Once Upon A Time . . .

Her people had always been a temptation to the other peoples of the world. And so those others had claimed her people were myths, stories, beings who existed only in overly creative imaginations. Her people had wonderful fun with that notion, staying hidden in their woodland home rarely being seen or heard, as only mythical people can do, leading the others, when they came too near, off the paths that wound about through their woods until the outsiders were completely lost. Weaving spells round about the outsiders her people would enchant them, then return them to their own kind befuddled and starry eyed with the laughter of her people echoing forever in their minds.

The creature before her now intrigued her. She had not seen the like of him before. In height he was not much bigger than her people, but he was more sturdily built. He seemed to have a love of the trees and the flora of the forest floor as did her people. He moved without a sound, and his voice, when he spoke to himself, was quiet. How different from the bigger folk! She approached him with all the beguiling ways of her people.

They met once. They met again. As they met thrice, her fate was sealed. What had gone wrong, or gone right, she could never say, but she became enchanted by his gentle quiet ways as much as he was enchanted by her delicate, though sharp, features and clear green eyes. They pledged their undying love to one another and dwelt in woods that were claimed neither by his people nor hers, knowing neither would accept, nor truly believe, their joining. But they agreed that when their time in this world was no more, any offspring they had would dwell with his people.

So it came to pass. There is Fairy blood in the Tooks of the Shire.

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"It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was still something not entirely hobbitlike about them . . ."

The Hobbit, An Unexpected Party J.R.R.Tolkien

Esmeralda Brandybuck stood thoughtfully staring out of her sitting-room window at Brandy Hall. The horns had blown wildly just before dawn, the Horn-cry of Buckland stirring the hobbits from their peaceful sleep. Dreadful things, horrible things had invaded their peaceful land. And three of the hobbits she loved most in all of Middle-Earth were gone.

She sighed leaning her head against the glass. Fredegar Bolger had been too terrified to make much sense. All that was clear was that her dear son, Merry, Frodo and Pippin were gone, along with Samwise Gamgee, that they hadn't been there when the . . . the . . . the beings had attacked the house at Crickhollow that Frodo had bought. She shivered. Her dreams had been troubled that night and had awakened her several times.

No! Her head came up off the window pane, and her clear green Took eyes flashed. No. She had actually been troubled for longer than that. Her brows drew together as she reckoned the time. It had been after old Bilbo's birthday when her Merry was supposed to be helping Frodo move. Her Merry and . . . her Pippin.

It was nothing sure in her mind, just feelings. A sudden shiver with a prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck told Esme that something wasn't quite right but she did not know what or where. Several times over the past six days the unease had risen in her. Then there had come this dreadful morning.

Merry had told Saradoc, and he had told her, that Merry and Fatty Bolger would be driving a cart carrying the last of the things Frodo was moving to Crickhollow. Then Frodo, Pippin and Sam were going to make a walking trip of it and hike from Hobbiton to the new house in Buckland. Several pieces of furniture were to be left at Bag End. Left for the Sackville-Bagginses. Esmeralda shivered again. That was another thing that troubled her. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her disturbing son, Lotho, now owned Bag End. But there, the odd sensation was gone again and she wouldn't have been able to explain to anyone exactly why this information bothered her. It would have been after the lads had left to start their walking that Esmeralda's sleep had begun to be troubled, and, even in the bold light of day since, a shadow would occasionally flit across her mind.

This night she had dreamed about hazy black shapes and screeching cries. Just a glimpse, a flash, the merest of pictures in her mind was enough that she awakened clammy and chilled. Odder still was the feeling that what she had seen in her dream had happened somewhere other than the house at Crickhollow.

And now she had been told that her dear ones were gone. Frodo was a young cousin who had grown up at Brandy Hall and been a friend to Merry, even though there lay fourteen years between them. Merry had been seven and Frodo twenty-one when Frodo went to live with old Bilbo at Bag End. Frodo and Bilbo had visited Brandy Hall often, and Merry had gone to Bag End to visit when he grew old enough. So the cousins had remained close. Merry, her own dear Meriadoc, was her only child, she and Saradoc's joy, her own flesh and blood. So like his Father, she sometimes wondered where her part in him lay. Then the mischievous glint would come into his deep blue eyes, his slightly crooked grin would appear and the Took in him would be off with Pippin on a lads' adventure.

Pippin, dear little Pippin, her nephew, her brother's boy and a joy to both the Brandybucks and the Tooks had also gone with Merry and Frodo. Eight years Merry's junior and a full twenty-two years younger than Frodo, yet somehow they were all close. Merry and Pippin, together as much and as often as had been possible, bonded to each other from the first time Merry had held his infant cousin. It was so hard to think of one without thinking of the other as well. And then there was Sam, friend to the three cousins and Frodo's gardener. He was nearest in age to her Merry, being just two years older. Dear loyal Sam would keep an eye on the others, especially his Mr. Frodo.

They had gone into the Old Forest, Fatty had said. But they were alive. She knew this beyond doubt. Call it gift or curse but she was one of those more Tookish Tooks to be found in each generation of that large family. Peculiar, adventurous, eccentric, unhobbitlike; and she knew why. She also knew, Peregrin, whose name, oddly enough meant "foreign and beyond the borders of home, a wanderer", was one of those Tooks as well.

Esmeralda shook herself out of her reverie as the thought suddenly came to her that she needed to get word to Eglantine and Paladin, Pippin's parents, and to the Gamgee lad's parents as well. They needed to know. To know not just that their sons were not at the house when it was attacked and not only that they were gone from the Shire, but also that they were alive. She only hoped she wouldn't sound too odd, or mad, since there was no proof to show this, only her knowing it in her heart.

She left the window seat and sat at her writing desk. After pulling out a sheet of paper and a quill and dipping the quill in the ink she sat there and stared at the blank page before her. To whom should she write first? The Gamgees or her brother and his wife? And if the Gamgees, then what does one say in such a circumstance to people you barely know?

"Do I even know their names?" Esmeralda said aloud to herself. She pondered the question and suddenly their names were in her mind, well, at least Sam's Mother's name: Bell. She smiled at the memory. She had taken Merry to visit Frodo at Bag End, and because of a rainy day the lads were playing in the parlor. Sam was there playing as well, the rain prohibiting garden work for the day. He was more usually helping his Father than playing. The front door bell had sounded, and Sam's head had come up quickly from the fortress he Frodo and Merry were building. His smile lit his young face, as he said, "Always makes me think of my Mother that. A bell ringin' that is, as her name is Bell. Her voice is real pretty as a bell ringin', too." Then he became suddenly bashful, turned red to his ear tips and became quite intent on the wooden blocks he was stacking.

Esmeralda's smile faded. She hoped the lads were alright. She shook her head a bit to clear it. Bell. Bell and . . . and . . .the Gaffer! She frowned. That was not his proper name she knew, but it was all she could remember: Gaffer Gamgee. She thought about it for a few more minutes then decided it would have to do as it was the only name she could remember. She set her pen to the paper.

Dear Gaffer and Bell Gamgee,

To begin, I am Esmeralda Brandybuck. My husband is Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland. I am also sister to Thain Paladin II.

I am aware that your son, Samwise, had moved with Frodo Baggins to his new residence at Crickhollow in Buckland to work as his gardener as he had at Bag End.

I am writing to tell you of distressing news. The house at Crickhollow was attacked before sunrise this morning, the 30^thof Halimath. Fredegar Bolger was able only to say some sort of black cloaked figures had advanced upon the house. He had barely managed to flee before the house was broken into and furnishings overturned. The alarm was sounded, and many ran to answer the call. But the black cloaked beings were gone, and the house empty.

Fredegar was eventually calmed enough to say that your son, Frodo, Pippin Took, who is my nephew, and my son, Merry Brandybuck had left the house some five days before and so were not there when the attack occurred. He did, however, say they had gone into the Old Forest.

I am confident that your son and mine, my nephew and Frodo are alive and well. How I come by this confidence, I will not say. Be certain, however, that I would in no way mislead you nor seek to give a false hope. Again, our dearest ones are alive and well.

Sincerely,

Esmeralda (Took) Brandybuck

P.S. It would be best if you tell no one that they have gone into the Old Forest and left the Shire.

Esmeralda placed the letter into an envelope and addressed it to "Gaffer" and Mrs. Gamgee, Hobbiton, West Farthing, The Shire. She melted and dropped the sealing wax onto the flap and pressed her seal into the warm wax. That letter was finished. She started to take another piece of paper from the shelf but stopped. She could not send a letter to her brother and his wife. She rose and, taking the letter to the Gamgees with her, went to find her husband.

To the east, in the village of Bree that morning a small unofficial parade went on it's way out of town, heading east on the Great East Road. The people gawked and waved. " 'Tis a shame, a right shame them nice hobbits of the Shire took up with that Ranger!" the folk of Bree were saying behind their hands as the Ranger, four hobbits and a pack pony passed by. But along with those whispers were the ones spoken in fear about an attack on the Prancing Pony in the pre-dawn dark by Big Folk garbed in black.

The Shire of 1418 was, as marked by it's borders on the maps of the time, nearly circular. With the Hobbits love of round doors and round windows, their country may well have ended up being round had it not been for the bit taken off one edge, like a cookie with a piece broken off, where the Brandywine River determined the Shire's eastern border. Nearly at the center of this nearly round country was the town of Hobbiton. A typical hobbit village with a town square, although even it was more round than square, nice little shops, the Town Hall and a mill. It was serviced by an inn and a tavern, The Green Dragon Inn on the Hobbiton side of the nearby town of Bywater and The Ivy Bush Tavern along the Bywater Road.

Hobbiton was also where Bag End was located. A fine hobbit hole set into The Hill overlooking the village. It had for many years now, been a bone of contention between certain members of the Baggins family, but now those who felt it was by rights theirs finally held the deed.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins stood upon the front walk at Bag End and looked out over Hobbiton. He smiled a self-satisfied smile because he knew that much of what he saw belonged to him. Already the work had started on tearing down the old mill, which he had purchased from Ted Sandyman a mere month before Lotho and his Mother, Lobelia, had moved into Bag End. He owned several of the buildings the shops were in, and the notices had gone out regarding the increases in the rent. He owned several farms in the area and would soon be combining them and turning former owners into tenant farmers who would pay him in produce and crops grown on his land. He owned several of the finest pipe-weed plantations in the South Farthing, where he and his Mother had lived before finally getting Bag End. Most of that crop was already headed out of the Shire. And he would soon be destroying the barley crop on the farms he owned in the North Farthing. He didn't much care for beer, and his land could grow other crops.

And now rumors were reaching his ears, through the many hobbits he paid to be watchful, that Foolish Frodo was gone. Missing, it seemed, after his new house in Crickhollow had been broken into and disturbed. All the better! His plans for the Shire would progress that much more smoothly with Frodo gone completely. He would need to talk again with his friends in Bree. Things could hurry along even faster now. Yes, he thought to himself that fine day in early Winterfilth, good times were finally ahead for Lotho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

Hamfast (the Gaffer) Gamgee and his wife Bell sat nervously in the parlor of the Hobbiton healer, Olo Proudfoot. In the evening of 1^st Winterfilth, they had received a letter from Brandy Hall in Buckland, at least that is where the Quick Post messenger said it was from when he handed the Gaffer the envelope. An unusual thing and so, they thought, most likely important news of some sort, possibly regarding their son, Sam, as he now lived in Buckland. Neither the Gaffer nor Bell could read, well not enough to handle a full letter, and they had brought it the next morning for Olo to read for them. He had done this for them before and had written letters for them as well. Olo did this for many of Hobbiton's working class hobbits, and he never betrayed their confidences. Bell had gasped at the description of the Crickhollow house being attacked and again at the mention of the Old Forest. She had clutched the Gaffer's arm and tears had started to fall down her cheeks, but the letter had ended well. Mistress Brandybuck said that their Sam was fine, though she didn't say how she knew it. Bell and the Gaffer thanked Olo as he returned the letter to them before they started back to #3 Bagshot Row.

"What do you think all that meant, Ham?" Bell was once again clutching her husband's arm.

"That our ninny-hammer son has gone and gotten hisself into some sort o' trouble. I know he said he was goin' off with Mr. Frodo, but never said naught 'bout trapessin' off into the Old Forest."

"Do you really think they can be alright?" Bell was still feeling anxious. "I mean to say, I know the Mistress said they are and all, but how could she be knowin' that? Is there aught we should do, do you think? Ought we go to the Bucklands and talk with her maybe?"

"Nay, Bell." Ham patted her arm and tried to smile a reassuring smile. "Nay, no need for us to be runnin' off to where we don't belong. I'm sure they just went for one o' Mr. Frodo's walkin' trips. They'll be back and madder 'n hornets that the house and such is damaged."

They were drawing abreast of what remained of the mill where a rough bunch of smallish Men were busy at the job of tearing it down. The Gamgees hurried past and tried not to stare at the workers as a shiver ran down their spines.

"Now that is worryin' me more than our empty headed lads wanderin' off," the Gaffer said when they had gone far enough to not be heard. "What're we to do with no mill? And what blockheaded fool would be bringin' in Big Folk to do the work, I asks you?" He looked down at his wife and saw the fear in her eyes. "You'd best not go about much without me or one o' Daddy Twofoot's lads goin' with you. And naught at all after dark."

Bell nodded her head, her fear still shining in her eyes. She was going to sorely miss her Sam being close by at Bag End.

Esmeralda and an escort arrived at Great Smials on the 2^nd of Winterfilth at dusk. She had convinced Saradoc that such news had to be delivered in person, especially to kin as close as a brother and his wife. Paladin and Eglantine had requested that dinner be held, as the message that arrived that morning had said her news was urgent. They now sat in the high-backed chairs in Thain Paladin's study with Esmeralda facing her brother and sister-in-law.

"I'm not sure where to begin," Esmeralda said. "Did you know that Pippin was to be going with Frodo Baggins and his gardener, Sam Gamgee, to Frodo's new house?" The Tooks both nodded but said nothing. "The three of them walked while Merry and Fredegar Bolger drove the last cart load of heavy items. The plan being that Merry and Fatty would have the house somewhat in order and comforts ready for the others when they arrived after their walking trip."

Esmeralda looked down at her hands that nervously clenched and unclenched in her lap. "We know they arrived, but we now also know they did not remain at the house." She looked at her brother, fear shining in her clear green eyes. "There are fell things afoot in Buckland, Brother. We now know that some sort of Men all cloaked and clad in black had been asking for a Baggins at Farmer Maggot's farm. Others said they thought they had seen riders in black at a distance passing into the Shire on the Great East Road. Whatever they are, whoever they are, they have not been seen since," she shuddered, "since the dark hours of morning on the 30^th of Halimath."

She reached over and gently touched Eglantine's knee, and her sister-in-law placed her own hand atop Esmeralda's. "The house was broken into and ransacked." Esmeralda's voice had dropped to a whisper and Eglantine Took's free hand went to her mouth to stifle her gasp.

"They are safe. They are safe, dear one. For now at least, they are safe," Esmeralda hastened on. "Fatty Bolger had stayed behind so folk would think Frodo to still be at Crickhollow. He escaped and set off the alarm calls." Esmeralda's gaze went off into the darkness at the edges of the study. "I've heard alarms since living at the Hall, for fires or the Brandywine River flooding. But this time . . ." She trembled again her eyes turning to meet her Brother's. "It was the Horn-call of Buckland. That has not been heard in truth since the Fell Winter, Paladin, though all who live in Buckland are taught it. When Fredegar had recovered himself enough, he asked to speak with Saradoc alone. That is when he admitted that Merry, Pippin, Frodo, and Sam had left the Shire, that they have gone into the Old Forest. It seems they are headed away somewhere, away from the Shire. More than that he would not say, if indeed there is more he knows."

They sat in silence as the words made their way deep into their hearts. Away. Away from the Shire. Paladin drew a deep breath. Tooks had left before, as had his half-Took cousin, Bilbo. But few had returned. He had long feared the strange urge to wander that he had seen in his son, and now he had this to add to the other rumors and reports he was hearing: strange folk seen entering the Shire, that the Hobbiton mill was being torn down, although it was in fine condition, and rough looking Big Folk, Men, doing the work of demolishing it. Then there were a number of farms being bought up around the South Farthing and Hobbiton, although no one seemed to know quite by whom.

Eglantine stared wide eyed into the fire. She was only a Took by marriage, and at that she had surprised her family by joining herself to a family known for it's eccentric behavior. But Paladin was not like that, he was calm and pragmatic. She looked at Esmeralda. She had seen and heard of the strangeness in her sister-in-law, however, her husband's youngest sister and Adalgrim Took's last child. She had been overly curious, a bit wild, possessed of a quick eye and an even quicker wit, and able, most often, to get her own way. Pippin was so much like her, even in looks, that the Saradoc Brandybucks and the Paladin Tooks had been teased about it by both extended families. They finally rose and went to dinner. But Esmeralda knew she would have to speak of other matters with Eglantine alone on the morrow at the latest.

The two hobbitesses sat huddled together like children plotting some prank. They were in their nightgowns and sitting close to the small fireplace in Eglantine's sitting room, but there was no girlish giggling. Esmeralda had been deeply serious when she arranged to see her sister in law in the middle of the night. She had something to say that she knew her brother, Paladin, would not want her discussing with his wife.

"He's sound asleep, Esme," Eglantine said nodding toward the door to the bedroom.

"I hope so, Lanti. I assure you, he will send me back to Buckland in an instant if he were to know that I'm telling you this."

"Then why tell me? You have left it unsaid for all these years."

Esmeralda reached a trembling hand out to touch Eglantine's hand. "In the years before there had been no need to tell you." She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. "Now, dear sister, there is." Esmeralda picked up the candle she had brought with her off the small table that stood beside their chairs. "Come, Lanti. I've things I need to show you."

Still feeling a bit like naughty children sneaking about, they went to the main entryway of Great Smials. There upon the walls hung portraits of many of the Took ancestors, both male and female. Esme and Lanti went up the long ramp the led to the second level, stopping near the top. Esme held the candle high, and they both looked at the first portrait on the wall.

"Isengrim II, as you know," Esme said. "He was the one whose imagination came up with the idea and plans for this wondrous smial. Have you looked at this portrait, Lanti?"

"Well, in truth, I've not looked at any of them much since I first came to the Smials with Paladin before we were married and he led me all about. Why do . . . you . . ." Lanti's mouth slowly dropped open, as her hand rose to cover it. "Pippin!" came her shocked whisper. Lanti took a step closer to the portrait and touched the frame with her hand while she continued to stare open mouthed at the face on the canvas. "It could be my Pippin! And," she turned to look at her sister in law, "it could be you in male clothing and hair style."

"Yes," was all Esme said, and she led Lanti to several other portraits: Fortinbras I, Gerontius (The Old Took), Hildifons (who went on a journey and never returned), Isengar (who went to sea as a youth and never returned), Fortinbras II, and finally Adalgrim (who was Paladin and Esmeralda's Father).

Esme quietly spoke as they looked at her Father's portrait. "I could show you several small portraits and miniatures in lockets of sisters and daughters to these and other Tooks who have the same features." She reached out, gently touching the canvas. "The sharp nose, the bow lips, the whole of the face and form rather finely made and seemingly delicate. But truly it is the eyes that grab you and hold your attention. Those green eyes."

"Yes," whispered Lanti. "Yes, more so in life than in the portraits, but even as paint on canvas they seem to have a power all their own. How many times has Pippin won me over with those eyes." She turned and touched Esme on the arm. "What is all this? Why would this be something Paladin would not want me to see?"

"Let's go back to your room, Lanti, and I'll tell you what Paladin fears."
Once more settled by the fire, Esme began her tale. "What Paladin fears is ridicule. If what I'm to tell you were to ever be found out by the hobbits of the Shire and the Buckland, the Tooks might well find themselves laughed out of the Shire . . . or run out."

Lanti closed her eyes a few moments, then opened them and nodded to her sister-in-law. "I understand. Please go on."

Esme reached forward and held both of Lanti's hands in hers. "Have you ever heard it said that sometime in the distant past, perhaps before the Shire had come to be, that a Took had taken a fairy for a wife?"

Eglantine let out a tiny squeal before she covered her mouth tightly as she turned red in the face from holding back her laughter. Finally, the fit passed, and she gulped in several deep breaths. "Oh, Esme! If I had known this was to be a joke to take the sting from your news about our sons, I would have told you not to bother!" Lanti took a few more long breaths. "A good night's sleep would have done me better, dear sister."

Esmeralda rose and paced for a bit, trying to control her temper; this was not the time to be angry. She turned and dropped to her knees at Lanti's feet and once again held both of her hands.

"It is not a jest! And I'm not mad! I've seen my own face in those portraits, and I know my own heart. I've read the letters and the diaries they have left behind them. I have read what their parents and siblings said about them as well. We are all so alike in so many ways." Esmeralda grasped Lanti's hands more tightly as tears poured from her clear green eyes. Eglantine began to stare into them. "It is true, I tell you, Lanti. You must believe me. Everyone of them were the Tooks that every other hobbit in the Shire sees as so odd and mad. Born early and seemingly weak, looking small and delicate but with a strength of will like an oak tree. The ones who dream odd dreams, like building this huge smial. They are the ones who go adventuring, or, like me, wish they could at least go to visit the Elves and the Dwarves and the foreign lands."

"But Esme, fairies aren't real. They are myths and storybook creatures." Lanti's voice had become soft and distant sounding as she continued to gaze into Esme's eyes.

"No, Lanti! Isn't that what many hobbits say about dragons? Yet old Bilbo helped to slay one. Others called him mad, but we knew better. If we had thought him mad we would not have let our sons spend so much time in his company. I know many hobbits who doubt that Elves are real because neither they nor anyone they know has ever seen one. But we both know they are real. How do we truly know fairies aren't real, or were real long ago? And think about it, Lanti, how do the stories tell of the fairies putting their spell on the Big Folk?"

Esmeralda's eyes shone in the fire light. Slowly Eglantine's deep brown eyes widened, and Esme heard the slow intake of her breath. Esmeralda's voice was the softest of whispers. "Their eyes isn't it, Eglantine my dear one? Always in the tales that have been handed down, 'Don't look in a fairy's eyes,' they say. A Fairy's eyes. Our Tookish eyes. My eyes and dear Pippin's eyes. Even now you have lost yourself in my eyes, though I did not mean for it to happen." Esmeralda got to her feet and went to the window and stood with her back to her sister-in-law.

Eglantine slowly blinked and shook her head a bit to clear it. "It's true!" she whispered. Then there was silence.

Esme looked into the inky blackness that was all that could be seen through the window. Clearer was the reflection of the room behind her and dimmer still, her own reflection. Somewhere in that thick blackness beyond the window were her son, her nephew, her dear cousin and their close friend. Merry and Pippin. Their names came into her heart with the sigh that passed her lips. They may as well both be sons to her and Lanti, they were that close to each other and to each other's families.

"There is more, Lanti, even harder to believe. But I have to tell you. You have to know." Esme closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Sometimes, rare times but still sometimes, I know what is happening to Pippin and to Merry if he is with him. The first time was when Merry fell out of a tree at your home in Whitwell and broke his arm. I saw it, like one sees a daydream or a flash of memory. I thought nothing of it until the message arrived that Merry had been hurt and, although he would be fine, he wanted me to come."

Esmeralda looked away from the window to where Eglantine sat staring at her. "You remember it, dear?" Lanti nodded to her. "My Merry was fourteen, so little Pippin was six. When I got to your house, Pippin ran to me before I got anywhere near anyone else and pulled me aside. 'I'm so sorry, Aunt Esme. It was for me. I'm sorry!' He cried and buried his little face in my skirts. We sat beneath a tree, and I held him and rocked him until he could speak again. He told me he had asked Merry if he knew how to climb trees. So, of course, Merry had to show him how, and when he was half way up, Merry lost his footing and fell. Pippin said, 'I watched, Aunt Esme, and I couldn't yell for my Mummy or yell to Merry or anything, Aunt Esme, 'cause no noise came out and I couldn't move neither. And he seemed to fall so slow, Aunt Esme. He hit his arm on a branch and it made a loud noise and Merry yelled, Aunt Esme, then he fell on the ground and he curled up and cried and cried. Then I ran to him and hugged him good, Aunt Esme, and I yelled and the noise came out this time and Mummy and my sisters all came. I'm so sorry Aunt Esme!'"

Esme's voice quavered a little at the memories of that day. She turned back to stare at the empty dark outside the window.

"I was stunned, Lanti. I held Pippin so tightly he yelped in pain and squirmed until I loosened my grip on him. I had seen it all. I had seen it all exactly as he told it, Lanti, and I felt it too. I could feel his terror and that horrible feeling of not being able to scream or move. I was in shock and shaking. Then, Pippin looked at me with his green eyes huge with emotion, my eyes, Lanti, *our* eyes, and he said the oddest thing of all." Esme closed her eyes, bit her lower lip and let her head fall forward.

Lanti could no longer stay away from her dear sister in law's side and came and put her arms around Esme. "Go on, dearest, what did my little Pip say to you?"

"He looked at me and said in a voice so quiet I could hardly believe it was Pippin talking. 'But you were here, Aunt Esme,' he said and reached up to touch my face. His fingers were cold and shaking. 'But you weren't here. I thought you were before I ran to hug him, but you weren't here when I looked about for you. But I really, truly thought you were here, Aunt Esme. Were you here, then disappeared?'"

Esme pulled back from Lanti and looked out the window again, moving her hand until the flesh and reflection met on the glass as though hoping her spread fingers could reach to touch Pippin's wherever he was.

"He felt me too, Lanti, he knew I had seen it all. We never spoke of it again. The next time it happened he was older and less open to sharing strange and unexplainable things. We have never talked about any of it."

Eglantine reached up and put her fingers to the pane of glass, placing them between Esmeralda's. A chill ran through her as their fingers touched.

"I believe you," she murmured in a hushed voice. "Pippin told me about it after Merry was all cared for and asleep that day." Lanti rested her head against her sister-in-law's, still hugging her tightly with one arm, as tears flowed down her face. "He told me he had thought you were there, but I did not believe him. I told him that being worried about Merry was no reason to make up stories, but that Mummy could see he was very tired and did he want me to hold him and rock him. He was so exhausted that he fell deeply asleep in minutes. I sat and rocked with him for hours because if I moved too much he would whimper and call out for Merry or me," she squeezed Esme tighter, "or you." They stood tight together with their intertwined fingers pushing against the cold pane of glass.

Gaffer Gamgee looked up from where he was trimming back his rose bushes to get them ready to be covered for the colder weather that was on it's way. A rowdy group of hobbits mixed in with Big Folk was heading up the Hill Lane towards Bag End. The Gaffer snorted his disgust.

"Don't hardly seem fittin' to call it 'Bag End' any more!" he said aloud to himself. "That name has a reputation of gentility. No never mind how odd folks thought old Mr. Bilbo to be, 'twere a proper place with no one stranger than a dwarf or two, from time to time, and old Mr. Gandalf comin' for a visit."

The Gaffer snorted again and went to stand boldly at his fence glaring at the small crowd. "Naught a genteel thing 'bout none o' that lot," he huffed. "And there! There you have it again! Big Folk! And not lookin' none too friendly, like those ones what's been tearin' down the mill." He shook his head at the backs of the bunch as they went on up the Hill. "And I thought, oft times, that trouble would come of them dwarves and the wizard and such that Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo would entertain. But they weren't naught compared to this rabble!"

He followed them with his eyes as they wound their way around on the lane up to Bag End. "Whatever business would even a miserable penny hoarder like that Lotho have with the likes o' those?" The old hobbit suddenly felt cold and achy. He looked up, "Goin' on time for luncheon. I'd best be headin' in so as not to keep Bell a'waitin'." For a moment, the Gaffer looked off toward the east and rubbed at his aching fingers as he thought about his youngest son. 'Where has that ninny hammer son o' mine . . .' He didn't finish the thought as it made him too sad. He didn't want to go in for luncheon looking sad. He was trying hard to think of nothing but Bell's good bread and soup as he slowly turned the knob, opened the door and went into their comfy old hole.

"You damage the paint on this door and you'll rue the day you were born, and that's a fact!" Lobelia hollered as she fumbled with the new lock Lotho had paid the blacksmith to put on the front door of Bag End.

The leader of the Men started to tense up with anger, but a hobbit tugged on his sleeve. "Best watch your temper, if you value your job, Ron. Lotho don't take kindly to anyone not showin' proper respect to his old Mum!"

Ron Fernberry calmed himself down as a nasty grin came to his lips. He could bide his time as well as the next man. He knew it wouldn't be long until his kind would be in charge here, and they'd be making the little fur-footed mushroom munchers dance to a new tune. Lobelia didn't seem to notice the evil smirk on the Man's face when she finally threw the bolt on the new lock and opened the door.

"Yes, yes," Lobelia said as she stood aside to let them all pass, "Lotho is expecting you. He is in the parlor. It is the first door on the left."

"Yes ma'am, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins," said Tad Foxburr, one of the Hobbits, removing his hat and tipping his head to Lobelia. "We remember from last time."
Lobelia smiled at the group of Men and Hobbits as they passed her on their way into the parlor. They always treated her with respect, and they paid Lotho handsomely for the pipe-weed that he had started to sell them a couple of years back. They had used that gold to buy Bag End. Her eyes traveled hungrily over the graceful lines of the walls and ceilings of the elegant old hole; it was hers at last. Nothing, and no one, could take it from her now! She had showed the wretched nay-sayers and the snooty Baggins'. It was all hers now, hers and Lotho's, as it should be. She followed them into the parlor and stood quietly at the back of the room.

Lotho looked over the Bree folk that filled the parlor at Bag End and smiled his slow, self-satisfied smile. He nodded to his Mother, glad for another opportunity for her to see him being treated as a respected businesshobbit. Lotho had been quite pleased in 1416 when the Men and Hobbits from Bree had come to him on the family farm near Sackville with praise for the weed grown on his holdings and a request to purchase some for a buyer in the South. And why not, he had thought. Why shouldn't he sell his crops to whom ever he pleased, even if they lived beyond the borders of the measly little Shire! He would show those unfriendly, scheming neighbors and witless relatives that he could be the wealthiest, most powerful hobbit in all of history.

"Well, gentlehobbits and gentlemen, I received your letter. How may I be of service to you?" Lotho asked, while in his mind he was thinking of how they could be of service to him.

"Mr. Lotho," Ron Fernberry said, "word has come to us from our b . . . (he had nearly said 'boss' and that would have made things difficult), our buyer in the South-lands. Seems times have been hard there 'bouts. So he sent us to you, knowing that you're a mighty rich and important Hobbit here 'bouts and knowing you've a good many holdings of lots o' different types, to see if you might be able to help them out of their bind."

Lotho puffed up visibly at the compliment. "Of course I can! I am always one to help those in need of helping."

Here Lotho paused. What if they wanted the goods as charity? He was loathe to part with something for nothing and quickly thought of how he could make it clear that he would still expect some remuneration.

"Ahem," Lotho cleared his throat. "Of course, more than happy to help as long as I can cover my costs."

Ron smirked a bit at Lotho. The little worm would have his pay, wouldn't he! Ron thought. But he said, "Gold they have a'plenty, Mr. Lotho, sir. 'Tis food stuffs they've naught." And with that he tossed a fair sized pouch to Lotho, who caught it and nearly dropped it because of it's weight. "Two hundred gold coins. That enough to 'cover your costs', Mr. Sackville-Baggins?"

Lotho was astonished at the wealth he held in his hands, and his thoughts raced with all the purchases that could be made with such abundance - more farms, more shop buildings, mills and smithies and inns, more of the Shire to be his and his alone. Then he thought, how does he handle it all? How can he make sure he gets what is his and that things are done to his liking?

"One thing more, Ron. I could use a few more good strong lads like these ones you have with you and those that I have already at work tearing down the mill. The extra Big Folk would sure make gathering up all you need go quicker. Of course, I need the Little Folk in charge under me to make the gathering go smoother." Give me a few days to think of how many I will be needing and where. Then I will send word to you in Bree, and we will get whatever it is that the folk down southwards are needing."

Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Ron Fernberry shook on the deal and took their leave of each other, each feeling he had got the best of the arrangement.

Esmeralda had stayed for three days at Great Smials, a nice visit all told in spite of the reason behind it. She had spoken a few more times with Lanti about their now shared secret, giving her sister-in-law as much comfort as she could and promising to send word immediately should she experience anything having to do with their sons. On the morning of the sixth of Winterfilth, Esme and her escorts waved their farewells to Paladin and Eglantine and headed off down the Stock Road toward Buckland.

The mid-autumn sun had set by the time the three travelers to Buckland arrived at the Tree and Leaf Inn, which marked the halfway point between Tuckborough and Stock. After a simple but tasty supper, Esmeralda excused herself and left the common room, heading for bed. Her room was warm and cozy, her bed and pillows fluffy with down, her blankets soft and comforting so she quickly fell asleep.

She was walking along the Brandywine with nine year old Merry skipping happily along beside her as she carried baby Pippin in her arms.

"Can he come in swimming with me, Mum?" Merry asked.

"No, my dearest. He's too little for swimming," Esmeralda answered looking at the wee green-eyed hobbit lad in her arms.

"But then he will never come swimming with me," Merry pouted as he spoke. "He will always be littler than me!"

A tree appeared along the bank of the river. Merry and Pippin were climbing the tree while she watched them, laughing at their antics and praising their bravery. She was only slightly bothered that, for some reason, Merry was noticeably younger than his younger cousin.

Esme was pushing the swing that hung from a branch on the tree. At times it was Merry who squealed with delight as he sailed up and away from her, but it was Pippin who swung back down. Then it would be Pippin flying away and Merry floating back. Merry was a wee lad, Pippin full grown; Merry a tween, and Pippin barely older than an infant. The swing moved slowly back and forth. Now she stood to one side, and a youthful Pippin was pushing Merry who looked as he had the last time she had seen him, a hobbit in his prime not much past his coming of age. Back and forth. Back and forth. The clouds covered the sun as the darkness grew and the swing moved back and forth. Merry pushing Pippin, Pippin pushing Merry. Pushing harder. Pushing softer. Back and forth. Back and forth. And it was colder and darker, and she trembled from more than the cold. Merry pushed Pippin hard and as the swing flew away Merry grew and changed into a tall, black cloaked menacing shape. Esmeralda Brandybuck tried to scream as what swung back was the limp form of Pippin hanging by his neck. And the darkness became complete.

Esmeralda felt herself falling face down into the ebony void only to be brought up short as she landed on her chest, nearly winding herself. She was panting with breathlessness, her eyes tightly closed against the fearsome darkness. She felt a hand clasp hers, and she returned it's trembling squeeze. She opened her eyes. Merry's wide, terrified eyes looked deeply into hers, and suddenly she knew that she looked back at him through Pippin's eyes. The hand her Merry clutched so tightly was Pippin's hand. She felt a cold that threatened to freeze her heart and a tightness, like being bound, drawing in until her lungs could barely take in breath. She heard a voice calling out words she did not know, the sound of them lifting the frigid darkness from her mind.

Esmeralda opened her eyes to see the gentle play of firelight on the ceiling of her room at the Tree and Leaf Inn. She lay there trying to calm her pounding heart until she could sense what she sought so desperately. Finally, assurance flooded into her as she closed her eyes and sighed; she knew her dear ones lived.

A terror greater than anything they had ever known swept through Merry and Pippin as the dark shapes of the Black Riders rose around them.

"Down! Down on the ground, worthless ones!" the frigid voice in their heads commanded them, and they flung themselves to the hard earth.

Pippin clenched his eyes so tightly shut they ached. He dare not look again upon those evil shapes. He lay with his face in the dirt unable to move, barely able to breathe until he felt shaking fingers fumbling to grasp his hand. Merry. Pippin turned his hand palm up and his fingers and Merry's interlaced, each one squeezing until it hurt. Pippin opened his eyes to find Merry's gaze already fixed upon him. Merry's eyes were wide with horror. Pippin felt a strange stirring deep within him, and he knew she was there, that through his eyes Aunt Esme was seeing her Merry. Pippin could feel her hand somehow between his hand and Merry's, and he was pained knowing she shared their terror. Frodo's voice rang out speaking words that sounded Elvish, Strider leapt forth brandishing flaming branches and both the Riders and the heart-numbing terror were gone. Slowly the feeling of his Aunt's presence faded from Pippin's mind.

"I am only passing along what has happened to my own kin, Thain Paladin." Isenbras Took shifted a bit in his chair, quite unable to tell from the Thain's expression whether or not he was being believed. "Fosco Boffin, my brother-in-law, is an honest hobbit, and he himself is one who this has happened to, him renting the land he farms over in the East Farthing. Apparently, it is only those who rent their land or are tenant farmers to whom this 'gathering for sharing' is happening."

"And is it the landowner that is ordering this?" Paladin asked quietly.

"That's an even stranger thing, Thain. I asked Fosco that very same question, and he told me he could not truly say, as he was unsure himself who owns the land he farms. I told him right then that that was nonsense. How could he not know? But he said that his rent was paid to some company or other." Isenbras paused to think a few moments then went on. "Four Farthings Holdings I think he said it was called and that it was always roughish looking hobbits that came to do the collecting. Fosco said he asked once, and all the answer he got was, 'We don't know no more about it than that, and you don't need to be knowin' neither!' He said that this time they came when it wasn't time for the rent to be due and took near to half his stores of grain, potatoes and carrots and apples from the orchard. Said they had orders, and he better just do what they said. He asked who it was being shared with, and they just said, 'Them what needs it!' And it wasn't just the tough looking hobbits this time, he said. They had Big Folk with them. They had Men with them, Thain Paladin." Isenbras sat back in the chair, drew in a deep breath, and carefully watched the Thain to see his reaction, which seemed awfully slow in coming. He had known Paladin Took a good many years, their farms in Whitwell being near to one another. He knew Paladin to be an honest, hardworking hobbit though very much on the quiet side of things, rather odd for a Took. Many were saying he was too cold and uncaring to be suited for being the Took and Thain. But Isenbras had never sensed those characteristics in Paladin, just a love of quiet and an uneasiness when around large groups of hobbits.

