[littlemanpoet]

"No slight meant, no offense taken, Hilderinc," said the Hobbit. "I was there at Sharkey's end. Many of us were. I won't say my arrow was one of those that slew that miscreant Wormtongue, but I saw him and his master die. I was proud to watch Mr. Frodo Baggins that day; noble as an elf he was, they say, though I wouldn't know as I can't say I've ever seen one. Aye, we fought them we did, once we had such doughty leaders as the Four Famous Hobbits from the War. They roused us. Aye, it was good to be roused! I grant you we don't look warrior-like and all, and truth be told, we'd rather eat and quaff good ale and smoke good leaf and tend to our crops and stock. But if our homes need defending, and we have the right kind of Hobbit to lead us, then watch out. Yes, watch out, or you'll be sorry." Falco winked over his pipe bowl and blew a smoke ring that traveled up toward the kitchens then changed directions where it met steam from the kitchen, and wafted back over their heads and into the mess hall.

Hilderinc followed it with his eyes, and he felt again something unnatural in the presence of the little man. Now Falco spoke almost like a warrior, and not so different from any man Hilderinc would know... yet still, the halfling's earlier words were what made him feel strange. During the whole conversation, it wasn't even the subject of the Famous Hobbits, as Falco had called them – a matter that would have been certainly more of interest to many of his fellow soldiers – which Hilderinc had been paying attention to. His thoughts were different, returning back to the times of the Great War and his own memories of it.

If somebody had told me sixteen years ago that one day I will be sitting next to a holbytla who had seen the death of Saruman of Isengard and Wormtongue the traitor in the land of the halflings, I would have considered him a madman, he thought. He shook his head, as if trying to prevent memories of the old days from getting loose in his mind.

"I won't deny that the more I hear about your people, the more surprised I am," he said at length. "You have seen things my people wouldn't believe. But now I am sure your friends among the local folk value your friendship and experience. Did you know the late lord of Scarburg?"

"Know him! We came down from the Shire to Rohan together last year. By then we were fast friends. You see," Falco looked around to make sure no-one else was listening, then put his hand to one side of his mouth and leaned in towards Hilderinc. "I saved his life," he said with a wink, then settled back again. "With the help of a few others, I'll admit. It would seem one of the Dark Lord's underlings survived the war and put up shop far to the north, and the Kings of Gondor and Rohan had sent Eodwine up north to scout out reports that there was some devilry up that way. Well, Eodwine found it, but not before the villains found him and captured him; but his horse got away and came back to the inn where Eodwine had stayed, and a search party was got up, and I was one of 'em.

"We found the scoundrel's hideout, up north of Deadman's Dike - Fornost, Men call it - snuck in, and rescued Eodwine from some evil spell that was being brewed up on the spot, and I had the privilege of dealing the death blow to the lout. Herugor, he called himself, supposedly he'd been the Mouth of that Dark Lord, if that makes any sense.

"So I s'pose King Eomer rewarded Eodwine with this here Middle Emnet for his troubles, though I did more work than he, silly old fool, getting captured so easy an' all. But we became fast friends." Falco peered over his pipe to see Hilderinc's eyes looking back at him wider than they'd been so far. "What don't you believe my tale?" Falco grinned.