By: Dana
Summary: Seven different things that might have been worse.
Characters: The Burrowses - Mosco, Moro, Myrtle, Minto; the Brandybucks - Doderic, Ilberic, Celandine; various other OCs and minor characters
Pairings: None really - slight Ilberic/Minto and Moro/Celandine, though; the implied non-con is het, the non-con is slash. I am labeling it gen because I feel like I can.
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence and angst in general, and then, one through seven: character death, non-con implied, character death, non-con, character death, general angst, character death; oh, and angst
Author's Notes: I meant this to be a Five Things but then it grew out of control. AKA, it is the Poor Hobbits story. It is seven different points in my Troubles-verse stories that Could Have Been Worse (or, Things That Could Have Happened But Didn't). Thus, it is a number of AUs on In a Sunless Year.
Series Index: In a Sunless Year.
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.

          I.

It hadn't been the most sound of ideas, though at the time he had thought on it as much as he could. 'Little rat's just not strong,' the leader said. 'We're close enough to the water, we could throw him in, and be on our way with the little miss.'

Moro was jerked into a sitting position, then, and his plan seemed to be working well enough: and hopefully, Cellie would know that he was doing this all for her, that she would run now that he'd given her the chance.

'Aye, let's just throw him in the river, and be on our way.'

Moro tensed, would have fought but found himself swung up off the ground, instead. He heard the Man laughing, and Moro kicked and struggled but he was held onto, tight. He opened his eyes, saw Cellie there, frightened and with Adal clutching at her arm. They'd take her to the Lockholes, she'd have no chance – or they'd do worse to her, and once they had no other use for her, perhaps they'd throw her too the river, too.

He remembered shouting, Cellie's startled cry, hearing his own name – then he hit the water, and for a moment, everything was black.

He surfaced, gasping for air. His hands were bound before him, and the Man bore down on him, splashing through the water as he advanced. It was shallow where they were, and Moro worked his feet beneath him, back stepping all he could. He slipped and stumbled but before he could fall, and a strong hand caught him in the hair and jerked him upright.

Moro grabbed at the Man's hands, pulling at them – kicked and pulled and fought, and Cellie was screaming all the while. All the while, but then that cut off and that before Moro's head was thrust beneath the water. He'd hardly had time to gather his breath. Beneath the surface, the water was yellow-gold, brown, the muddy floor of the shallow cove disturbed, the Man kneeling in the water. And Moro held his breath, grabbed at the Man's hands, felt his fingers numbing and couldn't break free.

His heart was beating, sluggish but it was beating, and his lungs were burning – he felt his breath escaping, no matter how he thought he had been holding it very well, bubbles floating up through dirty water.

But then he could see again and breathe, and he was gasping for his breath – the Man was laughing out loud, telling his fellows how it wouldn't be long, and they would be on their way soon enough. Once more, Moro went under, and then again, longer and then longer still.

It wasn't possible, not below the water as he was, grabbing with numb fingers and holding onto fading breath: but he heard Cellie's sobs, even when he could see no more.

And then he lost that, lost even the broken sound of Cellie's sobs, fell away from light and life as pain exploded in his chest.

          II.

She was standing in the kitchen at the Brownlocks' farm, and she was looking at the fire as it burned on the hearth: she thought herself rather lucky, Gorthol having looked her in the eyes, and not having been able to tell who she was.

Celandine took as deep a breath as she could manage, held it, and thought of Moro and of his sacrifice: Moro, dear Moro, and she wondered if she would ever even see him again. Then she let out her breath, her gaze once more falling the fire on the hearth.

She sang a little, but beneath her breath: just a lullaby, and one her mother had been fond of it, when she'd been a very small lass – and she balled both her hands into fists, though that made her right hand ache.

'Evening has fallen, the Sun's in the West. The nightbirds are calling, the Shire is at rest. Peaceful the night and gentle the breeze, in cot and in smial, the folk take their ease. High above the Stars are kindled, kith and kin within are nestled, safe from harm in loving arms, find slumber deep, fall into sleep, may joy find all your dreams, may only joy find your dreams…'

Then, she opened her eyes, and took another deep breath. She felt cold all over, and she felt Gorthol's gaze on her back. She knew it was him – she wouldn't have had to look. But she did, and she smiled shyly as she did. Shyly, when her skin was crawling, when she had never been so frightened in the whole of her life.

