30--THE PLOUGHING

Beneath a brilliant Sun has been frivolity and merriment, ribald jokes and merry japes. The Midge-pole stands tall, hung a-flutter with garlands of every hue imaginable, first free and flippant in the wind, then a rainbow weave bursting from the hand of each hobbit as they dance and sing about it, then a tower—not white and unapproachable as those in the western hills, no—one warm and shot through with all the hues of nature. The tables appropriately groan, laden with not only special delicacies but casks of honey mead hoarded especial for the day. Music sends echoes across the valley, measured in hands clapping and feet tapping, accompanied by leaves rustling in the breeze. No travelling folk come calling—this is theirs and theirs alone—yet people clothe themselves bright as butterflies, and those who would think to pull a serious mien are set upon by a haphazardly-dressed caperer: with cap set on crooked and belled kerchiefs fluttering at elbow, wrist and knee, Oak cheerily makes much of the Fool's façade. Mother watches indulgently, Ivy Maid teases, Crone smiles and nods, Old Laird raises his mug and Holly Laird laughs, a new ripple of sound amongst the too-familiar.

Upon dusk does expectancy draws the crowd all close, a-buzz. The music slurs, stops. Silence falls.

The Midge-pole becomes a stark silhouette in the last rays of waning Sun.

They wait.

And as night's shadows lengthen he comes, nameless one, fruit of poison tree. Laburnum withies, new and green, plait and bind his wrists, yellow flowers shed; he treads all slump-shouldered and scarlet-cheeked, with what some say is shame and others say is anger; flanked by Greed and escorted by Envy, who leads shunned son through twilight to what light flickers up and down beribboned Midge-pole's length.

In its shadow, Holly waits.

He has waited forever, it seems, for this…

Fury holds faulty check in Laburnum's darkling eyes; anger holds unsteady in those around who see no proper penitence; but Holly's heart holds strangely empty, hollow; waiting has not filled ire but drained it, delegated to it odd, pensive indifference.

The crowd moves closer, growls nay when Laburnum speaks proper words; they know them meaningless all, duty required, nothing more. His gaze meets Holly's: dark venom. I do not want your forgiveness.

Odd, for that is what Holly feels.

Nothing.

And realises his will no longer dances to this one's warped tune.

He is, finally, free.

You will never understand, unplaits poisoned tree, says name forbidden, Lotho.

Shouts rise from a hundred throats; Crone brandishes her broom, sweeps yellow venom from 'neath Midge-pole's shelter, sweeps discord from sweet-pure anticipation, shoos Holly back beside his fire. Night fingerlings nestle and settle 'round lantern's light. Well-dried wood crackles hot upon the need-fires, sending sparks and vapour into a cloudless, star-pocked sky.

And they dance. Hands join, refuse to release even as the music leads them faster, until there are several trains of gay garb and tossing hair and nimble feet, each a link in a wandering chain, gathering as they go. Fool leads, and Mother, and they meet in the middle, spiral and join ranks, circling each fire, blessings thrown like curly locks. First the bigger fires, then the smaller, then about two figures waiting by the smallest and hottest of need-fires. Blood-crimson and dark forest commingle, copper splashing from the flames between them. The dancers gather, group into one circle, then two, then three, and each following its own path sunwise, the spiral of it tightening, then retreating.

Spiral, Holly thinks, and closes his eyes beneath it. Spiral…

Hands upon him bring him back; he starts, opens his eyes to first the fire, then the dame behind him; Crone runs fingers up his nape, through his hair.

The sharp leaf-crown, its red berries gone dry and crimson-black, is taken from curls just as crimson-black and given to the flames.

A cup is placed into his hands.

He drinks. Mead buzzes upon his tongue, smooth and strong, trails heat down his gullet to match the fire only a stride from his toes.

Crone reaches forward, stirs the fire, throws a handful of green upon it and the fire flares upward. Dancers keep dancing, croon in awe, exhilaration, sing to the music of drum and fiddle and pennywhistle that rises about the sward.

But the world hangs still between Ivy and Holly, Maid and Laird; heat waves rise, shimmer them into gilded ghosts with fire-kissed cheeks, copper reflections in their wide eyes.

