Although Elder Dorin had sent him after this stone, he couldn’t deny the farmer’s angry stare and tightly gripped pitchfork. He held out his hand and approached the man slowly. The wary farmer adjusted his grip on his pitchfork as Garinor neared and only took his hand off it in order to swipe the rock.
“Now start walking. That way,” he jerked his head toward his farm to the west. Dejected, Garinor went, with the pitchfork pressed against his back. He tried to protest, but any time he said anything, the tines of the pitchfork dug into him.
“Good,” the farmer crooned. “You’ll be a good obedient addition.”
“What?” he asked, and the response was another jab.
“Keep quiet. You’ll learn not to steal from my property.”
He was ushered toward the farm with all the flowers and as he drew closer he realized his first impression had been incorrect. The row of houses was not for other family members. It was for slaves. And Garinor was about to join them.
He couldn’t give up his quest so soon. He needed to do something. There was little he could do with the pitchfork aimed at his back, but when he looked ahead he saw others gathering nearby, ready to add their own weapons to take Garinor in. It was now or never.
Garinor ran a few steps ahead and then turned sharply around and cut a path to the north. He contemplated knocking down the farmer and prizing away the stone, but he didn’t think he could manage to snake around the pitchfork. He ran with all his might and he heard the angry sounds of pursuit echo behind him. Cheers raged from one of the slave houses, but Garinor didn’t hear them for long.
The farmer’s younger son ran to the road and launched his pitchfork. It arced through the air and caught the unsuspecting Garinor dead center in his back.
His body was later buried. As it decomposed, its nutrients fueled the lives of many flowers.