"You have given me a great deal to think about, Isenbras," the Thain said slowly and cautiously. "Though this seems to me to be more the Mayor's business, as my concerns are more with Tookland than the happenings elsewhere in the Shire, despite what my title says. However," here Paladin sighed and looked Isenbras squarely in the eye, "just yesterday a report came to me that a group such as this, a group of Men and Hobbits, was seen going to some of the farms north of the town of Tookbank, and that is my business."

Thain Paladin rose, and Isenbras followed suit. "I thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I will give it the most serious consideration, Isenbras. I wish you a good day and give my greetings to your family." They nodded to each other, shook hands, and Isenbras took his leave of the Thain.

Paladin sat back down in his chair, picked up some of the papers from the desk, and turned the chair so that he could look out the round window to the west-northwest, out over the Tookland. He drew a deep breath that he let out slowly from between tight lips. He had been hearing rumors for a while now that there were Big Folk being seen more and more often in the Shire, in the company of Hobbits of poor reputation. Then he had gone to see for himself that there had been a crew of Men tearing down the mill in Hobbiton. Now Isenbras' news and the news from Tookbank added to his growing sense of dread.

He sat a long time staring out the window ignoring the knocks at his study door until the shadows on the fields had started to lengthen and the daylight was less bright. There really was nothing he could do if this was all a landowner dealing with how the crops and goods from his own lands were being handled. Yet, it seemed as though an extraordinarily large number of farms in more than one farthing were involved. He looked at the four letters in his hand. Two of the letters were from the South Farthing: one of them from a Took farmer near Pincup on land he rented, the other from a Took related tenant farmer in the fertile land between the Thistle Brook and the River Shirebourne, telling of troubles at their own farms and mentioning similar problems at neighboring farms. The third came from a North-took in the North Farthing saying that barley was being cut and left to rot in many of the fields. And, not least but the last and most recent, a letter from his brother-in-law, Saradoc, that mentioned increasingly large numbers of Bree Men and Bree Hobbits of "the unsavory sort" crossing the Brandywine Bridge.

The large crowd in the common room at the Prancing Pony were fully into the festive mood of the Yule season with cheers and toasts and songs abounding. Both the Big and the Little Folk were feeling merry, and the Yule-tide greetings flowed easily between the two groups.

Barliman Butterbur was at his best, running busily about with one thought driving out another as always but keeping the satisfaction of his guests upper-most in his mind. Well, their satisfaction and his income. Yule always being a busy time for inn and tavern keepers. When there were a few moments for spare thoughts to register in his mind, Barliman was a bit troubled by some of the patrons in his house this night. Not that the more unsavory sort were unusual at the Pony, but there seemed to be more than the usual trouble makers in his common room. But, there it was, the thoughts came and went in rapid succession, and he had no time to sort them out.

"I heard tell that there's them what say it's neigh the time we chase these two-footed mice out of the larder, so to say, and take the land for ourselves," Bill Ferny said and looked slowly around at the nodding heads at his table and in the crowd surrounding it. "Aye, some of the best land for leagues around, I hear tell, me not bein' a farmer and all. I goes by what I hear, and that be what I hear. The best land for leagues, and those little half-pint hobbits livin' off the fat o' it like it be their due."

Bill was rewarded with more nodding of heads and angry murmurs. This was going to be so easy! His pockets were heavy with the gold he'd been paid to "give those furry-footed little Shire-rats their comeuppance." And he was more than happy to do what others were so willing to part with their gold to have happen. He had suffered a great deal of humiliation because of those four hobbits who had taken up with old Strider the Ranger. Yes, Bill had some new friends, southern friends with money and an urge to cause the Shire-rats as much trouble as possible.

One of those southerners stood and with a lightening quick hand grabbed one of old Barliman's hobbit tavern girls by the hair and held her up.

"See men!" he hollered. "'Tis no trouble at all to snare one of these hobbit coneys!" He shook the poor screaming lass by her hair as she dangled in the air three feet off the floor.

Todo Bunce and Moro Toadfoot, two of Bree's Little Folk, rushed the man in an effort to help the struggling lass, and a few of the patrons, big and little, ran to find Barliman and tell him of the attack on his little barmaid. With a near effortless sweep of his free hand, the broad built southerner sent Todo and Moro flying back into the crowd that had cleared a circle around the man and the hobbit still swinging from his fist by her hair.

"See men!" he hollered again. "'Tis no trouble to beat them off! Two with one blow, and I could take out thrice as many easy as that!" He swung the girl around the circle of wide-eyed onlookers. "Why have you weaklings left them to their own ways all this time? What sort of men are you that you do naught to take their little land from them?"

He grabbed a male hobbit from the crowd by his hair and held him up for the crowd to see before smoothly and easily crashing the heads of the two hobbits together. The barmaid and the patron hung limply from the huge fists.
"Put them down and now!" The crowd parted as the proprietor of the Pony came thundering into the room. Few Bree folk had ever seen Barliman Butterbur angry. Fights at the Prancing Pony were usually settled quietly by simply removing the combatants so as not to disturb the other patrons, but this time the old innkeeper was furious. He had always had a soft spot in his heart for the hobbits who frequented his house or worked for him and felt a strong obligation to defend them. Barliman stood nose to nose with the southerner, legs spread to a sturdy stance and his fists resting on his hips.

"You will put those two hobbits down, and you will put them down now!" he growled through clenched teeth.

"What do you think, men? Need I put the coneys down?" The southerner shook the unconscious hobbits as he turned his back to Barliman, looking Bill Ferny and Harry Goatleaf in the eye and giving them a nod. They pushed through the crowd to stand one on each side of him. The burly southerner turned to face the innkeeper again. "I seem to have some here what agrees with me, and I'm sure there be a good many more."

There were murmurs of agreement and disagreement from the on lookers as everyone looked to Barliman to see what his next move would be.

"That is my employee you have there, and the other is a guest in my establishment. They are in my house and under my protection. You will do as I say! Put them down!"

For the first time the southerner's voice was quiet. "Of course, how foolish of me!" he said in a chill voice. "Of course, an employee and a guest. But soon a slave," here he threw the barmaid away to his right to crash into the crowd. "And a beggar!" he spat out and tossed the other hobbit to his left where he smacked against the bar and dropped to the floor. "Shire-rats!" he yelled.

"Hobbit-filth!" cried Harry Goatleaf as he kicked the legs out from under a nearby hobbit, then kicked him in the ribs.

"Fur-footed vermin!" shouted Bill Ferny who grabbed two hobbits who were trying to get away and swung them into each other, stunning them. He then punched one in the head and brought his booted foot down hard on the barefeet of the other.

The southerner snatched up another hobbit and, holding him by the wrists, swung him around like a club to hit Barliman across the head. The hobbit and the innkeeper both cried out in pain. Another swing of the hobbit caught Barliman in the stomach, winding him and dropping him to the floor. A snapping was heard as one the hobbit's arms broke. There was a sudden flash of polished steel and a long double edged sword blade rested at the throat of the southerner.

"I think we have all heard enough of your hate filled words, and seen enough of your vile actions." The words of the Ranger who held the sword were quiet with an edge in his voice that made it clear he was not to be trifled with. With a nod of his head he indicated another Ranger who had come out of the crowd to stand on the other side of the southerner. "You will gently hand the hobbit over to my friend."

The face of the southerner was set in a sneer above the sharp sword that lay firmly against his throat, his eyes blazed with hatred. Many of those who had been gathered around Bill Ferny's table started to slink quietly out of the room. The southerner gently released the injured hobbit into the arms of the other Ranger who gave him into the care of some hobbits in the crowd before drawing his own sword to stand at the ready. The first Ranger then helped Barliman to his feet.

"What do you wish done with these dogs, Mr. Butterbur?" The Ranger asked as he now rested the point of his blade at the southerner's heart.

The crowd stood wide-eyed with amazement. They weren't accustomed to such actions from Rangers who usually sat by themselves in the darker corners of the Prancing Pony. The Bree folk had ignored and not trusted these tall, strange men, yet now, here they were defending the Little Folk and treating old Barliman with respect.

"Well," Barliman's voice was shaky but his gaze was firm, "that one you have at the end of you sword there, well, he's a stranger and can be run off with no bother. But those two," he said nodding first toward Bill Ferny then to Harry Goatleaf, "those two are Breemen. It's not my decision alone what's to be done with them."
"Put them out!" someone in the crowd yelled out.

"Run 'em out o' town!"

"Aye!" the call came from every part of the common room.

"'Tisn't a proper town vote," said Barliman, "but I think it will do close enough." He looked the Ranger squarely in the eye. "I think you and some of the fine folk of Bree should show these three the outside of the gate!"

A fair-sized crowd followed the Rangers and the three troublemakers to the West Gate. They marched the southerner, Bill Ferny and Harry Goatleaf the short distance westward on The Great East Road to where it joined The Greenway before the residents of Bree returned to town and barred the gate. The Rangers disappeared into the woods but did not let the threesome out of their sight until they were well away from Bree heading south on The Greenway.

Laughter echoed throughout the hallways and tunnels of Brandy Hall. Luscious aromas of spiced cider and plum pudding, roasted meats and cookies, mushrooms and mince pies, apple dumplings and potatoes, mulled wine and gingerbread filled the air. The fragrances chased after the laughter, both working their way through every keyhole, under every door. Candles glowed while fires on the hearths popped, hissed and sent sparks like escaping fireflies up the chimneys. Hands were held, backs patted, young heads of soft curls were tousled, old arms were gently held steady while old feet shuffled and full bellies were contentedly rubbed. Yule was a feast for the senses!

This was the evening of First Yule and the day had been filled with the happy commotion of the hobbit lads and lasses as they received their gifts. In even the richest families the gift-giving was the same, one gift from each parent, one gift from each grandparent and one gift from each aunt and uncle. Hobbit families being what they were, even a child whose parents had died and had no grandparents living usually still had aunts and uncles. But, failing that, cousins and close friends would make sure the child was not forgotten. First Yule was also when children would give gifts to their friends. Second Yule was the day the children would give gifts to their elders, the pattern being the same with the gifts most usually ones the child or young hobbit had made. Coming of age marked the change from a hobbit receiving gifts on First to Second Yule.

"It's your move, Fatty," Berilac Brandybuck said softly for the fourth time. "If you don't move soon, I'm going to declare you dead and claim the victory."

Fatty Bolger continued to contemplate the chessboard that sat between them. "The more you pester me, the slower I will go," he replied in the slow cadence of one whose thoughts are occupied elsewhere. He and Berilac had been playing chess most of the day in one of the many parlors in Brandy Hall. Fatty had won more than he had lost, and the current game was going well for him. More of Berilac's white pieces sat in front of Fatty than Fatty's black ones in front of Berilac, with Fatty having mostly lost pawns whilst Berilac had lost both rooks, a bishop and a knight. Fatty finally moved his bishop on the white squares a few cautious spaces diagonally to his left.

"Not sure what that was supposed to accomplish, Fatty, but it does not seem to be worth all the time it took," Berilac said while quickly moving a pawn forward.

Fatty grinned as he, with equal speed, moved the bishop once more and snatched up the pawn. "It accomplished that!" he proclaimed triumphantly. "And it is once again your move!" Fatty stretched his arms up, placed his hands behind his head and leaned back. He was really enjoying this game.

In the ballroom, mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts, uncles and cousins sat laughing and clapping as their little lads and lasses, teens and tweens performed in the Hall's customary Yule talent show. Paladin and Eglantine Took sat beside Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck in the front row center seats as befitting the Master of the Hall, the Thain of the Shire and their wives.

The youngest hobbit children always went first, in a large group to give them confidence. Their parents and nurses had been teaching them nursery rhymes along with the simple songs of childhood for their part in the show. Little four year old Willadoc and six year old Monimas Brandybuck, who were brothers, wandered about in the back of the group. They made a good pretense of singing and reciting but were having more fun tickling the girls. This was quickly solved by their nurse calling them forward to recite the rhyme of the "Three Kittens Who Lost Their Mittens" by themselves. With much blushing and stammering, the two lads did a rather fair job of it, taking their bows to a round of hearty applause and laughter.

The lads and lasses from about twelve years of age to seventeen were next, appearing most usually in small groups of family members or close friends. Longer poems and songs along with short skits were performed by this age level.

Last of all were the oldest teens with the tweenagers. Hearty songs, some of sad romances and some humorous ditties, sounded out from those with a true gift for singing. Lengthy epic poems of long ago and far away held the adults enthralled as recited by youthful hobbits and hobbitesses who had the flare for the dramatic. In between the dramatic recitations, tensions were eased by lads who could tell a good, though sometimes bawdy, joke or story. Of course, there were many skits, pantomimes and puppet shows.

This time the curtain on the puppet stage opened to reveal hard working hobbit farmers hacking away at the ground with hoes, their backs to each other.

"Been a right fine year this year!" said the farmer with bright red yarn for hair. "Has it been a fine year for you, Elinbras?"

"Aye! That it has, Astegrim!" said Elinbras, who had bright yellow hair. "Been neigh onto the best year Tookland has seen in many a long year!" The writer of the puppet play was obviously a young Took.

"Yes," said Astegrim, "I grew a tater neigh as big as me!" Suddenly a huge potato appeared by the happy farmer.

"Well now, that does look to be a right big tater!" exclaimed Elinbras, who turned to look at the tater, causing him to hit Astegrim firmly on the side of his head with the hoe. "But it don't hold a candle to my carrot!" A massive carrot appeared from below the ground.

"Let me have a closer look at that," said Astegrim. He moved over to examine the gigantic vegetable, shoving Elinbras out of his way with his hoe.

The traditional puppet battle of pushing and hitting was well underway when a new group of characters entered from the left side of the stage. Three of the newcomers were the same size as the Took farmers, but two were much bigger. Several of the adults sat up straighter, immediately more alert.

"What do you two have here?" a hobbit-sized newcomer asked of the two farmers after a big puppet had moved between them to break up the comedic fight.

"We've the biggest tater and carrot in the Shire!" exclaimed Astegrim.

"Would you be wantin' a look at them?" asked Elinbras.

The group of hobbit and big people puppets moved in for a closer look, then they gave each other exaggerated nods.

"We ain't here for the lookin'!" bellowed one of the big puppets, "We be here for the gatherin'!" With that the potato and carrot quickly disappeared then reappeared with two thirds of their bulk missing.

"Very fine! A very fine play!" Saradoc's voice rang out as he stood, pulled Esmeralda to her feet with him, and started to applaud as loudly as he could. Paladin and Eglantine leapt to their feet adding their applause to that of the Brandybucks. Slowly, a bit in shock, the rest of the adults who made up the audience rose while clapping their hands. When the applause began to fade, Saradoc turned to face the crowd as he lifted his hands for their attention.

"That ends tonight's talent show. The children and young folk all hope you enjoyed their performances. Remember to express your thanks to them personally on your way out. Have a good evening! Good Yule everyone!" With that Saradoc leaned over to his brother Merimac and motioned for him to start everyone moving out of the ballroom. Saradoc and Paladin exchanged glances, spoke to their wives, then left out a different door that exited the ballroom closer to Saradoc's study. Esme and Lanti moved among the confused youngsters. As gently as possible they shushed the children's questions, herding them toward the door where the adults waited to congratulate them and claim their sons and daughters.

In the parlor, Fatty Bolger had just placed Barilac Brandybuck's king in check when a commotion in the hallway made him look up from the chessboard.

Into the room raced a frightful apparition. A tall creature in flowing black robes with a sword in its hand bore down upon the two chess players. Fatty shrieked. He then turned deathly pale before falling sideways out of his chair.

"No! No!" he screamed in terror. "They are gone! It's gone! I don't have it! No!" With that, he fainted.

The wooden toy sword fell from the hand of the black clad figure. A black tattered wool blanket slid from the head of Marroc Brandybuck, who was revealed to be sitting on the shoulders of his cousin, Falco Burrows.

"You had best put that all away and find your parents," Berilac said from where he had knelt on the floor beside Fatty. Barilac turned to unbutton Fatty's collar button, as he felt Fatty's wrist for his pulse.

"We were only playing," Falco managed to whisper. "We didn't mean to . . ." The terrified lad couldn't finish his sentence, as his cousin slipped down off of his shoulders.

Berilac looked up at the frightened young hobbits. "He will be alright. I know you meant no harm, but Fredegar here saw those things. They broke into the house he was in. It is no joking matter to him." Berilac could see the lads were sorry for what had happened and a thought came to him. "Would you like to help him?" he asked the youngsters.

"Yes!" replied two shaky voices.

"Then fetch him a glass of brandy, while I try to bring him around. And boys," he added, as they ran for the door. Falco and Marroc stopped and turned around. "No more such games. Is that clearly understood?"

"Yes, sir!" The boys replied, nodding, then they ran in search of the glass of brandy.

Berilac felt a hand grab his wrist. Fatty was staring wide eyed at him. "It is alright," he whispered as he took Fatty's hand in both of his. "It's alright, my dear friend. It was just two lads playing." Berilac reached up and started to smooth Fatty's hair back from his eyes and gently stroked his forehead. "Just two lads playing. They meant no harm, Fatty. They didn't know."

Merry had risen early. The light of day soon would be fading in the overcast sky, the others would be waking and he would lose his chance for a moment alone with Pippin. They were only a few days out from Rivendell on their journey to . . . Merry looked to the south-east, toward the evil land he suddenly did not feel like naming. He shivered a bit then turned to look off across the leagues to the west, toward where he knew the Shire lay. He swallowed hard as he thought of what this day had been like at the Hall. He looked over at Pippin and swallowed hard again. Merry nervously fingered the small object in his jacket pocket as he went over to where Pippin was sleeping.

Pippin startled a bit at a thump near his head but didn't come fully awake. A nudge at his shoulder and his cousin's voice made him open his eyes.

"What is it, Merry?" he said, sitting up a little too quickly then feeling slightly dizzy because of it. He realized the thump had been Merry sitting down hard on the firm ground beside him.

"Sshhh! Not too loud, Pippin. Everyone but Gimli is asleep, and I am hoping he won't bother us." Merry looked at the ground. He seemed as though something was troubling him.

"What is it, Merry?" Pippin asked again, nearly whispering this time. "Have I done something wrong?" He reached out to gently lay his hand on Merry's shoulder.

"No," Merry said, quickly looking up into Pippin's eyes before looking down again. "It is just . . . well . . . I . . . Do you know what day it is?"

Pippin let his hand drop from his cousin's shoulder while his gaze shifted from Merry to some point in the distance. "It's First Yule," he said flatly. "It occurred to me this morning, as we were setting up camp and while I was trying to fall asleep." A quizzical look came to Pippin's face and he brought his gaze back to Merry. "I am still not doing well with this sleeping during the day. Are you Merry?"

Merry shook his head but didn't say anything. He continued to look at the ground while fiddling with something in his pocket.

Pippin now looked down as well. He was getting uncomfortable with Merry's odd behavior. "Is it important that it is First Yule?" he asked quietly.

"I was thinking about home," Merry said softly, "about what would have been going on there today. Your family is at the Hall this year, you know."

"I know," Pippin said quietly. "Although," he paused and looked back off into the distance again, "I had not really planned on our being there, us leaving with Frodo and all. I had no idea when we might be back."

"I have something for you, well . . . something for us to share and something for you." Merry suddenly thrust out his hand. One of his handkerchiefs, the ends knotted together to make a little bag, rested on his palm. Pippin took it and untied the knots. Inside was some dried fruit, a small apple and some nut meats.

"I lifted some stuff when Sam wasn't looking," Merry said as a hint of a grin came to his lips.

"A Yule feast!" Pippin said chuckling, then he took out a small pocket knife and cut the apple in two. He held half out to Merry, but Merry made no move to take it. "You said it was for us to share. It is not a feast if we don't share it, Merry." Pippin held the piece of apple up under Merry's nose. Merry's grin broadened out as he took his piece of apple and bit into it. They made quick work of the apple, then Pippin started to get out a piece of walnut when Merry stuck his hand in the way and stopped him.

"Save it, Pip. Make it last awhile."

Pippin looked up and saw the odd, serious expression had returned to his cousin's face. "Right! Of course, save some for Second Yule," he said. Pippin looked down again as he tied the handkerchief back up.

"And there is this."

Pippin looked up and saw that Merry was holding out his hand again, closed with the palm down as though ready to drop something.

"Hold out your hand, Pippin," Merry said. As Pippin did so, Merry continued, "It's nothing much. I am afraid you will think it silly. I . . . I got to thinking that we might. . ." Merry was having trouble with his words. He wanted this to come out right, and they were running out of time. "We might get separated or . . . or . . . something, and I wanted you to have something of mine. A gift for Yule, you understand. You would have been getting a good many gifts if you were home, but I haven't anything much with me, so . . . here." Merry let something lightweight and soft fall into Pippin's hand.

Pippin looked carefully at the small white square of cloth that rested on his palm. Two edges of the cloth were hemmed but two were raw edges where the small piece had been cut from something larger. Then he saw it, in white thread finely embroidered on the white cloth, the initials MB. Pippin gently traced them with his finger tip.

"This is from one of those handkerchiefs that your Mum embroidered for you, isn't it?" Pippin said with awe in his voice.

"Yes," Merry answered, as he scrunched down to try to look at Pippin's face. He finally reached over and tucked a finger under his cousin's chin nudging him until he looked up. "You do not think it's silly of me, do you, Pip?"

"No, I do not!" Pippin said firmly as he leaned forward to hug Merry tightly. "It means you will not think me silly." Pippin pulled back and reached into his jacket pocket. "I will give it to you now, even though you should not really get your gift until second Yule, you being all grown up and all," Pippin said with a sly tone in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes. As Merry had, he held out his closed hand palm down and waited for Merry to place his open hand beneath before he let drop a small soft wad of fluff. Merry poked at the ball of fuzz. He saw it was threads, soft threads of grey, gold, brown and purple yarn. He looked wide-eyed into Pippin's shyly smiling face.

"I undid one of the tassels," Pippin said, his voice a soft whisper. He held up an end of his scarf to show the corner where a tassel was missing. "Because I thought we might get separated . . . or something . . . as you said. And I thought it might be a comfort . . ."

Merry's tight hug cut Pippin short, and for a few moments the two simply hugged each other.

"I got this from Sam," Merry said when they finally let go of each other. He held up a threaded needle for Pippin to see. "I thought I could sew the little bit to something, you know, so it won't get lost."

"A great idea, Merry!" Pippin said, suddenly cheerful. "I had wondered about that myself with the tassel but wouldn't have thought of sewing it!" Despite the cold he had started to unbutton his shirt as he spoke and now held back the left-hand side. "Here!" Pippin pointed to the inside of his shirt, "Sew it here, Merry."

With a few quick stitches the small piece of Merry's handkerchief was stitched to the inside of Pippin's shirt. The same was done with the tassel from Pippin's scarf in the same place on Merry's shirt. "Good Yule!" they said hugging once more, then gave each other a knowing look as they buttoned up their shirts. They heard the rest of the Fellowship stirring, and they got up to help break camp. Somehow, this night's march wouldn't seem as long or as dark.

IX

Second Yule

Festivity Perverted

There were no decorations to be seen, no sounds of holiday good tidings, but there were definitely feelings of joy in the hearts of the residents of Bag End. With no young children in the family, First Yule was ignored by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her son Lotho. But Second Yule found them enjoying a sizable mid-day meal along with the exchanging of a few gifts between the two of them. Come evening, for the first time in many years, they were expecting guests.

A hair clip of mithril set with small diamonds graced the greying dark brown hair of Lobelia, a golden necklace set with a large ruby rested on her chest just above the neckline of her dress. She reached up to caress the necklace. This was the way her life should have been for a long time, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins dressed in the finest satin and velvet, wearing the most opulent jewelry and firmly in place as mistress of Bag End. She and Lotho had given up all hope of calling the elegant hole home when old mad Bilbo went and adopted Frodo. But, after Bilbo's interesting disappearance at his eleventy-first birthday party, Frodo had started being a bit odd himself. Lobelia had begun to suspect that the new master of Bag End was as mad as the old one. Hope had risen up within her as she came to think that Frodo, like Bilbo, might just up and wander off. But when the lad actually sold Bag End to she and her son, well! The deal was done and done. There would be no mess with the lad coming back to claim the hole like that wretched Bilbo had.

"You have done more than well, Lotho," Lobelia said with a sigh of contentment. "You have acquired great wealth, properties and holdings. Much better than your puny little Father ever managed to do." She reached over and patted Lotho's hand. "And, you have the respect and business of folk from outside of the Shire, as well. Few hobbits have had that, you know. Perhaps," she said, as a harder edge crept into her voice, "perhaps you should exert yourself a little more. Be a bit bolder, my dear."

Lotho looked up from the ledger book for the Four Farthings Holdings that he had been going over to make the day even happier. He adored the long lines of ever increasing numbers. He was thrilled by each recording of rents collected, goods sold and new properties purchased.

"Bolder, Mother?" He fixed her with a distrustful gaze. Whatever did she have going on in that head of hers now?

"Yes, Lotho, bolder. Stop hiding behind this company of yours," she huffed and waved her hand at the ledger on his lap. "Let the boorish hobbits of the Shire see what those in Bree and southwards see. That you have become a brilliant businesshobbit and are worthy of their respect and admiration!" Lobelia's voice rose as new visions for her and her son rose in her mind. "You should be Mayor of the Shire!" She turned to Lotho with her face alight.

"Mayor, Mother?" Lotho furrowed his brow. "But the election is a couple of years off yet."

"A mere detail, son, a mere detail!" his mother exclaimed as she continued to warm to the idea. "We should, well, I will, do some looking into the matter. I'm sure there must be some way around having to wait for the election. There just must be some way that the richest, most powerful hobbit in the Shire can take his rightful place as its Mayor!"

"But what of the Tooks? What of 'His Royal Thain-ness' Paladin the Second?" Lotho asked with clear disdain for the Took clan and their inherited title. "Wouldn't he take over if somehow there is no longer a Mayor?"

Lobelia brought her hand to her chin, rubbed her lips with her forefinger and thought for a few moments. "I do not know," she replied slowly and softly. "I shall have to look into that as well, I think. It wouldn't do to have old Paladin and the whole of the Tooks getting in our way." A cold gleam came into her eyes. "Perhaps you will just need to hire a few more helpers. More hobbits who need gold in their pockets and more men with too much time on their hands, as well as too much ale in their bellies. With enough, how to say it . . . supporters, yes . . . with enough support behind you, I think there won't be much trouble from the Tooks. And let us not forget the Brandybucks! Buckland is a fertile field waiting for us to harvest it. We must not overlook Buckland in our plans."

Lotho was about to ask his Mother if she realized that she was talking about them taking over the whole of the lands populated by hobbits when a pounding on the door interrupted him. He set the ledger aside and, straightening his new brocade waistcoat as he went, made his way to entry hall of Bag End.

The three guests on the door step were well bundled against the cold north wind that whistled about The Hill. Lotho was well acquainted with two of his supper guests. Tad Foxburr, a hobbit of the South Farthing, had been working for Lotho for many years, doing many of the behind the scenes things that had enabled him to purchase the large amounts of Shire property that Lotho now held. Ron Fernberry, a man of Bree, had been his contact in Bree for a bit over two years, being the amount of time that Lotho had been selling pipe-weed both in Bree and to Ron's "southern buyer." The third, a southerner who was a bit taller than Ron Fernberry and broader through the chest and shoulders was a stranger to Lotho.

"Welcome all!" said Lotho as he waved them into the entry hall. He always felt a bit badly that the men had to stoop in order not to hit their heads on the ceilings of the old hole. "I'll take your cloaks."

"Haven't you got yourself a servant to be doing all this, Mr. Lotho?" asked Tad as he handed over his cloak.

Lotho gave a sigh of frustration. "Dear Mother will not hear of it," he said. He lifted his hand to his face with the back of it toward his mouth and lowed his voice. "She says you cannot trust anyone not to listen and then not to talk, but personally, I think the old dear is a bit daft." His guests joined him in his chuckling.

He escorted them into the parlor where they paid their respects to Lobelia before she went to begin setting out supper in the dinning room. The southerner at this point was introduced as Yengan.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Yengan," Lobelia gushed and held her hand out to the crouched over man. "How good it is to finally meet one of the people that we are aiding with the goods and supplies we are sending to the faraway south-lands."

Yengan made no move to take her hand. He did not glare at her. But his look was not complimentary, and she withdrew both her hand and herself rather awkwardly, nearly stumbling on her way out to tend to supper.

"Yes, well," Lotho said and cleared his throat. "I fear we have no chairs to suit you Men, but we moved some benches in so that you might be seated." He gestured to two benches with a sweep of his hand, and the two men and the two hobbits were seated.

"Now," said Lotho, "what have you all to say about the shipments? All up to expectations, I should hope."

The two men looked at each other, then Ron spoke. "We were goin' to be leavin' that for after we'd supped. But since you be bringin' it up now, we might as well get on about it and be done with."
"It is not nearly enough for our needs, little one," Yengan said. His voice was as greasy as his dark lank hair, and his squinted eyes gleamed dangerously. "There's . . . needs," he continued with an odd emphasis on the last word. "Needs which aren't bein' met by your . . . efforts." Again there was weight given to the last word he uttered.

Lotho was quite taken aback. He had not in the least expected to be told the goods provided had been inadequate. "I . . . well," he cleared his throat again. "Surely they cannot be too short of the need? With the aid of the extra . . . er . . . helpers that you all provided, we have collected not only from my renters and tenants but also from some of the larger farms round about Hobbiton as well." He relaxed a bit at this and tented his fingers together in front of his lips. "Mind, it has been quite the satisfying experience, taking as much from them as possible at this time of year." His eyes gleamed at his guests over the tops of his fingers. "A holiday of ours, you see. Such excess they are all accustomed to! Gifts for their wee children and food by the ton! Little did they care when the Sackville-Baggins had little with which to celebrate; when I got few if any gifts, and those of shoddy quality. It has been rather a . . . pleasure," he drew out the word as if to savor it, "to take some of the overage away from the lazy louts." He paused for a bit then lowered his hands and more directly addressed the men and the hobbit sitting opposite him. "But truly, you need more? I do not see how that can be done without a certain amount of risk."

"Unless," began Ron Fernberry, but he was cut off by Tad Foxburr.

"Unless you take your proper place here 'bouts in the Shire." Tad looked at each of the men and then continued. "I live in the South Farthing now, but until 'bout fifteen years ago I moved 'bout a fair bit. I know there be a goodly number, no majority mind, but a goodly number that wouldn't at all mind a different way of runnin' things. Tired they be of Mayors and Thains and Masters. Ready they be to side with someone who rules because he's got the power, power to bring things more to level. More to where there ain't no high and mighty Tooks and Brandybucks."

Tad finished, and an odd silence draped itself over the room. Lotho could hardly believe it. What Tad said was exactly what his mother had said before the three guests had arrived; that he should be Mayor and take control of the Shire. And why not, he thought. He already owned vast portions of it.

"You think this is possible, Tad?" Lotho looked hard at the other hobbit.

"Oh, aye, Mr. Lotho! All that needs be done is have something happen to old Flourdumpling Whitfoot, the Mayor. Then quick as a wink we have them as is on our side come on as extra Sherriffs, and without hardly a blink you'd be the one in charge as the Sherriffs would answer to you and all the Shire folk would answer to them."

Suddenly the wonder of it all seized Lotho's mind. He could have it all! They would all dance to his tune or pay the price, and he would even set the price! He started seeing "his Shire." No wretched ale in their wretched inns and taverns. He would never forget what the stuff had done to his sniveling worm of a Father. In fact, there would be no inns and taverns! No traveling about without his knowing. No one had helped he and his Mother while his Father wasted away, so there would be no helping one another either. No taking someone into one's home. He would no longer hide behind the Four Farthings Holdings! He would no longer work in the shadows! He owned the Shire, now he would run the Shire! The plans grew like mildew in his brain.

Great plots were afoot in the wide world; the wide world of Middle-earth which the Hobbits of the Shire had chosen to blithely ignore for so many, many years. Lotho Sackville-Baggins did not realize that he was a mere pawn, one amongst many such as himself, on this immense chessboard. He assumed his thoughts and actions were his own, products of his own brilliance. And that was what he was meant to think.

If the Hobbits had bothered to open their minds, if they had ventured forth heading east along the Great East Road down the Greenway to where it joined the North Road to Tharbad where it changed its name to become the South Road and then further yet, they would have come at last upon the cleft in the end of the Misty Mountains, the Wizard's Vale, where lies the enclosure known as Isengard. There in the tall, glistening black tower of Orthanc dwelt Saruman The White, head of the White Council, the greatest of the Order of the Istari. He was given to thinking himself the most powerful piece on the chessboard of Middle-earth, although, he would not have wanted to be likened to a queen. He fancied himself the eventual master of the board, the power that moved the pieces at will. But his ego felled him as orc-axes had begun to fell the trees within the circle of Isengard and the Wizard's Vale stripping it bare. The poison had been fed to his eager mind with slow patience over many long years, dripped and dribbled into his thoughts so subtly that he hadn't been aware of his thoughts being guided, nurtured until he had become a powerful puppet on strings of steel being made to dance in the drama of the age.

Past the now desecrated Wizard's Vale, the road once again changes its name. It is now called the Great West Road, and our Hobbits traveling upon it would come thence to Minas Tirith. From there, from the White City of Men, the Hobbits could see Mordor, realm of the Dark Lord, Sauron. There behind the Moutains of Shadow the power that moved the puppet and the pawn had grown, flexing its muscles, testing the times until each covert move could be properly executed. Each move built upon the last, a game played by a master until this time when these moments had arrived. And he was only missing One Piece.

Lotho began plotting his takeover of the Shire on the first day of the new year. He got out a map of the Shire, all his deeds, and a red pencil, then carefully began shading in all the property he owned, or was owned by those backing him. His attention went back and forth from the deeds to the map. After nearly two hours he was finished, sitting back with a sigh to survey the result. His sigh turned into a gasp. He had not expected what he saw before him. A good two-thirds of the map was red! There were small, isolated white spots scattered about, family holdings he had been unable to obtain or with owners who would not accept the new ideas that his spies had been promoting. Also, he didn't really own the towns he had shaded with red, but he did own a good many of the shops and services in each of them. He chuckled to himself at how easy it all had been. A phony inspector telling the owner that the timbers in his building had rot or an infestation of termites. Was the business or holding on a river? Then it was a simple matter to spread rumors of a dam to be built down stream that would be flooding the area. With ease those he hired snuck amongst the fields on moonless nights to damage the crops and, then his inspector would arrive to declare the soil blighted. "Better sell out whilst you can!" he would advise the distraught farmer.

But Lotho's smile faded as he irritably tapped near the center of the map with the red pencil. Glaring white in his ocean of red sat Tookland. There the pattern of red and white reversed. There it was white with a few red speckles. His eyes moved to the right side of the map. His tapping grew more agitated. Buckland. Buckland sat even more untouched than that wretched Tookland! There was no red at all in the pristine white of Buckland. Lotho pulled a piece of paper out of the drawer of his desk and with the red pencil began jotting down ideas of how he could turn those brilliant white patches crimson. Eventually he sat back, held up the paper to skim down it's lines of writing and see if he had covered everything. He reached for a page of notes he had written earlier to compare the two. He would send word today to his business associates in Bree outlining his plans to them. It would take some time to move the Men he needed into the Shire, to position them in the larger size towns in each one of the Farthings without attracting undue attention. The gathering had slowed to a trickle for now. But Lotho determined that before month's end, he would have his gatherers hard at work throughout the Shire, including both Buckland and Tookland, with himself established as the new Mayor of the Shire.

As the first weeks of S.R. 1419 passed, Thain Paladin II's anxiety grew. There were Tooks in every Farthing of the Shire, with a good many in Buckland as well, most of whom recognized The Took as head of the family, so information, both written and oral, came to the Great Smials on a near daily basis. Although the gathering of goods and stores from the farms owned by the Four Farthings Holdings had nearly ceased, reports were reaching Paladin of increased sightings of small groups of Men in the Shire. They were camping in wooded areas and places where small valleys amongst the rolling hills would shield them from casual observation. Some were even staying at the few inns along the Great East Road that had a larger room or two from days long past when Men had more often crossed through the Shire on their way from Bree west to The Sea. The innkeepers were suddenly having to clean out those Big Folk sized rooms that had long been used for storage.

Paladin sat back in his chair. He crossed his left arm over his mid-section to rest comfortably on the small ledge his stomach provided. He rested his right elbow into his left palm and brought his right hand up to rest the back of his thumb against his lips. His forefinger curled around the tip of his thumb, and he absently started to rub the space between his nose and lip. He was not at ease in his thoughts. There was something going on. He could sense it. Paladin's eyebrows raised a bit at that thought. Sensing things was more his dear sister, Esmeralda's, area of expertise, born as she was with that Tookish oddness that she wore like a mantle, marking her as one of the more unhobbitlike Tooks. Paladin sighed and closed his eyes. Maybe some of that oddness had found its way into him after all. Maybe it had needed a threat to make it active in his brain. He smiled. The family always joked about his being found under a large mushroom somewhere, he was so unlike his eccentric relations. Paladin's smile faded as the sense of danger drawing near returned. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose, making his skin tingle. Trouble was coming, he knew for a fact. Perhaps he was not such a different Took after all.

The study at Brandy Hall was snug and warm despite the growing cold outside. This winter was showing itself to be colder than most with the usual light snowfalls coming more frequently than in years past. Saradoc Brandybuck sat, not in the imposing chair behind his desk, but instead in one of the smaller wing-backed chairs which faced the desk. He sat there often so as not to forget what it was that visiting Hobbits saw as they sat in his office. Saradoc didn't much care for it. The large desk with it's large leather chair was too overbearing for his tastes, though he understood their purpose well enough.

The Oldbucks had made a radical move by crossing the Brandywine and settling the stip of clear, arable land between the river and the Old Forest. They built the Hall in a way so as to let every Hobbit know that the family that was henceforth known as the Brandybucks would be both powerful and stable. The Master's study held that same aura of power and substance.

Saradoc sighed. After a few more moments he rose to go sit in the chair behind the desk to begin his day's work. A sizable stack of letters sat upon the blotter awaiting his perusal. Some of these were letters from his relatives who lived in the Shire as opposed to Buckland where the bulk of the Brandybucks live. Most of these were the usual telling of the details of the year past and good wishes for the new year now upon them. But here and there amongst the homey news, tucked in between the talk of children and crops, were more disturbing items. Men were moving into the Shire. Small groups here and there, crossing the Brandywine without using the bridge. The cold weather was helping the Men in this as the river had frozen over in places where the current was less strong.