He passes the cup to her, through the waves of smoke and sparks between them; he feels the heat yet it is quickly done, and the fire kindled low and wide; it shall not touch him. She takes it, drinks it, and when she lowers the cup the mead has kissed her lips all wet.

He wonders if the mead should taste different, taken from those lips.

She smiles at him, soft and knowing, and passes the cup to Crone, who has come to stand beside her. Then she dips her head to the one standing at her other hand—one who came before her—Mother takes the be-ribboned wreath from Maiden's head, frees thick wheaten waves to hang down green-clad back.

Holly wonders if he is to stand alone while she is companioned, realises that Oak, still in his Fool's garb, has come to his right hand and Old Laird to his left.

Not alone, not yet, and he is glad.

Fingers unwinding ribbons from crocus and ivy, Mother paces sunwise about the need-fire, towards her son-king.

The dancing has not slowed, the sense of mirth unabated. Two worlds, the circle within quiet and waiting, the circles without joyous and abandoned.

A foot in two worlds…

Take 'im, lass! comes a call, then make her work for him! another joshes, then a small patter of good-natured laughter as another says She can't be unwrapping that fine young midgepole lessen it's wrapped first!

Mother laughs, finishes teasing the ribbons from the flowered crown, sets the crown crookedly upon Holly's dark head with a teasing smile, takes his wrists. One by one, lattices the ribbons around them. Then, with a kiss to his cheek that raises another series of teasing calls, she circles him, the ribbons tickling his waist as they wrap about him withershins.

Scarcely would he have believed there was such a length of ribbon on his fair Maid's garland, and so he tells her, and her chuckle makes him grin.

Not much of you to go around, Mother teases, then leans forward, whispers in his ear, 'Tis a pity I cannot have the honour two years running. You look fine, lean as a stag and all fire-touched and, fingers trail across his stomach as she winds the ribbon there, eyes glance downward, plough t' th' ready, aye?"

His cheeks heat; she brushes her lips against them, one then the other, steps back, surveys her handiwork.

He's ready for you, fair Maid, grey eyes sparkle, in more ways than the one.

Laughter once again rings out in the cove, comments are shouted and sung, some ribald enough to set the Laird's ears humming with heat; his Maid is smirking, unabashed, as she pads over to him all gilded and firelit, girt in green and gold, hair hanging down her back, several lovelocks falling forward, silken curtain over the breasts peeking from her bodice.

He would reach for her as she gains his side; but the ribbons stay him and where in solitude with a lover he has found startling pleasure in the binding, here he is unnerved, unwilling to submit beyond tradition and play. Blue eyes meet grey-brown; she must sense the plea in them for she bends to kiss his wrists then swiftly begins to unknot them.

But the knot is fast and takes some working. A frown mars her sun-browned brow; a chuckle echoes in the waiting crowd, some teasing sallies:

Aye, Mother has bound her lad so fast, and Will you have to give the unwrapping back to her, then?

Not likely! is her vow, and Mother pretends to mourn her son, who silently decides having one lass so directly intent is unnerving enough; two frankly scary.

Exhilarating.

The flirting and the joshing softens the binding into the game it is; Maiden becomes more girl, less hallowed player as she gives a disgruntled huff at the ribbon. A soft wave of rose-gold falls over her forehead, her tongue is sticking from one corner of her mouth as she sets to the knots, and he wants nothing more than to touch that gold, brush it from her cheek, just touch…

He leans forward, breathes against her hair; she smells of wood-smoke, grass, salt-sweat, early wildflowers, all so gentle, uncontrived. He brushes his lips across her hair; she looks up at him and smiles, lifts her face.

Oh, no! Old Laird says from behind them, gives a yank to dark curls. How's she supposed to concentrate if you're jumping the fires so sudden, like?

But Maidenly breath has quickened, cheeks risen to flush; she's anxious as he. For all Holly remembers the hints Fool Oak had shared amidst the previous night's easing—whispers of what will transpire, what to heed, what to do—he's uncertain that any whispers, any warnings… nay, not even any of myriad and pleasurable things an absent older mentor taught him will serve here and now.

She's a lass.

Surely it can't be so different.

