Author’s Note: Hey, readers, this is chapter one of a possible story. I have not yet made the decision whether to continue this story, for I have a massive case of writer’s block, but chapter one starts when Fatty is watching Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin leave for their year-long adventure. Poor Fatty is often overlooked, so I have decided to cover what happened to him over the course of the year, adding details to the canon Tolkien had laid down. Please assess this story, and tell me of its strengths and of its shortcomings. Disclaimer: Anyone who appears in the works of the great Tolkien belongs to the god of literature, and not this sixteen-year-old who fancies herself a writer. Fredegar Bolger, a hefty hobbit generally acknowledged by the joking nickname of Fatty by his friends, felt as if someone had force-fed him massive quantities of icy water. He was yawning from sluggishness, for Merry Brandybuck had roused him about a quarter to five, saying that he, Frodo Baggins, Pippin Took, and Sam Gamgee were obliged to depart from the Shire by means of the Old Forest. Fatty had felt apprehensive ever since Frodo had made the stubborn decision to pass through the eerie woodland, his resolve causing those expressive blue eyes of his to go strangely light. “You are all sure of this decision?” Fatty inquired imploringly for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. If one were to list all of the misgivings scurrying about the stocky hobbit’s mind, they would be recording for an eternity. The sheer mien of the forest was malevolent, and Fatty had heard rumors of it being virtually impassable. Whispers of queer inhabitants had often passed through the Shire when there was little else to discuss over the pipe weed and wine, from walking trees to malicious creatures. When Fatty had protested, though admitting that his feedback hardly counted due to the fact that he would not be making the journey of peril, Merry had emphasized that the forest was the only way to commence their quest without their trail being picked up instantaneously. Fredegar was still ill at ease, however. His intuition told him that the Old Forest was bad news, that it was not the ordinary woods in one’s backyard. “There is no other choice,” Frodo insisted, a note of grim finality in his tone. Fatty’s brown eyes gazed intently at his older friend. Frodo was awfully plucky; he was facing this ghastly trial with an air of a stolid resignation. Fatty was extremely fond of his comrade, who harbored no inhibitions about picking those many years his junior for close friends, yet not to the extent where he actually desired to depart from the Shire and to see what was outside it. Of the close knit group of six, Folco Boffin and himself were definitely the least audacious, though they greatly revered stories Frodo and Bilbo had to tell. Fatty was so timorous that he could not even boast that he had crossed the Brandywine Bridge during the thirty-eight years that had elapsed during his life. The extent of his valor- or recklessness, as Fredegar viewed it- would be dealing with intrusive folk and feigning that Frodo was living at Crickhollow for as long as possible, sometimes to the extent of actually impersonating his friend. The Bolger was simply cautious and painstaking by nature, with an eye for the finer points that so often went unnoticed by his adventurous cousins. Cautious, and loving of comfort. Fredegar Bolger preferred a roof over his head to the wonder of slumbering beneath the naked sky as a cat would prefer mice to vegetables. At six, the five hobbits crept noiselessly out of their house, so painstakingly that they did not so much as snap a twig in their travels. Merry took the head of the troop, leading a burden-laden pony by the reins, heading for a shed to assess the possibilities of bringing other ponies. In the small shack, they chose sturdy ponies that were slow but durable, and rode off into the mist. The group spoke little, for they were filled with apprehension concerning this endeavor. Fatty knew he had the least dangerous role, but he was worried for the sake of his close buddies. Upon reaching the edge of the Old Forest, Fredegar inhaled with a sharp, audible hiss of fear. In front of his eyes, the Forest loomed massive and threatening, the very spectacle a menace. The trees creaked as if angered or in pain, and the hobbit gave an involuntary shudder. It looked as if there were no visible passage. “How are you all going to get through this?” Fatty gulped, his wide brown eyes still fixated on the sinister woods. He just hoped that the hobbits wouldn’t need rescuing, for they would be helpless. There would be no way to alerting the Shire of their trouble, and Fatty was obliged to keep the plight to himself. If they turned up missing, the thickset Halfling would be compelled to tell a falsehood through affirming that the four friends had just snuck off in the dead of night into the Blue, leaving no message behind them in their departure. “Follow me,” Merry said imperiously, “and you shall see very soon.” Turning to the left, the bushy-eyebrowed hobbit led his friends along the Hedge to a point where it turned inward, running along to a cutting. They passed through this cutting, and arrived in a hollow at the other side. Fatty halted, knowing that he was to go no further inside the Forest. As it was, this was the closest in proximity he had come to these forbidding trees, and he had no intention to come here ever again if he could help it. “Good-bye, Frodo,” Fatty bade, feeling pained to utter these words, “I wish you were not going into the Forest.” At any other time, one of the companions would have made a wisecrack, but this situation was too dire. Frodo’s lips were pressed together with a painstaking resolution. Pippin looked a little pale in the face, and Merry’s eyebrows were knitted in a frown. Sam’s face appeared impassive, but he was visibly shaking from the doubt and uncertainty. “I only hope you shan’t need rescuing before today is old. But, good luck to you, all of you, today and everyday!” “If nothing worse is ahead than the Old Forest, I shall be lucky,” Frodo answered, managing to stifle a quaver that threatened to betray his fear of the unknown in his voice. If he had foreseen what lay ahead of him, from Weathertop to Shelob’s Lair to the horrific trial on Mount Doom itself that nigh on ended peace in Middle-earth perpetually, he might have quailed on the very spot. Yet Frodo knew not what lay ahead. There was a flicker of doubt in those expressive blue eyes, but he was yet resolved. “Tell Gandalf to hurry to and along the East Road, for we shall soon be hurrying along it. Farewell, and good luck.” “The same to you!” Fredegar replied. At this, his friends turned around and rode into the heart of the forest. Fatty did not actually depart from the forest back through the tunnel for a few minutes, but remained still as a statue, watching the ponies and the backs of his close friends grow smaller and smaller until they had wholly disappeared from sight through another tunnel. The Bolger barely even blinked as he watched the silhouettes of his friends diminish until they finally vanished beyond his range of vision. Then he turned his pony around and set back off for Crickhollow at a canter, his small pack of snacks for the trek back bouncing on his broad shoulders with each step of the animal. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note: My gosh, it has been forever since I uploaded Chapter 1, hasn’t it? I am so sorry about the delay! And I know the book said the attack on Crickhollow happened in the cold hour before dawn, but I figured midnight would work better. Forgive me for altering this minor detail, and a couple of others.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anybody but ANYBODY found in Tolkien’s works.