From Hobbiton came the news that a new mill was being built to replace the one that had been torn down. This mill was different from any other the hobbits of Hobbiton had seen. It seemed to need more parts than was normal, huge wheels and cogs and axles and pulleys. The water wheel seemed too big for The Water and, as with the tearing down of the old mill, the work of raising the new mill was being done by Men. Mills in other towns were being demolished with similar new ones being built, along with poorly built, ugly shacks the purpose of which no one seemed to know.

A knock at his study door interrupted yet another disturbing letter, which he set aside as the young hobbit maid brought in the tray with his elevenses on it. He set down the letter he had been reading but made no move for the food on the tray. He stared off blankly while his mind tried to process all he had been reading. Maybe his brother-in-law had been right after all. Maybe there was something deeper, darker at work in the Shire; and although it seemed to be leaving Buckland untouched, perhaps he would be wise not to ignore it.

Esmeralda Brandybuck sat in her sitting room looking through an odd assortment of items. Letters, diaries, drawings, miniature portraits and the images housed in delicate lockets lay scattered on her desk. One could say the items were stolen, as they did not belong to this household nor did they truly belong to Esmeralda. Although she was a Took by birth, she had married a Brandybuck; and these items ought to have remained at the Great Smials. But Esme needed them. She had brought many of them with her when she first came to Brandy Hall as a new bride, then she asked Eglantine to bring the rest when her brother and sister-in-law had come to visit at Yule. Now she had found her answers.

Her fingers went to rest on the diaries and letters that had told her what she hoped they would, while fearing the same thing. Secrets written long ago. Mothers, sisters, aunts, all of whom loved a Took father, brother or uncle who had looked uncannily like themselves; bearers of those strange characteristics that most Hobbits referred to as "Tookish", but she knew were something else altogether. They had all been hobbitesses bound by love and the Fairy blood to a Took who had left the Shire to go adventuring. And now, now she knew for a certainty what she had missed before.

"Missed or avoided?" she softly asked aloud to herself.

She had seen things in her sleeping. She had felt and seen things in her waking. And her female Took ancestors had done the same. By matching writings to portraits it was plain to see this happened only to the delicate, sharp featured, green-eyed Tooks born with the Fairy blood that ran in the family, never the ones who married in. Esmeralda closed her eyes as she sighed. She was bound by Fairy blood to her nephew, and the bonds were growing stronger. She was feeling little odd feelings. Her skin would tingle as though she was afraid of something; her heart would suddenly start thudding and racing; or a sudden feeling of being anxious would wash over her. She would see things she had never seen before in her dreams. Different from the times that she knew she was sharing an experience with Pippin, but yet . . . she would awaken with a surety, that to some degree, what the dream showed was what was happening to Pippin, Merry, Frodo and Sam, wherever they had gone.

There had been a lull in Esmeralda's odd feelings and dreams from near the end of Winterfilth until nearly the end of Foreyule, then things began to happen. First it had been physical things. Her legs and feet ached when she awoke as though she had spent the night sleepwalking from one end of Great Smials to the other. She would wake during the night feeling hungry or as though she had eaten a meal too quickly. And then, as the physical annoyances began to ease, her emotions had begun to trouble her. Esme would catch herself looking over her shoulder, feeling as though she was being followed. Slight sounds made her jumpy; and only a few days ago a noisy flock of birds had left her cowering on her knees with her arms up over her head. Esmeralda released another long sigh. At least when that had happened she had been alone in her sitting room, yet the feelings of watchful dread were still haunting her now.

Author's note: Many thanks to all of you who are reading, and responding to this story, especially as it does not feature Merry, Pippin, Frodo and Sam. If you have questions and don't have your email listed at the site where you read this, you may contact me at radicalmomssr@yahoo.com . Your comments and responses are very important to me, thank you again!

Pearl Took

11 Afteryule, S.R. 1419 dawned with stark, bright sunshine but biting cold temperatures. Steady columns of smoke rose from every chimney in Bree, Buckland and the Shire. Dry, cozy Hobbit holes enticed their occupants to stay indoors; only farmers with livestock bothered to venture outside. There wasn't a room in Brandy Hall that was without a fireplace, excepting the storerooms, closets and pantries. Not to mention there were wool and flannel blankets and garments in every wardrobe and linen closet. Not a wee hobbit babe in it's cradle nor the oldest gaffers and gammers at the Hall were bothered much by the unusual cold.

The same could not be said for the Mistress of Brandy Hall. Esmeralda Brandybuck spent the day merely feeling chilled, but nightfall found her chill deepening until she sat huddled in a chair by her fireplace, wrapped in a quilt which she had over her warmest sweater, woolen dress, flannel petticoats and knitted wool leggings. She even wrapped up her furry feet in what was actually a lap robe, yet the chill deep within her remained. Her maid fairly loaded the Master and Mistress's bed with warming bricks. Esme wore two of her heaviest flannel nightgowns to bed, yet as the night wore on, Saradoc was awakened by his wife's shivering. He rolled over to snuggled up against her back, his right arm wrapped around her hugging her close. Esme soon quit shivering, but she mumbled in her troubled sleep. Saradoc held her close, while murmuring loving assurances in her ear.

"Esmeralda?"

She heard her name as though it came from far away and she struggled to find a way to answer.

"Esmeralda, dear," Saradoc said taking her face gently in his hands then kissing her forehead and the tip of her pointed nose. "Wake up, Esme!" he spoke more loudly this time.

"I am trying to, my dearest husband." Esme's voice was thick with sleep. She opened one eye after drawing a deep breath. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

"It is. And I'll have you know, young hobbitess, that the Master of this smial himself has carried it from the kitchen to your bedside." Saradoc smiled lovingly at his wife, while with a gentle touch he moved a few errant curls out or her eyes. "He must think very highly of you," he added with a little grin playing about his lips.

Esme smiled a wry smile before stretching and yawning. "You," she mumbled before quite finishing her stretch, "you, sir, must be losing your eyesight. 'Young hobbitess,' indeed!" she huffed, but her smile grew bigger.

Saradoc laughed as he helped his wife to sit up. He plumped up the pillows behind her and wrapped her favorite shawl around her shoulders before kissing her on the top of her head.

"The number of years that have passed have little to do with anything, my love." He set the breakfast tray across her lap, then pulled the cloth off of it with a flourish, bowing as he draped it over his arm. With a sigh he sat in the chair he had drawn up to the side of the bed. "I've cousins ten years younger than me who behave as though they are in their dotage, while you, my Tookish bride, never seem to act your age."

"Meaning that I act childishly?" Esmeralda spoke slowly with a sly grin, as she poured tea from the small porcelain tea pot into her delicate floral painted tea cup.

Saradoc's mouth hung open as he realized his words had not quite meant what he had intended. "Well, no!" he finally exclaimed. "No, of course not, eh, no dear!"

"No, of course not!" Esme laughed as she stirred a large amount of honey into her tea. "All eighty-two year old hobbitesses go sliding with the lads and lasses on frozen ponds." She took her husband's hand in hers and kissed it. "You really should have been out with us two days ago before this bitter cold set in. We did have a grand time." They looked at each other lovingly, her green eyes sparkling with the childlike delight that belied her years. Being mindful of the tray, Saradoc leaned over to kiss Esme. The coolness of her lips brought back to his mind the reason he had brought her breakfast to her.

"Are you still feeling chilled, my love? Your lips feel a bit cool." His deep blue eyes looked concerned, as his brows drew together over the bridge of his nose.

"No," she said softly, as she reached to lay her hand to his cheek. "Well, perhaps a bit cool-ish yet. Not nearly like last night. Merry's eyes are just like yours." Esme caressed Saradoc's face as tears began to blur her vision.

"Is that what is troubling you, dear? Is worry for the lads what is chilling you so?" Saradoc rose, took the tray from the bed then set it on the floor. He sat down on the bed beside his wife and pulled her into a firm hug, rubbing her back as she began to cry. Tears ran down his own cheeks while he gently rocked her. "I am sure they are all well. They have most likely decided to wait out this nasty weather someplace where they are warm and dry. We will see them come the warmer weather, I'm certain." He said this aloud, but his heart clenched within his chest. He felt no certainty at all. In truth, he had begun to doubt he would ever see his dear son, impish nephew, nor Frodo and Samwise again. Esme clung to her husband. She knew their loved ones were alive, though she also knew the deep cold she felt was somehow tied to them, to what they were enduring. She wept because she missed her son. She wept for her nephew, her cousin and their friend. She wept from the growing knowledge within her that worse things were yet to come, both away with their lads and at home, in Buckland and the Shire.

Gradually, the tears of the Master and Mistress of Brandy Hall subsided. Esme ate her breakfast, then she rose to dress warmly for the day. The deep chill left her, but the sense of watchful dread did not.

Away to the east, and a bit to the south, the Fellowship spent the day struggling to leave Caradhras the Cruel behind. The mountain pass had been denied them. Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin were still deeply chilled, though the work of climbing back down the mountain warmed them somewhat. The snow no longer fell, and the clouds soon broke, moving away to the west and a bit to the north.

In Hobbiton, Gaffer Gamgee pressed his head to the round window of #3 Bagshot Row in an effort to see better off to the east. Daddy Twofoot's middle son had come by to see if Bell and the Gaffer were set well for firewood and had brought with him the news that the bitter cold did not seem to be slowing down the work on the tarred sheds that had sprung up on the north side of the Grange. The Gaffers eyes weren't the best, but not the worst either. He could see the glint of little fires that burned for warming the workers and heating the tar. He turned away from the window with a sigh.

"Somethin' amiss, Ham?" Bell asked him, anxiousness edging her voice. She sat close to the fire in their parlour, a shawl about her shoulders and a lap robe tucked around her legs. Her feet where on a cushioned footstool as close to the fire as they could safely be. The clicking of her knitting needles had stopped when she asked her question.

"Yea and nay," Hamfast replied, as he eased himself down into his chair. "Yes, there be things amiss, but nought that is new. Dimm Twofoot was just by, and I was tryin' to see a bit of what he told me. Said they was workin' on them shacks down yonder by t' Grange. Workin' in this cold, mind!"

"And are they?"

"Aye, I could see the light o' their fires." The Gaffer shook his head, then took a glance back toward the window. "Can't for the life o' me figure out what is so all mighty important about them sheds that any fool would be out in this here nasty cold to be buildin' on them."

"Well," Bell sighed as her knitting needles resumed their clicking, "I would think it be none o' our business, but they are an ugly eyesore, and that's a fact."

"Still has me wonderin' though," the Gaffer said in a thoughtful tone, as he reached for his whittling. "Whatever are they a buildin' them ugly things for?"

Life and business at the Prancing Pony should have quieted down after the Little Folk's Yule celebrations and the Big Folk and Little celebrating the New Year. This year, however, business was still booming. Barliman Butterbur looked about his common room as he dried off the bar from yet another drunken patron sloshing his ale. The room was nearly full as it had been non-stop since about the time of the incident with Bill Ferny and Harry Goatleaf, full of rough and oft-times sinister looking men from away southwards.

Old Barliman sighed. He should be glad of the business. There would be no need to tend to the pennies as closely as in years past. No, there was a feel to this lot that he did not like, and he wished they would take their business elsewhere. But elsewhere was busy too. There was only one other inn in Bree, a disreputable place that barely stayed in business. This year it was bursting at the seams, it being much more to the liking of this crowd than the Pony. He shook his head as he took an order for another round at the table by the windows. He was being run ragged since the Hobbit barmaid who had been hurt by Bill Ferny's friend had quit, not that Barliman blamed her. He had paid for the healer and given her double the usual severance pay. And the little Hobbit chambermaid had quit as well, saying that the new guests were talking to her and looking at her in ways that scared her. Yes, business was good at the Prancing Pony, but it's keeper was not glad of it.

Eglantine Took could scarcely believe she was doing what she was doing. She stood in the tunnel outside her husband's study and was listening through the door. 'It has come to this,' she thought. 'Listening at the door like some gossipy servant.' But she needed to know what was going on. Old Grigory Took had come to call on The Took and that was a cause for concern. Old Grig was known far and wide as a Took who had little respect for the office of The Took, even less for the office of Thain of the Shire. He had been a thorn in the flesh of The Took and Thain since Fortinbras II held the titles, and that put it back a few years. Eglantine could only hear snatches of the conversation.

"Naught to worry about," came Old Grig's voice.

" . . . concerned . . . inadequate supplies . . ." That was Paladin.

"Trustworthy . . . Four Farthins Holdins . . . no fear . . ." droned Old Grig's scratchy voice.

"They are afraid . . . Men . . . Hobbiton, Michel Delving, Long Bottom . . . in fields . . ."

" . . . nonsense . . . false reports . . ."

Eglantine suddenly heard the voices more clearly, as they had risen and turned toward the door. She quickly scooted into a storeroom just a short way down the tunnel, closing the door behind her as she heard the study door opening.

"Thank you for your time, Grigory, and I will keep all you have told me in mind." Paladin's tone was strained and formal.

"You just do that!" Old Grig snapped back. "Show you got more sense than the last two idiots who held your titles. They didn't have the sense between 'em to make even one good decision. This here that we've talked about will be good for the Shire, good for us Hobbits. You'd be makin' the biggest mistake you can if you don't see that!"

Lanti slumped against the door of the storeroom. None of this sounded good. Now she understood her husband's long silences and quick temper. Nothing had changed from what had been going on before Yule. While over and above it all, hung the gloomy cloud of their only son and their dear nephew being gone. Just the other day she had happened upon Paladin, standing in their bedchamber, holding the small charcoal portrait of Pippin in its frame to his chest, his head hung in despair. It had been awhile since she had heard from Esme, as well. She had written of a horrible experience on her way home back in early Winterfilth. It has been another time of seeing through their dear Pippin's eyes. A terrifying event involving those hideous Black Riders that had so badly frightened Fredegar at the little house in Crickhollow. Esme wrote that for nearly the whole month of Winterfilth a deathly gloom had hung over her, but that it eventually lifted. Then, while Lanti and Paladin had been at the Hall for Yule, Esme said only that there had been nothing for the longest time. But after 25 Foreyule she had vague feelings of soreness, hunger and a sense of being pursued but knew that all four of the missing hobbits were alive and well. Since the Yuletide visit, there had been nothing. No word concerning Esme knowing how their sons, their dear studious cousin and the lads' good friend were doing. Eglantine drew in a deep breath and held her head high. She was a healer. She dealt with pain and sorrow often, so she could deal with this. But her heart still ached within her as she left the storeroom to take her afternoon tea with Paladin.

At Brandy Hall Esmeralda went to bed the night of 12 Afteryule glad that she had finally warmed up as the day had progressed. It was good to snuggle into her bed wearing only one nightgown and without quite as much weight from extra blankets. Her dreams came and went as dreams are wont to do, flitting from one thing to another. Some were the type that seem to be really happening, while others were those that even in the dream she knew things were not quite right. As they wound around in her mind, she began to notice something that moved through them all at the edge of her thoughts but was unidentifiable. Eventually, in her dream, she was outside in the falling snow, and a hobbit who seemed vaguely familiar was approaching her along the road.

"A good afternoon to you, lass!" hailed the old hobbit. "Nasty bit of weather for you to be out and about in."

"It appears so," replied a bewildered Esme.

"Been snowing and blowing since Blotmath and has nary slowed a bit." The old hobbit was now near enough for Esmeralda to better see his face. Bright green eyes set in a sharp featured face lifted slightly to meet her gaze. The old one was a Took, and a Took with the Fairy blood running in his veins. "Folks won't soon be forgetting the winter of late 1311 and early 1312 Why the Brandywine is all frozen over and there is talk, though how it spreads about with everyone snowbound I can't say, but talk is that there are White Wolves raiding the Shire!"

Esme gasped and a shiver ran through her. 1311 and 1312 The Fell Winter! She heard again the sound that had been floating at the edge of her hearing-- the howling of wolves! She trembled again.

"Young one," the old hobbit said as he touched her arm in concern. "You have gone rather pale all of a sudden. Let me take you home. There's a good lass," he added as Esme allowed herself to be turned and guided down the road. The thought drifted through her mind that the old hobbit's sight must be horribly poor to call an eighty-two year old hobbitess 'young one'. "My father, Gerontius Took," the old hobbit continued, "is The Took and Thain. He would never forgive me if I left you out wandering in this dreadful snow and cold. Come along with me to Great Smials. Oh, and my name is Hildigrim Took, and I am at your service, young lass."

She looked at him with wonder in her eyes. He was her own grandfather! But, he was dead! She had barely known him. They walked along until they came to a sharp bend in the road. The blazing colors of autumn swirled on the wind that brought the howling of the wolves ever more loudly to her ears. Her Grandfather was gone as was the snow choked road. Before her lay a barely discernable path leading into the fiery autumn woods.

The woods surrounded her. The sound of the wind faded away, but the howling of wolves lingered, mixed now with the sound of sparkling laughter. The laughter came from ahead of her, then to the left, ahead again, then behind making Esmeralda spin and turn till she was nearly dizzy in the effort to find its source.

"Here," came a melodic whisper.

Esme spun to her right to see a female being standing before her. Her hair was a rich reddish golden color with autumn leaves caught in the wild tresses. She was only slightly shorter than Esme, though much more slender in build. Her face was as pale as starlight, her chin and nose sharply pointed, her cheekbones high, yet over all was a sense of delicacy that lent beauty to the sharp features. Green eyes that flashed and sparkled like old Gandalf's fireworks shone out from the dainty face.

"Fear me not, child of my child. No spells shall I place upon you, nor shall I befuddle your mind. Be at peace with me." She approached on silent feet until less than an arm's length of space stood between them. Her head tipped to one side in a charming manner as she looked intently into Esmeralda's eyes. "Dreams have rules unto themselves," she said, speaking to the question that had been in Esme's mind. "And what is not allowed in Arda is allowed herein. What would not be real there can be real here, my child."

Esme felt her fear for herself leave her but ever growing with the howling of the wolves was fear for Merry, Pippin, Frodo and Sam. Their faces came quickly to her mind's eye, and her heart ached. The Fairy, for so Esme knew her to be, sighed and reached out her hand to softly touch Esmeralda's abdomen.

"Your child, who is not one of mine, has gone with my young Tookling on a perilous adventure, has he not?" The flute-like tones of her voice had dropped to a sadder pitch.

"Yes," came the first word Esme had uttered.

Again the sparkling green eyes of the Fairy and the softer green eyes of the Hobbitess met, and Esme felt the pull that she knew her own eyes held, though stronger and more practiced.

"Hearts bound together. Spirits entwined. Cousins brother-like. Nephews son-like. Love binding all together like the strands of a rope, each strengthens the others." The stars in the green eyes of the Fairy sparkled. "I will give to you, child of my child, and to she who is mother to my young Tookling falcon, what comfort I am able to give. You must share this with her, share it to strengthen the rope, to bind the hearts more tightly together." The Fairy raised her hand to gently caress Esmeralda's cheek. "Child of my child, your son, who is not one of mine, is strong of heart. He will help bravery to grow in my young Tookling. He will keep him from flying too high. But your son allows his cares to grow into ponderous weights. My Tookling will keep his heart light in the dark and remind him of the joy they seek to save. These words are for you, child of my child, and for my young Tookling's sorrowing mother. You will remember them.

In peaceful Shire tending a field,

On the sea foam or where mountain stone does not yield.

Forget not that where ere they roam,

I always, forever, care for my own."

The Fairy brought her other hand up to cradle Esmeralda's face, then she kissed the little rivers of her tears. "I will care for my own as best as I am able, and those they treasure with them: you, child of my child, and she who is dear to both you and my young Tookling; my young Tookling who tries his wings and the one he loves as a brother; the one who bears the burden and the friend who gives care to them all."

Esme awoke on the 13^th day of Afteryule with the knowledge that she had to visit Eglantine filling her head and the smell of the woods in the autumn fading around her.

Old Otho Sackville-Baggins had been one of life's poor souls for whom nothing seemed to go the way he wanted. A mama's boy who many thought might never marry, a dreamer whose dreams would evaporate in the light of close scrutiny and whose schemes all turned to sawdust. When he finally had proposed and been accepted the gossips of the whole Shire had been a-buzz. "Have you heard? Otho Sackville-Baggins is finally a-marryin'! But why he's hitchin' himself to that Bracegirdle wench is beyond anyone's knowin'. 'Twill be she what rules under that roof and no doubt! Ta' poor hobbit, can't even choose a wife with his eyes open!"

Otho choose Lobelia Bracegirdle for her beauty. She said yes to his money and family reputation. Not that the Bracegirdles were poor by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren't Bagginses, nor even Sackville-Bagginses. Otho would have been wise to have paid closer mind to the firm set of Lobelia's lovely lips and the lines that were already in place on her pretty face from too much frowning. As with most of Otho's decisions this had been a poor one. When the deal was done and done, he had married a harridan.

The tavern was a fine place to leave one's problems (and one's wife) behind, or so Otho thought. The usually jovial company, the warmth of the open hearth in the cool, damp months or a table under a shade tree in the warm dry months, with deals to be drawn up, opportunities to pursue and ale in unending supply. Otho was soon home less and less while away more and more. Talk was that if their only child hadn't been conceived in their first few months of marriage he wouldn't have been conceived at all. And while every grand scheme of Otho's soured, his wife lived as though to the Great Smials or Brandy Hall born. "The best of everything and everything at it's best!" was Lobelia's battle cry. It was only the passing of Lobelia's father five years after their marriage that kept them from the perceived indignity of having to find gainful employment. After that, Otho lived on the dole from his wife while Lobelia handled all the family finances. It was, after all, her money. Unlike her husband, Lobelia was a shrewd businesshobbit. Through her savvy investments and questionable deals the family was able to maintain a reasonable standard of living for many years.

It was when Otho's health began to fail that things started to fall apart. He had his first major illness in S.R. 1402, and shortly thereafter the creditors began sending their notices. Soon they were sending burly hobbits to knock on the door of Otho and Lobelia's home demanding their payment. Otho had been borrowing against his wife's money. Tabs at his favorite inns and taverns, gambling debts, failed business ventures all handled with assurances that it could be covered easily with Lobelia's money. He had paid just enough to keep them at bay but because of interest the amounts due had actually grown. Lobelia covered them all. For a couple of years their son Lotho went to stay with relatives. To some it was said he was with relatives in the North Farthing, to others it was told he had gone east or west, but never in the South Farthing where the stories were easily checked upon. In truth he had gone to Bree. He had worked for a distant cousin of Lobelia's in his emporium, living on next to nothing while sending the bulk of his pay home to his Mother. She had soon set them on a sound financial foundation, and though things had been tight they were able to keep up the appearance of being a family of more than moderate means.

Lobelia never had a good word for any of her neighbors, except to their faces. They were all jealous she said, not to be trusted as they would turn on her and Lotho the first chance they got. When Otho fell ill, offers of help came from the towns folk and his family. Lobelia burned them all without telling Lotho of their existence. She told him instead that they were totally forsaken with no help available. She felt that if he knew help was available, he would not have gone to Bree. That and she would not have herself being beholden to anyone. In her mind every offer of help carried the double meaning of those other hobbits now gloating over her, mocking her high style of living while laughing up their sleeves.

As with the neighbors, Lotho had never heard a kind word for his father from Lobelia. She ran down everything about her husband and his family while he always behaved like a whipped dog whenever he was home. Otho Sackville-Baggins died in S.R. 1412. His wife and son attended the sparse funeral with not a tear shed between them. His only mourners were a few of the henpecked hobbits who, like himself, had spent their time at the inns and taverns to escape their miserable homes.

While in Bree Lotho had learned that pipeweed from the Shire was highly prized. So soon after returning to Sackville, he began to purchase acreage planted in the crop. His outside connections paid off enabling him to buy more acreage, then whole plantations and other types of farms and businesses as well. He had no love for the Shire. He hated it's forests and streams, and he hated the land except for whatever profit they could make for him. He hated his fellow Hobbits. He saw them as selfish, conniving, greedy and mean spirited while he saw himself as working for the betterment of their sorry lot in life, a talented planner and wanting only what was his due. The black clouds in his soul had grown darker as his father had lingered. By the time of Otho's death they were barely contained. In 1418 S.R., by the time Bag End came up for sale and the money for the purchase was of no consequence to Lotho Sackville-Baggins, the storm within him was roiling. The move to Hobbiton now fit his plans quite nicely. He should live in the town that lay at the heart of his Shire. It was the thirteenth day of Afteryule. The cloudburst was near, and the tempest would blast the old Shire away.

In Bree, in a dark corner of the Prancing Pony, Yengan was holding a meeting with his cohorts. He had been escorted out of town with Bill Ferny and Harry Goatleaf but had been snuck back into the town by their followers who had stayed on the fringe of the fight. A map of the Shire lay unrolled on the table with the unsavory group hunched over it.

"Natuck, how many neigh to Hobbiton?" queried Yengan.

"We has ten as is already in ta town a workin' at ta buildin'. There be another ten in pairs all 'round 'bout it in ta country side."

"Grimlock, what of Michel Delvin'?" Yengan tapped his grubby finger at the town on the map.

"Twenty all told there 'bouts as well, Yengan. All knowin' their tasks."

"Moctok?" Yengan looked up from under his brows at Moctok.

"I's got ta Bridge and ta Great East Road through ta Michel Delvin'. All's ready and waitin'. Our men at the Bridge, our men in ta fields and such along ta road, our men in ta inns what had rooms big enough." Yengan gave Moctok a nod.

"Slengan, what of your territories?"

"We's ready and eager. We be fifty of us a hidin' in ta woods near their runty town o' Woodhall an' another thirty in ta hills an' woods 'round 'bout Tuckborough. The lads near ta Woodhall will move up close to Stock when the time comes, then can be in Buckland real quick like. We's got some work crews in other towns what are gettin' new mills. No problems."

Yengan continued to tap the map thoughtfully. "All o' you better be understandin' that we needs be careful. We needs keep up it lookin' like Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins is the boss. We will get as many o' their own kind to work under us as we can. Sharkey's orders. We don't rile them overmuch so as they think 'bout fightin' us. They must not know what's hit 'em. Not that the little rats could do us harm!" Yengan leered and laughed. "Soon, " he gloated and spread his hand on the map. It covered most of the Shire. "Soon."

Esme and Saradoc Brandybuck had not parted company easily. For reasons he simply could not understand, that she seemed unable to adequately explain, she had insisted on taking a trip to Great Smials.

"Esmeralda, no," Saradoc had said as patiently as he could after fifteen minutes of discussing the matter. "It is frightfully cold. One of our light snows is falling and might actually accumulate. There are . . . ," he hesitated. He had not wanted to worry her with tales of Men still moving into the Shire.

"There are what, Saradoc? Goblins? Ghouls? Bogey Men?"

He had flinched at the word "Men."

Esmeralda noticed the flinch. "There are Men?" she asked after a pause.

"So I've been informed, yes. I do not know exactly where. I do not know how many, but I've heard from more than one source that there are Men in the Shire. More than just the ones who are working in Hobbiton and a few of the other towns." Saradoc had taken hold of his wife's shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. "I can't help but feel this trip you propose would not be safe, Esme."

Esme had looked down at the floor for a few minutes then raised her eyes to meet her husband's. For the first time in a long time she purposefully made use of her entrancing green eyes. She had gazed at Saradoc until his deep blue eyes widened ever so slightly, then she spoke. "I have to go, dearest. I simply must. I'll use the enclosed carriage and you can send an archer with the driver if you feel you must. Send two more to ride alongside if that will make you feel better. But I must go."

Saradoc had found himself struggling to think. It seemed against all reason to let her go, but what had come out of his mouth was, "As you will then." Within an hour he found himself watching the carriage go down the road with it's escort in place, wondering why he had suddenly changed his mind.

Now it was night time. Esmeralda and her entourage, through biting cold and blowing snow, had finally arrived at the Tree and Leaf Inn, supped and gone to bed. In her dreams she wandered in a barren land near a looming mountain. At it's base a pool sparkled with the blue reflection of the moon. Although the scene was breathtakingly beautiful, fear hung in the air. She tried to put the mountain behind her but which ever way she turned it filled the horizon. Then she felt an icy, damp touch upon her ankle. Esme gasped and jumped away. A snake-like thing writhed in the mud. Hundreds of them writhed headless and eyeless in the watery mud. She screamed and screamed until it was one long scream. A darkness came, in which her scream became the wind and the cold and the blowing snow of the Shire. Dreaming became waking, and it was now the fourteenth day of Afteryule.

The hour was later than it should have been for the Brandybuck carriage to arrive at Great Smials as Saradoc's forecast had been accurate. The snow had accumulated a few inches by the morning of the fourteenth, then been blown about into drifts deep enough that the carriage had gotten stuck more than once. The snow quit falling by mid-day but was still being whipped about by the wind, a strangely cold wind that blew from the east-south-east rather than the north.

The fire in the Thain's private dining room burned warm and bright. Although it was past supper, the cooks still had plenty of the thick, rich beef stew that had been served to the residents of the Smials that evening. It was soon heated up for the Mistress of the Hall and her escorts, the latter taking their meal in the kitchen. Esme found she was hungrier than she expected. It was awhile before she finished her meal and proper hobbit etiquette allowed her, Paladin and Eglantine to engage in anything other than light conversation.

"It surprises me that Saradoc allowed this trip, Esme," Paladin said as his sister set down her spoon after licking it clean of the last bits of custard. "His sending you with a driver and three armed escorts tells me he was uncomfortable about it."

"And with this odd weather we are having," Lanti put in. "I can't begin to tell you how many of the old folks I care for have been complaining about their joints and bunions aching."

"He wasn't comfortable. You are right about that, Paladin, but I really don't see the reasoning behind it." Esme gave her hair an indignant toss, but her eyes belied her attempted show of confidence. There was reason to fear, and she knew it. "A few unsupported rumors about more Men in the Shire, and suddenly I'm not supposed to go anywhere. Oh! That reminds me. I've a letter for you, Paladin, from Saradoc." Esme patted the pockets of her pinafore before turning to her brother with a grin. "I remember," she said, pushing back from the table and rising to her feet. "I put it in my little bag that is out with my cloak. Let me fetch it for you." She walked quickly out of the dining room returning a few moments later with a large envelope in her hand. "He was going to send it by the Quick Post. But since I was coming, he just sent it with me." She handed the envelope to her brother and gave him a kiss on his cheek. "And with that done, I wish you both a good night. The cold day and the good, hot supper you provided have combined to make me rather sleepy." Esmeralda hugged Eglantine. As she did, she shoved a piece of paper into the pocket of Lanti's pinafore, making sure Lanti noticed. With a smile to her brother and sister-in-law, Esme headed off to her bedroom.

Paladin sighed as he watched his younger sister close the dining room door behind her. "Well," he sighed again as he tapped Saradoc's letter against his left hand. "I think I shall go find out what The Master of Brandy Hall has to say." He grinned at his wife as he got up from the table and came to stand beside her. "I hate to say, my dear one, but I may be awhile. Best not wait up for me."

He bent to kiss Eglantine's cheek, but she put her hand up to stop him. "If you will be so kind as to pull out my chair for me," she said with a grin, "I'll let you kiss my mouth."

Paladin gave an exaggerated bow, pulled out Lanti's chair and then swept her into his arms for a long, loving kiss.

"Oh, my!" Lanti was out of breath with a lovely glow to her cheeks. "Suddenly it seems a pity that you have that letter to read and I have some of my patients to visit. Before you spoke up I was going to tell you the same thing, not to wait up for me." She sighed and laid her hand to his cheek in a gesture of love and comfort familiar to her husband and her children. "The price to be paid for being The Took and Thain and his wife the healer."

Paladin nodded. He turned his head to kiss Lanti's hand then, with the weight of responsibility lending a stiffness to his back and shoulders, left her to go to his study. As soon as he was gone, Eglantine was reading Esmeralda's note.

Barely over an hour later Lanti gently knocked on Esme's bedroom door. Eglantine had not been able to give her full attention to her patients at Great Smials, the words of the little note wouldn't leave her alone. "Come to my room. Urgent," was all it had said. She tipped her hand back to knock again when the door opened a crack to reveal one of Esme's green eyes. A hand reached out to pull Lanti in, and she was immediately wrapped in a strong embrace.

"Lanti," Esme breathed into her sister-in-law's ear. "I came here to talk to you, dear. I had to talk to you. If I turn right around and go back home tomorrow morning, it will have been worth it. I had to talk to you."

Lanti stiffened and tried to push back from Esme's hug. "Pippin. It . . . it's about Pippin, isn't it." The words were a statement, not a question.

"Not what you think! No! He lives. He and my Merry, our dear Frodo and his Sam are all alive, Lanti." 

Esme released Eglantine but took her hand. She peered out around the slightly opened door then shut it and led her sister-in-law to two chairs that had been placed facing each other. They sat with their knees nearly touching, clasping one another's hands.

"As I told you at Yule, I'd had no real feelings much of any kind about them for quite awhile. No strange dreams by night or day, mostly a feeling of watchfulness. However, since Yule those feelings have grown, Lanti, until I have found myself looking over my shoulder as though I expected someone to be sneaking up behind me. Then odd little things began to upset me. Once a noisy flock of birds had me cowering in fear, yet I've had no more . . ." Esme paused, closed her eyes and took a few slow breaths. "I have had no more times when I seemed to be with Pippin, like the ones I told you of."

Lanti nodded, and Esme continued with growing excitement.

"Two nights ago, the night of the twelve of Afteryule, I had the most wondrous dream. I met her, Eglantine. I met her in my dream, but it was like those times I've seen through your dear Pippin's eyes. It was real, as real as here and now, Lanti. I met her."

"Met who, sister?"

Esmeralda moved her hand to grasp her dear friend's shoulder. She gripped it tightly, nearly pinching Lanti. "The Fairy. I . . . I met her. She who married a Took hobbit long ages ago."

"Oh, really, Esmeralda! I really don't . . ." Lanti took in a sudden quick breath while shutting her eyes in an effort to calm her thinking. Her first thought was to doubt her sister-in-law. She had lately been fighting a battle with doubting all that Esmeralda had told her that night last autumn. She opened her eyes and let out the breath she had been holding. For a fleeting moment, she saw Pippin's face before her, then it was gone, replaced by the older, more feminine face of his aunt who he so strongly resembled. "Like those times, you say, it was like those times you have been with Pippin?"

"Yes."
"It has been so long since we have talked or you have written, I fear I've begun to have doubts about all of this, Esme." Lanti looked sad and frightened. "Forgive me. I . . . I'm not one to easily believe in such things and with no word from you . . ."

"I'm sorry, dear sister, " Esmeralda said softly as she reached over and drew Lanti into a hug. "I did not think of that, that I should have written more often. Like Pippin, I can often be thoughtless, even to those I love." She pushed back and looked into Eglantine's teary eyes. "Shall I not go on?" Esme asked but then quickly bit her lower lip and shook her head. "No! I have to tell you this. I have to, Lanti! I've no choice. Believe me or no, there is a message for you, and I'll have no peace if I leave it unsaid."

"Then say what you must, dear one. I'll believe it as much as I am able."

"She was slightly shorter than I, Lanti, and slender. Ageless and wise, yet wild and free as though she was beyond the inner rules that guide most beings. It was so like the curiosity and urge to wander that I have often felt in my own heart. I was afraid at first. But there was tenderness in her too and . . . and I felt I could trust her."

So strong were Esme's words that Lanti could see and feel the strange slender being in her mind. Esme had paused, her eyes alight with her memories, and Lanti did nothing to disturb her.

"She knew I doubted what was happening." Esme grinned and caressed Lanti's cheek before letting her hand drop to her lap. "Just as you are doubting me. She told me dreams are a realm of their own, and what cannot be real here, in the waking realm, can be real there. 'Child of my child' she called me and Pippin her 'young Tookling.' She knows us, Eglantine. She knows us all. She knows that you are not of her blood and that my Merry is not either, but she cares for you both."

Esmeralda's gaze was far away. Eglantine could see the sparkling of stars in her bright green eyes.

"She knows the lads are gone, Lanti. She also knows how strong the cords of love are that bind us all together." Esme's gaze shifted to her and Lanti's hands that now lay clasped together on their knees. "She knows that Merry watches over Pippin." Esme laughed softly at her next thought and brought her eyes up to sister-in-law's, the far away look less pronounced. "She called Pip her 'young Tookling falcon' and said that Merry will help him be brave, that he will keep him from flying too high. She knows my Merry worries overly much, that he needs Pippin to keep his heart light. She told me this and more to give us comfort, Lanti."

The faraway look returned to Esme's eyes. She appeared to be seeing deeper and even further off. Lanti gasped. Esme's eyes no longer seemed her own, like her own yet brighter, bolder, filled with dancing sparks. The green eyes held Eglantine until they filled her mind, till she was capering amongst the stars. A voice filled her thoughts. Esme's voice yet more musical, like a flute or delicate chimes. It stirred feelings within her of clear blue skies on an autumn day, the breeze filled with the scent of fallen leaves blown about in a dance that she should chase and follow wherever they would take her. Lanti felt wild and free and filled with the joy of living, yet caressed by the sorrows of the ages.

"These words are for you," the Voice intoned, "child of my child, and for my young Tookling's sorrowing mother. You will remember them.

In peaceful Shire tending a field,

On the sea foam or where mountain stone does not yield.

Forget not that where ere they roam,

I always, forever, care for my own.

I will care for my own as best as I am able, and those they treasure with them. You, child of my child, and she who is dear to both you and my young Tookling; my young Tookling who tries his wings and the one he loves as a brother; the one who bears the burden and the friend who gives care to them all."

The Voice and its music ended. The stars dancing in Eglantine's mind faded back into Esmeralda's eyes, faded back into the reflection of candles in the candelabra on the writing desk. But the scent of leaves fallen on the forest floor lingered, and suddenly Eglantine Took had an intuition of her own. She grabbed Esme, hugging her as tightly as she could.

"I won't see you again! You will leave here, leave soon, and I won't see you again!" Lanti began shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.

Cold fear surrounded Esmeralda's heart as she tried to soothe her hysterical loved one. She had just had the same thought herself.

