'Goodness, but you took your time. Is Citrine well? Stars, but I hope she isn't cross at me – I told her I'd take care, but it seems I didn't, after all.'

Merry doesn't seem to know if he wants to laugh, or weep, himself, and he gathers Pippin up, and hugs him firmly, though somehow gently, too. 'You're one big bruise, Pippin,' he says. 'This isn't the first I've seen you as such though, I must say, this doesn't seem to be nearly as bad as the last.'

Pippin grins a little, and presses a kiss against Merry's cheek. 'Well, you know, some things just can't be outdone. That old Troll did his very best – I wouldn't want all his hard work to be for naught.'

Then Merry snorts and laughs, and Pippin tells him something nonsensical, though he isn't sure of what. 'Pippin, sleep,' Merry says, and Pippin guesses that's a good idea, for he feels as though he could sleep a full week.

He doesn't, though – only two days, Merry says, afterwards. By then, the Men have not only been rounded up, but sent from town, with Rangers, summoned by Bounders. Merry sits at his bedside, sometimes, but he goes out, for there is work to do in North-delving – and Citrine sits with him, at other times, though she also has her sister Carnelian to tend to, and she does with great love.

'She says, she can't bear it, me tending her, now... and she would want our suffering, for she thinks she suffered well-enough for all of us.' And she smiles, tears in her eyes, brushing at the hair that tumbles onto Pippin's brow. 'That isn't for her to decide, not now – not anymore.'

Pippin understands that, too. So, he hears the story, of the skirmish of North-delving, of the captives free and made safe, of the town, recovering. He sleeps again, after he eats – and, not only is it a very good meal but, also, a very restful sleep.

Part I: Overlooked
Part II: Left Undone
Part III: Following Through