His head was ducked, but he was standing. Then he went down on his knees, a strange look on his face. 'You've a pretty voice,' he said, and he lifted her hand. Beckoned her close. And she did, felt her legs moving beneath her though she knew she should have run instead. Don't give him need to be suspicious. And there he was, looming before her, once large hand reaching towards her, touching her cheek. 'Pretty skin, too, and such a,' here, his voice hitched and he thumbed her bottom lip roughly. 'Such a pretty little mouth.'

Her skin was crawling, still, and Celandine felt her gut knotting tightly. 'Sir,' she gasped, couldn't manage to lift her gaze.

'And you know, I think you know, just how easy it is to get tied up in a fit.' He was stroking her cheek now, and she was shaking, just like a leave. She managed it, then, lifted her gaze and saw the meaning in his eyes.

Oh, and he knew who she was.

And he said, roughly: 'Do you hear as what I'm saying?'

She did, nodding, and tears burning in her eyes, both her hands clenched into fists. Gorthol laughed, reached for the tie of his breeches, and after that – well, after that, she stopped herself from thinking on what was happening, and that was all very well and good.

          III.

For a while, Mosco hadn't known what to do with himself. He didn't have experience with this sort of thing, but he'd had other experience with the Men and dealing with them these last few months. He hadn't killed one, but Tob Brownfoot from south of Hardbottle had, and Tob had laughed and acted cheerful enough but it seemed clear that he was troubled by the killing. Mosco didn't understand how that could trouble Tob, having killed that Man, but it did seem to trouble him so they didn't speak about it, spoke around it instead.

It turned out that the Men knew Hilly considered Mosco his second in command, what with Hilly having been a wanted hobbit ever since the incident at the inn at Rushey, and Mosco's own involvement. The Men hadn't been able to hunt Hilly down, though not for want of trying. They somehow got their hands on Mosco instead – No. Not somehow – that had been Folcard's fault.

The Men kept him in order and there wasn't much time to fight back, though Mosco did try. He shouldn't have come back, shouldn't have made contact with Minto even if he'd missed his family, and they'd drag him off to their makeshift prison at Michel Delving and they'd take his littlest brother, too. He was relieved, of course, when Folcard and Faro came and Minto wasn't with them. Minto had got away, or Folcard had sent him off, or Folcard hadn't wanted him so he hadn't thought him important enough to bring along. Whatever it'd been, Minto was safe.

It wasn't the first he'd seen it, a hobbit siding with the Men: but it was troubling, deeply troubling, still.

But then that seemed the least of his worries, thrown into the Lockholes as he'd been: beaten and questioned and then beaten more. He wouldn't tell them what they wanted to hear, and then they – and then they told him that they had a treat for him, brought Moro to him – Moro, bound and senseless, Moro, and somehow they knew how he was Mosco's brother. Somehow, they knew that hurting him would be the thing that would make Mosco talk.

And he did talk.

Told them all they wanted and more, because he had to save Moro, he had to – told them all they wanted and more, but now he'd done so, they didn't seem to care. Instead, they took delight in breaking Moro, in making him bleed and making scream, in breaking one bone and then another: and Mosco felt as if he were dying, too.

Sobbing and falling apart, bound and unable to stop them: and they wouldn't stop, not until Moro didn't move anymore, still and cold as stone, and there was no breath left in him: none at all.

Sobbing, He wanted to grab at him but couldn't, wanted to hold him and tell him how it would all be alright: but it wouldn't, and the Men, well, they didn't give him that chance.

          IV.

'This bit's important to you, then,' Gerd said, stroking Moro's dirty curls. Fresh bruises on his face, and blood at the corner of his mouth. All Mosco could do was stare – stare at his brother, and then at Gerd, scowling and struggling and wanting to scream.

His hands were bound securely to the beam behind him: the cord was cutting into his wrists, burning. 'You needn't hurt him,' Mosco said that again. He'd said that a number of times: as they beat Moro, as they made him bleed, as they made him scream. 'I've told you what you wanted to know. Please. Please. You needn't hurt him anymore.'

Gerd was still crouching at Moro's side, and his laugh was rough sounding, low, and he stroked his hand back once more through Moro's dirty curls. 'Now, I don't think we'll be hurting him anymore than we have already. But it does get lonesome, I think you know how it all gets lonesome – am thinking this little bit might be of some other use.'

Mosco felt sick and he wanted to scream. He wanted to curse Hilly: he never should have gone after him, followed along with him and his band. And he'd told the Men all he could, all he knew – but they were taking too much delight in hurting Moro. By that, in hurting him. Now, he felt his own heart pounding: really thought he might up and be sick, right in that moment.

But he said instead, voice cracking, 'No.'