In his study, Paladin sat in the chill with one small oil lamp lighting his desk. The fire had burned down to embers, and he had not bothered to place a fresh log on it. He gazed into the bed of glowing coals watching the little spouts of blue flame that licked about as the draft from the chimney tugged air up through the grating. Saradoc had a good reason for posting such an escort on his wife's carriage, Paladin thought as he flicked a corner of the letter back and forth with his right fore finger. Men. Men in the Shire.

The thought jolted him. He searched again through the letter for the words his brother-in-law had used. There they were, ". . . not of the nicer sort, like the ones in Bree with whom we Brandybucks often do business. These are swarthy and squint-eyed with an ill feeling about them." Paladin sighed and looked back into the remains of the fire. Saradoc would know. As the Tooks were to be found in every farthing of the Shire, the multitudinous Brandybuck relations were found in good supply all along the Brandywine. From farms north of Dwaling to those in the south along the edges of the Overbourne Marshes, Brandybucks hugged the river as a young hobbit would his lover. Paladin shook his head. Such an odd lot, those Brandybucks! But it was proving a good thing now as these Men had been observed crossing the river in places away from fords and towns where it had frozen over. And they were crossing the frozen marshes obviously avoiding the Brandywine Bridge.

Paladin turned back to his desk and the pile of letters that lay beneath the glass paperweight. Twenty letters, maybe more, from Tooks throughout the Shire reporting to The Took and Thain that there were Men hiding in stands of trees and in clefts in the rolling hills. Men in the larger towns knocking down buildings or building shacks. Men staying in a few of the oldest inns along the Great East Road where there were rooms to house them.

The Took and Thain of the Shire shook his head a bit to clear it then got a piece of paper from the drawer, pulled his ink stand closer, flipped back the cover on the bottle, drew his favorite quill from the holder and began his response to The Master of Buckland on the matter of Men in the Shire.

The sun had not yet risen at first breakfast, but its glow was trying to pass through the leaden sky by second breakfast. It was no longer snowing, yet clouds still hung heavy over the Shire. Esmeralda had spent the time after the earliest meal in the library looking through some of the older books and journals. She was now seated at the dressing table in her guest room brushing the dust from the old books out of her hair.

Fear swept through her. Her body shivered, and her hand shook losing its hold on the hairbrush. Though she stared into the mirror, it was not her reflection she saw. The mirror opened into a stone chamber. Graven stone behind her, above her, surrounding her. Voices coming through dulled ears.

"Get back! Stay with Gandalf!"

"They have a Cave Troll!"

She could see Merry a bit ahead and on her right. Pippin's right. Pippin. She felt a battle cry tear from their throat.

The battle raged, and he and Merry had stayed as close to Frodo as they could. Pippin had no space in his terrified mind for noticing the presence of another's thoughts or fears in his heart and head. Frodo! Hack at orcs. Stab at orcs. Stay near Frodo. Stay near Merry.

She was watching for Merry. There was blood. There was screaming and battle cries. She was watching for Frodo. She was spattered with hot black blood.

They ran up some steps to a walkway that ran around the room, he and Merry and Frodo. They put Frodo between them as they peered out from behind a pillar. A horror. A terror. It was hitting everything and anyone with the spiked hammer it held in its fist. It was hurting more orcs than it was hurting any of the Fellowship.

There was blood everywhere. Esme felt queasy. A Big Person, a golden-haired tall . . . elf! An elf!

"It's after Legolas, Merry!" screamed Pippin's voice.

"I know! Watch for Orcs, Pippin! Head that way Frodo!" Merry, her Merry, his bright eyes looking everywhere, taking charge. "No Frodo, stay between us!"

The horror was upon them. Pippin gazed up at the troll, towering over them even as they stood on the raised walkway. He screamed and jumped back as it swung it's hammer.

Merry! Esme felt Pippin grab at her son as Merry lost his footing trying to get back from the descending weapon. The floor between them and Frodo exploded into shards and dust. She saw nothing as Pippin closed his eyes and turned his head.

"Get up, Merry! It's after Frodo! It's after Frodo."

Pippin and Merry pelted the troll with rocks. They screamed. Time slowed. It nearly stopped.

Frodo was run through!

Nothing but rage. Esme's head hurt with it. Pippin's mind exploded with it. He was senseless with it as he and Merry clung to the troll's back and hacked at it's neck and shoulders.

"Merrrrrryyyy!!!"

Merry was grabbed and gone. He was being whipped around by the troll as a weapon before being flung aside.

Pippin's screams tore at his and Esmeralda's throat, though in her room no sound issued from her. No thoughts. Anger. Hatred. Mad sadness. Stab and stab and stab. And the troll slowed. It staggered. It fell dead to the floor, Pippin falling with it and from it. His breath was knocked from him, then she felt him suck in air and struggle to his feet. He turned to stare as a Man ran to Frodo.

A gasp. A rush of joy!

Now there was only the reflection of a pale, grey-haired hobbitess in a dressing table mirror. Esme sat a few moments and caught her breath. She put her head down on her arms and cried. They still lived. But where in Middle-earth were they? What was all of this?

Esmeralda finally looked over at the clock on the mantlepiece. It was past time for second breakfast. She got up slowly and walked to the door of her bedroom, grabbing the back of a chair on her way to steady herself. She poked her head out into the passageway.
"Violet?" she called.

"Yes, Mistress Brandybuck!" Violet hollered in answer from the room across the tunnel. In a few moments the young hobbit maid came to the doorway.

"I'm . . . I'm rather tired still, Violet. I'm going to nap some more. Come fetch me for luncheon, will you dear?"

"Yes, Mistress. And I'm hoping you're alright, ma'am."

"Thank you, dear. I'm sure I'm just tired. Thank you," Esme replied then closed her bedroom door.

Paladin had been concerned when Esmeralda missed both second breakfast and elevenses. It was quite unlike his sister who always had a healthy appetite. And now there she sat at the table for luncheon with two red smudges on her cheeks where she had obviously pinched them trying to put color onto her pale features. He noticed that her hand shook as she tried to eat her soup. 'Whatever is going on with her?' Paladin thought. She had been fine last night. Perhaps he should have Lanti give his sister a good looking over. Esme may be coming down with a cold after her rather foolish trip to see them in this horribly frigid weather.

They all continued to eat their meal, yet Esme remained oddly withdrawn. Dessert was served. Paladin had closed his eyes to give his full concentration to the spoonful of fabulous raspberry tart he had placed in his mouth, when he became aware of the strange silence at the table. Opening his eyes he then followed everyone else's astonished stares. Esmeralda had made no move to eat her dessert. She did not move at all, except a trembling that was making the table shake. His sister's green eyes were wide, filled with terror, staring into the air before her. Paladin quickly rushed to her side. He put an arm around her shaking shoulders and took one of her hands in his. It was cold, as if she had been outside, her fingernails were blueish.

"What . . . is . . . that? Merry?"

Paladin could barely understand the whispered words. Esme's other hand groped about as though seeking a hand to hold. Lanti came to her side, took the flailing hand and held it fast between her own.

Esme jerked. She was taught as a bow string.

"Gaannndaalllf!"

The name burst from her and echoed in the huge main diningroom of Great Smials.

"Gandalf."

Less loudly. And she began to tremble again.

"Gandalf."

A whisper. Tears poured from her glazed green eyes.

Paladin and Pearl's husband picked up his stricken sister to carry her to her room as Pearl and Eglantine ran ahead of them to open the door and turn down the covers.

The room was cozy and warm and lit only by the fire on the hearth when Esme finally opened her eyes.

"Welcome back, dear sister."

She turned her head to stare open-mouthed at her brother.

"I'm not who you expected, am I?" Paladin sighed.

"No," Esme quietly answered.

"She told me some of it, Esme. Lanti said you had sworn her to secrecy, and I know I should not have . . . well . . . pushed her into breaking her promise to you. But we feared for your welfare."

"And do you believe what she told you, Paladin?"

He got up and began to pace up and down at the foot of the bed. Eventually he stopped and faced his sister. "She showed me the portraits and told me of the strange events years ago when our son was little. But it is much to ask me to believe, Esme." Paladin returned to his pacing. "That I'm to believe something I've been told all my life is a foolish rumor kept alive by hobbits who are jealous of our wealth and position." He paced a bit more and then turned to look at her again with a wry smile. "I've even been told they are jealous because at least Tooks have the courage to sometimes leave the Shire and have a look around at the wide world. Though I can hardly imagine the hobbits I know being jealous of that! And now I am supposed to believe it is true and that it possesses my dear youngest sister and . . . " his breath caught in his throat a moment, "and my precious little Pippin."

Paladin sat back down beside his sister and took her hand in his. An odd look, a look of yearning, came to his face. "Yet, there is no denying that there is something different about many of us Tooks. You, Esme, and Pippin. I was under your spell almost from the time you were born, and I'm under his as well." He smiled and caressed Esme's cheek. "And your happy spirits, dear sister, the two of you lift the hearts of all around you and because of it, there are few things as difficult to bear as seeing either of you downhearted. If you tell me this is true, tell me yourself whilst looking me straight in the eye, I will believe you."

Esmeralda sat up in bed and took Paladin's face in her hands. She held him so they looked steadily into each others eyes. "I am not mad nor am I teasing you, dearest, dearest, brother. There is a difference in some of us Tooks. The oddness is real. I have studied their old letters and journals and diaries. I've gazed into their eyes in their portraits. They are born early. They are small and seem sickly but rarely die young for they are stronger than they seem. Their minds are curious and rarely satisfied with the obvious answers to their questions. They must see around the corner, around the next bend in the road, over the river and over the hills. It is always said they have a way of getting others to do what they want, that the unsuspecting hobbit should beware." She paused, and the pause gave more weight to the words that followed. "Never look a Fairy in the eyes, Paladin Took."

Paladin stared into Esmeralda's eyes and felt himself being pulled into their depths. He had a sense of timelessness and freedom. That he could chase the wind . . . and catch it. The smell of autumn filled his nostrils, and he heard the swish of leaves being walked through. Then his sister closed her eyes and turned her head. He was back in a guest bedroom at Great Smials, sitting at her bedside as she held his face in her hands.

"It makes me tired," she said softly.

He reached over and turned her face back to his. Their eyes met, but the magic was gone. His voice was soft and sad. "I believe you, Esme. I believe. I wish I could help you bear this gift." He let his hand fall from her face and bowed his head. "He lives? You are sure my dear Pippin lives?"

"Yes."

"And Merry as well? Your lad is a wonderful young hobbit. He has been such a close friend to Pippin. He is precious to Lanti and I as well."

"Yes. Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam are all alive, Paladin." She had let go of his face and now looked at her hands in her lap. "I will know," she paused to keep herself from crying. "I will know if any of them . . . if . . ."

Paladin pulled her close and held her tightly. He rocked her for a while, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

"You will go home tomorrow, Esme." He said at last, then he kissed her forehead. "I've had a feeling of my own, and it is not a good one. I fear trouble is coming, and you shouldn't be here. You will leave in the morning."

The dark of an overcast, mid-winter early morning blanketed the countryside so that Esme saw nothing out of the carriage window. She rested her head into the corner, having tucked her muff behind her neck to give it some support. She would have loved to go to sleep, but sleep had eluded her for most of the night before; it still remained just beyond her grasp. Esmeralda sighed. She searched her mind once again but knew she would come to the same conclusion . . . something dreadful lurked in the shadows that hung about the Shire. She had never known her brother or his dear wife to ever have an intuition about anything, yet both shared with her that they felt hard times and trouble coming. Her thoughts wandered to the two experiences that had sapped her strength sending her to her bed. Evil. Great evil was abroad, and it was pursuing their loved ones. It had struck down the old wizard Gandalf. Whatever could be that powerful? She looked back toward the black, vacant carriage window. Great evil was abroad, and it was also hanging over the Shire, ready to drop. Esmeralda could feel its crushing weight.

Lights remained lit in the holes of the hobbits that day. Though the sky lightened, it never grew light enough to see well, not enough to lighten a room through an unshuttered window. And then it started to snow. It had been around noon, by the watch that hung from a brooch on Esme's jacket, when she saw the first flakes coming down. The further east they traveled the worse it became until it obscured her view of the trees and fields while the carriage slowed to a crawl. Her driver and escorts refused to try to spend the night on the road, so it was actually in the thickest dark of the predawn hours on the seventeenth of Afteryule that the Brandybuck carriage arrived at the Tree and Leaf Inn.

The seventeenth went much as the sixteenth had--slowly. The snow stopped falling in the early afternoon with the skies finally becoming somewhat lighter. But the oddly cold southeast winds picked up and threw the snow into drifts, many of which where over the heads of the escorts on their ponies. Esmeralda and company were ten miles out of Woodhall when the driver called a halt, stating he felt they should go no further than the Fireside Tavern & Inn. Esme was in quite a state. She fussed and fumed, insisting that they had to get home. She yelled. She cried. But had to surrender to the inevitable when five miles farther along the carriage slid off the road, breaking an axle. She and the elderly driver rode the carriage ponies as the entourage battled through the snow drifts to go the last five miles into Woodhall.

The snow storm had nearly buried Bree. Everyone who could had stayed put in their homes with the windows shuttered and the fires banked high. The best thing to do was wait for the storm to blow itself out. Late morning on the seventeenth, the residents finally stuck their heads out to survey the damage, then got to work cleaning up the mess. All afternoon and into the evening the work of clearing the town's streets had gone on, Big Folk and Little Folk working together, as was the way it had been for generations in Bree.

Willie Banks paused to catch his breath. He was working on the last layer of snow out in front of his tailor's shop on Thistledown Lane, just off the corner of Center Street in the main business part of Bree. The shop next door was also a tailor's, Mat Heathertoes. Mat being a tailor for the Big Folk and Willie being a tailor for the hobbits of the town. They didn't get snow often, perhaps twice a year a falling that needed to be shoveled. When they did, Mat and Willie had always used a system of Mat taking off the top until the snow was at a height where Willie could handle it, then the hobbit would clear it from there. They were good neighbors and good friends. Willie adjusted his grip on his shovel, shoved it under the snow, then tossed the load to where he knew the wheelbarrow to be.

"Watch it, you! Have a mind to where you're a throwin' that stuff!"

Willie turned to find a stranger, one of the Men who seemed to be becoming more numerous in Bree, standing next to the barrow, his face covered in snow. "My sincere apologies, sir," Willie exclaimed as he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and going to the man offered it to him. "But you see, you were near to my wheelbarrow, sir. Though it does seem my aim was rather off." Willie didn't recall throwing the shovel load of snow that high into the air.

"Aim! Aim!" the Man roared. "Aimed for me was just what you did, ya mouse! Didn't it? Didn't it aim right at ma face, lads?" He asked his three companions.

"It sure did, Yengan. I seen it. Aimed square at ya."

"It did, I seen it too!"

"And I."

"But, sir," Willie sounded nervous as the Men started to surround him. "I've been at this most the day, and I don't think I could have . . . I mean to say, sir . . . well, you're a tall Man, sir. I don't rightly figure I've the strength in my arms to toss the snow that high sir."

"You hear that, lads? It be callin' me a liar!" Yengan leaned over and shoved his huge face into Willie's. "It thinks it can call me a liar. What think ya that I should do about that, lads?" Yengan's voice had gone smooth and cold as the snow.

"Ya could shove it's face full of snow, seein' as it thinks that's fun to do," sneered Moctok.

Natuck and Slengan grabbed Willie by the shoulders, dragged him between his shop and Mat's, then forced him to his knees while Yengan grabbed a handful of snow.

"Would ya be wantin to play with some snow, vermin?" Yengan hissed before shoving the snow into Willie's face. His hand more than covered the hobbit's face and the snow packed itself into Willie's open mouth and into his nostrils. Willie writhed. His thrashings grew weaker. They stopped altogether, yet Yengan still pushed his hand firmly into the small face. Finally, at Yengan's nod, Natuck took the body of the suffocated hobbit and slammed it into the wall of Mat Heathertoes' shop. They didn't have long to wait.

"What's going on . . . Willie?!" Mat's astonished eyes tried to take in what he was seeing. "What has happened? What are you four about here?" He took a step into the space between the buildings, but was quickly shoved back into the street.

"Takin' care o' a personal matter. You got a problem with that?"

"I'll say I do, yes. He's my friend. Willie!"

Moctok stepped up to Mat. "It won't be answerin' ya. Seems it got too much snow in its face and couldn't breathe no more." Moctok leered and chuckled. "You wantin' to make sommat out o' it?"

A small crowd started to gather, mostly Bree-men but also a few hobbits. They would have stood by Mat, but he was covered on all sides by Yengan and his lads.

"Yes," Mat shakily proclaimed. "You all be a bunch of murderers. You killed him! And he too small to hurt you at all."

"But you ain't being too small," Moctok said as his fist landed in Mat's stomach.
That was all it took. The Bree-men along with the few hobbits that had gathered around moved in to help Mat, while Bill Ferny, Harry Goatleaf and a good many others moved in behind them. It didn't last long. It didn't need to. When it was over Mat Heathertoes, Rowlie Appledore, and little Tom Pickthorn, all Big Folk, Willie Banks and Tom Underhill, both Little Folk, were dead. The Ruffians were chased from the town with the gates firmly barred behind them. It wasn't until the next day, the eighteenth, that it was found that nearly every one of the rough southerners who had been in Bree were gone. Some of the hobbits hastily packed up and left town, heading for the Shire. They all returned within a short while. They were being shot at from the hills and rocks along the Great East Road. It was a long time before news of the Fatal Fight of 1419 reached the Shire. It was a long time before much news of any kind reached the Shire.

At the Fireside Tavern & Inn the morning of the eighteenth of Afteryule, Esmeralda Brandybuck's escorts made no effort to wake her. They didn't wish another battle with their stubborn mistress. They rode back to the carriage, replaced the axle, then took several more hours to get it to the inn because of having to dig through several drifts in order to make the road passable. They may as well have awaked Esme earlier and gotten the battle over. For on their return, they found an extremely irate hobbitess waiting for them. She had all the small bags they had brought with them the night before piled in the courtyard ready to go. But the hour was already late; and as they traveled, the winds once again began to howl. As they neared Stock, all the ponies were stumbling with the cold. They again had to stop for the night. Esmeralda had no rest that night for a deep dread lay upon her heart.

"Coming! I'm coming!" hollered Farmer Burrows. This nineteenth day of Afteryule was a bitter cold day in the countryside to the north of Overhill, where he farmed with his sons. The cold along with the unusually deep snow made it strange that anyone would be out and about. He opened the door of his house and was surprised by the group standing on his doorstep. One hobbit with three unfriendly looking Men glared at him.

"We've come to be gatherin' up some o' your goods and stores," said the hobbit. He wore a cap with a feather in it but was not the Hobbiton area Sherriff that Farmer Burrows knew.

"I've heard my share about this,"replied old Burrows as he looked the group over. "I own my land. There's no landlord that I be owein' anythin' to, nor that has any rights to any o' my goods n' stores. Be off with ya now!"

Farmer Burrows started to shut his door, but one of the Men stepped forward and easily held it open. "Not quite so fast there," he said and pushed his way into the farmhouse's kitchen. "I's got the feelin' that you ain't understandin'." He backed the farmer up against the kitchen table as one of the farmer's sons hastily pushed Mrs. Burrows and her daughters out of the kitchen. The other Burrows lads moved to stand by their father.

"We are gatherin' for fair sharin' on Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins orders. You got lots, but there be them what's got little." One of the other men came into the kitchen, which was now quite crowded, and stared icily at the hobbits. "We ain't askin'. We be taken what's needed, what be your fair share if you will, and that be all there is to it." The Men loomed over the frightened hobbit farmer and his three sons. "You weren't thinkin' of causin' no fuss for us, were ya?" The Man leaned down farther so his large face was nose to nose with Farmer Burrows.

"No," came Farmer Burrows' choked reply.

"That be right good!" said the Man who had done all the talking. "Right good!" He patted the old hobbit roughly on the head, as though he were dealing with a child. "We'll just be goin' out to help them as already were gettin' to work on your contribution." He and the other Men laughed as they left, slamming the door behind them.

Farmer Burrows and his sons rushed to the window and looked out. Wagons had been pulled up to their storage barn. Grain was being taken from the grain bin, hay from the haymow and the root cellar doors were open. They stood watching helplessly as a crew of ten or so hobbits and a couple Men, joined by the ones who had knocked at the door, worked at removing whatever it was they wanted from the stores the Burrows had worked hard all growing season to raise.

"Why did they bother askin' us, Da? They were already loadin' stuff up." The eldest son brought his head and his fist against the window with a thud.

"So's we wouldn't be noticin' what they was already at, Nob." Farmer Burrows put his arm around Nob's shoulders and pulled him away from the window. "So's no matter what we said, they would get what they came for. It be harder to stop what already is started." The hobbits turned from the window to go comfort Mrs. Burrows and the lasses. They could only hope that whoever that bunch of ruffians were, they would leave them enough to make it through the winter.

At the Tunnely farm, and the Boffin farm, the Sandybank's and at the Proudfeet's large many-family holding, on farms near Hobbiton and Overhill, between Bywater and the Three Farthing Stone, and the fertile fields to the north of Waymeet, the harsh scene replayed itself relentlessly.

That same day was a typically quiet day in Michel Delving. One's hearth-side seemed a good place to stay, warm and cozy opposed to the blustery cold outside. His hearth-side was where Mayor Will Whitfoot had been spending his morning.

A knock on his study door roused him from his doze. He sat up as the maid stuck her head around the door to announce there was a message for him.

"Well, bring it here, lass. I cannot read it with you holding onto it, can I?" He held out his hand; she slipped into the room, laid the letter on his palm, curtsied and quickly slipped back out again, shutting the door behind her.

She had made no delay in getting the letter to him, he realized, as the paper was cold against his skin. "URGENT: For the eyes of The Mayor only!" was scrawled across the front of the envelope. Turning it over he saw it was sealed with only a few drops of wax into which no seal had been pressed. He stood and went to his desk, opened the center drawer, took out his letter opener, slit the envelope then went back to his chair by the fire to remove the letter. The room seemed to grow quieter and smaller. He read the missive through twice then stared at it blankly while his hand holding the letter slowly sank into his lap.

Dear Mayor,

There's trouble brewin' round 'bout Hobbiton. Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins is the one behind the Four Farthings Holdings company that's been doing the mischief. He's bought up goodly amounts of land here 'bout and has been takin' more than the usual amount of goods and stores from the ones who farm his land. He's bought many of the buildings in town and is charging high rents. He bought and knocked down the old mill and is buildin' a new mill what seems like it has more parts than what it ought to have. He is now sendin' Men, Men ya understand, to gather goods and stores from farms that aren't his. Somethin' ought be done 'bout this, and right quick.

The message bore no signature. The writing looked rough and unschooled, and the words of it chilled the good Mayor's heart.

An hour's time found Mayor Whitfoot, cloaked and muffled up to his eyes, riding at a trot along the Great East Road. He would get to the bottom of this, he thought to himself as he rode along. Unheard of! It was completely unheard of that a hobbit of the Shire would bring Men -- Men for goodness sake -- into the Shire to force his fellow hobbits into giving up any of the goods and supplies they had worked so hard to raise. He tapped his pony up into a canter. It would do him no harm to run a bit, and Mayor Whitfoot wanted to get to the inn at the junction of the Great East Road and the Hardbottle-Sackville road. Sackville. Suddenly the name put a vile taste into Will Whitfoot's mouth. He swallowed it away as he brought his mind back to his mission. If only the letter had come sooner, he might have been able to reach Waymeet and be in Hobbiton by late the next day. As it was, if he got to Hobbiton at all the next day, it would be much to late to do anything.

Mayor Whitfoot had gone about four miles out of Michel Delving when he came to a large tree trunk lying across the road. It looked to him as though some folks were already at work trying to move it, but as he drew closer he could see that looks had been deceiving. The group was not all hobbits, and they were standing about or sitting on the downed tree, making no effort whatsoever to remove it.

"What is this all about?" the Mayor demanded as he pulled his pony to a halt some ten feet back from the tree.

One of the Men, for now the Mayor could see that, indeed, that is what some of them were, sauntered up quickly taking hold of the pony's bridle. "What're you all 'bout? 'Tis more the thing." The Man was scruffy and unkept looking. His eyes were level with Will Whitfoot's with Will being up on the pony.

"I am about going on my way to . . . ," the words stopped in Will's mouth. It was none of their business where he was heading. "Where I'm bound is none of your business, sir. If you will let loose my pony's bridle, I'll go around this obstacle and be on my way."

"On his way, says he!" The Man laughed and turned to the men and hobbits gathered about the tree. "On his way! Now that be right funny. Don't it be lads?" They joined in his laughter while all starting to move toward the Mayor on his pony.

"It is indeed!" said one of the Hobbits as the Mayor and his pony were surrounded.

"Yes. No," the Mayor said. His voice and hands were shaking; he felt confused. "No. It is not funny. It is most serious. You've no business interfering with me." Will wished his voice sounded stronger. "Loose my pony!"

"Where be you heading? Tell me that, and maybe I will 'loose your pony'," the Man mocked the Mayor's words. He narrowed his eyes while bringing his other hand up to hold the bridle on both sides. "Where be you heading?"

"Hobbiton," squeaked the Mayor. "I am heading for Hobbiton."

"That's better," the Man's voice grew slick and soft. "And why Hobbiton, little one?"

Will Whitfoot swallowed hard. " . . . Little one," the Man had called him. He felt a little one, small and vulnerable. "I'm . . . I've," he swallowed again. "I've got business with Mr. Sackville-Baggins."

The Man again took in the crowd around the pony, then turned back to the Mayor. "Where's your permit?"

"Per . . . permit?" stammered Will.

"Permit. No Little Folk are to go a-wanderin' about without a permit. We's got our orders, ya see. So," the Man's voice grew more threatening and he put his face close to Will's, "where's your permit?"

"I ... I need no permit. I'm the Mayor of the Shire, and there are no permits for traveling in the Shire." The full statement the man had made suddenly registered in Mayor Whitfoot's muddled mind. "Orders?" he squeaked out. "Orders? Who gave you such an order? No one has the right to issue such an order!"

"Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins gave the order," said a Hobbit with a wicked glint in his eyes. "He'll be givin' all the orders now."

Mayor Will Whitfoot felt his doom closing in around him with the crowd of Men and Hobbits. The words cut deep into his heart, 'He'll be givin' all the orders now.'
"No permit! Ya hear that, lads? No permit!" the Man spoke loudly to his fellow ruffians without taking his face from Will Whitfoot's. "Then it's off with ya, little one. Off to the Lockholes!" His voice was low and cold.

"But . . . but . . ." Will was quaking from head to foot, "Those are for storage!"

"And now we're storing Hobbits what breaks the Rules! Nab him, lads!"

With that Will Whitfoot, the Mayor of the Shire, was pulled off his pony and his hands bound tightly behind him. He was marched back to Michel Delving as the crowd of rowdy hobbits and Men jeered at him. The hobbits of Michel Delving stood gapping at the sight of the Mayor and his escort. Word spread quickly that a large number of men and hobbits had forced their way into the Lockholes to cart out the old mathoms that had filled those rooms and tunnels for years. When the rabble who had arrested the Mayor arrived, his cell was ready. He was dragged along the tunnels until they reached an end, deep inside the hill. His hands were unbound then he was roughly shoved into a small windowless room. Will Whitfoot saw a thin mat and blanket lying on the hard dirt floor; his nose was assailed with the pungent odor of damp earth; his ears heard the door close behind him then the sound of the newly installed bolt being thrown home. The Lockholes of Michel Delving officially became a prison.

Saradoc Brandybuck sat staring at a blank piece of paper. Not entirely blank, he had written the date, 19 Afteryule, S.R. 1419 at the top. His mind was not on the letter he needed to write to the farmer of one of the Halls holdings. His thoughts early on this unnaturally cold morning were flying loose in his head: the letter he had written to Paladin, the whole matter of so many Men apparently in the Shire, Esme having run off to Great Smials and Merry. He gasped in a breath and held it. Merry. His only son, his only child, his precious child. Well, not a child, no longer a child. He let his breath out between barely parted lips. Merry was a fully grown, mature young hobbit. But the weight on Saradoc's shoulders intensified. It made no difference, no difference at all. All that mattered was that his dear son was gone.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the study door.

"Yes?" he called.

His secretary opened the door and came in a few steps. "Three gentlehobbits from the North Farthing to see you, sir."

"Show them in, Madamas," Saradoc replied setting his un-begun letter aside as he rose to his feet to greet his visitors. "Gentlehobbits! Welcome, and please, be seated." Saradoc gestured to three chairs that Madamas had drawn up before the desk.

The three took seats and the best dressed one of them cleared his throat. "We thank you for seeing us, Master. We know you are a busy hobbit."

"You are most welcome," Saradoc said with a nod of his head. "Now, who are you, and why have you come all this way to speak with me?"

"I," said the hobbit who had first spoken, "am Fastolph Tunnely. I own a large sheep farm in the North Farthing. These are Tonenbras North-took and Faldo Grubb, respectively; they both have large grain producing holdings in the North Farthing." Each hobbit nodded to Saradoc in turn, and he returned the gesture. "We have come because we feared that you may have heard incorrect stories regarding certain happenings of late in the East, West and South Farthings."

"What," he said to the hobbits, "do you fear that I've heard?"
"That your fellow hobbits in the various Farthings are being treated unjustly. That their hard work, their stored crops, are being taken from them needlessly."

Saradoc slowly nodded. "Yes, I have heard such things. Do you have information to the contrary?"

"We do, Master, sir," continued Mr. Tunnely. "It is for the poorer hobbits of the North Farthing that this is being done, sir. We had a spell of very nasty weather, strong winds with hail right before the harvest. A good many farms lost both crops and livestock." Messrs. North-took and Grubb nodded in agreement. "We were hoping, sir, that we might obtain your permission to seek the aid of the hobbits here in Buckland. There are many hobbits of the North Farthing still in need, Mr. Brandybuck."

Now, the giving of descriptive names or titles to the Master of Buckland was an old Buckland tradition. There was Madoc 'Proudneck' and Gorbadoc 'Broadbelt' and Gormadoc 'Deepdelver' to name a few. Saradoc was known far and wide as 'Scattergold' because of his kind heart and generosity. He was deeply touched by the thought of the hobbits of the North Farthing going on short rations when Buckland had been blessed with a bountiful crop last fall.

"The Hobbits of Buckland will gladly do what we can to help. I'm sorry that there has been so much misunderstanding about the reason behind this business. My brother-in-law, Thain Paladin II, is another one who has been given such misinformation. I fear he thinks someone is trying to take over the Shire."

Saradoc did not notice the slight flinch his mention of a takeover elicited from his guests as they quickly recovered themselves. "Shall I send out some of my household to gather what is needed?" he asked.

"No!" Fastolph Tunnely said quickly and loudly. "No," he said again as he calmed himself a bit. "No, we wish no inconvenience to you or yours. We have sturdy lads from the North Farthing that will do the hauling about in this foul, cold weather."

"Well then," said Saradoc as he stood and offered his hand to the hobbits, "this matter is settled. You may tell any farmer who troubles you that the Master of Buckland has given you permission to gather goods and stores to aid our fellow hobbits. And you perhaps should know, there are reports of Men moving about in the Shire. Be careful that none of them trouble you or confiscate the contribution you collect."

Hands were shook all around, and the visitors left. As soon as they were out of view of the multitudinous round windows of Brandy Hall, something in the deportment of the three hobbits changed. Their shoulders slouched, and their chins held less high.

"Drat it all, if I'm not goin' to have a rash from this here high, stiff collar, it'll be a wonder," the supposed Mr. North-took said.

"Aw, shut yer hole, Hambut Moss, you daft pig!" growled Till Bulge, who had pretended to be Fastolph Tunnely. "At least you didn't have to be a memorizin' all that nonsense and havin' to study up on talkin' like some stuffed shirt from the North Farthing, like I done."

"Ha!" laughed Togo Leatherfoot, alias Faldo Grubb. "That be what ya get for lookin' like a hobbit from a big muckity-muck family," he laughed harder. "You're too pretty, you are."

Till glared at his partner. "That'll be enough out o' you, Togo! We needs get to them's as waitin' on us at the meetin' place, now that we have his "lordship's" permission. They'll be able to get started this afternoon if we don't dawdle. And ya'd best remember, there be Men in the Shire."

They laughed as they hurried off into the cold, grey day to get the teams of gatherers going. This was the only time in his life that Saradoc Brandybuck's tender heart and generous nature betrayed him and the hobbits of Buckland who lived under his care, but it was the worst of times for his good judgement to have failed him.

Paladin drained the last drop of his breakfast tea with a sigh. He looked lovingly at the faces of his family who were seated around the table. He and Eglantine were joined each morning by their three daughters and their families. It made for a crowded table, but the elder Tooks would not have it any other way. They loved each daughter, son-in-law and grandchild dearly. The only face missing at the table was Pippin's.

As Pippin had grown, the discomfort Paladin had with excitement and adventure had brought a distance to their relationship. Mind you, they were still close with a deep love for each other, but Paladin had felt more at ease with his son when Pippin had been a little hobbit. In those days his son's urge for adventures had been easily satisfied by listening to Bilbo Baggins' stories or going on over night walking parties with his cousins. But Paladin had seen the faraway look growing in his son's bright green eyes, those eyes so like Esme's. He thought of his talk with his sister. Now he understood why the Tookish wanderlust had taken root in Pippin's heart. It pained and frightened Paladin to think of his lad going out into the wide world with only Frodo, Merry and the gardener lad, Samwise, to watch over him. Actually, Samwise being there gave Paladin some small measure of comfort. Sam was a stable lad, physically strong, a hobbit of the soil as Paladin himself had been before becoming The Took and Thain. Paladin felt sure Sam could take good care of them all.

A soft knock preceded the entry of a maid into the Thain's private dinning room. She quickly approached Paladin, then spoke quietly to him.

"Thain Paladin, sir. There are . . . there is a group here asking to speak with you."

"A group?" queried Paladin, also keeping his voice low. "A group of what, lass? Dogs, sheep, farmers, businesshobbits? A group of what?" As usual, Paladin meant his comment to be humorous but sounded more gruff than he intended.

"Hobbits, sir. Hobbits and . . . ," the maid was pale and she leaned even closer to the Thain's ear. "Hobbits and Men, sir. There be Men with them, sir." Her small voice was shaky with fear.

Paladin hid well the surprise this news gave him. He appeared calm as he folded his napkin before setting it on the table. "I will see them in my study in ten minutes," he told the lass.

"But sir. They said they would see you in the entry hall as the ceiling is high enough there that the . . ." she dropped her voice to a mere whisper again. ". . . so's the Men can stand."

"The study served well when old Gandalf the Wizard would come to visit the Old Took. It will serve well enough for these . . . these visitors, whoever they may be," Paladin said as he rose from his chair. "I am sure they are not nearly as important in the wide world as Gandalf. You will show them to my study, or they may be on their way."

The maid nodded and left the dinning room. Paladin turned to his wife. "Lanti, a moment alone if you will my dear." He pulled back her chair then held his hand out to assist her.

"I will be back in a minute or two, my dears," Eglantine said to her family, then she was escorted from the room by Paladin. When they were down the hall in her sitting room with the door closed, Paladin wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.

"What I have been fearing has apparently arrived, my dearest Eglantine." Lanti could feel his heart pounding against her. She returned the tightness of his hug while gently rubbing his back with her right hand. "There is a group of hobbits and Men who have arrived to talk with me," Paladin continued. "I dread what I am about to hear." He held her close and rested his forehead on hers. For a few moments he did not speak.

"Do you love me, Lanti?" He whispered.

"Always," she whispered in reply and tipped her head to kiss him.

"I . . . I am afraid, Lanti. This has been sneaking up on me ever since I first heard the rumors of the so called gathering going on. Gathering, ha! Plain stealing is what it is. It has nearly ceased of late, but I've known in my heart that it was not finished. I knew they would eventually have to come to me." Paladin lowered his head to his wife's shoulder and clung to her. "And they have Men with them. Saradoc warned me there were greater numbers of Men in the Shire. I have no experience dealing with Men. I fear treachery such as we hobbits have rarely faced. My fear has been haunting my dreams; it has been darkening my days." He brought his head up to look into Lanti's eyes. "I am out of the realm of my experience. Will you love me if I make a mistake, Lanti? Will you love me if I fail you, fail our family, if I fail the hobbits of the Tookland and the Shire? Will you love me even then?"

Eglantine held her gaze steady into her husbands eyes. "I will love you, Paladin Took, whatever befalls you. I trust you to do what you think best. I know what many others seem not to know, that you love the Tooks, Tookland and the Shire. Whether your choices go well or ill, I will stand beside you. I will love you with all my heart, come what may."

Paladin stood straighter. He pulled back a bit from their embrace and placed his hands on Lanti's shoulders. "Then I will be fine," he said and kissed her firmly. He squared his shoulders before turning to leave the sitting room. Eglantine left the room slowly to give herself a little bit of time before she returned to the dinning room. She was a healer. What she had seen in Paladin's eyes, she had seen before. The look of resignation when a patient has accepted his own impending death. She hoped with all her being it would not come to that.

The two hobbits who had been sitting in chairs when Paladin entered his study rose as he came in. One of the Men had been sitting in the only chair in the room that was big enough for a man, the chair that Gandalf had always used whenever he came to the Great Smials to visit the Old Took. With a look from the hobbits, he also stood, although he could not stand straight. The other man was seated on the floor and made no effort to rise. Paladin sat down in the leather chair behind the large desk and motioned for his guests to do the same. As they sat down, Paladin glanced at the calendar on his desk, 19 Afteryule, S.R. 1419. He had the feeling it would be a date he would never forget.

"Sirs," Paladin said. "Please state your business."

One of the hobbits spoke up. "I'm Tad Foxburr, Thain Paladin, and this gentleman," Tad gestured to the Man in the chair, "is Ron Fernberry. We are here to offer you a chance to be part of a business opportunity."

"I am willing to listen, proceed Mr. Foxburr."

Apart from a nod acknowledging Ron Fernberry's presence, Paladin chose to focus on the hobbits in his study. At least with them he felt on solid footing, less intimidated. Ron was using this chance to study this supposedly powerful hobbit. For now Paladin was looking and sounding like a puffed-up version of Lotho. This hobbit's manner was all business. He was aloof with a touch of iron in his voice but obviously thought highly of himself and his little titles. Perhaps, Ron thought, this fool plan of Lotho's would work.