With some triumph knots are undone; a smile tucked into one dimpled cheek, Ivy Maid begins the sunwise dance of Maying.

Surrounding folk join their own dance once again, clapping instead of joining hands; fiddle, bodhran and whistle start again, spright of sound. Ribbons fall to Holly's feet, rainbow tangle; Ivy leans forward, brushes a kiss against his cheek. Sheds her skirts and shakes her hair. Runs toward the fire, leaps like a hind over it. He starts to follow; Old Laird grabs his wrist, stays him, says wait, not yet, not yet! and from beside appears Fool Oak, running, soaring with a gleeful shout over coals and flames, bells ringing him over.

Laughing, clapping, dancing never stops, lines never slow, but one by one to the fire-dance comes another, and another. Holly Laird laughs, starts clapping as well. Silhouette after silhouette, leaping nimbly over the need-fire, faces glinting, bodies a-glimmer with sweat; young lads make contest, greater leap to even-greater approval. Fool Oak comes back across in the broadest leap yet, bells, sparks and smoke; he stumbles into his Laird's arms, gives a heated kiss, pushes him forward.

The mead warming his veins gives wings; Holly soars over the need-fire, a dragon lithe, sinuous smoke-heat. Approval roars, rises like heat shimmers against Brother Moon's white disk.

It is done.

No more fires leapt this night. Only dance, leading one into another. Ivy weaves before Holly, circles need-fire slow and steady; he follows, weaves in and out, through dance and about fire. Lines break, split and mould together again; segregate into two spirals, male and female.

Gather Dance.

Holly falters, unsure; he has seen it hundreds of times, yet only danced the once and never has he been within Gathering, shadowing fire even as Laird shadows Maid, as dark-chestnut-pale shadows gold-fair-brown. She draws toward the fire, stretches one hand above it, toward him; he knows what to do without thinking; palm to palm his hand sets against hers.

Circle, dance, gather slower and slower. Sparks leap and float between them. Spry tune grows solemn-soft, a dove's call into the night; singing and clapping mutes to bare rhythm, heart's beat voiced with varied tongues, tread of feet.

Then music slides off into silence, watchers stand still; yet still those Chosen stride round the fire, paired palm to palm, eye to eye, step to step.

Night's cloak has spread, horizon to horizon; no longer does Sister Sun wisp rose-light upward from Western lands. Brother Moon has now the right, joining Starlight.

From dark west does crowd part, admitting one whose back is straight, gait steady; nearly the eldest there yet seems no more than middle-aged. The Old Laird of the Hill carries in his hands a tilling hoe, and stops, sets blade to ground.

Holly sees him, again hesitates; Ivy ceases not her steps, drawing him on even as the crowd parts from eastern pole, admits another. Wise Crone carries a many-tined rake, comes forward, gives it to Maid.

Laird accepts the hoe.

There is work to be done.

Earth willingly gives way to Plough's blunt gleam; a sigh goes through the watchers. First one, then another, suddenly there are many males beside him, digging with him, spades, rakes, hoes and even fingers, making rows to take the seed.

So they prepare a bower.

Emerald-fawn verge gives quickly way to brown-dark tilth, need-fire glowing at one end; Maid rakes Earth into furrows, female old and young beside her. Lines from Sun's up to Sun's down, ready, waiting.

Crone takes first Laird's hand then Maid's, leads them, directs them downward face-to-face, knees pressing into the fresh loam, row and row, Moon and Star and Bel-fire to limn them.

In her hand glints sharpened blade.

Of this he's not been told, by Fool or Laird or Maid; fear sparks seeds of lightning down his spine as Crone takes a handful of dark hair, roughly bares young throat to Stars, Moon, Maid and those who watch, wait.

Laird for the land, Crone whispers in his ear. Sacrifice, blood and seed.

He waits.  Shivers, but does not quail. Crone grunts, approves, looses him to grab one wrist, twists it to Moon's face. Veins pulse blue beneath freckled-pale skin. Knife glints, is lain flat then edged, runs along Holly's arm with crimson welling in its wake. Laird flinches, but no cry—he will not, he'll stand this too—and Crone grunts again, satisfied, once more twists his arm so that blood falls, swift and potent, into waiting Earth.