All Gerd did was laugh, stroked Moro's curls once more, grabbed hold of him and wrenched his head back: Moro gagged as Gerd kissed him, tried to pull himself away though he was too out of it, really, to put up a proper fight.

'Just a bit dirty,' the other Man said. 'But pretty enough. Gerd, you always get 'em first, but I want a go at him first, this once.'

Mosco couldn't move, couldn't think. All Gerd did was nod, pushing Moro at the other Man – Mosco found himself wishing he could think of his name. Moro, almost senseless, was down on his knees and the other Man – 'Torth, no need for rushing. We'll have our time with our new lad.' – and Torth laughed, took his time as he unlaced his breeches, stroking Moro's hair as he did. Urging him down.

Mosco didn't want to look, but he also found that he couldn't look away: not when Moro needed him, and there was nothing else that Mosco could do. He could pull on his wrists until the cord cut in, and maybe then, when he felt the burn of blood, he might have some chance at freeing himself. Maybe his only.

He thought of Minto, thought of Folcard and what he'd said of him – called him a *whore* – and here Moro was, on his knees and with his hands at Torth's thighs: and Torth saying, *suck, lad, aye, just like that*, and with Gerd grinning all the while.

          V.

Then Folcard said, 'Though, that does make me think.'

Minto felt cold all over, listening to the Men as they went on and on – and though he wanted to, Folcard gave him no chance to plead. And all he wanted was to say, Tell them to stop. Instead, Folcard leaned his forehead against Minto's, and ran one hand back through Minto's curls. Minto's breath caught in his throat. 'Such a pretty thing,' he said, grinning as he did. 'Now, I think... I think...' Folcard wet his lips. 'I think I want you to be all mine.'

'I – '

Folcard grabbed his chin, grinning. Then, he kissed Minto, pushed his tongue into Minto's mouth – and Minto really should have thought to bite down. Then, after that, Folcard gently, very gently, stroked Minto's cheek.

Minto struggled backwards, but Folcard slapped hard, twice: and Minto ended up, curled on his side, and on the ground. Folcard was gripping at his arms. And Minto could only barely breathe.

'Ilberic,' he gasped.

'Bind that Brandybuck,' Folcard said out loud. Folcard had no trouble in keeping him restrained: and Minto saw how Ilberic struggled, how he fought Faro. He grabbed Ilberic's head up by the hair, jerked back and then slammed it down – and Ilberic was left dazed, and Minto felt that as well. Minto felt it inside, then, a surge of heat, the need to fight – he would not go willingly, he would not go quietly.

He had wrestled with enough cousins in play: when he put his mind to it, he could get out of most binds. And somehow, he ended up slamming his elbow backwards, and felt it connect, hard – Folcard's nose or jaw. Then Minto was up, and he would have – well, he wasn't sure what he would have done. He found himself flat on his back, and it was Faro this time who was holding him down, leaning down – pressing his hands up high above his head. Minto couldn't kick, could only barely move.

Folcard was standing. He wiped the blood from his nose. Staggering, he went forward – light flashed off of something metal. It must have been Mosco's knife.

Minto began to scream.

No hobbit had ever killed another hobbit on purpose in the Shire, and yet Folcard, cold as stone and ice, advanced on him – Ilberic, flat on his back as well, lying very still, and with a bloody nose – he'd not moved since that last blow.

Folcard grabbed at Ilberic's hair. And then the knife flashed darkly.

Minto hadn't the breath to scream, could only sob.

'Well then,' Folcard said, looking up – the air in Minto's felt cold and sick. 'You won't be worrying about that one anymore. And Faro... brother...' Folcard looked somewhat dazed. 'Do shut our lad up.'

Faro hesitated, and then acted – grabbing hold of both of Minto's wrists with one of his larger hands, and pummeling the breath from Minto's lungs, too many hard punches to the gut.

After that, it all went dark.

          VI.

Myrtle had, for a long enough time, been idle about a number of things: and it had been more than a week now since Moro had gone missing. More than a week, and that was too much for Myrtle but also too much for her Da. She thought herself very good at paying attention to what needed to it, and knew her Da had planned on traveling west to Michel Delving on his own for, oh, days at least before he had decided himself. She listened in as her parents talked, and she heard her mother weep: and that wasn't right, and her Mam of course would stay at Brandy Hall.

Maybe what her Mam was thinking was, if Moro hadn't gone out after that Brandybuck lass, none of this had happened: but then her Mam laughed hard, and wept harder. 'Oh, Hilda was once my very best friend. I love her daughter almost as I love my own!'