Tad stood to spread a map of the Shire out on Paladin's desk, picking up various objects and using them to weight the corners down. "We are here on behalf of a most prosperous hobbit, Thain Paladin. His holdins are quite vast, as is shown here, those lands that are his bein' shaded in red. He has a well established trade goin' on with a country, well, with a buyer for a country in the far south."

Paladin had also risen to have a better view of the map. He nearly gasped aloud but managed to stifle it. A full two-thirds or more of the Shire was shaded in red, left untouched were distant sections of the North and West Farthings where there were no towns or villages. Most of Tookland was still not shaded, showing white against the red, except for a few small isolated incursions between Waymeet and Tookbank and a small area to the west of Pincup. The whole of the East Farthing right up to the Brandywine was solid red as was the South Farthing from some twenty miles below the Green Hill Country to it's southern border. Tookland stood like an island surrounded by a crimson tide. Buckland was trapped between the scarlet shading and the Old Forest.

"As you can see," Tad continued, "him that we represent is well established throughout the Shire, ownin' both farms and businesses in all these here marked areas. This is a thrivin' concern, and he is interested in takin' you on as a partner. He is interested in workin' with the Tooks, as they have the respect of a good many hobbits and, you sir, are known all over as a businesshobbit who values above most else a bottom line that is in the black."

"Carefully, go carefully!" Paladin's heart warned him. He shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The image of the map remained firmly in his mind. So much of it shaded in red; so much of it gone. Of course this hobbit would want to work with the Tooks. Tookland was still free. He opened his eyes to look Tad firmly in the eye. "And just who is it you represent, this hobbit who will not come to transact such business with me in person?"

Tad boldly returned the Thain's piercing gaze. "He's most busy right now, Thain Paladin. There is much happenin' at this very moment that he needs to tend to. But we are his most trusted, how to say it . . . workers, privy to all his business matters. We speak with full authority, sir."

"And you have still not answered my question, Mr. Foxburr. For whom do you work?"

"Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins." The voice answering belonged to no hobbit.

Paladin turned his head to look at Ron Fernberry. Paladin's heart was racing. He feared the hobbits and men in his study would be able to hear it's pounding. "Treachery! Be Cautious!" His thoughts were shouting in his head. Yet outwardly nothing showed. He had never been demonstrative in front of strangers, even less so after the many business meetings he had suffered through while cleaning up the horrible financial mess his predecessor had left behind when he passed away. He would have failed miserably at restoring solvency and order to the holdings of the Took family if any of the business hobbits and landowners he had dealt with had been able to see the shame he felt at the condition of the estate's financial affairs.

"Indeed?" Paladin sat down in his chair and placed his hands on the desk before him, interlacing his fingers to keep them from shaking. "All of this," he nodded at the map, "is owned by Lotho Sackville-Baggins?" Paladin paused, looked into Ron Fernberry's eyes a few moments, then continued. "Would it, perhaps, be as accurate to say all of this is owned by the Four Farthings Holdings?"

Ron nodded his head. "Indeed, Mr Took. Indeed," Ron was agreeing to more than Paladin's statement. He had decided that Old Lotho had been right. This Thain Paladin was as cold a fish as Lotho himself. He hadn't flinched a bit at any of what he had heard. He decided to press their advantage. "Indeed, he recently became awares of an unfortunate incident to the west o' here. Near . . . near . . . what be the name o' that place, Tad?"

"Michel Delving."

"Right. Michel Delving it be. A little incident with the Mayor, I think he was called. Yes, the Mayor o' the Shire. Seems he went and got himself in a spot o' trouble, and he ain't Mayor no more. So Mr. Lotho has kindly taken on the overseein' o' everythin', seein' as he owns most o' it anyway. He's now Chief o' this country and is settin' up a new order to things."

Paladin looked down at the map. It seemed as though the red on the map was the blood he could feel draining from his veins as a biting chill froze him to his core. He reached out his left hand to touch Michel Delving and Hobbiton, both in the Shire now owned and controlled by Lotho Sackville-Baggins. His forefinger moved to rest on Tuckborough, gently caressing the small white spot on the map that was Tookland. This land was his home. The Shire was his home. He was The Took and Thain of the Shire . . . of the Shire . . . the Shire. The chill was replaced with a burning heat. The blood Paladin had felt draining away now flushed his cheeks with a red glow. His forefinger curled to join it's fellows in making a fist. The fist slammed down hard on the red-shaded map.

"NO!" The visitors jumped and Paladin's chair was knocked to the floor as he stood. "NO!" Items on the desk shook as Paladin's fist pounded the map. "If there is no Mayor, if there is a need for someone to fill the role of 'Chief,' it will be the rightful hobbit with the authority to step into the position." Paladin's voice was loud, possessing great authority. "There is no need for any 'new order'. There is already order in the Shire. If the Mayor is unable to perform his duties then, it is the Thain of the Shire who takes the reins and no upstart. It makes no difference how much land he owns."

None of the visitors moved. They stared at the stern hobbit who seemed to grow taller before their eyes.

"No, there is no 'new order!' No need for a 'Chief!' I do not know by what deceits Lotho acquired all his holdings, but this will not happen. These actions of his will cease." Paladin's fist crashed into the map again. "Business? This is no business. It is treachery! Gathering? No, by his orders you have been stealing. Trespass and thievery! It is over, finished! Word will be sent, and other's will soon learn of these traitorous deeds!" Paladin grabbed the map at it's center, crumpled it with both hands, then threw it into Ron Fernberry's face. "I will have no part in this. You may tell Lotho Pimple that he is a traitor. From now on his workers will be treated as the thieves and trespassers they are. Get out of my home, off of my land, out of Tookland, and out of the Shire!"

As quickly as they could manage, the visitors left the Thain's office. Once outside of Great Smials they ran, even the Men ran, with Paladin's pack of hunting dogs at their heels.

It was well into the afternoon of the nineteenth when Esme and her entourage finally arrived home. She and Saradoc fairly ran into each others arms.

"What is happening, Saradoc!" Esme said breathlessly into his ear.

"What do you mean?"

"The ferry, we nearly weren't allowed to come home."

Saradoc took her by the shoulders and held her back so he could look at her face. "What do you mean, Esme?"

"There was a group of Men there, and old Moro Brandybuck the ferry-hobbit looking scared to death. The Men said we needed a permit to cross from the Shire into Buckland. And I said I needed no such thing. The biggest of the Men said there were new rules now in effect and that there was no traveling about to be done by the 'Little Folk' without a permit. Old Moro spoke up and said that we were Brandybucks and were heading home. Then I said that was true, that I am the Mistress of Brandy Hall and that they had no right to prevent me from going where I wished. They laughed at me, Saradoc. They laughed and mocked me and said it was with the Master of Buckland's permission that the new rules were in force. But seeing as we were headed home, they would let us go this time. Whatever is going on, Saradoc?"

Saradoc pulled his wife close to his chest and held her so tightly she could barely breathe. What was going on? He had no answers. Esme wiggled and pulled herself loose.

"Here, darling. Here is a letter from my brother. He said it was urgent and I should give it to you first thing." She pulled the wrinkled envelope out of her small carry bag and handed it to her husband. He took it and, still holding Esme with one arm, opened it and began to read:

Dear Brother-in-law,

I have read your letter to me and given this reply great thought. Your news of a surge in the numbers of Men entering the Shire is troubling. It agrees with what I have been hearing from Tooks throughout the Shire. It couples in my concerns with this: the talk of the gatherings being done to help hobbits in need are lies. In the North Farthing they were told it was a blight in the South Farthing. In the South Farthing it was storm damage in the North Farthing, and so on. I have heard from all the Farthings of the Shire. It had been an excellent harvest in all areas.

These stories are lies, Saradoc. Lies. And I now think there is a connection between these lies and the Men within our borders. I fear grim times are upon us, dear brother. Hold fast. Don't believe their lies. I will send you more information as I am able.

Yours,

Paladin

Saradoc's strength drained from him. He sank first to his knees then to sit with a thump in the snow, pulling Esme with him. All the color drained from his face.

"I've ruined us." he moaned. "I've given over Buckland to liars and cheats. I've ruined us." Saradoc 'Scattergold' Brandybuck, The Master of Buckland, fainted into his wife's embrace and was then carried into Brandy Hall.

Away in Hobbiton, Lotho Sackville-Baggins propped his feet up in front of his cozy hearth. The room was warm, but the look on his face would have chilled to the bone any hobbit who saw it. But none did. The reports had all come in. The whole of the Shire and Buckland were his. Tookland would soon fall, he was sure of it. The reign of Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Chief of the Shire, had begun.

Two loud, solid sounding thuds reverberated through the rooms of #3 Bagshot Row. "An odd way ta go ‘bout knockin’ on a body’s door!" Gaffer Gamgee thought to himself as he made his way to the front door. He threw it open to find himself staring at no one. Leaning forward he looked to the right then to the left. To the left he saw the backs of a Man and a hobbit heading back toward Hill Lane. He shook his head. Men in the Shire! It still galled him to see them stomping about with their heavy booted feet in his homeland, that he should live to see such a thing. A movement caught his eye as he started to shut the door. A piece of paper, nailed to his door, fluttered in the breeze. The Gaffer tore it down then shut the door against the cold of the day.

He looked at the paper. Scribbles. Meaningless squiggles that taunted him. This must be important for some empty-headed, daft bugger to be ruining his front door to post it. But he couldn’t make sense of any of it. Sam could . . .

Sam.

Why did that ninney-hammer of a scatter-brained . . .

No. Hamfast caught hold of his thoughts. He swallowed down the lump that had formed itself in his throat. He wouldn’t think those things about his lad who . . . who . . . well, who might be . . .

He didn’t want to even think the word. As rough and thorny as he always behaved, he loved his family deeply. It just wasn’t his way to be all warm softness with his affection. It could only come out in harsh jests or words that seemed to others to be insulting. But they knew. His lads and lasses knew he loved them. Hamfast knew what was being said in the Ivy Bush and the Green Dragon. His hearing wasn’t that far gone that he hadn’t been able to catch the talk at the tables near to his. Dead. There, he’d let the word come up in his mind. They all were saying his Sam and the others were dead. And he could say naught against it, as he’d not heard from the Brandybuck Mistress since just a touch afore Yule. She had said they were alive yet. She had said so. But he couldn’t tell his old friends at the inn and tavern. She had asked it be kept quiet, and he weren’t about to not keep her trust in him. If only she would write again.

That all brought his thoughts back to the paper he held in his hand. He looked at it again, made a decision then went into the kitchen to talk to Bell.

"What twas that all ‘bout, Ham?"

"Twas ‘bout this, whatever it be," he said as he slapped the paper down on the table. "It means a trip to Olo Proudfoot in this evil cold weather."

"Must ya go? Surely we can find out ta matter without you goin’ out."

Hamfast looked at Bell. She looked so fragile to him. Two winters past she had been badly ill, and it seemed she had never recovered her former self. Even chilly summer nights had her cuddled up in a shawl and lap robe. Come winter, she had even taken to wearing knitted coverings on her feet. There she sat at the table where once a whole large family had sat, on the side nearest the fire, all bundled up worrying about him getting cold.

"I don’t see how’s we can be findin’ anythin’ out, my love, without Old Olo readin’ it for us." Hamfast was interrupted by a more normal sounding knock on the door. "Well," he said smiling at Bell. "Maybe ya got you’re wish, love!" With a wink for his wife, he left the kitchen to answer the door.

"Comin’, comin’!" The Gaffer hollered as the knocking continued. He opened the door to find Daddy Twofoot and Dimm on the doorstep. Dimm held a familiar looking piece of paper in his hand.

"Well, old codger, do ya let friends in ta door or does they get to stand ‘bout shiverin’ in ta cold?" Daddy’s words sounded rude, but a smile teased the corners of his mouth.

"If they just be comin’ to spout like that, they can freeze to ta doorstep and wait ta thaw to free ‘em up," came the Gaffer’s reply as he stood back and waved the Twofoots in. "I see as ya got yourselves one ‘o them papers. Right rude of some’un to just go poundin’ a nail in your door to give ya somemat what ya can’t read anyway."

"Aye," replied Daddy as he and Dimm walked over to the parlor fireplace and stood with their backs to it while pulling off their hats. "We figured that we’d best be a’seein’ Mr. Proudfoot and findin’ out what this says. Might ya wish to come with us, Ham?"

"Aye. Let me be gettin’ my outside things on, and I’ll tag along. I can use ta walk, I be thinkin’. Been settin’ ‘bout too much. Bell," the Gaffer hollered into the kitchen, "I be headin’ off with Daddy and Dimm. We’re goin’ to find out ‘bout these papers."

"You best be dressin’ warm and walkin’ careful, Hamfast Gamgee," came Bell’s soft reply.

"That I am, and that I will! Dimm’s along to keep a watch on our old feet. We won’t be longer than needs be."

The three hobbits walked slowly on their way into Hobbiton. The Widow Rumble in #1 had gotten a piece of paper as well, but she had not felt up to battling the cold and had told Daddy and Dimm that they could represent her interests and gave them her paper. Dimm walked behind his Father and the Gaffer, letting them set the pace and be better positioned to help if one of them started to fall. They soon sat in the parlor of Olo Proudfoot’s cozy warm home, feet toward a toasty fire with steaming mugs of tea.

Olo slowly read the papers making sure they said the same things. Except for one thing, they were all the same. Except for two things they were the same as the notice that had been nailed to his own door. He looked up at his guests and his heart ached. He knew and cared for them all and now, now he could hardly be delivering worse news.

"I shall just explain most of what is here. Most of it is exactly the same as the notices that were posted on every door in Hobbiton this morning, though there is an important difference on your copies." Olo looked from Daddy to Dimm to Hamfast. They sat with trusting looks on their faces. He cleared his throat, looked back down at the papers in his hand and continued. "This is a listing of rules. It actually declares them to be The Rules of the Shire and states that copies have been nailed to the door of every single residence in the Four Farthings. It is a long list, and none of it good news. I will just read a few of them to you for now. I will come to your homes in a few days and go over them in detail so that you can learn them."

At the sound of shuffled feet, Olo looked up again.

"Naught that be good news?" Dimm asked in his quiet voice.

"No, Dimm. I’m sorry to say that is the case. Let me see, there is now a limit of two arm loads of wood a day for each household. Wood plies are to be divided up into arm loads so that the Sherriffs that come around may keep check on what is being used. All inns and taverns are to be closed by the end of this week. There is to be no home brewing of ale or making of wine. No traveling by hobbits without first obtaining the proper permit. Gathering of goods and stores will be carried out by the Sherriffs and the Chief’s representatives as needed." Olo looked up and into each wide-opened set of eyes before him. "But there is worse than this for you, I fear."

The Gaffer had not heard much past the "two arm loads of wood a day". How could he possibly keep Bell warm with so little wood? But the word "worse" caught his ear. "Worse, Olo? Sounds like we’re to be kept cold ‘n hungry, yet there be worse?"

"It is where your notices differ from the others I’ve seen today. Your’s, Daddy’s and the Widow Rumble’s have this added at the bottom.

‘This is an eviction notice. You are to be moved out of your residence at’ . . . and here it is different, listing each of your addresses on your own notices . . . ‘by 12 o’clock, noon, on the twenty-first of Afteryule. You will move your persons and your effects to’ . . . and again there is a different address on each notice."

"That makes it on ta morrow," Daddy said nearly as quietly as his son. His mouth hung open in disbelief.

"Yes, I hate to say that you haven’t much time."

"Does it be saying where we’re supposed ta go?" The Gaffer stared into the fire, away from Daddy and Dimm, away from Olo.

"It does," said Olo. "The street is named. There is a map as well to show it’s location. Each address is a different number but all on the same street."

"You’ll still be neighbors then, Da." Dimm gave his father a nudge. "Where be this here street, Mr. Proudfoot?"

"It is called "Lobelia Lane." It appears to run along the north side of the Grange." Olo suddenly felt the stares of three pairs of eyes upon him. He knew full well why they stared so hard.

"That be meanin’ . . ," started Hamfast.

"That be meanin’ them shacks!" cried Daddy. "Them black, ugly, poor built shacks them Men has been a’workin’ at! Thought they be for some sort o’ storage buildins’. Don’t look to be fit for . . ." He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

"For living in?" Olo quietly finished the thought. "No, they don’t. But that is indeed what the map indicates."

"Who be doin’ this, Mr. Proudfoot?" Dimm whispered. "Who is it be thinkin’ they can be movin’ my Da and ta Gamgees and ta Widow Rumble out o’ their homes?"

"It says at the bottom of the page, 'These Rules and the eviction notices are enacted by order of the Chief of the Shire.' "

"And who be this 'Chief' ?" the Gaffer asked.

"Well, Hamfast, the signature reads: Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Chief of the Shire."

"I’ll be hanged up by ma foot hair afore I see Lotho Pimple chief o’ anythin’!" Daddy Twofoot hollered while stamping his two feet hard on the floor.

Olo sighed and kept still.

"That can’t be right!" It was the Gaffer again. "‘Twern’t no ‘lection. ‘Tweren’t no votin’. ‘Tain’t even ta right year nor time o’ ta year. And ta Pimple would be bein’ Mayor, not 'Chief o’ ta Shire'. This be some sort o’ prank."

"I fear it is no prank, my old friends. Before they got everything firmly in place with checking for permits, hobbits made it through from Michel Delving to several of the Shire’s larger towns, or so I was informed. Mayor Whitfoot has been arrested for traveling without a permit and is being held in the Lockholes."

"Held?" Dimm’s quiet voice had sunk to nearly inaudible.

"The Lockholes are a jail now, Dimm. He is in jail."

The crackle of the fire on the hearth and the tick of the mantle clock were the only sounds in the room for several long, slow minutes.

"This can’t be," the Gaffer said through clenched teeth. "Told him, I did. I told Old Gandalf that bad would come o’ young Mr. Frodo sellin’ Bag End to them weasely, connivin’, miserable, sour faced Sackville-Baggins’. He didn’t seem ta pay me much heed, his thinkin’ seemin’ ta be elsewhere. All that twas catchin’ his ear that evenin’ were talk about . . . Well, he weren’t carin’ ‘bout Lotho Pimple sittin’ pretty in Bag End. But I told him naught but bad would come o’ it."

Quiet settled over the room again as the four hobbits each tried to make sense of what they had read or heard. The clock on the mantle ticked away the time.

"Does it be known when there’ll be a give ‘n take ‘bout ta Mayor?" asked Daddy.

"There is to be no hearing, no trial, Daddy." Olo didn’t look up, but he continued to stare at the floor at his feet. "It is on the list of Rules. 'Any hobbit found by the Sherriffs or the Chief’s Men to be breaking any of the Rules will be immediately arrested and sent to the Lockholes. No questions asked, no recourse given.' "

"No recourse?" asked the Gaffer.

Olo looked up at Hamfast. "No chance to tell their side of the story. No hearing. No give and take."

Quiet again. Despite the fire, the room felt cold.

"Then we’d best be a’leavin’ ya, Olo, and headin’ home ta pack ourselves up," Hamfast Gamgee said while painfully working his way to his feet. " ‘Tisn’t much time to get our things together, or we’ll all be bound for ta Lockholes.

All their slow way home the three hobbits trudged in silence. Dimm was wondering how he was ever going to get his Da, Widow Rumble and the Gamgees all moved in a day. He looked at the two elderly hobbits walking unsteadily ahead of him. He wanted to weep. It was all so unfair.

"Da! Gaffer!" Dimm called. "We had best be stopping by . . . we’d best have a look . . ." he couldn’t say it, he just couldn’t call those shacks their new homes.

"Ya be right, Dimm. We’ll stop ta have a look." Daddy said over his shoulder.

There were more shacks than the ones assigned to the three current Bagshot Row residents. With sinking hearts the three realized they were not the only ones being forced from their homes. They went to number five, the one Mr. Olo had said was to be the Twofoot’s, and pushed open the rickety door. The one room wasn’t very large, barely enough to hold a bed, a few chairs and a table. The fireplace was woefully small, and the tiny oven barely enough to bake two loaves of bread at a time. There was only one small window next to the front door, but two doors. The front door and a back door for getting to the privy. Dimm noticed that although there where seven of the shacks along Lobelia Lane, there were only three privies in sight. He sighed and shook his head. The dear old souls wouldn’t even have the dignity of their own privy. They would be sharing. He noticed as well they were set further away than usual, making for a long cold trip in this nasty weather.

"I think we’ll be sharin’ a bed, Da. There isn’t room for two."

"I noticed, Dimm," was all his father said.

The Gaffer didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t give voice to the fear in his heart. He could feel the drafts. The fireplace was too small. Two arm loads of wood a day would never keep one of these dreadful places warm. And his dear Bell’s health couldn’t bear the cold.

Tookland lay in the western end of the Green Hill Country, West Farthing. It was loosely bordered by the Great East Road to the north, the Waymeet-Sackville Road on the west and the imaginary line that divided the West Farthing from the South Farthing to the east: roughly twenty miles wide by thirty miles long. Its main towns were Whitwell, Tookbank, and the largest of all, Tuckborough. Those parts of Tookland that were not covered by the trees of the Green Hill Country were rich farmlands. It was a prosperous part of the Shire.

Everard Tookbank farmed an average sized holding just off the Great East Road and just west of the Three Farthing Stone. He was out in his barn tending his cows early in the morning on twenty Afteryule, when a commotion arose in the farmyard. His dogs had set to barking until he heard a yelp, then it grew quiet. He hoisted himself off his milking stool to see what had happened.

"Blackie! Patches! Ya daft dogs. What are . . ." Everard stopped and stared. A large group of fierce looking Men and hobbits with feathers in their caps stood bold as day in his farmyard. He looked down and saw Blackie lying on the snow. Patches was nosing his old friend and whimpering. One of the Men was tapping a club against his leg.

"Alright, lads. Get busy with ya," the club-holder ordered, and the Men started for the barn and the grain bins. The club-holder stepped over the dead dog to stand in front of Everard. "Unless you want to be paintin’ the snow red like yer dog, you’ll leave us be. We’re just here to take what you’re owin’, then be on our way. Understand, little one?"

Everard nodded. He saw one of his sons start out of the pig barn but waved him back in. The lad saw and silently ducked back into the shadowy doorway.

In a half hour’s time, the Men and feather-capped hobbits were gone, along with a third of Everard Tookbank’s stores. As soon as they were out of sight, he sent his oldest son, Fulco, off on their riding pony as fast as he could ride to Great Smials. Fulco was not the first to arrive at Great Smials that morning. There were at lest five farmers or their sons ahead of him. He recognized his neighbors, for all who stood there in the entry hall of the huge smial farmed land that lay just south of the Great East Road.

Thain Paladin II had not yet finished first breakfast when the maid came in to tell him there was a frightened looking farmer wishing to see him. He told her to see the hobbit to his study while he left his diningroom hurriedly to get dressed. By the time Paladin arrived, there were eight farmers anxiously awaiting him.

Ten minutes later the normally sedate Paladin Took stormed out of his office. He shouted orders to his startled secretary then to every servant or resident of Great Smials that he passed. He and the group of farmers nearly ran for the door that was closest to the stable yard. Twenty minutes later each of the eight farmers was leaving at a gallop to the farmlands south of the Great East Road and east of the Waymeet-Sackville Road. Each farmer was accompanied by three skilled Took hunter/archers along with three or four of the younger, stronger males of the Great Smials household. Thain Paladin rode with a larger group heading for Whitwell. He knew there was one holding that Lotho Sackville-Baggins would not be able to resist plundering.

It had taken awhile for Yengan, Moctok, Natuck and Slengan and the Gatherers under them to get all they could from the stores of the farm owned by Thain Paladin II. Before the family titles had come to him, Paladin and a good many paid farmhands had together worked the land of the large holding. Now the profits of the farm were evenly split amongst those who worked it in Paladin’s stead. Paladin had sent word to Talley Took, the Master Farmer over the property, after the visit from Lotho’s representatives alerting him to the possibility of Gatherers arriving at the farm. But it had made no difference. The group that arrived at the Thain’s farm consisted of large Men armed with clubs and whips, with only three hobbits. The hobbits being brought along only to gain access to the storage bins and cellars that were too small for the men to get into. It had been a long morning’s work, taking the twenty Gatherers three hours to fill the twenty-three horse drawn, Man-sized wagons with grain, vegetables and hay. Well over half of what remained of last harvest’s bounty. They were nearly to the main gate with the caravan of heavily loaded wagons when their way was blocked by what looked to be a small army of stern hobbits. Thain Paladin sat on his pony, a bit ahead of the crowd, dead center in the middle of the road.

"You can just turn those wagons right around and take everything back to where you stole it." The Thain’s tone was icy, his voice strong.

Yengan continued to ride forward on his horse until there was only twenty feet of empty road between him and Paladin. He pulled a club out of a holder on his saddle and began to slap it against his empty hand. "Don’t think ya know what ya be sayin’, little one, nor who ya be sayin’ it to. We be the ones what have the right to be here. We be followin’ the orders of the Chief of yer wee little Shire." The sharp sound of the club slapping his hand accented Yengan’s words. "Ya’d best be movin’ yerself and the rest o’ the mice out o’ the way, afore ya all get hurt."

"Enough mice can befuddle the best cats." Paladin’s voice was tense with controlled anger. "Especially if the cats finds themselves surrounded."

With their usual hobbit quiet, farm hands who had been rousted by the hobbits from the Smials had come up along the field side of the hedges that ran ten feet from each side of the road. They now stepped out, armed with hoes, pitchforks and a few bows with arrows nocked at the ready. Most of the Men were no longer looking so confident. Moctok, Natuck and Slengan rode up to form a line immediately behind Yengan. Yengan rode forward a few paces.

"Unless I see a hand raised in show of a truce, you had best come no further," The Took and Thain warned.

Yengan hesitated at Paladin’s threat, then proceeded to walk his horse two more steps. Nine Took archers stepped out from the crowd behind Paladin, nocking their arrows to take aim on Yengan.

"Ya haven’t the guts, mice. Ya’ll learn it here like they be learnin’ it elsewhere in this runty little country o’ yours. So you can talk a threat all ya want, Master Mouse. We be takin’ what we be takin’. I know who ya be, and I know ya think this all be yours, but ‘tain’t no more. We’ll take it all and use your Tookland for our privy!"

Yengan raised his club while driving his heels into his horse. It leapt toward The Thain of the Shire but suddenly jerked aside awkwardly. Yengan fell lifeless to the ground still clutching the reins. Three Took arrows pierced his heart, another his throat, the rest lodged in his torso as he fell. Moctok swung his club at the nearest archer, breaking his arm.

The fight that ensued was short. The men were not accustomed to the hobbits fighting back. When Moctok suffered the same fate as Yengan and several others were wounded, they leapt from the wagons, fleeing across Paladin’s fields toward the Waymeet-Sackville Road. Several hobbits had been knocked unconscious. Many of them had broken arms or cuts from whips, but none were killed.

Paladin awkwardly dismounted. He stood over the bodies of the two dead Men. Blood dripped from a whip cut on his chin, his right arm was supporting his broken left arm. He bowed his head for a few moments then looked at the Tooklanders gathered around him.

"Let us not begin to see this as a normal way to deal with these Men, these outsiders," he said quietly, yet his voice carried and all the hobbits heard him clearly. "Let us try to spill no more blood on the Tookland. Life once taken cannot be returned. Let us not ever take it lightly. These Men are to be treated well in death and buried in a respectful manner near, but not in, the family graveyard." Paladin paused again, wondering in his heart if this had been the right thing to do. "Get the wagons turned around. Get the goods put back in the barns and cellars. Any of you who know how to tend to wounds come help with the injured."

Later that day the reports came to The Took and Thain in his bedroom at Great Smials where he was resting with his arm in a cast. There had been one more Man killed while he had delivered a fatal blow to Isenbras Took at one of the farms south of the Great East Road. Many on both sides had been injured, but the Men and hobbits who sought to do Lotho’s Gathering had fled the Tookland.

Esmeralda Brandybuck had spent the ending of nineteenth Afteryule at her husband’s bedside. He had soon recovered from his collapse but had remained so distraught that the healer had given him a sleeping draught. Even so, his rest was fitful.

Before the dawn of the day, twentieth Afteryule, Saradoc had gotten out of bed and headed for his office. There was a great deal of planning to do. It was past afternoon tea when he sent for Esme.

"We need to talk," Saradoc said in a tone he usually reserved for dealing with visitors on business matters. He indicated the most comfortable of the chairs facing his desk. "Sit down, please."

Esme sat stiffly in the chair, her hands clasped together in her lap, apprehension deepening the lines on her face. She was completely unaccustomed to being dealt with in this manner by her usually loving husband. In a hushed tone she replied, "Yes, dear."

"I have made a hideous mistake." Esmeralda began to disagree, but Saradoc with a wave of his hand, silenced her. "I have made a hideous mistake and you have been hiding something from me. I will see both of these situations corrected." He gestured to a letter on the desk. "This came through by Quick Post from Great Smials. They tried a more direct approach with your brother. He was offered a partnership in the takeover of the Shire."

"No! Paladin would never . . ."

"Paladin would not and did not. He sent them packing with his hunting hounds at their heels. He then sent this letter to me. The hobbits and Men who approached him made no attempt to hide who their employer is, who it is who has taken control of the Shire. It is none other than the son of old cousin Bilbo’s nemesis. It is Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Apparently, like many others in the Shire, he perceived Paladin as a cold, unfeeling business-hobbit. Figured Paladin would join right in, so he would add Tookland to the rest of his holdings. According to our brother, Lotho owns or controls nearly all of the Shire’s farms and businesses. Paladin fears he’s not seen the last of them. He fears he won’t be able to hold Tookland against them."

"How did the courier get through? My escorts and I were nearly not allowed to cross the river to come home. I can’t imagine they would let a courier through."

"The Brandywine is frozen solid near Haysend. He crossed there."

Esme nodded. "And . . . is he well? I mean Paladin. Is he alright? Did he say anything about himself and Lanti?"

Saradoc stood and walked around his desk. He pulled one of the other chairs around and sat in it facing his wife. He took her hands in his, but his look was stern. "Now we come to the other matter, Esmeralda. Paladin ends his letter with assurances that, at this time at lest, they are all well. He then expressed their hopes that you arrived safely, thanking you for your reassurances regarding Pippin, Merry, Frodo and Sam. That he hopes your gift is not too much for us to bear and that you will keep he and Lanti informed." Saradoc gently but firmly took hold of his wife’s chin. Pain and sadness mixed with the stern look on his wan face. "Our brother obviously assumes I know something I do not. What ‘gift’ are you bearing that I know nothing about?"

Esme closed her eyes. Now was not a time to charm her husband’s mind with her eyes. No. Not this time. Her thoughts were spinning in her head. She had never told him.

She had never told him because she knew, she knew beyond doubt that he would not believe her, could not believe her. But suddenly a faint hope glimmered. Why wouldn’t he? The Brandybucks had no Fairy-blood influencing them, but they were strongly of the Fallowhide strain of hobbits, who were said to be Elf-friends. Hadn’t Gorhendad Oldbuck left the Shire to claim the strip of land he named Buckland? He had begun the building of Brandy Hall and changed his family’s name. Odd things for a hobbit to do. Bold things. Mad things. Perhaps . . .

" ‘Tis a Tookish thing, my dearest love," she said as she brought her eyes up to meet his, guarding her gaze carefully. "A Tookish trait that not all of us Tooks inherit. Paladin did not." Esme allowed herself to look a bit deeper into Saradoc’s eyes. "I inherited it. Pippin did too." Her mind was racing. How much? How much to say to this hobbit she loved above all others? "I . . . I just know things, darling. Beyond any doubt. With complete certainty. I feel things; I know things." She paused again. Deeper, just a bit deeper into his eyes and his heart, she let herself slip. Some of the tension eased from Saradoc’s face. "I know our son is alive, Saradoc. I know it. As truly as I know I am sitting here in your office, I know. Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam -- they are all alive and well." She hoped he would not ask for more. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him of the times of fear and horror that she shared with Pippin.

"And you haven’t told me?"

"I didn’t think you would believe me." She heard in his voice and felt in her spirit his sense of being betrayed. She tenderly stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "You being such a Brandybuck’s–Brandybuck and I such a Tookish–Took."

Saradoc finally smiled a sad smile. "An understandable doubt to have, my little Tookish bride. Very understandable, indeed." He sighed, and his smile faded. "I’m not sure I do believe you. I want to. It would be nice to have this dread . . . this fear for Merry lifted from me. Especially with everything else that is now happening." A wry, half-smile came to his lips. "I will try. For your sake, for Merry’s sake, I will try to believe you though it seems beyond reason to me. I fell in love with a wild Took lass. I need to accept all that entails. Come, sit on my lap so I can hold you, my beloved Took." But while his embrace comforted Esme, Saradoc was filled with a new fear. Madness. Many hobbits said there was madness in the Tooks. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if madness were to take his darling Esmeralda from him. He shook his head slightly as he fought to send the fear from his mind. They had other things they needed to discuss.

"I need to change the subject, my dear. There was a list of Rules posted, apparently throughout the Shire and Buckland this morning. Rules that I have decided we have to appear to obey."

Esme raised her head from Saradoc’s shoulder. " ‘Appear to obey’? Not actually obey?"

"If we obey them, the hobbits of Buckland will suffer. I fear we all will suffer as it is, but many times worse if we blindly obey Lotho’s Rules. I will need your help. We will have to be sly." He lightly chuckled. "It would be good if," he had to pause before he could go on, "if Merry and Pippin were here. They have so much experience at that sort of thing."

Esme kissed his cheek while chuckling herself. "Yes. And don’t forget Frodo. He was quite the handful when he was young. I think he taught the other two all they know."

"Yes." Saradoc returned the kiss and smiled the first full smile he had had all that day. "Though I’m sure Merry, then Pippin, enlarged and improved upon his teachings." He hugged Esme as he sighed. "We could use all our lads now. We will have to use their plots and schemes in reverse. We will be needing to figure out how to get food and supplies to the poorer hobbits. How to sneak the old and infirm into the Hall for the sake of their health."

Esme sat up to search her husbands face. She could see, he was being deadly serious. "Things will be that bad?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper with the shock of this news.

"Who knows what will be left of the food supplies after they finish their Gathering. There are Rules against using too much firewood, against taking in guests, against sharing food and supplies with other hobbits, and as you know, against hobbits traveling without permission. If we are obvious in our disobedience, it will make matters worse. They are able to arrest any hobbit caught breaking their Rules, with no trial or hearing held in their defense. Mayor Whitfoot is already a prisoner in the Lockholes." A tear ran down Saradoc’s face. "For all but the Sackville-Baggins’ and those that support them, it will be that bad."

Pippin scuffed his way along a path that wound through a field of, what was for him, deep grass. If he was hidden ‘twas all the better, he thought. He had seen their looks . . . well, he had seen them then. He had seen how they had looked at him when his stone had plunked and the sound of a hammer had followed the stone’s echos up the walls of the well. It had not been during the next march but at the start of the one after it that all had gone wrong. So horribly wrong. Afterward they were grief stricken, then too busy hurrying, too filled with worry to cast their accusing glances at a guilty hobbit. Dreading pursuit even as they paused for a bit of supper, hurriedly tending to Sam’s head wound as well as Frodo’s bruised side they had pushed themselves hard to reach the eves of the Golden Wood that night.

At first it was exhaustion that had kept Pippin quiet, now it was guilt. He had not looked the others in the eye since they had fled Moria. A shiver ran through him as he thought about what he would see if he did look. He knew. They knew. It was all his fault.

They had been in Lorien awhile now. How long he really couldn’t tell, but it had to be into Solmath by now. He shuffled along on feet that seemed a burden to lift, his eyes on the thin grass of the path just ahead of his toes. The Lady Galadriel had touched his mind and offered him the chance to go back; back home. He had seen the Green Hill country, Great Smials, his parents, his sisters, his cousins . . . No he couldn’t go back, the cousins he loved best in all Middle-earth were here. And yet . . . might they not all be better off without him?

He looked up. He was at the edge of a woods. The smell of leaves that cover the forest floor filled his nose. The air felt crisp. He heard laughter.

Elves. Just Elves. He had grown used to their voices. They had laughed a lot in Rivendell. He shuddered again, his eyes closed. They had not laughed here. Here in Lorien they sang dirges in the branches of the trees, mourning Gandalf who died from the thoughtless action of a "Fool of a Took."

"Tookling."

Pippin’s eyes opened to slits. He thought he heard his name.

"Tookling, mine."

Not quite like when the Lady Galadriel had spoken in his head, yet not quite to his ears the voice came with the sound of rustling leaves. He opened his eyes fully as he walked into the woods on silent feet until the field behind him could no longer be seen.

"Come no further, my young Tookling," the voice danced into his thoughts. "You have naught to fear from me."

Pippin felt light, giddy as he stood swaying slightly in the autumn scented breezes. He could see her. Well, he could sort of see her, enough to know she was not an Elf. She seemed dim and far away or like someone viewed through the mists that sometimes hang in the forests in the autumn of the year. As it would with those mists, a chill feeling moved through him, filling him, surrounding him. Oddly enough, it did not make him cold.

"I will care for my own as best as I am able. This I promised. This I will do." The notes of her voice filled his thoughts. Her slender hand reached out, her touch was like the brush of a breath on his forehead. She smiled. "How like my own dear Took he is," she thought, "from so many of their lives ago." Their eyes met. Pippin felt a wonder, a wildness, a joy, a longing stir within him. "My young Tookling, cast off this drab cloak of guilt. It buries your gift."

"I’ve no gift." His voice sounded dull in his ears.

"You are The Fool."

If he could have, Pippin would have withdrawn his gaze, but he could not. His heart fought to pull away.

"The word hurts you, I know. But The Fool has a subtle wisdom, and sharp is the mind that can find a jest in dire times. The one you hold as brother has need of your jests, lest his self imposed responsibilities become a load that drives him to exhaustion."

Pippin saw in his mind the many times he had helped Merry laugh over something he had carried as a worry.