Moon shadows, moments stretch. Thin drops of crimson quicken, thicken, grow sluggish. Thighs shiver, belly muscles quiver, his head spins but no lassitude calls firm claim; instead strange, warm strength takes him, fills him. Crone releases him; Laird drops his blood-smeared arm, looks to Stars, hears music. Drops his gaze.

Feels rhythm: Earth's thrum against his knees.

Feels cool light: Moon crowns his head.

Feels heat: Maid's eyes upon him.

Crone kisses daughter, kisses son, backs away. Music starts up again, soft and heady, and everyone gathers, touches, exclaims. Every contact makes him start and shiver; too much, too many, warmth and presence scrapes against primed senses…

Sighs ripple; they retreat, pairs and alone, melting into shadowed surround. Laird can still feel them, sense breath upon the night, waiting… yet fractious nerves settle on something more immediate, more here.

Maid is setting her fingers to shirt buttons—his. Stops where that shirt is tucked into his belt, looks upward through lashes, says Belts!—you're riverhobbit for sure, you are. Then, So d'you think I could be riding the river?

Doubled honey in her words; he shivers, smiles, goosepimples rising as she pulls shirt from belt, pushes crimson-dark linen over his shoulders, bends down to breathe moist fire down his breastbone; he swallows hard, gamely says, It depends what wave you're wanting to ride.

I can't swim, she says, so you'll have to hold me when the boat rocks.

Fingers are bolder than he is; he reaches up to ribbons lacing a bodice green. And do I get to unwrap you, then, as you did me?

Mm, Ivy smiles, eyes sparkling, 'tis only fair.

But fingers used to unknotting sails, quite handy at unfastening lover's trousers, grow clumsy. Calluses snag against soft ribbon grain, he's so busily thinking of what lies beneath that bodice, what might fill eager hands, that bows nearly turn into knots. She chuckles, but also are her fingers shaky, working-lass calluses snag in turn on slick ribbons.

Finally, finally ribbons untwine; he pulls with a small growl of frustration—for what fiend of fashion could think acceptable something this hard to shed?—nevertheless with a shrug of Maid's browned shoulders it is shed.

It's fair different, she says, wry grin and blush, with a lad.

Um, he agrees, cheeks heating. You've never…?

Aye, but not often. She smirks. Enough to get on with, mind. Enough to know that you'll probably like this.

Fingers reach down, cup firm the hard arch beneath his breeks; slender male's hips angle forward, seek more and receive, not only by fingers squeezing and stroking, but how a thin green shift once tucked firm beneath a bodice gapes forward, offers plumped up breasts, tan and freckles fading into cream where Sun rarely kisses.

Again are his hands bolder than he, anxious to touch, reaching and filling with thin muslin, with full, firm-soft flesh. She gives a tiny gasp and judders, but both are not discomfort but pleasure and he grows bolder, unties a tiny neck-string so that her shift falls down her shoulders. She untangles, lets it fall down her waist; he cups full breasts again and harder, slides questing thumb over a nipple ruched tight. It rises further to his caress and he smiles, enchanted, gives due and silent thanks to a Fool's instructive whispers.

It is different… yet not.

She finds as much frustration from belt as he did with bodice; unwillingly leaving soft flesh for belt-weave he pushes her fingers aside, untangles cord, peels away confining breeches. She is properly appreciative of what is uncovered, shows that appreciation with grasping, gentle fingers, several slow strokes, takes him with eager hands, pulls from him both purl of sound and slick-wept quiver. He takes her mouth, tongues her lip, nips her neck, hands once more taking sweet measure of round breast and hard nipple; not only does he want to touch, but taste. She knows it, wants it, tangles a hand in his hair, pulls down, settles his lips into a soft, plump valley. He nuzzles, runs his tongue from valley to crest, casts to one side, curls his tongue about one erect nipple; she sighs, hand fisting, pulls steady-slow back, then forth.

He groans, suckles, nips; one hand reaches down to where green shift has settled down to round hip, where muslin ripples, rucked up to bare brown legs. Slowly runs his hand, knee to hip, trails across her belly, down. She judders again, opens her thighs, rocks against seeking fingers.