So, when Myrtle's Da set out very early, the morning after that, she waited a while and then told the doorhobbit she needed to catch up with him before he got too far ahead. And Rody, who had been a doorhobbit at Brandy Hall for years and years, and had seemed enough with Myrtle, on all her visits before, allowed her out: but told her to take care, and to hurry back as soon as she could.

She nodded and told him she would, but she didn't promise: she went to the stable instead, and took her pony – thankfully, the stablehobbit was still abed. Then, she rode out after her Da.

At the Ferry, her Da had no trouble talking the hobbit there to let him over. And when he came back, Myrtle had no trouble in talking him to do the same: 'That was my Da. He's feeling rather reckless, and I wouldn't want him to hurt himself.' And the Ferry hobbit, Tom, thinking her a loving daughter and knowing he would have done the same, himself being a loving son, carried her and her pony across.

So it was, taking the Stock Road, her Da didn't know of her following him until they had made it beyond Waymeet, taking the roundabout way – they were closer to Michel Delving than not: and by then, it was too late to do anything but let her along as well. Myrtle, bold despite herself, had wanted that all along.

They stayed the night at Willowthicket, south of Michel Delving (there were no willows about, but Mistress Sunflower Fairfoot was fond of the tree, and so had named her smial accordingly): and the hobbits there seemed to fair very well, and no matter they had their own dealings with the Men. And Myrtle, waking early that next morning, only thought that her Da would get himself hurt, going to the Lockholes: so she dressed and didn't think to eat, and went out on her own.

It wasn't the smartest thing she could have done.

          VII.

He didn't speak of it often, and when he did, he never spoke of it at length: but Moro told him once, just once, how he had tried his very best to save her, to give her a chance to run. 'But they caught her, dragged her back and – and then they beat her, and then they beat me too, and then they... and then threw her to the River, Doderic, and there was nothing... there was nothing I could do. Oh, stars.' A broken laugh and then a small sob. 'I tried, I did try.'

And Doderic listened, as impassively as he could: with Moro's heart broken, and his own broken as well. He should have kept a better eye on Cellie, but – really, he hadn't ever thought it would come to all this.

'I would have died to save her. I think I rather would have wanted...'

But Moro stopped. He couldn't quite say that.

And sometimes, he said that Mosco had tried saving him, himself, when they were locked up: but Mosco didn't think he'd done as well as he might have done.

It was Merry and Pippin who brought Moro and Mosco back to Brandy Hall, and Moro was the only one who could tell what had happened to her. There had been weeping, and there had been guilt in Moro's eyes. He had done his best, but his best had not been enough: and Cellie was dead, and Doderic thought that Moro seemed dead, too. Or at least, like something dead, a walking ghost perhaps: and no amount of cheer seemed to lighten his mood, or even remind him that there was still good and light in the world. Cellie was dead, and Moro was all but dead as well.

Spring came, and the Burrows all went back to Overhill, and Doderic's Ma thought that for the best: and Cellie's memory at last was put to rest, as the Men, and the River, had taken her away. Sometimes, Doderic dreamt of her, and Ilberic... and Ilberic was heartbroken, too, his sister gone and his love gone as well. 'I'll not let one of you be the death of my lad as well,' she'd said, and there'd been venom in her words – enough that Minto had gone off with his family, and they'd not seem him since. It was all very wrong, and broken – but no more broken that he felt, as well. Sometimes, when he dreamt of her, her hands were cold and wet and her eyes were dark and clear, and she would tell him that he really shouldn't blame himself the way he did.

And how she might have loved Moro, just slightly, just enough, and if she had been given the chance she would have spent her life with him, the whole of it – and that he shouldn't let their Ma keep Ilberic and Minto apart.

He had to do something, but he didn't know what it was he needed to do.

End Notes: I. is an AU on Chapter Two of "A Long Road, There And Back". II. is an AU on Chapter Three of "A Long Road, There And Back". III. and IV. are both an AU of the same scene in Chapter One of "One More Path To Tread". They are very different, however. V. is an AU on Chapter Three of "Of Locked Doors and Secret Gates". VI. and VII. are just things that Could Have Happened But Didn't.

Also, just as it was when first posted, the song Celandine sings belongs to dreamflower02.
'Evening has fallen, the Sun's in the West. The nightbirds are calling, the Shire is at rest. Peaceful the night and gentle the breeze, in cot and in smial, the folk take their ease. High above the Stars are kindled, kith and kin within are nestled, safe from harm in loving arms, find slumber deep, fall into sleep, may joy find all your dreams, may only joy find your dreams…'