Sounds of boots scraping dirt and blades clattering accompanied Freesia’s dazed thoughts. It took some time for her to realize her situation. Her eyes creaked open, the image before her bobbing up and down like an apple on the water.
She was being carried. Eoborn was swinging his sword with marvelous precision, slashing left and right at the approaching Scars.
Most of her wanted to continue as though she was still sleeping, but she knew she had to relieve Eoborn of her burden. Trying not to catch Eoborn off guard, she quietly spoke.
“Put me down.” She said calmly. “You need both arms if you are to successfully fight off the Scars.”
He looked at her, unsure if she would be safe if he were to let her go. Nevertheless, he did as she asked. She wasn’t as prepared as she had thought she’d be.
Her feet contacted the ground, catching her off balance. If it were not for her height, she would have fallen and lost herself to the horrible wrath of the Scars.
As soon as she had her balance, she ran alongside Eoborn. It was not until that moment that she realized there was another with them. Pegrioc.
She tried to be thrilled, but she was far too worried. He was in danger, and nothing would make him safe. Unless the Scars were rid from the land, he could not live his days peacefully in the Shire. His home, her home, was no longer safe. The Scars had taken that from them.
She ran beside Pegrioc, unsure of what she could do. She had never wanted to go on an adventure, not even a thrilling one, but it was too late for that now.
They had to lead the Scars away. She put herself in front of the group and turned them away from the Shire. The others had no choice but to follow, unless they wanted her to be on her own with other Scars.
They quickly found themselves headed toward another iconic point in Frodo’s own journey. They came closer and closer to Weathertop. Hopefully they would not have to deal with another such fatal encounter as he had. There was only hoping.