"The one who bears the Burden needs you as well. Your light heart helps to keep alive in him the hope at the end of his journey." She smiled. "There are questions you have with answers you will never know, for each must travel their own path. The one who fell is beyond you, my young Tookling. His path is so hidden that even the wise of this realm do not see it. All may not be as it seems. There is no fault to be given in what has befallen him." Her voice grew softer. Pippin strained to hear. "This cloak of guilt is not yours to bear. I cast it from you. Be at peace."

To Pippin’s mind came the pitch darkness of Moria with the fearful sensation of the gaping hole of the well behind him. He felt tired, so tired. But he was too serious about not failing at his watch to relax. He was too frightened by the images in his mind of a hideous creature’s hand holding the hammer they had heard tapping for any sleep to come. Then, he heard the old wizard’s voice. "Get into a corner and have a sleep, my lad. You want to sleep, I expect. I cannot get a wink, so I may as well do the watching." There was kindness and concern in Gandalf’s voice. A thick sleepiness wrapped itself around Pippin as he crawled over to the wall of the chamber to lie down near where he knew Merry lay sleeping. His feelings of fear were dulled by Gandalf’s gentle words. He saw Gandalf’s care lined face by the dim light of a glowing chip in the wizard’s hand as he lit his pipe. He looked straight at Pippin. Pippin saw what his later sorrow and guilt had pushed from his mind. There was forgiveness in Gandalf’s twinkling eyes. It washed over Pippin, as comforting as the sleep that carried him away.

"I will care for my own," whispered the melodious voice at the edge of his hearing. "The child of my child whom you hold as a mother helps me care for you as well. Be at peace, my young Tookling falcon."

Merry hurried down the path that Legolas had pointed out to him. The Elf said he had seen Pippin walking slowly along it until he disappeared from sight into the tall grass. Merry’s heart tightened. He felt he had failed his young cousin, that because he had not kept a sharp enough eye on Pip the tween had done some foolish things. Now, Pippin hadn’t been acting like himself. He was quiet, avoiding the rest of the Fellowship. Worst, for Merry, Pippin had been avoiding him.

Merry nearly tripped over Pippin. He was lying on his side across the path at one of its many turnings as it meandered through the field. Merry dropped to his knees beside his cousin, gripped by a sudden fear that Pippin was ill or dead. "Please, just be sleeping, Pippin. Please, please. Just be asleep," he said under his breath. Merry lowered his head to place his ear near Pippin’s mouth, which was slightly open as usual when Pippin was sleeping, hoping to catch the sound of his breathing.

A loud kiss on his cheek set Merry’s ear ringing, then he was flipped onto his back and pinned to the ground.

"Well hello, cousin Meriadoc!" Pippin’s smile lit his face as it hadn’t in days. "I’m starving. Have you anything to eat in your pockets?" Merry screeched and writhed as Pippin tickled him in a mock effort to search his pockets. "Aha! An apple!" A triumphant Pip took a huge bite of the fruit as he rolled off his older cousin to lie beside him in the path. Merry stared open mouthed at this once again boisterous Pippin as he chewed then swallowed the mouthful of apple. Pippin turned his head to look at Merry, seriousness replacing the mirth that had lit his face only moments before. "You aren’t angry with me?"

"No."

"Are the others?"

"No."

" ‘Twas all in my head, then, that everyone blamed me for . . . for . . . Gandalf," Pippin said, his voice and eyes anxious.

Merry rolled onto his side. He reached over to tousle Pippin’s hair, gave his shoulder an affirming squeeze, then let his hand rest on his cousin’s chest over his heart. He looked Pippin squarely in the eyes. "Yes. It was all in your head. And you were avoiding us all, and . . ," Merry sighed. "Well. I’ve been talking to everyone. It seems, in differing amounts, every one of us was blaming ourselves, not each other. I will say you have been the worst about it." He flipped Pippin’s chin with his forefinger then put his hand back on Pippin’s chest. "I understand why. Mind you, no one was happy with you when you dropped that stone, but it was quickly put aside. Strider said he’s quite sure they, the orcs, knew we were there all along. He said all the noise from the collapse of the western gate couldn’t have been missed. They surely would have gone to see what had happened. His feeling is they were afraid of Gandalf with his glowing staff at first, but then grew bolder and waited until they had us where they thought we would be trapped. He said he thinks they tapped with their hammers after your adventure at the well to frighten us. Strider chuckled as he pointed out that it worked." Merry looked down at his hand as he patted Pippin’s chest. He thought about the piece of his handkerchief, stitched to the inside of Pip’s shirt right beneath his hand. "We’ve all been worried about you."

"None more than you," Pippin thought as he covered Merry’s hand with one of his own and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. "I’m sorry for that," he said quietly. "I’ve, well . . . ah . . ." Pippin was thinking fast about what had happened to him, about the misty figure in the woods. He looked around. It all had vanished. Yet he felt better about everything. Better, truth be told, than he had felt in a long time. Frodo needed him. Merry needed him. Perhaps they all needed their "Fool of a Took." Before he only thought he needed them, now it felt good to think he played a special part in all of this. He would just have to be careful with his curiosity. Yes, that was it. Just keep his pointed nose out of things. He quickly stood. Pippin looked around at the tall grass. No sign of woods nor small Lady. No, best not tell Merry he had been seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. "I’ve been walking, thinking and such, and . . . well, I think I’m fine now. Yes," Pippin said. He smiled as he looked up at the sky. "I’m fine now. It’s about time for afternoon tea, judging by the sun. You shan’t get any, Merry, if you aren’t faster than me." Pippin grinned wickedly then broke into his fastest run down the path toward the glade and the Fellowship’s pavilion.

Merry rose to his feet in no great hurry then merely jogged down the path. Tea would be there when he got there. He smiled. More important to him than any tea was Pippin being himself once again.

Saradoc Brandybuck looked at the large, unopened envelope that sat squarely in the middle of his large desk. He was sitting, as he now often did, in a smallish chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. He had a strange reluctance to sit behind the desk in the Master’s chair. Saradoc hated what he was doing. His own actions had brought him to a point where deceptions and falsehoods were to be the standard way of performing his duties as The Master of Buckland. He had never thought in the terms of enemies and allies. Military terms. The terms of war. But now indeed the line was drawn in the soil of his homeland. He had let the enemy in and to him fell the task of doing whatever needed to be done to prevent the total destruction of his people and their land.

The envelope sat there, mocking him with it’s official look. Gold sealing wax with a blood red ribbon holding closed the fine, heavy gauge paper. If all was going according to plan, it held the means to carry out the schemes he hoped would save his people. He had written to Lotho Pimple . . . no, Saradoc snorted, to The Chief of the Shire, imploring that perhaps certain hobbits could be issued permanent permits for travel throughout Buckland. Healers, farriers, drayhobbits to take grain to the mills and fodder to some of the smaller holdings, and joiners to make needed repairs. In the towns, would hobbits need a permit to conduct the usual business of a town? Hardest of all had been asking if he himself as The Master of Buckland might be regarded as The Chief of the Shire’s representative to the hobbits of Buckland and as such, given permission to travel as needed. Saradoc sighed as he reached for the envelope. He had no further plans in mind if this did not work out.

Mr. Brandybuck,

Signed: Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Chief of the Shire

Saradoc lowered the letter to his lap. He drew a deep breath then bowed his head as he let it out in a heavy sigh. What was needed had been given. He hoped that his ruse of asking permission to represent "the Chief of the Shire" had the desired effect of angering Lotho enough that he had not really given much thought to giving Saradoc the other permits. He stood up, walked around the desk, placed the letter and envelope on the desktop, pulled out the large leather chair and sat down.

"Every Master of the Hall has sat in this chair," Saradoc "Scattergold" Brandybuck said aloud. He laid his hand on the papers before him. "I vow, to the hobbits of Buckland, upon the memory of every Master that has been before me, that the office of The Master of Buckland will not cease, will not fail. I will never again sit in a chair meant for visitors. I am, and will be, The Master of Buckland. I love and care for my people and our land. I will not let the people of Buckland down again. I hope this will help them face what lies ahead."

Saradoc allowed of few moments of silence to seal his vow then drew the permits from the envelope. He had a great deal of deceiving The Chief of the Shire to do.

The weather had changed in the few weeks since those frigid cold, snow filled days when Lotho took over the Shire. What took it’s place was no better. The air was heavy with moisture causing the more customary, above freezing, temperatures of the Shire to feel colder than they were. A misanthropic fog hung like a wet wool blanket over the whole Shire. It was caught like shreds of fleece in the bare tree tops of the forest covering the Green Hill country.

The tall windows of the library at Great Smials faced east. It was high in the hill into which the huge smial had been excavated thus offering a panoramic view of the hills as they rolled away to meet the sky at the distant horizon. A wet cloak hung on the fireplace screen before the large open hearth that dominated one wall of the elegant room. A lone hobbit stood gazing out of one of the windows. The drying cloak was his.

Paladin had learned something from his son; that the library at Great Smials was a wonderful place to hide. He needed to hide. He needed to think. He had spent the morning alone on a mission, lurking in tall grass at the edge of fields and picking his way silently through the thick brush of hedgerows. Paladin started to shiver. He left the window. He began to work his jacket and waistcoat around his arm that hung in its sling. He draped them over the screen with his cloak, leaving an open spot where he stood, hoping that his breeches would start to dry out as well. But Paladin did not stop shivering, even as his trousers dried. He was afraid of what he had seen. Afraid of what it meant for the hobbits of Tookland.

It had begun gradually. Tooklanders noticing goods from the rest of the Shire were late in arriving, or did not arrive at all. Expected correspondence did not arrive, the hobbits of the Messenger Service were not seen. It had been a few days after the Gathering Rebellion that reports came to The Took and Thain that the Stock Road was blocked at the borders of Tookland by Lotho’s Ruffians armed with clubs, whips and knives. Several Tooklanders had been arrested and hauled away to the Lockholes as they tried to talk their way past the guards. As days passed high, stout rail fences appeared overnight blocking any farm lane that emptied out onto the Great East Road to the north and the Waymeet-Sackville Road to the west. Then came the news that had driven Paladin out into the bone-chilling damp; the Ruffians were patrolling the perimeter of Tookland.

The Thain of the Shire shuddered for that morning he had seen them himself. Large evil faced Men and Hobbit Sherriffs with feathers in their caps walking along the Tookland side of the Great East Road. Men on horses passed by on the Road itself at regular intervals. As Paladin watched, a farmer and his son had tried to gain the road. They weren’t even within twenty feet of the road when a Sherriff and a Man came up to them on foot to block their way. The Man sounded a note on a loud whistle. Within moments another Man rode up on a horse. He threatened the Tooklanders with his whip, snapping it over their heads. The farmer and his son made a hasty retreat back over their fields, the Ruffians resumed their patrols.

Paladin stepped away from the fireplace to nearly collapse into one of the overstuffed leather chairs that were placed here and there throughout the library. He lowered his head into his hands, running his fingers up into his grey hair where they curled and grabbed at it with a fierce grip. This was not what he had anticipated. He had foreseen some sort of deal being offered by Lotho Pimple. Some sort of tax or tariff placed upon the goods coming into or going out of the Tookland. Business tactics. Paladin had not foreseen military tactics. He had not foreseen a siege. Tookland was not entirely self-sufficient, but they could hold out a long while.

A log on the fire popped loudly. Paladin jumped then gazed into the fire. What had he done? He had been in dread from the moment this had all been mere rumor and speculation. He had felt like a condemned man as he had left his dear Lanti to talk to Lotho’s representatives that day back in Afteryule. "I am out of the realm of my experience. Will you love me if I make a mistake, Lanti? Will you love me if I fail you, fail our family, if I fail the hobbits of the Tookland and the Shire? Will you love me even then?" Those were the words he had spoken that day. He would soon find out if her promise to love him no matter what would hold true. He had made the wrong decision. He had failed.

The drab, damp depressing weather clung to the Shire into the middle of Solmath. No one could remember seeing much of the sun since Foreyule. In every town the old mills had been demolished. In every town the new mill was large and ugly, belching out dust that settled on everything. If built on a stream, it soon fouled it. If the wheels were turned by oxen, they seemed to grow exhausted quickly, dying in a short time. But at least the hobbits still had grist to be ground so the mills still produced flour, at least there would still be bread in the hobbit’s holes and houses.

The hobbits’ holes and houses. In every town some of them began to be knocked down or dug up for no apparent reason, to be replaced by areas tightly packed with tarred shacks. In every town the poorest, oldest, most infirm hobbits were forced to move into these poorly thrown together one-room dwellings. It didn’t take much hobbit sense to see that the shacks would be numbing cold in the winter while, being black in color, turning into small ovens in the summer.

The shacks of Lobelia Lane in Hobbiton were like the hundreds of others marring the charm of the villages of the Shire. The grey weepy sky matched well their look. Number Seven Lobelia Lane was as drab as all the rest. It was now home to Hamfast and Bell Gamgee.

"Are ya warm enough, Bell?" Ham asked as he adjusted the counterpane more snugly around her. Her rocking chair was pulled up close to the tiny fireplace.

"Oh, aye." She was interrupted by a fit of coughing that belied her words. "Aye just right now, Ham, my dear."

The Gaffer hugged her shoulders, or hugged what he could of her shoulders, buried as they were beneath two shawls, two wool blankets and the counterpane. He kissed her forehead, at lest there he knew she would actually feel his touch. He sat across from her in his rocker, staring at her dear face. Ham knew Bell would be asleep in moments, if she weren’t already. In the few weeks they had lived in this wretched shed her lungs had gotten worse allowing her to do little else but sleep. They hadn’t talked about it. They hadn’t talked about the blood that often stained the handkerchief into which she would cough. They both knew, and could see no point in wasting her breath discussing it. He tended her needs so she didn’t have to make the long, cold walk to the privy. That also was done without discussion. They both knew it was how it must be.

There was some help, but oh, how hard it was! So much sneaking about. Dimm Twofoot would bring by a small pot of stew, well wrapped up and hidden under his jacket. He snuck a bit of extra wood to the Gamgees as well. If any of the many Sherriffs or Ruffians that were constantly abroad in Hobbiton noticed the gussets added to Dimm’s jacket to loosen the fit, they hadn’t guessed why. Young Tom Cotton also seemed to be wearing a larger jacket these days. The Cottons, out away from Bywater on their farm, had managed to hide a goodly amount of their stores from the Gatherers. A couple of times a week Young Tom would bring taters, carrots, turnips, onions, along with dried and cured meats to the Gaffer and Bell, hidden in large pockets sewn into the inside of his oversized jacket. And every time he brought some of his dear mother’s seed cakes, as she claimed, "A body needs some pleasant sweets in times like these, not just life’s necessities."

Ham and Bell were grateful, grateful beyond words. But for all that, despite the extra food or the bit of extra wood, the cold dampness found its way into Bell Gamgee. It gave her nothing. It slowly took her breath, her strength, her very will to live.

Bag End was warm, dry and cozy. A fire burned brightly in every fireplace while the pantries bulged with food. Lobelia marveled that she didn’t need to wear her woolen skirts, nor even a shawl. A heavy cotton skirt with a lighter weight long-sleeved blouse kept her plenty warm. She was extremely proud of her son. He had the respect of those who worked under him. He was providing her with the most elegant hole, the best food, the finest clothes, the largest jewelry she had ever had. He had even hired a hobbit lass to clean as well as a hobbit who used to work at the Ivy Bush to do the cooking. Lobelia spent her days doing embroidery and writing letters to people she had long disliked, bragging about her new position in life. She was now the Mother of the Chief of the Shire. Because of the bone-chilling damp she remained tucked snugly inside Bag End.

Lotho sat behind the huge desk he had ordered for the study at Bag End. In a way it angered him that Frodo had carted away much of the old hole’s furnishings. But it really, he consoled himself, worked out for the best as what he bought to replace it all was much more opulent. He had no idea that the Men and Hobbits working for him thought his furnishings rather foolish. Most of it was gaudy, garish and far too large for the rooms at Bag End. In the study there was barely room for two chairs for visitors because Lotho’s desk and throne like chair took up so much space.

A large map of the Shire, Lotho’s Shire, hung upon the wall behind and to the right of the large chair so that all who faced Lotho faced a constant reminder of whom it was now owned their once free land. Lotho loved to sit and gaze upon his realm. Ragged white edges showed where the less populated areas at the edges of the Shire lay between the last of the farms and the actual border. Buckland was as red as the Shire. Only Tookland showed as a glaringly white spot in the heart of Chief Lotho’s Shire. Glaring white excepting a few holes and a dart from Lotho venting his wrath. He had grown to accept it though. Let the Tooks have their little land. Let them have it all to themselves. Lotho laughed. He had his plans for Tookland.

Note: The quotes from the members of the Fellowship are taken from "The Fellowship of the Ring" the chapter "The Breaking of the Fellowship."

Esme was troubled. Since the 16^th of Solmath she had not been able to feel quite at ease. Along with the disquiet came the knowledge that she would need to be cautious. When she told Saradoc of her ability to sense things concerning Merry and the others, he had said he would try to believe, but she knew he wasn’t doing very well. From their long years together she could tell what he was thinking, she needed no gift bestowed by Fairy-blood for that. She knew he feared madness. It was the common explanation non-Took hobbits gave for the strange behavior of certain members of her large and wealthy family. Even now weeks later, she would catch a glimpse of the fear in his eyes if she mentioned having a headache or feeling weary. And so, at the start of this uneasy feeling, she had begun a deceit. She put pepper into her handkerchief to cause herself to get teary eyed and sneeze. She drank spoonfuls of honey to coat her throat, causing her to have to keep clearing it and coughing. Perhaps if she could convince Saradoc that she had a cold coming on it would mask any effects that might come from . . .

Pippin

The unease within her swelled for a moment before she swallowed it back down. She feared the anxiousness, the tension she was feeling was coming from her nephew and the other lads, not from the troubles she and Saradoc were facing here in Buckland. There had been a long stretch of calm but it was now replaced by this expectant, anxious feeling.

She wandered about the smial nodding to some, not noticing most of the relatives she passed by. Restlessly Esmeralda walked and walked. She did make it to the main dinning room for luncheon, but couldn’t remember afterwards what she had eaten. She resumed her wandering through the tunnels of Brandy Hall. A part of her felt she should take her husband into her full confidence, but a deeper part of her knew she should not. He was better, so much better than those first days when they realized what had happened in the Shire and Buckland. He might not care for the way he was having to handle the affairs of their homeland, but he was stronger for having a way to work against the crushing Rules Lotho had burdened them all under. At first he had asked often about Merry and the others, but his inquiries grew less as the needs of Buckland grew more obvious. Esmeralda knew it wasn’t that he had ceased to care about their lads, only that he had really not believed she truly knew anything to begin with. He had been humoring her, but was now too busy to do so.

The meals of the day came and went. The shadowless light of the grey day faded outside the windows of the huge smial. She went to her sitting room. Sitting down before her desk, she lit her desk lamp with a taper she had picked up and lit at the fireplace, put the chimney back down around the small flame then blew out the taper. She sat staring blankly at nothing for a while until her gaze shifted to the calendar page. 25 Solmath. She shivered. The chill of the world outside her window somehow worked its way into her room. Into Esme herself.

"Something is amiss with the lads," she wrote in her diary. "I feel no peace in my heart. I’ve spent the day wandering The Hall, unable to put hand or mind to any task. I hope wherever they are, they (or at least Pippin) can sense my love and concern for them all, even dearest Sam. Be strong, my dear ones. You are not forgotten by the ones you left behind."

She blew on the ink, closed the small book then returned it to the hidden drawer in which it was kept. She lit the taper from the lamp, used it to light her dainty porcelain oil lamp, blew out the desk lamp then made her way to bed.

The gloom remained outside the window and inside her mind when the dull morning came.

"Esme?"

She sighed.

"My dearest are you getting up?" Saradoc’s concern put an edge on his voice.

She slowly shook her head. "No." Esme sniffed a bit, then sneezed. She hadn’t even had to use the pepper. "I’m not feeling well, dear." She opened her eyes, smiling as she reached over to caress the line of his jaw. "My cold seems to have gotten the better of me at last. Just have the cook send along a small tray with a cup of broth, a bit of toast as well as some camomile tea. I shall be remaining abed today."

"Very well. You know I’ll miss you?" He stood up then bent to kiss her cheek. "I’ll come by at meal times to see how you’re faring."

She nodded then was once again sleeping.

Soft images of a sun speckled stretch of lawn. Morning sun and warm shadows of leafless branches, the feeling of early spring. The glade seemed close to Esme. The glade seemed far away. A group of people walked about or sat upon the grass. They were hard to see, blending with the shifting shadows. Six of them she counted.

No spring like warmth touched her. Esme still shivered. The grey chill of the Shire clung to her, passing before her sight as a dimming of the dappled sunlight in the glade.

The people sat in a circle now.

"He is debating . . . most desperate . . . more hopeless . . ."

A deep voice, now in her head then coming from the circle.

" . . . make a brave stand . . . keep the Burden a secret . . . which way . . . in Frodo’s place . . ."

"Why cannot we decide?" A melodic voice.

" . . . help the Bearer . . . seek Mount Doom . . . I cannot leave Frodo." A voice like the ground itself, deep and strong.

". . . all need not go . . . that venture is desperate . . ."

"That won’t do at all!"

Esmeralda gasped. Her precious son’s voice rang in her ears.

"Pippin and I . . . we did not realize . . . it would be mad . . . Frodo go to Mordor . . . stop him."

Her mind spun. Frodo go to Mordor? Help the Bearer? Keep the Burden secret? She heard a different voice, soft yet cutting through all the rest. "He who bears the Burden," the Fairy had called him. Frodo. She saw the little hobbit lad, sad and empty hearted who had crawled into her lap, weeping himself to exhaustion the day his parents died. She saw a grown hobbit, so filthy she hardly knew him, stumbling toward a dark mountain which was wreathed in billowing clouds, crowned with flames. Esme shrank in terror.

". . . ask anyone to go with him . . . off to Mordor alone . . . if we can’t stop him, we shan’t leave him." The Tookish burr of her dear little nephew slew her with its words; "we shan’t leave him." She trembled.

". . . Mr. Frodo . . . to find the Cracks of Doom, if he can . . . he’s just plain terrified . . . whether we’ll go along with him or no. He knows we mean to . . . he’ll want to go alone." Sam’s plain, solid hobbit voice.

Three hobbits amongst those sitting in the circle. Three voices she knew well. Frodo was not there.

The mountain filled her vision. Fire fell like rain as lightening pierced the dense clouds. Four wretched hobbits stumbled forward . . . then one . . . then two . . . four . . . three . . . one alone . . . two. No heat of the fiery mountain touched her, Esme shivered in the dismal grey of the Shire. It froze her even as the image of her loved ones writhed from being viewed through the heat of the mountain.

A Man appeared as the gentle glade came back to her mind’s eye. He sat down heavily, slightly removed from the ones in the circle. She heard nothing. A hobbit popped up from the grass. Another. A third. They ran, two together, one alone, in different directions. The Elf and the Dwarf that she had seen in other visions ran off as well, all in different directions. The Man who had sat with the group ran after Sam, the late comer ran after Merry and Pippin.

Running. As hard and fast as she could go, much too fast for an eighty-two year old hobbitess. The branches of bushes grabbed at her hair. No. Wait. Her hair was braided as always when she went to bed. Pippin’s hair. Pippin’s hair was catching the twigs, it was Pippin who was running. It was happening again.

He and Merry were running wildly through the leafless brush, yelling for Frodo as they ran. Esme could feel Pippin’s growing panic. The longer they ran the more desperate they became, the faster they ran, until they were stumbling and breathless.

Orcs! A shout of alarm! More orcs!

Was it her presence within that had frozen Pippin? She could see Merry hacking off hands and arms as the beasts sought to grab him, but Pippin seemed numb. No. It was being alone, without the Men, the Elf and the Dwarf. Pippin’s mind was twisting in panic without his accustomed protectors beside him.

The Man! The late comer from the glade flew into the fray. Pippin joined in the fight as the Man sent Orc heads sailing everywhere. She could feel her nephew’s relief. Strength flowed in him because the Man was there.

The Orcs fled. In silence the three began to walk back to the glade, Pippin staying so close to the Man that Esmeralda could feel the warmth of him. Merry walked as closely on the Man’s other side. Then arrows like angry wasps came from every direction. They struck the Man but he fought on. He placed a great horn to his lips. The blast shook the ground. It shook the trees and the stones. It shook the air they breathed. Pippin covered his ears but still they rang with the sound. But in the quiet that followed no help came.

The Orcs came. Arrows came. To the side Esme saw Merry grabbed up by an Orc twice his size. She and Pippin screamed as their cousin and son went limp, as the brave Man, bleeding from too many wounds, sank to his knees. She was grabbed about the waist. Pippin felt fingers digging into his side.

"No! Aunt Esme! No!"

Nothing moved. The world was silent. There was nothing but his voice.

"Don’t be here! You can’t be here. You can’t see . . ."

This had never happened before. He had never acknowledged her presence. She knew what he feared. The two brothers of the heart would be tortured. They would suffer untold pain. They would die. She would be there.

"Please." His voice was small and filled with the impending agony. "Please, don’t be here." He was pleading till the pleading hurt them both with its urgency.

A warmth came upon Esmeralda Took Brandybuck. Sunlight through golden-red leaves. The tingle of a crisp breeze breathed upon her cheeks. A boldness, a daring, a disregard for what might lie ahead filled her being until it felt as though she and Pippin must be filled to bursting with the light of it.

"I always, forever, care for my own." Esme whispered in their shared thoughts. "I will not leave my Merry nor you alone." Then their thoughts knew no more.

**Note**  There are quotes used in this chapter from the "Two Towers" the chapter "The Uruk Hai."  Most are spoken by the Orcs, many with slight changes (i.e. sections not used) from the original source.

Saradoc had done as he’d said he would. He checked in on Esmeralda at second breakfast, she was asleep; at elevenses, she was asleep; at luncheon, she still slept. At tea he decided to try waking her. She needed to eat something, drink something, do something, anything; he had become concerned. There was an oddness to this sleep of hers for which he could not find words.

"Esmeralda," he said tenderly while gently shaking her shoulder. He sat in a chair pulled up to the side of their bed. "Esme. Esme." Each repeating of her name without response nudged the fear inside his heart higher. He feared to speak too loudly. He feared to grip her shoulder too firmly. "Esme."

She turned her head slightly toward him. Her eyelids lifted to show glazed eyes beneath, with a look about them of not seeing. No light from the room seemed to be reflected in them. The pupils were large, dark and empty.

Esme had heard Saradoc’s calling her. She worked hard to bring herself home. She and Pippin were in the void of unconsciousness and she had not wanted to leave Pippin behind. Her opened eyes saw Saradoc sitting beside her but it was as though she was looking through a fish bowl. Everything looked askew, wavering occasionally as though the water had been disturbed.

"Saradoc, I am fine. There really isn’t any need to look so worried." She tried to put all the reassurance she could into her voice.

Saradoc’s face went pale. His now trembling hand tightened on her shoulder. He stared at her with his mouth hanging open.

"Really, Saradoc! Such a face to make at me. Are you trying to frighten me?"

He was gone. She hadn’t seen him get up but now he was at the door of their room. Then as he walked, rather too slowly she thought, back to the bed she heard him shouting, yet his mouth wasn’t moving.

"Help! Quickly, send for Merimas! My wife . . . the Mistress is not well. Get the healer quickly!"

Saradoc, still moving too slowly, sat down as Healer Merimas raced into the room and was at her side before she could turn her head to better see him. Merimas’ words tumbled out of him while Saradoc sounded just fine.

"Yes, she spoke. But the words were . . . slurred . . . odd sounding."

Merimas gently took Esmeralda’s face in his hands. Her eyes were glazed and distant looking, there was a darkness in them he had not seen before in a hobbit’s eyes. There was no fever present, her face felt cool in his hands. He looked at her face. He saw no signs of the slack features caused by apoplexy. "I see no signs of apoplectic seizure. She has no fever," he said to Saradoc.

To Esme, it seemed that Merimas’ hands had barely touched her. They moved in a blur and his words were still a mere jumble of sounds. Saradoc’s hand too slowly inched toward her face. She felt the warm comfort of his fingers slowly brush against her cheek. She turned her head to look into his eyes.

"I am alright, I truly am, my love. I cannot stay. I cannot leave." Her eyes closed as her body relaxed.

Saradoc and Merimas looked at each other, fear, worry and sadness mixing on their faces. Whatever was wrong with Esme, her last words had been clear; "I cannot stay. I cannot leave." But they made no sense at all.

*********

Pippin’s mind slowly became aware of his body. His mind had been running, yelling, panicking, looking for Frodo. But slowly the running had turned to stillness. The pain in his head was nearly making him sick to his stomach. He could not move. His wrists, ankles and legs hurt. A breeze touched his face. He opened his eyes to the growing dimness of early evening. He was surrounded by Orcs. Looking at his aching wrists, he discovered why he couldn’t move; he was trusted up like a bird for roasting. A cold fear swept through him. His heart was warmed for a moment as he saw that Merry was beside him, but the sick feeling returned as he noticed how pale Merry was, realizing the filthy cloth bound around Merry’s head most likely covered a wound. Then Pippin smiled a bit. Merry must be alive. The Orcs wouldn’t have bound the wound of a corpse.

Esme woke with Pippin. She seemed to be there, she could see Merry (that gave her a start), she had the feeling of not being able to move, of an aching in Pippin’s head, yet . . . it did not feel as it had before. Everything felt and looked the same odd way as they had in her bedroom at The Hall. No. Not quite the same. She was able to see things more clearly through Pippin’s eyes, the pain in his wrists and head were increasing to her. But she felt as though she were tucked away in a corner of his mind, on the edges of his thoughts and feeling. She wondered if he could move.

Pippin squirmed.

Was that because she thought about it? No time to think it through as cruel laughter cut across their thoughts.

"Rest while you can, little fool!"

They froze in terror as the Orc continued to jeer at Pippin.

"If I had my way," said another Orc, "you’d wish you were dead now. I’d make you squeak, you miserable rat. He moved closer and bent low to leer at Pippin.

Esme was aware of Pippin frantically searching in his mind for something while his heart raced. The Orc held an evil looking blade before their eyes as he continued his threats. Pippin was trembling. Where would the first cut wound him? How long would it last? Goodbye, Merry. Don’t wake up to see it, Merry. He still searched for something in his heart, but he did not find it there. Orc fangs filled their vision but amidst a flurry of frightful growling the Orc moved away, leaving the terrified hobbit uncut by his blade.

Slowly the terror dimmed. Esme realized that Pippin’s searching had been for her, that somehow, he had missed her presence. That was disheartening. Then why was she there? What comfort could she be, what help could she offer if he wasn’t aware of her? Pippin could hear the Orcs talking, arguing.

"I need to listen," Esme thought to herself.

Pippin’s thoughts quit racing so wildly. Despite the aching in his head he concentrated on listening to the Orcs.

". . . where ere they roam,

I always, forever, care for my own."

Esmeralda sighed. "Where ere they roam . . ." Even among Orcs. She realized then that she was, indeed, with Pippin but somehow he was being spared the sense of her presence. It would only make any suffering he must endure worse if he knew she was there. Yet, she could touch his thoughts and so bring him encouragement, help to guide him through whatever . . . she trembled . . . whatever fate befell him and Merry.

They listened. There were orders these foul beasts knew they must follow. "Kill all but not the Halflings; they are to be brought back ALIVE as quickly as possible. That’s my orders," said one Orc. "The prisoners are NOT to be searched or plundered: those are my orders," said another. "And mine too. ‘Alive and as captured; no spoiling.’ That’s my orders," the first Orc replied.

"Well," Pippin thought to himself. "That makes things somewhat brighter. They aren’t to kill us." He frowned a bit. "Still, they could hurt us a good deal without killing us." He shook off that thought and returned to listening. There were three different groups of Orcs in the camp. Two different masters whose orders were to be followed. One group wished to outright kill him and Merry and be done with it while two groups needed to keep them alive. And all three were wanting to head in a different direction. So they began to argue. They began to fight. Orcs died. The headless body of the leering Orc with the evil looking knife fell on Pippin. At first he panicked in disgust.

"It can’t hurt you, it’s dead," came a soothing voice in his mind. He calmed down. He felt the knife blade cold against his hand, blood trickled down his arm toward his bound wrists. He could cut the cords! In the confusion of the fight and its aftermath, Pippin freed his hands, looped the ropes loosely around his wrists as decoys and lay still.

He and Merry were picked up. Even though loose, the cords on his wrists bit into his skin as an Orc thrust its head between Pippin’s arms, spreading them wide and hard against the rough rope. His face was pulled tight against the Orc’s neck. Its sweat burned Pippin’s eyes, its clawlike nails dug deep into his wrists above the ropes as the Orc took off at a bone jarring jog. Pippin and Esme slipped away into darkness.

A/N:  As previously, there are lines in this chapter that are quotes from the chapter, "The Uruk-Hai" in "The Two Towers."  They are usually spoken by Orcs but occationally by Merry or Pippin.

It was quiet. Only faint light met Esmeralda’s eyes as she labored to open them. Next to her she could see Saradoc. Her vision was still amuck, he looked out of kilter and far away. He held her right hand to his lips with both of his hands, his head bowed over it. She wished she could speak to him as she had to Pippin. The sound of swishing leaves danced in her mind. "Speak to him." The whisper seemed to come from the leaves.

She sighed and Saradoc’s head immediately came up, his eyes fixed on hers. He shivered. The softness, the glow, the magic of Esme’s green Took eyes was not there. Her irises were pale grey. The pupils were large and dark; empty, as though no soul was there.

"I . . . love . . . you." She knew, this time he would hear her.

He barely heard her words. At least they were clearly spoken. He laid his head beside hers on the pillow as he laid his arm as lightly as he could across her upper chest, hugging her to himself. "I love you too, my beloved Took."

She smiled, chuckling very softly in the back of her throat at him using his favorite term of endearment. It touched her heart. "Not . . . a . . . mad . . . Took," she breathed. "Not . . . mad."

"Then what? What is wrong, Esme." His voice trembled as tears filled his eyes. "Merimas said he has never seen the like of this before." He raised his head to look again into her empty eyes. "Where are you?"

"Not . . . mad. Blessed. Blessed . . . Took." Her eyes closed and he wept onto her shoulder.

*****************

Pippin hit the ground hard, a grunt of air escaping his lungs. He opened his eyes to see the weak crescent moon well on its way to setting in the west. His dry tongue tried to lick his drier lips as the tantalizing sound of falling water played at the edge of his hearing. He ached all over.

Once again, he listened to the angry grumbling of his captors. They had been seen, apparently, by a horseman who was allowed to ride away. The leaders were not happy. "Now we’ll have to leg it double quick," Ugluk growled.

Just as Pippin was wondering what that meant for him and Merry, Ugluk loomed over him. "My lads are tired of lugging you about. We have to climb down now and you must use your legs." As he warned Pippin against trying to get free, or even hollering for help, he cut the cords that bound Pippin’s legs and ankles. Ugluk grabbed a handful of Pippin’s hair to yank him off the ground. When he thought the hobbit had his feet under himself, he let go. Pippin did not come close to standing, instantly falling to the ground like a boned fish. While the orcs standing about laughed, Ugluk again held Pippin up by his hair. Ugluk had no time for playing. He had to try to keep this mixed troop of Orcs under some sort of control while moving the prisoners. If the troops were going to whine about carrying the prisoners then the prisoners would just have to run. Pippin’s feet were barely touching the ground as his head was bent back and a foul tasting liquid was poured into him. It burned his mouth. It burned his cheeks and chin where it ran out of his mouth. But when the huge Orc let go of him, Pippin could stand.

Ugluk went to Merry, giving him a hard kick in the side. Merry groaned but did not waken. Ugluk sat Merry up, holding him as he had Pippin by the hair. He yanked the bandage off Merry’s head then rubbed the wound with a black salve from a small box. Merry screamed, writhing in pain. The other Orcs were having a grand time. The strange little creatures they had been ordered to carry were finally providing some entertainment. Ugluk ignored them. He poured the same burning liquid down Merry’s throat causing him to cough and splutter. He cut Merry’s bonds, pulled him to his feet by his hair and Merry stood, glaring at his captors.

"Hullo, Pippin!" he said when he noticed his younger cousin standing nearby. "So you’ve come on this little expedition too? Where do we get bed and breakfast?" He winked at Pippin. With a fierce order to the hobbits to hold their tongues, the Orcs took off at as fast a jog as the steep terrain allowed.

Esme had stayed quiet in her small corner of her nephew’s mind. Thus far, this time of being awake, he had held his own and had not needed her comfort. The orcs had been moving too fast for the hobbits as it was but when they reached the bottom of the ravine where cool green grass stretched out increasingly level before them, Pippin found out what "leg it double quick" meant. They ran. The Orcs jogging had been hard enough on the hobbits, this was a torture the Orcs weren’t even bothering to enjoy. They kept Merry and Pippin apart, but Pippin caught occasional glimpses of his cousin when Merry’s weariness caused him to stumble out of the beastly line. Esme’s surge of anger and pain on her son’s behalf nearly exposed her presence to Pippin. As much as she tried to pull her feelings into herself, it still added to his own pain and despair.

The stars danced brighter than before. A wild hope nudged at Pippin’s mind. Esme saw a Man, one who had been there at the battle with the troll. Pippin saw Strider looking across rolling hills.

They ran. The moon set, still they ran. It was darkest night and they ran. Orcs bumped him from both sides. One of their guards’ longer strides tripped them from behind, but another guard caught Esme by Pippin’s hair. The hobbit was shoved back onto his feet and he ran.

The stench of sweating Orcs faded in a cool breeze carrying the scent of leaves. Esme was caught up in the dance of the leaves. Pippin saw Strider running.

They ran. The Orc liquor kept the hobbits from collapsing. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, not like the Cordial of Imladris that Gandalf had given them. Pain shot through Pippin’s heart. Best not to think of Gandalf right now. They ran.

The breeze touched his face. Well, it seemed to do so in her mind. Fresh, clean, crisp. Strider was running then stooping close to the ground. Straightening up. Running harder.

They came to where the ground was softer. Esme sighed at the feel of softer ground on Pippin’s feet. Pippin frowned. If the visions were real, what tracks of hobbit feet could even a Ranger find? No. Strider and the others, if they yet lived, would follow Frodo. There was no one looking for the prints from two sets of small, bare feet.