It was now the evening of September 29th, approximately four or five days after Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin had departed from the Shire to the Valar only knew where. The sudden disappearance of Sam, Merry, and Pippin had arisen in the rumor mill, and it was all Fatty could do to feign that his eldest friend was still residing at the Crickhollow house. Exasperated by the torrent of inquisitive Brandybucks , Fatty had taken to blocking off the windows and barring the door to stave off the relentless torrent of visitors. Whenever somebody knocked, Fredegar hollered through the door that Frodo was resting, sapped with making such a long journey on foot at his age. While the year of fifty was not exactly ancient by hobbit standards, it wasn’t exactly the epitome of youth either. One might consider a hobbit of half a century in summers to be on the young end of middle-aged. When one particularly irritating Brandybuck gave the very unanswerable rejoinder of, “but that queer Baggins looks as if he were barely of age!” Fatty had given a very lame answer about heredity and closed the door in the face of the visitor. Fredegar’s temper was stretched as tight as a drum, and he was only remotely amiable to those whom he knew well.

For example, when his sister Estella had been the one whose voice penetrated the wood, Fredegar had apologized profusely and said that the place was a wreck from his group of friends attempting to set up the place in there. For some reason unidentified to Fredegar, Estella seemed to be more emphatic in inquiring about Merry than Frodo. He had even refused to allow Folco Boffin, another close friend, admission to Crickhollow. Fatty had the impression that Folco was rather irked with Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Sam, and himself. The hobbit felt obliged to explain most of the details of the departure, except the information regarding the One Ring, if Folco would ever hear him out after Frodo’s leaving the Shire was unearthed. Fredegar felt a pang of guilt; Folco was not likely to take very kindly to having been left out of the conspiracy- the Boffin would take the exclusion personally. More likely, Folco would turn on his heels and show off his gift of running fast by taking off without giving Fredegar a chance to explain himself and his motives. Poor Folco; he had been on a run when Merry had approached him, Fatty, about the conspiracy. Besides, Merry had specifically asked Fatty not to breathe a word of Frodo’s predicament to a soul, “not even Folco.” Perhaps Merry had feared that Folco would let the news slip in the throes of a temper; for the Boffin was rather hotheaded, though not malevolent in intentions, except when it came to “getting even” with those that irked him.