Makin' me ready for the plough? she murmurs against his temple, reaches down, takes his hand. Shows him where, and how—sweet warmth folds about his fingers, he slides back and forth, matching her hand's rhythm curled upon him. First slow circles, then quickening, slickening… her fist pulls/pushes and he thrusts into it; his fingertips circle then stroke, drawing wet warmth across a tiny, firm rise. She moans, rolls her hips, tightens fist and stroke; he gasps/grunts/shivers.

Oh, she pants, can it be possible that a riverhobbit knows a thing 'r two 'bout ploughing a maid?

Not enough, he says, but you can guide me.

Oh, aye, she answers, lies back.

No longer a hint of green, no longer Ivy, now all brown and cream against rich-dark earth, gold hair flung up like winnowed wheat, gold-brown fur curling between her thighs, on shins and high-arched feet. He bends, tongues soft belly, breathes her in, dips fingers once more into that slick-warm cleft to make her arch and whimper. She pulls him closer, says something about stars nestling in his hair and shining in his eyes, reaches between them, grasps him, guides him.

He hesitates—past teaching has been thorough—but she is slick in as out so he pushes through her palm, enters further. She sighs his name. Pressure greets him but not so fierce, almost not enough; she raises knees to grip his ribs, arches up to meet him… then it is enough, wet ease different, lovely, making up for softer sheathing. Too slow, wanting more; he snaps hips forward, thrusts harder. She pants beneath him, quick wanting whimpers, knees clasping, then opening. Fire gathers, pulses and stiffens him further, he ducks his head, grits teeth, faster… faster…

Heed me, she groans; pulls back suddenly; he slides from her, down into Earth, judders, tries to find her again.

Heed me, she says again, fiercely; when he thinks to protest her knees tighten on him, stay him. She reaches down, closes fingers on eager, flared shaft, strokes over then under, angles and pushes him not in, but against slick flesh.

Slick nub against eager tip then sliding down, snared between fingers, folds and soft, cool Earth. Lightning-bolts of new sensation blaze; he growl-whimpers, pushes hard downward, heeds gladly.

About them more sighs, rising through trees: soft, heavy, substantiation. Others giving way, minding the making then turning to their own cleaving for heart, hearth, home. Earth beneath skin, Sky lighting the way, Water to nourish and Fire to tease the senses hot.

It is done, and done well. Special, honoured and blessed, but not alone.

For few will lie solitary this night.

Maiden writhes and whimpers, shudders as Laird strokes against her, ploughs deeper, harder; he throws his head back and cries to Stars and spills into Earth, falls forward into soft loam and soft flesh… and feels them one and the same.

* * * * * *

The fires were dying, dawn approaching, the moon setting. The faint illumination picked out supine figures, shadows twined against damp earth, upon or beneath cloaks, sated and slumbering.

A tall figure, greyer than the false dawn, stole silently from a copse of trees, peered about, smiled fondly. His little people had their own magic; no less powerful than his own, really, artless in its natural simplicity.

It built stout souls, and great hearts. His eye fell on a fresh-dug patch of earth, the lass and lad sleeping there.

Perhaps the greatest heart of all.

He padded, silent as an owl through the night, over to the small beings lying coupled, distanced and special yet still part of the circle of hobbitkind spiralling out from their centre.

"Who are you?" he whispered to the lad. "I know your name from distant memories; I hear your heart sing, see your spirit, clear as rainwater, sense that your place is here yet not, and that even by being here you spark future possibilities. Yet…" He knelt down, robes whispering not unlike the brushing of tree leaves against air, mused, "Who are you? Who will you be? Sometimes I think I know, then it fades from me, like a dream. Or an odd, unsettling nightmare."

In prosaic answer to lofty questionings, a huge snore tore itself from the lad's mouth. The grey wanderer's mouth twisted wryly and he chuckled.

Hobbits.

"No nightmares tonight for you, Belladonna's heir," he said. "Save fae dreamings for other times, and other needs."

He turned, walked away.

As he left the hem of his cloak brushed across long, dark curls; they whiffled in the small breeze, evoked a sigh from the lad to whom they belonged. Head pillowed between Daisy's breasts, her brown legs wrapped about his freckled haunches, Frodo slept peacefully, and the night mare never once slipped her tether.