"Yet, perhaps . . . if he is . . ." A soft whisper, light and melodic like the sound of bells heard from a distance, spoke to his heart.

With the smallest of nods of his head, Pippin made a decision. He shifted his weight to the right and lunged past the grasping claws of his guard. He was spotted. But in the time it took for the line to truly halt, Pippin jumped to his feet and ran. He struggled with the clasp on his Elven brooch, pulling it free, letting it drop just as his shoulders and hair were taken hold of by the Orcs. He felt the cut of a whip on his legs but didn’t give the satisfaction of crying out.

"Enough! Make ‘em both run!" He heard Ugluk shouting commands. But before the orders were carried out Ugluk thrust his face close to Pippin’s. "But that’s not all," he snarled, "I shan’t forget. Payment is only put off. Leg it!"

They ran. Pippin shut his mind down as well as he could. There was nothing but pain and running. Esme felt him drifting into his pain as hope lagged behind them, growing ever weaker. He bumped into an Orc, his legs were whipped. Esme ran too slowly, their legs were whipped. The wind was knocked out of Pippin as they pitched forward in exhaustion. They were held by the ropes that bound his wrists then dragged through sharp edged grass, mud and stones. All the strength from the Orc liquor was long ago used up. Set upon his feet again Esme ran until they landed face first in the sod again. Finally, with a snarl of complaint, an Orc grabbed Pippin’s wrists, put his head between Pippin’s battered arms, pulled until the small hobbit’s face was crushed into his neck and ran. Esme welcomed the darkness that came.

They were tossed to the ground. Esme could not lend much comfort to Pippin. Their pain was too strong. Her heart broke for her dearest son whom she could not reach to comfort. Her heart cried for her dearest nephew whom she could not comfort enough. Pippin lay totally motionless. No thoughts reached him except feelings of being twisted and torn asunder. Hands tore at him in his dreams. Hands tore at them as they were once again picked up. Time passed by them until they were pitched from one carrier to another, bringing them just to awareness each time before they slipped away into the blackness again.

A/N: Once again, this chapter has lines in it that are quotes from the chapter "The Uruk-Hai" from the book "The Two Towers."

The night tracked slowly on. Saradoc reflected on how strange it was to feel so exhausted yet be unable to sleep. He had felt this way before, other times when he had kept vigil at the bedside of an ill or dying loved one. He shivered and a chill ran down his back. Dying. Dying. Dying.

"No. I will not let my thoughts take me there!" he said sternly to himself.

Esme had at first stirred often, muttering in this deep sleep in which she was wandering. Then for a while her only movement was her breathing. Now, in the dim light from the fire in the fireplace, he saw her eyes slowly open. Saradoc leaned forward in hope. His shoulders then slumped again in despair. Her eyes were as before.

Esme was barely in their chambers at The Hall. Leaves of autumn swirled around her. Orc faces appeared, leered, disappeared. The sun gleamed through the leaves. She and Pippin were battered and bruised, tossed about like sacks of grist at the mill. The shadows crept across the light, across her heart, across her spirit. There was her dear Saradoc, looking so frightened. There was their comforting room at Brandy Hall. All seen through the fish bowl. Seen through a window dim and cracked with age.

"Alive."

He had almost missed it, a mere breath with a word within it.

"Blessed."

"I love you, Esme. Don’t leave me."

"Loved."

"Yes, I love you. You are loved."

Her brows drew together the slightest bit. He was not understanding. Their Merry. Dear Pippin. She herself.

"Cared for."

He started to answer . . . her eye lids slowly closed over her soulless, staring eyes. Her gentle breathing continued on.

***************

"Morning." Pippin barely had opened his eyes, barely had the thought in his mind when he was tossed upon the grassy turf. The constant pain he was in exploded to a new level within him, taking his breath away.

"I’m dead," his thoughts whispered as his eyes closed. "As good as, at any rate." He weakly opened his eyes again, tried to look around but everything wavered, making him feel sicker. He gaged and a foul taste filled his mouth while burning his throat. He swallowed it all back down. "Orc draught," he thought, "and I don’t even remember them pouring it into me. Not much left of you, lad, if you don’t even remember that." He felt ready to give up the struggle against the pain that was killing his spirit, destroying his hope. But the foul tasting brew was doing its job. When an Orc stomped up to him to throw a hunk of grey bread and a slice of raw dried meat at him, Pippin was able to wiggle over to where it fell. A nearby Orc laughed, jeering at the half-starved hobbit as Pippin nearly choked on the mouthfuls of bread he bit off and tried to chew. Pippin eyed the meat but knew he couldn’t touch it, much less eat it. He didn’t even want to think about what sort of meat it might be. Between the Orc liquor and the stale, dry bread, Pippin now had the strength to sit up.

Pippin’s stomach knotted up inside him and he almost lost the bread he had just eaten. Merry sat a short distance away looking pale, in pain, weak and fragile. His dear Merry. His stomach tightened again. Esme wept. Pippin had not wanted her to stay, now she wondered for a moment if he may not have been right. She could see her dear son suffering. She wished Pippin and Merry were closer to one another so she could touch Merry. Pippin leaned toward his cousin. Esmeralda reached for her son. Their arms raised an inch. Their bound hands raised an inch then stopped. Pippin looked at the ropes he had loosely looped around his wrists. They had been pulled tight against his skin when he was carried like a sack with his arms around the Orc's necks. They had been used as a handle by which to drag him. His aunt saw the blood on the cords, felt the pain of the raw wounds beneath. She felt the tween’s stomach, still too empty, trying to get what little it could from the poor excuse for bread it had received. They looked at Merry each knowing his hurts were the same. Esme pulled herself further away from Pippin’s awareness. He trembled. He looked at Merry and suddenly felt horribly alone.

Arguing. Did Orcs ever quit arguing, Pippin wondered? He was distracted from himself and his cousin by yet another burst of yelling by their captors. Some of the Moria Orcs left, scuttling off like a herd of beetles. No sooner had they left than a group of Orcs came running up along the scar left in the field where the troop had been running a short while ago. Pippin recognized Grishnakh and the Orcs of the Red Eye. He paid closer attention when Ugluk mentioned the Nazgul. Grishnakh cringed.

"Nazgul, Nazgul," repeated Grishnakh, looking shiftily about as though he felt he was being watched. He slavered, stumbling over his words gripped by a fear he seemed to loath and love at the same time. "You speak of what is deep beyond the reach of your muddy dreams, Ugluk," Grishnakh growled, then bragged about the Nazgul, showing off that he was, at least in his own eyes, more knowledgeable than Ugluk.

"You seem to know a lot. More than is good for you, I guess," Ugluk scoffed as he looked Grishnakh up and down. Then, with a few sharp orders, Ugluk had what remained of the band of Orcs moving.

The hobbits were again seized and carried like sacks. All through the morning and into the afternoon Merry and Pippin bounced in time with the seemingly endless strides of the Orcs. They bounced against their rock-hard backs, against their armor until they were bruised on top of bruises. The cords on their wrists scraped deeper into skin already rubbed raw. The Orc draught kept Pippin awake; he wished it wouldn’t. They had caught up to the Northerners passing through their flagging troop. In the distance riders had appeared and if the Orcs had gone double quick before, it was treble or quadruple now. "They will make it yet. They will escape. The riders won’t know we aren’t Orcs. They will kill us with them only to perhaps learn their mistake later." The thoughts chilled Pippin’s heart. Until now, there had been something, something he could put no name or description to, that had kept a spark of hope in his heart. A feel of the Shire, of home. It had left him.

Esmeralda hid. She could hear Pippin’s long ago plea for her to go repeating in her mind. But now she could not leave, her choice had been made. She trembled, swallowed up by the hopeless dark in Pippin’s and her mind.

"Child of my child."

Esme tried to not listen.

"He needs you."

"It hurts."

"Yes, it does."

"It is too much." A shroud of coldness wrapped itself around Esme. "He will die. I cannot save him." She could no longer feel Pippin. She could no longer feel herself.

"You speak of what neither of us knows. But if he should . . ." the gentle voice paused. A heartbeat went by. Forever went by. Esme was suddenly flooded with Pippin. Every memory her heart held of him filled her: then stopped. "Must he die alone?"

Esmeralda was filled with a sorrow that went beyond despair. Alone. Then Merry was in her heart, filling her with his presence. Infant in her arms, faunt toddling at her side holding her hand, youth filled with happy energy, a hobbit full grown feeling the weight of his responsibilities. Now a hobbit bruised and battered, bereft of hope. Alone.

Sad was the voice that spoke to her heart, the melody gone from its tones. "I cannot help him feel your presence as my Tookling does, he is not one of mine. I know you would not abandon the child of your womb. Will you abandon his claimed brother?"

The sound of wind chasing the leaves along a path through the woods rose in Esmerald’s ears. Warmth came with the light through the forest canopy.

"The mind would say to leave, child of my child, but we know the heart is stronger. Stronger than the cruel cords that bind the ones we hold dear. Let your heart cry, it will only bring healing."

Esme wept again for her sons. She loved them both dearly. She could no more desert the one than the other. Her love filled her, warmed her, then flowed out of her. In Pippin’s heart, the spark of hope glowed again.

The Orcs stopped. Night had come and normally they would have run all then quicker, but the horsemen had surrounded them. They could go no further without a fight.

"Put those Halflings down! Stand guard over them," Ugluk shouted out his orders. "They’re not to be killed. Understand? They’re not to cry out, they’re not to be rescued. Bind their legs!"

Pippin was thrown to the ground. At first he nearly swooned from the pain, so tightly were the new bindings wrapped about his legs. But soon his legs went numb. Pippin didn’t care. He was close to Merry.

The Orcs were making a show of strength, or so they thought, screaming and clanging their swords at the riders who could be seen dimly in the dark. Pippin rolled onto his side and looked into Merry’s pain filled eyes. Esme reached for her son. Bound hands clumsily bumped against bound hands. For a moment, his mother’s face came to Merry’s mind and he smiled.

"I don’t think much of this," Merry whispered as the image faded in his mind, his pain returning to take its place. "I feel nearly done in. Don’t think I could crawl away far, even if I was free."

Pippin smiled at his cousin. Esme smiled at her son. "I would free you, if I could, Merry." Pippin whispered. He tried to put the spark of hope he had in his heart into his voice. "You wouldn’t be hurt, Merry. I’d feed you . . ." Pippin’s thoughts stopped. His smile broadened. "Lembas!" he whispered sharply. "Lembas: I’ve got some."

"I had a packet in my pocket, but I can’t put my mouth in my pocket!" Merry’s face had his "Why are you being so daft, Pippin?" look. Pippin had never been so glad to see it.

"You won’t have to. I’ve . . ." A thudding kick to Pippin’s back stopped him. A blessing in a harsh disguise, for his guard would surely have heard Pippin saying that his hands were free. His bonds would have been checked then retied cruelly tight. The kick shoved Pippin hard against Merry’s left side. He lay there stunned, gasping for air and fighting the nauseous feeling brought on by the pain. Merry rubbed his chin against the top of his young cousin’s head. It was all the comfort he could give. Gradually, Pippin’s breathing calmed. For a moment, Merry thought he caught a whiff of lilac, his mother’s favorite scent. He closed his eyes, sighing as his own pain was lessened for a while by thoughts of his family in Buckland and the nearness of Pippin.

The night deepened. The Orcs argued. The ground beneath the hobbits grew chill. The Orcs became more restless. Watch fires were lit by the riders. The Orcs shot arrows until their leaders realized they were being wasted and ordered them to stop. The moon rose out of the shifting mists. The Orcs argued. Clouds floated in from the west and the moon rode its course until it disappeared behind them. The night became a deeper shade of black.

An outraged cry split the night and many if the Orcs ran to see what had happened. Ugluk ran off to keep the battle from breaking out before he wanted it to.

The Orcs assigned to guard Merry and Pippin had run off with the others so they slowly sat up to see what they could of the situation. Out of the dark a shape crept up upon them. Huge claws grabbed their necks and pushed their heads together. They gagged on Grishnakh’s foul breath and shuddered as his hands began to grope them. Esme gritted her teeth. Being roughly groped by any male creature with evil intentions is part of the greatest fear of every female. Her rage rose within her. "Be strong, Pippin. Don’t let him win over you. Don’t surrender! Fight him!" Her thoughts screamed within their mind, sharpening Pippin’s senses.

"Little people should not meddle in affairs that are too big for them." Grishnakh hissed as he continued to paw at Merry and Pippin.

Not just pawing, Pippin suddenly realized. There was a pattern to the movements, as though the Orc was searching . . . searching! As clearly as it would have been had the Orc spoken aloud, the words filled Pippin’s head. The Ring! Ugluk had said he thought it sounded like Grishnakh knew more than was good for him when the Orc of Mordor had bragged about the Nazgul. It appeared Ugluk was right. Fear gripped Pippin’s heart. Then suddenly, as piercing as Strider’s gaze, hard as Gimli’s ax, as melodious as Legolas singing, a voice cut through his terror. "Use what you know. The Fool’s weapon is his words."

"I don’t think you will find it that way," Pippin whispered in a voice so steady it surprised him. "It isn’t easy to find."

"Find it?" Grishnakh’s fingers stopped moving.

"Gollum, gollum," croaked Pippin. He looked startled, as though he had surprised himself with how convincing the odd noise sounded. "Nothing, my precious," he hastily added.

"Do you want it?" Merry asked the Orc. "What would you give for it?" He lightly nudged Pippin. They were a team again, pulling the prank of their lives.

They knew this game well. Grisnakh responded to Pippin’s gambit. He chose to feign ignorance. Pippin’s next move was to make clear they weren’t to be duped, then placing a condition on their further cooperation; "Untie our legs," he demanded, "or we’ll do nothing, and say nothing." Play moved back to the Orc.

Grisnakh went for the fellow conspirator maneuver. Both parties know the stakes. But player B can turn players A over to yet a third party who will be cruel. B offers A salvation from this greater threat. "You’ll wish there was more that you could tell the Questioner, and we shan’t hurry the inquiry."

Merry’s move: remind the opponent he doesn’t control all the pieces on the board. "You haven’t got your prey home yet. It won’t be the great Grishnakh that benefits: Saruman will take all he can find. If you want anything for yourself, now is the time to do a deal."

The game had reached the turning point. Grishnakh was running out of time. Orcs were coming back from where the riders had staged their small ambush; Ugluk would soon be back. Grishnakh was close to the edge of losing his patience and his temper.

His grip turned to iron. "Have you got it----either of you?"

The last move. Make or Break.

"Gollum, gollum!" choked out Pippin.

"Untie our legs!" ordered Merry.

Grishnakh lost his temper. He bared his fangs and hissed into Merry and Pippin’s faces. "I’ll untie every string in your bodies, search you to the bones. Search you! I’ll cut you both to quivering shreds. I don’t need your legs free to have you all to myself!" He crushed them to his sides, cut off their air with his claws covering their mouths and noses. He ducked low and ran into the misty dark. Merry and Pippin said their farewells in their hearts. They had lost the game and so would lose their lives. Esme wasn’t sure that she would not die with them. There was no breeze, nor scent of leaves.

Grishnakh stopped, listened, slipped away a bit further, stopped and listened again. He stood. A rider appeared out of the fog. The horse reared, the rider called out, Grishnakh dove to the ground with his prizes under him. His sword rang softly as he drew it to kill the hobbits, he knew they must not be rescued. A rider’s head turned, not even thinking, instinctively following the sound of a sword being drawn; his arrow pierced the Orc’s hand and the sword fell uselessly to the ground. Grisnakh forgot his prey and ran. It would be his last mistake. He lay pinned to the ground by the spear that drove through his heart. Merry and Pippin lay unmoving where the Orc had abandoned them.

They lay there, too long perhaps, until they had enough of their wits about them to look around. The battle raged but with joy rising in their hearts the cousins realized they were outside the circle of riders. Pippin could finally share the news that his hands were free. They ate some lembas. Soon the way bread of the Elves began to lift their spirits while giving strength to their bodies. Pippin found a knife, cut their bonds and they began to crawl away. They were once again able to give hope and confidence to each other. They knew they would be alright.

Esme awoke to the first gleam of morning working its way past the curtains of her bedroom. She felt a breath on her cheek and turned her head to see her beloved husband’s face. He had fallen asleep at last, sitting in the chair at her bedside, his head beside hers on the pillow, his arm still protectively across her chest.

A soft light that Esme knew had nothing to do with the sun filled the room. To her eyes came the sight of a wood in a sunlit mist. The Fairy stood at the foot of her bed.

"They are safe now." The sound of flutes once again filled the soft voice. "The Eldest One, he who keeps the forest, will be keeping them for a time." The glow dimmed a bit. The voice lost a bit of its brightness. The Fairy looked to the east at something that Esme could not see. "The storm draws nigh. We will have other choices ahead of us, child of my child." She looked once more into Esmeralda’s eyes. Instead of being pulled out of herself Esme felt strength pouring into her. "Yes, there are troubles to come." The Fairy said, answering Esme’s heart. "I had hoped you and my Tookling’s Mother would bear them together. I see now that shall not be." Her head tipped to one side and a smile graced her lips. "Cullassisul,*" she said, answering the question in Esmeralda’s mind. "It was given me because it filled the woods of my home at my birth. Farewell, child of my child. I gave to you all my word. As best as I am able, I will care for my own."

The vision faded as Esme heard Saradoc take in a deep breath. He opened his eyes. He saw her face looking pale and tired but wearing her playful smile. Her clear green eyes sparkled. "You’ve come back," he sighed and then kissed her.

*Cullassisul - A combining of the Elvish words for "golden red/leaves/(in the) wind"

The last of First Breakfast’s dishes were cleared from the table in the Thain’s private dinning room. Around the table sat not Thain Paladin II’s family but the heads of the various branches of the Took clan whose families dwelt within the borders of Tookland. Paladin sat at the center of one side of the table.

Four days previously as Paladin had sat in his office, a darkness that had nothing to do with the weather had begun hanging over him. It was as though . . . as though . . . he did not know. It was like the shadow of some impending doom. With the shadow had come ill news; fear was near to tearing Tookland asunder as word of the siege spread from the farms on the borders inwards. Such a thing had never happened before, no hobbits had faced such a thing as far back as their long memories ran. The spreading fear did not bode well for the Thain. So even as his feelings of uneasiness grew, Paladin had come up with the plans for this meeting and sent out the invitations to the heads of the families he presided over. Yesterday, being the 29^th of Solmath, the strange gloom had lifted somewhat and with it Paladin’s spirits. He now felt ready to take charge of Tookland’s future.

As Paladin stood the Tooks in the room hushed their conversations, Paladin’s secretary sat ready to take notes of the meeting. Just as he was about to speak, the diningroom door opened and Eglantine made her way to a chair in a corner of the room.

"I have called you all together," Paladin began, "as the heads of the various Took families living in Tookland, to discuss the matter of the Ruffians and Sherriffs patrolling our boarders. Although this obviously is a most urgent matter for those of you whose lands are adjacent to the boarders, the fact that all routes in and out of Tookland have been closed off concerns us all."

"Begging your pardon, Thain," interrupted Adelard. Although Paladin held the family titles, Adelard’s word carried weight as he was the eldest Took present. "But such business isn’t normally conducted with hobbitesses present." All the hobbits at the table turned to look at Lanti.

Eglantine rose, standing her tallest to face the Took elders. "Gentlehobbits, I am a healer and as such have concerns for how this situation will affect those under my care. Also, this matter will most certainly affect your wives and children. There are concerns that we have that I doubt you will consider if a hobbitess is not here to bring them to your attention. As such, though I know it is not customary, I ask leave of you all to remain and to be allowed to have input into your discussion."

For a few moments none of the elders spoke, then Adelard rose. He bowed to Eglantine. "A well-thought out argument and confidently spoken. You are correct, I think on both of your points and so I say the Thain’s wife, Mistress Eglantine Took, be allowed to participate in this discussion."

"Aye," was heard around the table.

"Add that to your notes, Isembold," Adelard said to the secretary, bowing once again to Lanti before sitting back down.

Paladin resumed his speech. "To begin, Cousins, I will have it be known that the talk in Tookland that what has befallen us is my responsibility, my fault if you will, is true." Gasps were heard from several of the elders. "It is true," he continued, "in that I would not agree to be part of Lotho Sackville-Baggins’ treason against the Shire. Some of his representatives came to me wanting me personally to become a partner with Lotho. They had with them this map which shows those parts of the Shire that Lotho either owns himself or are owned by those who support him shaded in red." Paladin paused to gaze at each Took seated at the table as he leaned over to spread the map he had crumpled and thrown at Ron Fernberry out in the middle of the table. There was another round of gasps and the beginnings of anxious chatter but Paladin’s voice cut through it. "Being shocked does us no good, gentlehobbits. Tookland was an island in the midst of a crimson sea well before Lotho Pimple closed off our borders. Would you have had me join with him? Would you have had The Took and Thain lend his authority to Lotho’s thieving? Would you have had the Tooks be a part of these abuses of the Hobbits of the Shire?" Paladin slapped down on top of the map one of the lists of rules that had been posted on every dwelling throughout the Shire. "This was brought to me before the blockade was in place. I want it passed around. Everyone of you are to read it thoroughly." With that Paladin sat down, brought his tented fingers to his lips and closed his eyes as the list of rules made its way slowly around the table.

Paladin’s attention was called back to the meeting by Adelard’s touch upon his right shoulder. The list had been read by all present, including Lanti.

Paladin looked around the table. "Opinions, Cousins?"

"Well, it be seemin’ to me," came Theribald Took’s quiet voice, "that we’ll be havin’ an easier time o’ things, and that’s for certain. Those rules be right tough and with needin’ permits to travel very far, seems to me most every town will be a mite shut off."

"Good point, Theribald." Paladin nodded to the farmer from the southern end of Tookland. "Yes, a positive way to look at things. We will at least have access to all of Tookland’s resources as well as the freedom to move about with in our borders."

Hildinbras spoke next. "And we’ll have none of that Gathering going on. At least we will get to keep the fruits of our labors." There were nods along with murmurs of approval.

"But Tookland isn’t entirely self sufficient, my friends." Adelard reminded the group. "We import the coal and iron used by our smithies. Our ale, and the grains we use for making our own, come from the North Farthing. Glass for our windows, bottles and such is all made in Michel Delving."

"Our fabric for making our clothes comes from weavers in the North Farthing as well. That is where the flax is grown for linen and most of the Shire’s wool is produced there as well." This was the first heard from Eglantine. "Cotton is grown in the South Farthing near the Bounds and the fiber is processed and woven there. There are many children who will be out-growing clothes who will need to be provided for. And several of the herbs we healers use are brought in from other places as well."

"I grow a bit of pipeweed on my holdin’s," added Theribald. "Bein’ as I’m far south enough. Me and my son Hildigrin both. But ‘tisn’t near enough to keep every Took in Tookland what smokes in weed for very long."

Talley, the Master Farmer at Paladin’s holdings in Whitwell spoke up. "What we do have in good measure is grazing land, hay and wheat. We should be able to keep up with milk, meat and bread."

"Good, good. Enough," Paladin said and held up his hand to halt the discussion. "What we will be needing now are ideas on how to best manage what we have and how to work around what we have not. Have any of you thought about such matters?"

"Not afore now," Theribald replied slowly as he scratched his chin. " ‘Twould be possible for Hildigrin and I to plant more weed this spring. But bein’ short on pipeweed be naught but a bit o’ bother. What the Mistress and Adelard brought up, that is being much more needful."

Lanti stood up and came to the table. "Gentlehobbits, perhaps because the Thain is my husband and, unlike many of you, I am a resident of Great Smials, I have been aware of the situation and the needs that might arise longer than the rest of you. I have a few ideas regarding some of these matters. If you are interested, I would like to share them with you."

"You’ve already been recognized, Mistress Took," said Adelard with a smile, he always had liked his cousin’s wife acknowledging that she had a good head on her shoulders.

"Thank you, Adelard. I felt it would be good to see if some of your wives would be willing to try growing some of the medicinal herbs that we normally have to get elsewhere. Most everyone has a herb garden. Care would just be needed to keep them separate from the cooking herbs. I have culled seeds from most of them. I’ve no idea if they will grow here, but I think it is worth trying. Then, I think it would be good to have families bring their children’s out grown clothes to the Smials. Then those with no older children to hand things down will have a place they know clothes may be obtained for their growing young ones."

"Excellent, my dear! That is exactly the sort of thinking we need. Ways we can work together and help each other for the betterment of Tookland." Paladin stood. "Cousins, I ask now that you all return to your homes. Speak with your own families. Your children and their families and so on. Then, we will meet together again in two weeks time to discuss our needs as our people see them, as well as solutions that have been thought out. I will look forward to seeing you then, gentlehobbits." With that, Paladin nodded to his relatives, walked over to his wife, offered her his arm and they left the diningroom together.

The Great Road Tavern in Waymeet was not empty as one might suppose it would be with Lotho Sackville-Baggins having closed all the inns and taverns of the Shire. Lotho really hadn’t given much thought to where the men who worked for him were when they weren’t in Hobbiton, he would have been surprised to learn that many of them were living at The Great Road. It would worry him to know that they held regular meetings there, meetings he was not informed about. Meetings at which he and his Shire were the main topics of discussion. This evening, the evening of the 3^rd day of Rethe, there was one of those meetings.

Natuck and Slengan, who had worked the Shire under Yengan’s leadership sat with a group of nearly one hundred and fifty Men listening to the new leader who had been sent from Sharky, Naznock. Though none would admit it, Naznock made their blood run chill in their veins. He was taller and broader than most of the men who had first been sent to work "for Lotho", with an openly evil feel to him. The truth was Naznock was an Uruk. He had emerged looking quite Man like, with a bit more intelligence than his brethren, causing his Master to decide he would be perfect to properly motivate the raggedy bunch of Men he had sent to handle the Hobbits to begin with.

"Now we act like we work for the Shire runt," Naznock was saying to those he now had charge over. "A time is comin’ soon when this will not be. For now we only do small things, soon we will make the rats our Boss’s slaves."

The crowd cheered and stomped their feet while sloshing the best Shire ale down their throats and chests. Naznock let them go for a bit before continuing.

"Quiet!" he hollered. "Now I will meet with the ones workin’ close with the Shire rat what calls himself their Chief. The rest of you, finish your ale and get back to where you belong. If you live here, then get to your rooms." With a signal to Natuck and Slengan, Naznock headed for a small room off of the common room.

The two men sat at the small table in the middle of the room while Naznock chose to pace. He knew his size was intimidating and he liked using it to his advantage. He spoke without looking at the men. "Are you two doin’ anythin’ with the rat?"

Neither man answered. Naznock stopped his pacing long enough to glare at them, then resumed his thudding strides.

"How . . ." Natuck tried to swallow but his throat didn’t want to perform the simple task. "How ya mean? Doin’ what with him?"

"Who is makin’ the decisions? Who is runnin’ this dung heap, you lads or the little fur-footed rat?"

"We wasn’t sure what we was s’posed to do, what with Yengan gettin’ hisself killed an’ all," Slengan mumbled.

"You are s’posed to make sure the rats are miserable. If the chief rat doesn’t, you have to make him do it."

"But we’re s’posed to be makin it look like we’re workin for him. How’re we to be doin’ that whilst makin’ him be workin’ for us?"

Naznock stopped his pacing and leaned in close to the men. He bared his teeth in what was possibly a grin, though it was more a leer. "Ya tell him what to think. You make the runty little fool think they be his own ideas." He straightened up and paced again. Natuck and Slengan followed him with their eyes. "Keep the rat in the dark. Don’t let it know what we really be doin’." Naznock paused, rubbed his chin in thought then grinned. "Tell the fool that chiefs don’t go out nosin’ about. Tell him chiefs stay where they be comfy like, they let their lackys do the checkin’ up. Keep him out of touch. Let in only what we wants him to know."

"Sounds good!"

"Right smart thinkin’!"

Naznock turned back to the men, finally joining them at the table. "You, Slengan, you know your letters?"

"Passable."

Naznock pointed to the writing supplies on the table. "Then write. Here’s some ways we can have ourselves some fun and be doin’ for Sharky. There’s business he be attendin’ to just now, but when he has settled with them horse lovers, he’ll be expectin’ good reports from us."

The Ruffians got to work on their plans, not knowing that their Master’s plans had taken an unexpected turn.

It was two nights after the Ruffian’s first meeting with Naznock that Esmeralda looked out her sitting room window onto the open yard below. The light of the nearly full moon shone on healer Merimas’ small carriage as it was backed carefully up to one of the entrances to The Hall. She could not see, but she knew a litter bearing an elderly or ill hobbit was being removed from the narrow space that a false bottom had created in the carriage. It was just one of many such secret places that had been created in many carts, carriages and wagons during the past weeks, all to implement her husband’s plans to help the poor and elderly of Buckland. If Buckland suddenly seemed to have an unusually high number of healers, dray-hobbits and farriers the Ruffians had not yet noticed. The travel permits Lotho issued to Saradoc had been simple for the Master Scribe of The Hall to copy accurately, and one of The Hall’s carvers had no trouble making a seal to match that of the self-proclaimed Chief of the Shire.

She turned from the window with a sigh. Esme knew that all this sneaking about and deception lay heavily on her husband. Like her, he had been taught as a child that such behavior was unbecoming to a gentlehobbit. Not that it was unheard of. There had been a few Master’s of Buckland whose behavior had brought shame to the family, but not many. She gave a soft huff as she wryly thought that there had been some unsavory Thains as well. But still, it didn’t seem quite right to have to stoop to Lotho Pimple’s own level in order to do good for the hobbits of Buckland. Esme shivered a bit as she got into bed. The brooding sense of evil that had hung over the Shire had lifted somewhat in the last couple of days, but she sensed it was not yet gone. Something deeper and darker remained at the edges of her heart and mind as she fell into slumber.

The moon looked down into a small vale. The small entourage of Men, an Elf, a Dwarf, a Wizard and two Hobbits had made their camp for the night, setting two men on guard duty as the company settled in. All was quiet, except for the stirring of a small hobbit. Well, a bigger hobbit than he had been before drinking Entdraughts, but still small enough that he did not attract even the smallest glance from the guards. He wanted . . . no, he needed; he wanted and needed to look at the strange ball he had picked up in Isenguard.

"No!" he scolded himself in his thoughts. "Gandalf didn’t want you to have it, Peregrin Took, and so you’ve no business at all with trying to sneak a look. But . . . why was it so heavy? I’m certain I saw something inside of it. I . . . No!" Pippin shifted again. Earlier he had been keeping Merry awake with his fidgeting, now his sleeping cousin just added to Pippin’s unease. " ‘Just go to sleep, Pip.’ Thank you, Merry," Pippin thought wryly, "I would if I could. Think of something else, Pippin. Think of, of . . . of . . ." Pippin wiggled some more. "Home! Think of home. The old farm at Whitwell, yes, think about that. Barn cats to play with, the tree swing, hide and seek in the barn, the sun on the pond shining like glass. Smooth and dark and cool to my hands and the sun shining on it and in it and I’m certain I saw something in there. It was glowing and . . . no!" Pippin flung himself onto his back. "Tuckborough. The Smials. The stand of woods that I like to go hide in with the pond shimmering like glass so clear you can see the fish and the turtles swimming about in it. I bet I could see home in that glass. I bet I could see how my parents are if I . . ." Pippin got up and slowly made his way to where Gandalf lay.

The moon shone down in a small vale filled with small fires and the forms of blanketed sleepers. Esme walked amongst the sleepers looking for someone. Who was she looking for? Why was she looking? She felt driven to find whoever it was she was looking for. Thoughts drifted through her mind. She should be looking over on the old farm in Whitwell. She would find the glass ball there. This wasn’t Whitwell. Don’t stop until you find him. Find it. In the pond in the woods. In the glass ball. Everything would be fine in the glass ball. Esme held the ball in hands that shook with excitement. All you want to see is in the glass ball. A glowing in the ball. A presence in the glass.

Esme felt something tear loose within her; or was she torn loose from something? Her hands no longer held the strange ball. A gust of wind, strong and powerful, blew through her. "Tookling!" cried a voice, melodic yet deep and throaty. The strength that Esme had felt in the wind had gone elsewhere leaving her feeling naked and exposed to the elements. The wind howled as it does when trying to get in where it is not wanted. She could feel it’s fury. She felt it shift and diminish. Cold it came upon her, settling around her into an eerie silence. There was no sound of the leaves of autumn. There was no comfort. Fear and sorrow filled Esme.

"It is Him."

Esme knew the voice, though it held none of its usual melody.

"It is the Dark One."

The voice quavered. The cold sank deeper into Esme’s heart.

"I cannot break the bond The Dark One has forged. I cannot. My Tookling is alone before Him."

A shrill cry. A bond broken.

Esmeralda gasped as she awoke in her bed. She arose and hurried into her sitting room. She had thought to stir the fire to ward off the chill that held her. Instead she paced the width of the room. She was filled with fear. Pippin’s fear. But anger slowly replaced the fear, though she did not know the reason for the anger, nor whose anger it was. Esme could not sit still, hugging herself as she continued to pace. Suddenly her heart tightened and she could barely breathe. Merry! She knew it was her Merry. The anger had been his, though now some horrible emptiness had taken hold of her son. Esmeralda sank to the floor and wept as she felt something in her heart growing weaker. She suddenly felt scared and . . . alone.

On the back of a horse, holding fast to Aragorn, Merry’s anger with Pippin drained from him, replaced with the sudden terrible knowledge that he and his dearest friend were going in different directions and may never see each other again. Merry leaned his head into Aragorn’s back and wept.

Former Mayor of the Shire, Will Whitfoot, paced in the confines of his cell in the Lockholes. He didn’t have much space to traverse, six hobbit-strides in length or four in width. The dim light of a lantern out in the hall shone through the small barred window in his door. In that faint glow he could see the packed dirt floor, the slop bucket in the corner by the door, his thin sleeping pallet with its thin blanket against the back wall, the slightly damp feeling bricks of the walls and the somewhat rotted beams of the ceiling. "Not a very pleasant place, this," he thought for what was most likely the millionth time since the day the cell had become his home. He knew he was not alone in this dank place. He had been in the Lockholes only a few days when other hobbits began to be dragged in. Sometimes he saw them through the small window, but more often he knew because the pleading voice was higher pitched than the voices giving the orders. The only prisoners in the Lockholes were hobbits.

"Well, I suppose that is fitting in an odd way," Will said aloud as he chuckled grimly. " ‘Twas a jail in the far back times when Hobbits first settled here and we weren’t as well behaved as we are now." He ran his fingers over the chill surface of the bricks. "I wonder who was in here back then and what he had done? I’m sure it was something much worse than riding down the road on one’s own pony." It wasn’t the first time Will had wondered that. He sighed as he sat down on his pallet. He would pace some more later. When that is the only entertainment you get it is best to spread it out over the day, or over the night. There was no difference between the two for the prisoners in the Lockholes.

Out in the light of day, the Hobbits of Michel Delving glanced fearfully at the Lockholes as they passed it going along on their day to day business. At first, it had been a bit of a lark, seeing hobbits whom they figured deserved it, for whatever reason, being hauled into the old place. But with the posting of the Chief’s Rules any humor to be found in the matter was gone. Hobbits, hobbitesses, and even a few lads not quite of age had been dragged into the prison by the Ruffians. Neighbors, friends, family; hobbits they knew and cared about were now hidden away in the Lockholes. The residents of Michel Delving felt shamed by its presence in their town.

The oddly harsh weather the Shire had been having finally started to break. The sun at last made her way weakly through clouds that were considerably thinner than before, bringing the first flowers of spring out of the ground. Farmers began getting their equipment and seeds ready for spring planting. It was hard to stay in a gloomy frame of mind with the sun shining enough to cast faint shadows and the air smelling better than it had in months. Many hobbits began to think that even the Chief’s Rules weren’t really that bad after all. "Everything will be easier in the spring and summer. Just you wait and see," was heard on the streets and roads of the Shire.

Not everyone was content to wait and see.

Two Men and a Hobbit Sherriff walked up to the round door of the hole belonging to Posco Broadbelt, an elderly hobbit who lived between Bucklebury and Newbury in Buckland. The Sherriff stepped back a bit in surprise when the door opened to reveal a rather tall, strongly built, middle-aged hobbit who scowled at his visitors.

"Who be you?" the Sherriff spoke up, having recovered himself.

"I’m Marroc Bunce, not that it’s any of your business." Marroc set his fists on his hips as he spoke. "Who be you?" He pointedly ignored the Men.

"Where’s the old one what lives here?" asked one of the Men.

"Yes," said the other Man. "You’d best not be breakin’ none o’ the Rules, bringin’ food or aught to him or you’ll be seein’ the inside o’ the Lockholes. If there be food to spare then there be food that’s needin’ Gathered."

"Old Posco be yonder." Marroc pointed to a tree a short ways away from the hole where, quite plain to see, there was a freshly dug grave. "I’m the only relation what needed a hole of my own, so the place is mine now. Any more questions?"

The Sherriff looked relieved. "Just see to it you be mindin’ the Rules and there’ll be no trouble. Good day to ya."

Marroc shut the door and leaned heavily against it, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never been much for telling lies so he figured the Sherriff and Ruffians would see through his story. It had only been the night before last that old Posco Broadbelt had been hidden in a farrier’s wagon and taken to safety and comfort at The Hall.

Brandy Hall, like The Great Smials, was a maze of hallways and tunnels causing even life long residents to occasionally become lost. Never before had the Master of Buckland and his Mistress been so grateful for their confusing home. Twice already the smial had been searched, under the guise of a mere visit, by Lotho’s Ruffians. But it was impossible to tell from the outside how big The Hall was on the inside, enabling the hiding of many hobbits. Nearly fifty of Buckland’s oldest, poorest or most infirm citizens were now living in The Hall, with plenty of room for a good many more. Though Esmeralda Brandybuck hoped fervently that there would not be a need to fill all the space they had available. She now spent her mornings going around to the rooms in the most distant parts of the smial to visit their guests.

Bramblerose Knotwise, age one hundred one years, was tucked up in bed, at last getting the warmth and nourishment she needed to fight off her cold. Esme had been chatting awhile with the old hobbitess as she ate her second breakfast.