Even worse, Fatty felt as though he had been walloped by an acute case of paranoia. He was enveloped with a sensation that something frightening was nigh on occurring, and that he himself was in danger. Even the large dinner did not avail in appeasing the hefty hobbit, and Fatty barely ate three bites of his mushroom and carrot soup. Most of the large quantity food went untouched. It was about eleven o’clock at night, but Fatty felt no desire to trot off to bed. He had that unpleasant sensation of prickling hairs on the back of his neck, as if somebody- or something- were watching him.

In an endeavor to distract himself and to shake off his fear, Fatty took a leaf of parchment and began idly drawing on it with a quill. Out of the tight-knit group of friends, Fredegar Bolger was doubtlessly the best artist of them all. For approximately three-quarters of an hour, Fatty did a life-like impression of each of his friends with the thin quill: tall and fair-skinned Frodo, short and petite little Pippin, robust Sam, the skinny Folco, and all-around average hobbit in appearance, Merry Brandybuck. As he deliberately went over the specifics of his friends in his almost photograph-like sketches, Fatty idly ruffled the hair on one of his feet with the big toe of the other.

The Halfling added the finishing touches to Merry’s bushy eyebrows, and felt he could stand no more of the suspicion-inducing sense, and climbed to the feet. There was a small shuffling noise as the hobbit padded over to the door, and then a creak as he lifted the bar and pulled open the entrance to Crickhollow.

The road was devoid of any living creature, yet Fatty was not appeased; in contrast, his senses sharpened even more, and he thought he heard a galloping noise in the far-off distance. Who would be out riding at this hour? Fatty knitted his eyebrows together into a frown, his forehead wrinkling with bafflement, before deciding that he was once again hallucinating phantom-noises. Why was he being such a coward tonight? Fatty had always been one who scared easily, to the amusement of the tricky duo Merry and Pippin. They had done everything from pummeling with apples from two opposite sides of the street concealed by the leaves of two tall fir trees to pretending to be burglars breaking into his hole at night. It was not pure cowardice, for Fatty had been known to stand up for himself and others in the past. It was just that he did not like surprises very much. Fatty Bolger was very detail-oriented, and did not like any new developments to make themselves known out of the Blue.

Fatty lingered at the entrance to the house momentarily without his keen hobbit eyes discerning anything abnormal; just mist swirling in the gloomy night. Along with the midst there seemed to be an obdurate menace lingering, refusing to depart and leave him in peace. Suddenly a breeze came up, causing the gate to swing slowly open and shut with a groaning noise. Fatty had not fastened the gate properly. He licked one of his thick fingers and held it up slightly. Suddenly, a realization hit him with the force of a thunderclap; the wind was blowing towards the house and yet causing the gate, which swung outward, to open. It was almost as if some unseen force were opening and shutting on its own accord. Frodo? Fatty thought instinctively, only for a moment. Frodo had left the Shire for a reason; there was no way he would return just to try and scare his jumpy friend. Suddenly, a large shadow, which seemed remarkably like a silhouette of one of the Big People, passed under the tree. Stomach flip-flopping, Fatty inhaled an involuntary gasp. Terror gripping him with an iron hard, Fatty recoiled trembling in the doorway fleetingly before he regained his senses and shut the door with a snap, replacing the bar. He made for the front window and opened up the corner of the board just enough for one small brown eye to peep through the crack.

