Anson
Anson cringed as the arrow buried itself in the hunter's chest and hid his eyes so he did not have to see the man topple over, his eyes staring in cold death. Gorby's arm slipped about Anson's shoulders and stayed there, silently comforting his friend.
"Perhaps," Anson murmured in as loud a voice as he dared, "it would be better if I did die on this mad quest."
"Oh no, certainly not," said Gorby briskly, trying to hide the concern that flickered in his eyes. A terrible thought hovered on the edge of his mind. Was Anson despairing?
"I've no doubt that my family will miss me," Anson continued as though he hadn't heard. "But the fact is my father won't miss me. He doesn't care for me very much, you know. I'm always so timid and weak except when it concerns my father. It isn't his fault. 'Tis mine. I argue against everything he says, even when he's right. I set a bad example for my brothers and sisters. And so maybe it would be better if I died."
"I guess it wouldn't!" Gorby cried hotly. "Indeed, Anson, your whole family loves you and sometimes you even amuse your father by your insistance on arguing with him. I've seen it before. Your mother would die of a broken heart, anyway."
Anson's eyes looked tortured. "I guess he isn't dead, but he's gone far off somewhere, and I loved my pony," he murmured. A silence fell as the three of them pondered this. They had all lost their steeds, and so in battle the first of their friends had fallen, animals though they might be.
More of their hunters drew near, and the hobbits held their breath and each other's hands, their wide, trustful eyes turned to Lira, who placed another arrow to her bow.
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