As the dark deepened with unnatural rapidity, midnight struck. Suddenly, a couple of black shadows seemed to creep up the garden. Petrified, Fatty attempted to swallow but found his mouth had gone dry. Suddenly, a realization washed over him like a tidal wave of subfreezing water. Black riders! The very creatures Pippin, Frodo, and Sam had referred to, paling slightly merely speaking of them! Adrenaline suddenly surged through the hobbit as yet another revelation struck him: he would have to fly or perish. Wasting no more time with thought, Fatty sprinted towards the back door, almost crashing smack into it with his newfound speed. He yanked up the bar and made the door smash open so fast he actually cracked the wood to Crickhollow with the force of wood slamming against wood. Apathetic to the structural damage, Fatty hurtled through the rear garden, making for the fields. Off in the distance, he heard a cracking noise. It sounded as if the door had been broken down. Suddenly realizing his stupidity in leaving the back door wide open, Fatty increased his running speed in the race to reach the house in closest proximity. It was over a mile away, Fatty realized with frustration. Would he be able to run all this way? Him, an overweight, short-legged, idle hobbit? He was no Folco, who just had the natural runner’s physique and ability- long legs in proportion to the torso, good endurance, and a significant lack of bulk even by the standards of races not so gifted in girth as Hobbits. And all the time, Fredegar was panting, “It’s not me, I have nothing, I don’t have it!”

When he reached the nearest house, that of a rather large group that was entirely immediate family, he collapsed on the doorstep, utterly spent. Yet he had enough energy reserved for yelling and crying. Tears running down his face, Fatty pounded against the bottom of the door with a small fist as he lay there, sobbing “No, no, no! It’s not me, it’s not me, I don’t have it! I haven‘t got it, leave me alone, go away, I don‘t have it, no, no, NO!”

The entire family residing in the house was awakened with a start by the cries of what seemed to be a hobbit gone loopy outside. The head of the family opened the door, accidentally hitting a prone figure lying on the doorstep. This huddled ball of hobbit gave a terrified cry and rolled off the step. “It’s not me! No, no! I haven’t got it, go away!” The owner of the house frowned. Had this hobbit gone mad?

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. *groan* It’s too hot to think of a clever one…

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It was a few minutes before Fredegar Bolger regained his composure enough to realize that another hobbit was standing over him. He had not even felt the door strike his body, although the blow was sufficient enough to possibly leave a bruise. The thump, he had believed, was one of the ominous black figures grabbing him in a brutally crushing grip. He pushed himself up on his elbows, still quaking, tears streaming down his face. This was the house of Jacko Bracegirdle, his wife Alianora, and their two daughters and one son.

“Jacko…” Fredegar whimpered, “Jacko…”

“Fatty Bolger, you stop your blubbering and tell me what on Middle-earth is the matter with you, for pity’s sake!” Jacko said, staring at the slightly younger hobbit as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra head.

Fatty took a few deep, shuddering breaths, willing himself to calm down and stop quivering like a leaf in a gale. This task proved daunting, for an encounter with a Ringwraith, particularly more than one, is no cinch to recover from, particularly at night. “B-b-black R-riders!” Fatty stuttered, squeezing his small, chubby hands into fists. He was still shaken up enough from the ordeal he had just encountered to remember that nobody besides Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and himself would know what he was talking about. Upon mentioning them, Fatty winced as though he had been stabbed and curled up in a ball on the ground once more. He was now very dirty from rolling around on the ground in his hysteria. “They’re here, they will kill us all… oh please help! I haven’t got it!”

A horrible realization suddenly seized Jacko. They were surely being attacked, enemies had invaded the Shire. Something was necessary that hadn’t been since the Fell Winter, according to his deceased father. “I will be right back,” Jacko said, hastily turning to go into the house to tell his wife to take Fatty in and give him a bath and food.

“No! No, don’t leave me!” Fatty wailed, sure the Black Riders would return were he to be left alone, but it was too late, the back of Jacko Bracegirdle had already retreated into his house. Fatty burst into fresh tears, sure this was the end. Jacko and Alianora came back outside to see the hefty-sized hobbit’s head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking as if being jolted by an earthquake in his frenzy.

“Fatty, Fatty, it’s okay, you can come in,” Jacko said gently. It took both him and his wife to help the massive hobbit to his feet. It was difficult to hold him up, for Fredegar’s knees were threatening to buckle underneath him.

With effort, the two adult Bracegirdles managed to bear the hysterical hobbit into their house, setting him down in an armchair. Fatty immediately slumped to the side, resting against the right arm of the chair and still muttering incessant nonsense.

“I shall return shortly,” Jacko stated succinctly, and immediately jogged out of his house, slamming the door behind him. His wife, noting that her husband had neglected to lock the door, immediately clicked it shut behind him before pulling up a hassock to sit near the panic-stricken Bolger.

“Do not worry, Fredegar, we are safe in here,” Alianora crooned, rubbing his back, not sure if she believed her own words. Fatty did not seem a bit consoled.

“Th-they can b-break the d-door…” Fatty stammered with a shudder. “The Shire is not safe as long as we know th-they are still here.” the hobbit finally seemed to be pacified somewhat, as his stutter was lifting. “Where has Jacko g-gone?”

“He’s off to arouse the Horn-call of Buckland,” Alianora answered. Fatty gave a shaky sigh, relieved that at least the other miniature inhabitants of the Shire would at least be alerted to the grave peril they were all possibly in. “Adora, Frederica, Bullo, get yourselves back to bed!” Three small hobbit-children were standing in the doorway connecting the hallway and the sitting room, curiously watching their mother and their distant relative.

“But Mummy, whatever is going on?” Adora, the eldest of the three at ten, queried. Alianora shook her head, repeating the order that the children return to their beds immediately before they were punished. Groaning their disappointment, the hobbit-lasses and lad complied, their small backs retreating from the doorway.

“Aha… there’s the horn now,” Fredegar pointed out shakily, hearing a loud, high-pitched toll rent the night.

“AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE!”

“I don’t presume your children will stay in bed,” Fatty said with a forced laugh. “The horn /is/ telling everyone within earshot to awake. I‘m sure hobbits a league away could hear it by now.” The sturdy hobbit fell silent, evidently listening for more horn-blasts to pierce the night. He placed a finger on his lip, warning Alianora not to speak, and both the hobbits tensely listened. It was no more than a moment or so before answering horn-calls issued in the distance, alerting even more residents of the Shire to the attack. The alarm was spreading. Over at the gates of every Farthing of the Shire, guards tensely kept vigil, three hobbits per gate.

Over in Crickhollow, the Nazgul, too, heard the blasts on the horns of the Brandybucks. “AWAKE! AWAKE!” They were of course unafraid of the little folk, their thoughts were bent on only one thing: discovering the Ring. The four sinister black figures separated, searching every inch of Crickhollow, smashing dishes and overturning furniture. They found neither “Baggins” nor the Ring. Furious, the Black Riders ran from the house, one carrying a cloak he had found: a spare that Frodo had loaned to Fatty. He let fall this cloak on the doorstep, hoping to alarm any that might come to search the area. The Riders mounted their black horses and spurred on the animals like a gust. They were making for the North-Gate, laughingly mockingly at the horns of the Halflings, which amounted to naught more than toys in their eyes.

At the North-gate, the three hobbits on guard duty were watching the road to their exit both into the Shire and the land outside. The Bounders were eating apples brought to them in case they were hungry in the night, and listened for any noise that did not belong. Suddenly, one, the one with the sharpest ears, hissed at the others to stop chewing. He thought he had heard a noise other than that of the Brandybucks’ horns and those in nearby residences voicing their bewilderment. “Werno, Volo… shut it, I’m trying to listen!”

Volo took a defiant bite of his apple to annoy his comrade Polo, but quailed under a furious glare. Werno, who had been watching the lad outside the Shire, turned, for now he and Volo heard the clatter of hooves. They were definitely coming from within the Shire. The three hobbits retrieved their bows, fitted arrows into the bowstring, and went to stand in the road to block the progress of the quickly approaching enemy.

Werno was the hobbit who possessed the keenest eyes, and saw the small silhouettes of the approaching riders fast. They looked to be baleful Big Folk, completely concealed underneath their cloaks. “Halt, halt!” the hobbit yelled. Off in the distance, the Ringwraiths heard and emitted their characteristic bone-chilling screeches. Watching three impudent Halflings standing in the road, the Nazgul spurred on the horses to increase the force of their gallops with intent to ride down the guards hindering their progress, the presumptuous fools.

“What the plague do you think you’re doing?” Polo shouted angrily while his two companions simultaneously commanded the Riders to halt. Naturally, the Black Riders did not halt, but urged on their horses even faster- directly at the hapless guards.

“They’re going to run us ov-!” Volo began to shout with realization of his own end, his voice cut short sickeningly to anyone within earshot as the leading Black Rider drove his horse right over the three guards. The other three Ringwraiths made sure their horses also crushed the three hobbits beneath their hooves. Their path now clear, the Black Riders passed over the northern border, emitting triumphant screeches fit to hill the bone as the broken bodies of the guards lay on the road.