"The weather is finally breaking a bit as well, dear." Esme patted the elder’s hand. "I shall be able to bring you some flowers soon. Do you have a favorite spring flower?"

"Yes, Mistress. I like lilacs right well."

"Then lilacs you shall have as soon as they bloom."

Bramblerose became serious and leaned closer to Esme. "Mistress, ya say that it be gettin’ better out and about?"

"Yes, dear, it is."

The old hobbitess looked about as though she feared someone would hear that shouldn’t. "Then why do I still have the dreadin’?"

"The dreading?"

"Yes, Mistress. A feelin’ deep in ma bones that there be danger about. That there be somethin’ that still be not right."

Esme slowly nodded her head. She had been hearing similar things from many of the older hobbits, especially those who had been farmers or master gardeners. Hobbits who had a close relationship with nature and the soil of the Shire. It brought a small degree of comfort to Esme knowing she wasn’t alone with her feeling that there was evil abroad in the wide world, evil wanting to claim the Hobbit’s peaceful Shire.

Esme rose and kissed the older hobbitess on the forehead. "I hope, dear one, that it is only having to be taken from your home that is causing your dreading. Take comfort in knowing that you are now being loved and cared for by those of us here at The Hall. We will see to it that no evil reaches you here."

Bramblerose kissed Esmeralda’s hand before dabbing at her tears with a handkerchief. Esme left to go visit another of her guests.

No such help could be offered to Gaffer and Bell Gamgee. Life was harder for the hobbits who lived in Hobbiton and Bywater. With Hobbiton being the home of Chief Lotho Sackville-Baggins there was a higher concentration of Ruffians and Sherriffs there than anywhere else in the Shire. There could be no sneaking away to better housing those hobbits who had been moved into the miserable shacks. Everyone was too well watched. So it was rather surprising that Farmer Cotton and Young Tom were able to pay a visit to the Gamgees at the same time.

The Gaffer stood aside motioning for them to come in without saying a word. The weather may have improved somewhat as Rethe progressed toward its mid-point, but Bell Gamgee had not. She no longer could get out of bed. The Cottons saw the bowl of soup and bit of bread on the small table beside her. Bell’s arms were tucked under many layers of blankets and comforters; she had not been feeding herself. The senior Tom felt his stomach knot up inside him, it sickened and angered him to see these dear folks living in such mean conditions. The weak sun, though able to start warming the ground outside did nothing to warm the tiny shacks in which so many of Hobbiton’s poor and elderly now lived.

The Gaffer touched his wife’s shoulder. "She’s a-sleepin’ again. Barely stays awake ta sup a bit o’ soup." He bent to kiss her head then turned to face the Cotton’s. "Olo Proudfoot’s been ta see her. Least them Ruffians still be lettin’ the healer come ‘round." The old gardener sighed as he pulled himself up as straight as his work worn back would allow. "He had naught that was good ta say. I keep her as warm and comfortable as I’m able. She’s done a right fine job o’ carin’ for me an’ all our children these many years, ‘tis the least I can be doin’ for her." The Gaffer sighed again as he turned back to look once more at Bell as she slept. "I wish ‘twas more." He shook his head a bit then looked at his visitors. "What brings the two o’ ya here?"

Young Tom went to the larger table in the middle of the shack’s single room and began to empty out the pockets on the inside of his jacket. Taters, carrots, turnips and onions, dried beans and peas appeared on the table along with a nice sized hunk of ham. His father took several small logs out of his coat.

The elder Cotton placed an arm around the Gaffer’s shoulders. "Those logs be good hard wood, should burn right slow and last a good bit. You know we wish it be more, Ham. We’d be takin’ you and Bell in if ‘twern’t for them fool Rules, but ‘twould be no good landin’ us all in the Lockholes."

Hamfast reached his gnarled hand up to pat the hand that was draped over his shoulder. "I know. We know. And it be right fine of ya to be doin’ what ya are for us. Don’t rightly care for takin’ charity, but then, starvin’ from pride won’t do a body no good neither. Thank ya both and Lily too."

"And Rosie," put in Young Tom as he set two loaves of bread and a seed cake on the table. " ‘Twas she as made the bread and cake this time. Told Mum she wanted to be a helpin’ you and Bell."

The Gaffer nodded. "She still be holdin’ to the notion that our Sam will be comin’ back?"

Tom nodded back. "Aye. The lass holds her head high, looks ya straight in the eye and says she be knowin’ for a fact that he’ll be comin’ back."

"I hope her knowin’ be right."

"Aye, Ham, as do we." The elder Tom gave the old hobbit’s shoulder a firm yet gentle squeeze. "We’d best be on our way. Won’t be doin’ to stay too long if we were seen a-comin’ in. Ya won’t be forgettin’ that ya can send Dimm ta fetch us if ya be needin us?" he said as he, his son and the Gaffer walked to the door.

"Nay. I won’t forget, and our thanks to ya," said the Gaffer, his gratitude showing in his trembling voice. With nods of farewell all around the Cotton’s left. Hamfast Gamgee settled himself back into the chair at his wife’s bedside.

Mordor was always blanketed in gloom; gloom from the fumes and smokes of Mount Doom to block the sky, gloom from the Dark Tower to block hope. Now the darkness grew deeper. The orcs and men in the service of the Dark Lord felt on edge and anxious, leaders were hard pressed to keep their troops from fighting amongst themselves.

Not all was well with the Dark Lord. Though the Nazgul had been sent out before He had viewed the Halfling in the Seeing Stone, the report that came back was horrendous. Isengard was destroyed, though Orthanc itself remained undamaged. His messenger had not even bothered to go to the tower, returning to Barad-dur in great haste to make his report to his Master. The episode with the Halfling had been somewhat rewarding yet equally frustrating. The Shire rat had told Him nothing of worth, though feeling its spirit writhe in torment had been moderately entertaining and there was the anticipation of regaining His Ring.

But now; now there was nothing but wrath and all of Mordor trembled. The Great Eye knew now the palantir of Orthanc no longer resided in its tower. He saw the Sword. He saw the Man. He lost control of the Stone.

The darkness grew, spreading its vile fingers out toward Minas Tirith. The city would bear the brunt of His wrath at the Kings of Men, yet like an earthquake, tremors of the Dark Lord’s growing rage were felt throughout Middle-earth.

In a room in the City of Kings sat another troubled being. He and the Dark Lord of Mordor were most likely kindred beings, but not kindred spirits. He of the Black Lands tried to swallow all light, the one within the walls of Minas Tirith sought to bring light to those in the darkness. Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, could feel the building wrath of his adversary and he could feel something else as well. The land of Mordor was so near the people of the city could see the flames and fumes of the mountain with unaided eyes, yet Gandalf sensed something evil stirred within the city itself. He had a theory as to the cause of his unease but he hoped with everything within himself that he was wrong. He read and read again the parchments he had fetched from the archives. They brought him no peace, only further questions, further doubts, further surety. Denethor had never been a kindly or optimistic man, now he seemed driven near to the point of breaking. But driven toward what end, and driven there by whom?

The anger of Sauron moves across the land. Armies march out from the Black Lands. Rohan is invaded yet again. Lorien is attacked. The darkness of Mordor spreads.

Farmer Maggot let the soil run through his fingers, not liking how it felt. Not that it was too dry nor to wet, too sandy nor too mixed with clay. He had farmed these fields his whole life, it wasn’t any of the usual troubles. It just felt . . . wrong.

Farmer Cotton brought his oxen to a halt then rested his weight against the plow. He looked behind him, he looked to the side where the earth lay turned. The rows looked straight, the furrows deep and clear of rocks. The rows felt wrong. Tom shook his head, clucked at the oxen and started back to work. A short, sharp shiver ran through him. Maybe he was coming down sick.

Talley Took gazed out over the south pasture of Thain Paladin’s farm in Whitwell. The spring colts and fillies weren’t kicking up their heels as they should be doing. They ran some but always staying close to the mares who huddled together under the large chestnut tree at the far end of the pasture. It wasn’t that the young ones weren’t nursing, or that the mares weren’t grazing, it was that the herd of ponies seemed anxious. He snapped a small twig and every mare’s head popped up. Talley shrugged his shoulders then walked away from the fence. The stallion in the barn thumped his feed bucket, Talley nearly jumped out of his skin. He was no more calm than the ponies.

There were certain ones of the Took clan who had fallen victim to a growing melancholy. Family members kept a close eye on them, noticing their strange, distant gazes, the anxious look in their green eyes and their tendency to look to the eastern sky as though a storm was moving in.

Brandy Hall continued to acquire new residents. Esmeralda (Took) Brandybuck and others divided the work load of caring for those who needed tending. Not all were infirm, many were only very poor or elderly and unable to work. They took care of themselves for the most part with the able bodied poor helping with the sick ones, glad for the chance to be useful. Many felt it odd that the Mistress of the Hall was carrying trays of food, changing soiled linens and emptying chamber pots. Esme said she above all others needed to be caring for the hurting hobbits of Buckland, as all hobbits would normally be caring for the ones they love. If her husband could find ways around the horrible Rules to care for his people, then so could she. Yet the work was growing more difficult as each day passed. The weak sunshine did nothing to cheer her and something seemed to be sapping her energy. A darkness was at the edges of her vision, anxiety grew in her heart.

An afternoon came when the feelings of dread within Esmeralda grew more intense. Into the evening and into her dreams that night came the growing despair. Day came, but to Esme the dawn was weak and sickly. The smell of burning filled her nose. The pall of a death-watch hung over her, fear clung to her. To her mind’s eye came fleeting visions of a stone chamber, filled with unlit gloom; of a Man with long grey hair and regal robes sitting bowed in grief beside someone who lay unmoving on a bed. Over all she felt a desire to bring aid and comfort that had turned into intense pain for knowing none could be given. None would be accepted.

Night returned. Esmeralda slept. A wee Pippin lad cried because his frog had died. Pippin cried because a puppy died, an aunt died, an uncle, a baby, an aged one. Death. Pippin, a young tween, walking back to The Hall supported by her Merry. They had needed to put Pippin’s pony down after he stepped into a gopher hole, breaking his foreleg.

"He’s not dead," the youthful Pippin said. "They are going to burn him alive. He’s not dead."

The words repeated in time to the pounding of running foot-falls. Over and over. Driving onwards. Horrors and terrors on every side. Feet wet, heavy and sticky.

Esme trembled. Where was Merry? She usually saw Merry nearby, sensed Merry nearby.

"He’s not dead. They are going to burn him alive. He’s not dead."

Esme grew chilled. Who was not dead? Who were they going to burn? Where was Merry?

Another stone chamber, viewed through a door way. The grey-haired man. His eyes wild as a liquid ran in slow drips from his hair, face and robes. Then a blinding light bearing before it the limp body of a Man.

Pippin trembled. Esme’s breath caught in her throat.

Evil permeated the scene before them.

The old Man held a familiar, strangely glowing glass-ball. Madness glowed in his eyes. Madness turned his laugh into a hideous cackle. Madness made him grab a torch, leap upon a pile of wood setting it and himself ablaze. Images of madness now burned forever on the souls of two hobbits.

Cold. Dark. Empty. Pippin’s eyes seeing only the hard stones of the street beneath his heavy, filthy hobbit feet.

Esmeralda awoke with a start. Taking her pillow with her, she went into her sitting room. She stirred up the ashes in the grate, put on a few fresh logs then sat in her rocking chair, hugging her pillow as though it could shield her from the pain in her nephew’s heart, while comforting the fear in her own. Why hadn’t she seen or felt Merry? Suddenly, at the edges of her thoughts, she heard a strange cry. Evil darkened her soul as a numbing chill began to grow in her. Another, louder cry, filled her head only to quickly diminish to a fading whisper. A gladsome feeling flooded through her. Hope had not yet been conquered. Then her heart went cold again. There was hope, but the sense of brooding evil gradually grew stronger within her.

Pale morning crept into Esme’s sitting room. Tenseness crept into Esme. Time moved slowly by. Something was missing, needing urgently to be found.

Suddenly Merry stood before her and her room faded slowly away. Her Merry. Dusty, bedraggled, bloody and stumbling unsteadily along a stony street. Tear tracks ran through the grime on his face, coming down from unfocused eyes that were dark with despair. His left hand was clinging to his right arm, rubbing at it absently as though it were cold. Merry seemed to be in the shadows despite the pale sunlight on the stone buildings around him. He sat clumsily down on a step.

She became aware of Pippin. She could feel his lips were smiling but sorrow and dread were drowning his heart. He was putting as much love and enthusiasm into his voice as he could while his mind was racing, panicked over what he should do.

They helped Merry to his feet. She could feel her son’s ragged, shallow breathing, heard him beginning to mumble instead of speaking clearly. More of Merry’s weight bore down on Pippin until he was stumbling too. Merry’s face was still shadowed. A Man-child came and went after Pippin spoke with him. Esme sank to the street pulling her dear son’s head over to rest in Pippin’s lap. Merry’s right hand was cold in their hands.

Pippin felt a breeze, cool and refreshing. It calmed his mind, as did knowing help would soon be there. He closed his eyes. He did not feel so alone now. He felt loved. He rubbed Merry’s cold hand. "You’re loved, Merry. People care about you. I care about you. You’re loved, Merry." The whispered words continued to flow out of Pippin.

"Hearts bound together. Spirits entwined. Cousins brother-like. Nephews son-like. Love binding all together like the strands of a rope, each strengthens the others." Cullassisul’s voice wound it’s way through Esme’s thoughts. "Child of my child, the Black Breath of the Enemy continues to wrap itself tighter around the heart of your child. Love alone cannot conquer where such despair reigns."

"Then he will . . . he . . . my son will fall to the darkness?"

The air moved gently around the two hobbits on the stone street of the King’s City.

"It is not given me to see his life’s ending." The sound of leaves gently rustling blended with the peaceful calm of the Fairy’s voice. "Despair not, child of my child. Love will give him strength. Love will lend him a glimmer of hope in the Shadow. It cannot drive away the Darkness, but it may bear him up until one arrives who has this gift." Cullassisul’s voice began to fade as Gandalf appeared at the end of the street. "The hands of the King bring healing."

"The King?" Esme questioned, but the presence of the Fairy was gone, as was Esme’s vision of her son.

For both Pippin and Esme the long day stretched on. Each staunchly did their duty; Esme helped the ill and needy at The Hall, Pippin stood guard at Faramir’s door. Both of their hearts and minds were with Meriadoc Brandybuck, loving him, encouraging him, lending him their strength.

It was in the early hours of the night in Buckland, while the Mistress of The Hall was resting on her bed after helping take supper to those in her care, that she was aware of being in a room in the stone city. Merry lay upon a bed. A Man stood beside him, one whom she had seen in other visions. Her son looked gravely ill, she and Pippin rushed to Merry’s side. But the Man gave assurance to them before gently running his hand through Merry’s hair. He softly brushed his fingers over Merry’s eyelids, speaking Merry’s name, as a sweet clean fragrance filled the room. It was unlike when Cullassisul came to Esme with the crispness of autumn, though the effect on her was the same. Hope, joy and the warm scents of a garden in summer filled her. Through Pippin’s eyes she looked in wonder at the Man. Merry awoke. "The hands of the King." Merry’s mother thought before she slept peacefully in her quiet room.

A/N: This is the last chapter covering the events in the Shire during the War of the Ring. A new phase of the story will be starting with the next chapter as the focus will shift more onto the Shire and even less (I think) on the four hobbits who are away.

I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has kept reading "While We Dwelt in Fear". It has been a difficult story to write, not aided at all by several bouts of "writer’s block". Currently, I’m blocked again, so please send me prayers, good vibes, good karma and anything else!!

I will, I promise all of you, I will finish this story. I’m hoping before the end of this year.

Thank you all so very much for staying with me on this. I don’t normally do this, but if you haven’t left a comment before, please could you leave one now? I really would like to see who the people are who have been so loyal. It never needs to be a "review", just a comment of whether or not you liked what you read. Also, someone who likes my work, and lives in New Jersey, talked to my friend’s husband who works for Verizon a while ago, if you read this, make sure to say "Hi!" to me as I’m dying to know who it was ;-)

You are all the best!!

Pearl Took

Saruman paced in his throne room high in Orthanc. The wild wood-demons had destroyed Isengard. His grand and powerful army of Orcs and Uruk-Hai had not returned from battle. Saruman looked at Wormtongue, huddled in a chair in a corner picking at his fingernails, and uttered a grunt of disgust. The fool had thrown away the one thing most needed by his Master: the palantir. Mind, Saruman was not totally blinded and deafened by this loss. He still had his spies and his own ability to see afar, but neither of these equaled the power of the palantir. Worst of all, he could no longer communicate with the Dark Lord. A Nazgul had come near but had not entered the tower, giving Saruman no opportunity to make any attempt at an adequate explanation of the devastation that had surely been observed and reported to Barad-dur.

Two days ago a flock of his spies had reported another victory for the armies of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth on the Pelennor Fields. Yet he knew, oh yes he definitely knew, they had not won the war. His flesh crawled as he sensed Sauron’s wrath building even stronger.

In the northern reaches of Middle-earth the orcs of the Great Eye attacked. The Lonely Mountain became a refuge for the Dwarves whose home it was and the Men of Dale with them. The kings of both races fell together before the gates of Erebor ere the Orcs lay siege to the mountain.

Days passed.

Elrond Half-Elven paced on his private balcony. Five days ago a costly victory had been won on the fields before Minas Tirith; the realm of King Thranduil was assaulted; the Galadrim repelled a second attack. Now he knew that his sons, Estel, Gandalf and the others were nearing the Black Land. A desperate gamble. He slowed to a stop, turned to the east then closed his eyes as his mind reached out. No. They were too far into the darkness of the Enemy for him to sense any details. A sudden tremor shook the Elf Lord and he opened his eyes. Once more Orcs were attacking Lorien. Elrond sighed, soon, whether darkness or light, the end of the matter would be known to all the living creatures of Middle-earth.

Barliman Butterburr stood behind the bar of the Prancing Pony surveying the nearly empty common room. For several months now there had been a steady flow of not too savory guests passing through his house. In the last few weeks the flow had dwindled to a trickle. The ten or so strangers that were staying at the Pony this night had kept to themselves while seeming tense and anxious. Old Butterburr considered himself to be a man of the world, so to say, and of late an uneasiness had settled upon him. Without thinking about what he was doing he began to wipe the counter before him. Something was going to happen, or was happening, somewhere in the wide world.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins sat with his throne-like chair turned to face the wall map of his Shire. He smiled and hummed a peppy tune as he gloated over what, in his mind, was his vast realm. Everything was going so well, so perfectly. Or at least he assumed all was going smoothly. His forehead crinkled as his brows drew together. His workers, the Men from the south, had become rather edgy of late. Lotho’s eyes shifted to stare out the study window where the beginnings of spring were obvious now. After a few moments he shook off his slight tinge of gloom, smiling as his gaze returned to the map. Everything was fine. What did those Men know of anything? He, Lotho Sackville-Baggins was the Chief of the Shire! He knew what was what in his lands.

Gaffer Gamgee startled out of his sleep. "Old fool," he chided himself. "Falling asleep in the chair again." He felt that things were not right, a worrisome feeling, a dreading, haunted his thoughts. Shaking his head at himself he rose, changed into his night shirt then eased himself into his side of the bed beside Bell. She didn’t stir. Ham put his ear near to her; yes, she was still with him, he could hear her rattling breaths. He took her cold hand in his two warm ones and fell asleep.

Paladin Took and his wife sat in the parlor of their quarters at Great Smials. He sat holding open a book he wasn’t reading. Lanti paid no real attention to her knitting, the pattern long since lost in mistakes. Neither felt right. Neither felt comfortable. Neither could say why.

Days passed.

Esme dreamed a frightful dream. Under stormy skies she wandered in the barren woods of late autumn. The dead brown leaves on the forest floor crumbled without a sound beneath her bare feet. She stopped beside a small pool, its surface reflecting empty intertwining branches against the pallid sky. In its depths she saw a lone small figure with softly curling hair standing upon a stone rampart, gazing toward the east. Merry. This was Merry. Loneliness and fear flooded her. In green depths of the pool she saw an encampment. Soldiers in black and sliver armor were getting ready to march. One amongst them, only slightly more than half the height of his fellow soldiers, stood bravely straight, squaring his small shoulders. Pippin. This was Pippin. The loneliness and fear swelled within her. The pool grew red, filled with the fiery mountain she had seen once before. The air around her grew dense and choking. Deep in the pool came an image of two small figures stumbling toward the mountain. Her heart was breaking. Why? Why were they going toward the mountain? Surely it was dangerous. There was more fire painting the clouds red than there had been before. More lightening flashed and more thunder rolled. They fell to the ground. Frodo and Samwise. This was Frodo and Sam. The pool turned black. Esme awoke.

"Saradoc. Saradoc, wake up."

"What!" he sharply replied after startling into wakefulness. "Esme? What is it?" In the soft light of the dawn that made its way past the edges of their bedroom curtains he could see her wide opened eyes, whites showing all around them. He could feel her trembling.

"It is time." Her voice was quiet. Her voice, yet with a different quality to its tone and cadence. "It is soon to be decided."

"What, Esme? What is to be decided?"

"Everything."

"Esmeralda?"

She gently stroked his cheek as tears rolled down her own. "Forgive me. I could not bear the thought of your not believing me. I . . . I should have trusted you. ‘Tis the blood. Took blood. Fairy blood." Saradoc’s mouth dropped open but no sound came out. "We see things, we know things. In times of trouble and fear we . . . we . . . I am with him; seeing what he is seeing, feeling his hurts, knowing his sorrows. He is of the Fairy blood as well."

Saradoc pulled his wife to his chest. He wanted to hug her as tightly as he was afraid but instead his arms cradled her as though she were made of the finest porcelain. She was stiff in his embrace.

"Merry?" he whispered in her ear. "You are with Merry?"

"The Tookling Falcon. I will soon be with the young Tookling. He and the brother of his heart are separated. The Falcon flies to the gate of the Black Land with the White Tree shining upon his breast. I have seen the child of my womb, waiting atop a stone wall that looks to the east. He aches and is cold and the Shadow still lies upon him, though it has not conquered his heart. I have seen the one who bears the Burden and the one who would die for him struggling on the Mountain of Fire. They know not how they can go on. Pain and despair and the evil of Mordor works against them. Yet they have endured."

Saradoc felt a terror in him worse than the day he handed Buckland over to Lotho’s Ruffians. If this was madness, why did it sound like truth? And if truth . . .

"You must understand, my love." Esme’s voice was the softest of whispers. "You must seek to believe what I say. I must go. I will go. I am drawn. I have no choice this time."

"Go where? Where are you going Esme when our land is patrolled and few are allowed to move about freely?"

"I will be with the Tookling before the Black Gate. He is with the King and the White Wizard." Esmeralda suddenly pushed her husband roughly away then turned to face the east. "The world’s doom rides upon the soul of the Ring Bearer and the one who gives his life to serve him. Today the ending comes: the most dreadful darkness or the most glorious light." She turned her wild eyes once again upon her husband. Tears were flooding down her face as she grabbed him by the shoulders. "Saradoc, my love and my life, don’t leave me. I need you. They need you. Our loved ones, our Meriadoc. Don’t leave me!" She leaned, trembling against her husband’s chest.

"Never," he pledged to her. "I will not leave you."

The entourage of the King of Gondor halted before the Black Gate and dismounted. With great fanfare they announced the coming of the King and demanded the Dark Lord show himself. Pippin peered out from where stood behind Prince Imrahil. He tingled with apprehension, every sense was sharply alert. What would happen? Could he bear to see the Dark Lord once again? To once more hear that cold, cruel voice? Esme felt the press of the tall Men around her, she saw the King and Gandalf. Everyone, everything focused on the massive Morannon.

The frightful emissary of the Great Eye came forth; bold, brash and, once he dismounted, strutting with confidence. He showed to them all the tokens he had been given to break their spirits. Pippin leapt forward in blind agony. Esme nearly fell as Gandalf shoved them back behind the Prince. If it had not been for the crowd of men about Pippin they would have dropped to the ground when Gandalf refused the Dark Lord’s terms and with white light shining bright about him dismissed the Mouth of Sauron. Pippin buried his face in Prince Imrahil’s cloak as they galloped back to where the army of the West waited.

Esmeralda trembled in Saradoc’s arms, gazing wide-eyed at something he could not see. "Frodo," she muttered as sweat beaded upon her forehead. "I wish Merry was here," she whispered a short while later.

Saradoc held her close. He wished his son was with them as well. But slowly he realized that was not what his wife meant. She had said she would be with Pippin, that the lads were not together. Perhaps it was Pippin who was wanting Merry with him?

"We might die together, Merry and I, and since die we must, why not?"

"Esme! Esme!" Saradoc patted her cheeks and waved his hand before her eyes. "Dying? Don’t say our lads are to die! Esme!"

"I wish I could see cool sunlight and green grass again!"

"Esme!"

Her arm swept upwards then she stiffened in her husband’s arms.

"Good-bye," she whispered as her body went limp.

"Esme. My Esme," Saradoc whispered. He gently rocked her body. His tears were soaking her grey hair. All seemed empty and dark.

A light seemed to form around Esmeralda Brandybuck. "It is over," a voice whispered. "Dawn will break with the pure light of a new age. Do not despair."

Though she grew pale, Esme did not turn the grayish hue of the dead. Throughout the long day and night Saradoc sat holding her in their bed.

Pippin was aware of a presence. He was aware of light shining upon his eyelids. He tried to move. He opened his eyes.

The Lady he had seen in the mysterious woods in Lorien was there, he could feel her stroking his left hand.

"I can’t . . . move," he whispered before choking and gasping for air.

"Be calm, my Tookling." The melody of her voice filled his mind. "The air is all around you. Feel its breath upon your face? Let it fill you and do not struggle."

Pippin felt a slight movement of air on his cheek. He closed his eyes and tried to let the air fill him. "Can’t move," he whispered. "Can’t breathe . . . why?"

"In Middle-earth you lie beneath the troll you slew in defense of the life of the Man who is your friend. You are a small hobbit and it is a large troll."

Pippin tried again to breathe deeply but sharp pains shot through his chest. "Dead? Am I . . . dead?"

"No. Do you wish to be?"

That’s an odd thing to ask, Pippin thought. "Finished," he breathed. "Lost."

"All may not be as it seems."

"You said . . . that . . . before."

"And the Great Wizard returned, did he not?"

"Yes."

"I ask you again, my Tookling Falcon, do you wish to be dead?"

Deep within Pippin the spark of life still glowed, and life is not easily denied.

"No . . . Live . . . See Merry . . . Frodo and Sam . . . Home . . . Live."

As the sun rose high on the first day of the new age Esmeralda Brandybuck stirred. "He lives!" she heard a soft silky voice cry out with joy.

"He lives." Saradoc heard his wife say and she now smiled as she slept.

XXIX

Spring

The next morning, after having slept through the first day of the new age, Esme Brandybuck awoke to brilliant sunlight pouring into the bedroom. She turned her head to see what she had seen upon waking for many years, the face of her dear husband on the pillow beside hers. His hair was now grey, there were lines tracing delicate patterns on his face, he was stockier than when they had wed, but all the same things could be said of her. It sometimes seemed odd to her that it all only served to make her love him more. Each line, each precious grey hair being a reminder of their years together. She snuggled close to Saradoc, wishing nothing more in the world than to be where she was.

"Esme?" he mumbled sleepily.

She nuzzled his nose with hers, then kissed him. "Yes?"

"Esme!" His eyes opened wide. Esme had trouble keeping up with the flow of emotions they showed. Surprise. Joy. Fear. Wonder. Love. "Esmeralda?"

She giggled and kissed his nose again. "Is that all you can say? ‘Twill make for rather tedious conversations from now on."

"Esme!" If she had been prepared with another witty reply, it would have to wait. Saradoc kissed her long and well before drawing back to once again stare at her face and into her eyes. "You look beautiful."

Now she drew back a bit from him. "I’m not at all sure how to take that, Mr. Brandybuck. You sound surprised." Her voice taunted him, her eyes teased. "Perhaps you aren’t really my Saradoc. After all, he has always told me I’m beautiful therefore he would not find that in the least bit surprising."

He brought his left hand out from under the covers to softly, hesitantly, caress her face. "You are beautiful. Beautiful you are. Beautiful are you. Are you beautiful? Yes. You are all aglow. Your eyes are sparkling like old Gandalf’s fireworks. For sometime now I thought I had lost this Esmeralda forever. Yes, I’m surprised to see her back so quickly."

Her eyes darkened. "It was dark and terrible." She shuddered, then the light returned in her Tookish green eyes. "But . . . that is no more. The Enemy is gone."

"Merry, Pippin, Frodo and Sam. You spoke of them. You knew where they were. Do you still know? Are they alright? Are they . . ."

Esme closed her eyes and lay silently for a few moments. "They live," she whispered as her eyes slowly opened. "I can’t tell anything else. I only know that I would know if . . . if they were dead. Whatever gift it was that let me see them all is gone."

Saradoc kissed his wife’s forehead. "They are alive. That is enough to know. I would just as soon that this will be the end of this strange sight of yours, it troubles me."

She hugged him tightly. "I think it will be. The Dark is gone and the light is shining clean and strong. I think there will be no further need of my gift." Saradoc relaxed and they lay together blessing the new day.

It was truly beginning to be spring in the Shire. The sun shone in the proper amounts. It rained the proper amounts. The seeds were sown in the dark, fertile soil. The foals and calves, kids and lambs frolicked about after their mothers and after each other. Young hobbit lads wrestled and young lasses picked flowers in the soft grassy fields. Their older siblings paired up, lads with lasses, for walks along the lanes. Though the Rules were still posted, though there were still more sherriffs than ever before, it became easy for the hobbits of the Shire and Buckland to begin to forget the long harsh winter. That is, it was easy for most of the hobbits. There were more than the usual number of new graves in the cemeteries and family plots of the hobbits.

Hamfast Gamgee stood beside the grave of his life’s companion. He had asked both Tom Cottons to dig up a solid piece of sod the length and width of Bell’s grave, a section of turf that the Gaffer knew to be full of wild flowers that bloomed throughout the spring, summer and autumn. He brought his watering can with him each day to make sure the cut slice of earth survived and took root in its new location.

Dimm Twofoot had come to Number Seven Lobelia Lane in the early afternoon that first day of the coming of spring. He was wanting to see if the dear souls had sensed the change, if the Gaffer had been outside to smell the new freshness in the air. He knocked upon the rickety door but received no answer so, after a proper wait, he entered the small shack. In the gloom he noted the empty chairs by the cold hearth. He saw the empty chair beside the bed. He saw the shapes of bodies beneath the many covers on the bed. Quietly Dimm walked to the bed dreading what he might find, dreading that both his dear friends were gone. The Gaffer lay with his arms around Bell, Bell whose skin had turned the bloodless pale hue of the dead.

"She has gone." Hamfast whispered. "She left durin’ the night. Left quiet and peaceful, with no gaspin’ nor strugglin’ with pain." He kissed Bell’s cold cheek.

Dimm lay a gentle hand on the old hobbit’s uncovered shoulder. "I’m glad she went peaceful, Gaffer, with the one she’d loved her whole life beside her." Dimm stood there patting and rubbing Ham’s shoulder as the old hobbit began to weep, giving him time to continue his grieving before speaking again. "Ya need ta be lettin’ loose o’ her, Gaffer, so as she can be tended to proper. I want ya gettin’ yourself dressed and comin’ to our place so as ta get some food in ya."

"And get us all in a fix with them Ruffians? Nay, Dimm, ya can’t be takin’ me in," the Gaffer said without taking his arms from around his wife.

"There don’t seem to be a great many o’ them about, Gaffer. And I don’t care much for what they might or mightn’t do, you be grievin’ and those of us what be friends and kin need to be seein’ to ya and Bell proper." Dimm tugged a bit at his friend’s shoulder. "Come on now, I’ll take no arguin’ from you."

Dimm helped the Gaffer get dressed and over to the shack the Twofoots shared. Daddy sat his best friend down in the rocker near the fire, poured him an ale from a jug that had been smuggled in, fetched him a bowl of stew, then sat in companionable silence while Ham slowly ate his first meal of the day. Dimm fetched the Cottons and while Lilly and Rosie tended to Bell, young Tom and Dimm readied the grave while Tom built the simple coffin.

In the pink light of that first warm spring evening, a spring their own Sam had helped bring to Middle-earth though they did not know it, Bell Gamgee had been laid to rest in the small family plot that held Bilbo’s father and mother, as per the instructions in Bilbo’s will.

XXX

Dealing With Changes in Circumstance

The Great Road Tavern was packed to the rafters with befuddled Ruffians. Natuck and Slengan were among the crowd listening to scattered bits of other’s conversations.

"No word’s come down from Sharkey ya says?"

"Bit strange, this turn ta the weather."

"Don’t know why I showed up here. I just needed to hide er somethin’. Be with Men instead o’ with Shire Rats. ‘Tweren’t comfortable out there."

The babel wound on and on. No one really seemed to know anything, everyone seemed to guess something, one seemed to have an inkling but said nothing. Naznock sat in a dark corner alone. Alone because he had bared his teeth and made noises like he was growling whenever any of his underlings had approached. In the dark recesses of his mind, in the part of him that was orcish, goblinish, where some distant touch of the ruined Elves still lingered, in this place Naznock knew that something had gone horribly wrong. Everything; air, earth, and water, everything felt different. The Men who he had been sent to oversee appeared to have no sense of this, they only had felt a need to meet together hoping to find strength in their numbers. Sharkey wasn’t the only Big Boss. Naznock knew there was another that Sharkey tripped all over himself to please. For right now Naznock would keep himself and his underlings on the quiet side of things. Orders would come eventually, he did feel sure of that. Sharkey had his reasons to pick this runty land clean.

Saruman did not care for his situation. It irritated. It chafed. It insulted. Being a prisoner in his own tower was infuriating enough, being imprisoned with his lackey, Wormtongue, simply made it that much worse. The mewling, fool was poor company for anyone of intelligence. Saruman had spent a day or so in strange state after that oaf Gandalf had broken his staff and bid him leave. Not quite in shock, more that his mind had gone elsewhere. In a flash, a mere speck of time, he had felt himself diminish before being surrounded by a wave of pity. Pity! That rogue, that cheat, that usurper pitied him! After flinging the dolt, Wormtongue, against the farthest wall for using the palantir as a weapon, Saruman had gone into his throne room and shut all the doors fast behind him with a flick of his hand.

Eventually the doors opened and Wormtongue found his services were needed . . . as a porter. He fetched scrolls and tomes, long unused, from storage in the lower levels of the tower up to his Master’s study near the pinnacle of Orthanc. Saruman knew he had lost much of his former power, what he needed was to accurately define those powers he still possessed, then sharpen them. Later, he felt the tremor of Sauron’s fall and chuckled at his one-time "partner’s" ill fortune. It was all well and good to him, one less obstacle in his way. The Wizard of Many Colours relearned things long forgotten, small but needful things to perfect what had once been the mere conquest of a minuscule land but would now be a subtly sweet revenge.

Dark things still moved in the black of night. Gradually news came to Saruman from sources other than the monotonous Ent who insisted on rambling on about the glories of the new King of Men. News came in and orders went out.

The Prancing Pony had felt the coming spring in it’s own way. The locals began to frequent Barliman Butterbur’s house once more, slaking the thirst plowing and planting brought on. And if plowing and planting were at their peak, then the smithies, farriers and carpenters were hard at it as well. Smiles abounded, customers jested with one another while placing bets as friends competed at various games. Nearly everyone felt as though they had been barely breathing, but now had taken a good, deep breath of the new spring air before letting it back out in a contented sigh.

Not that everything was back as it had always been. The Little Folk still felt skittish, startling easily at any sudden yelling in the common room while keeping a wary eye on the few strangers, who passed through Bree.

"I’ll be feelin’ a good sight better when the look o’ them as is passin’ through improves a bit," said Wren Tunnely one evening in early Thrimidge, or May as it was to the Big Folk of Bree. "They still be the sort what won’t say as much as ‘Glad Morning!’ to us Hobbits."

"Aye and that be a true word," Thad Brier said around wiping the foam of his ale off his mustache with his sleeve. "None too friendly with we Big Folk neither, they be." He bent in closer to the center of the table and all seated there did the same. "And, it be seemin’ ta me, me and a few others as I’ve talked with, that there’s gettin’ to be more o’ them again. I’ve heard tellin’ they be passin over lands and fields with nary a ‘if you please’ ta the owners."

"That be the truth and for certain, Thad." They all looked up to see Will Thistledown. He had walked quietly up behind those who sat at the table. Will was a well respected, well landed, farmer whose holdings lay a bit of a distance to the north of Bree. He leaned in over two of the hobbits, but they felt no threat, Will was known and trusted by all of Bree’s folk. "O’ more concern to me is them Rangers goin’ off and not being back here ‘bouts. I know," he said as he shook his head, closed his eyes and briefly waved his hands before him, "many o’ ya didn’t be trustin’ ‘em at all, and grant ya I will that most were none too fair seemin’ ta look upon. But nary a one there was that ever treated me badly. Always respectful, never a crossin’ my land without my say so. Never leavin’ no mess behind ‘em for my stock ta get inta. And, I’ll be tellin’ ya this true," Will leand even further in and lowered his voice to the faintest of whispers, "None o’ these here rowdies ever set foot ta my land whilst them Rangers was about it. Never. But now they be walkin’ on through like it be their lands and not mine." He looked into the wide eyes of those around the table. "I’ve a thought and more that we’re goin’ ta rue them leavin’. Us Bree-folk and the Shire-folk too. I’ve a thought that . . ." Will swallowed hard, "that we’d best not be a’lettin’ this fair spring lull us o’er much. Best be keepin’ our eyes open and our doors locked tight."

"Dearest Brother and Sister,

While it appears that our former situation,    and yours, might have eased somewhat, I am making an attempt to better my poor writing habits and get word to you. Esme and I hope this finds you,    and those in your care all well.

We lost some of our folk due to the harshness,    this past winter’s weather, but not as many as there might have been. We had some at the Hall who were brought,    down by illness. Esme says to let you know that Lanti’s skills would have been much appreciated. Still, we have been fortunate.

The spring looks to be a good one with the weather cooperating nicely in the planting, sprouting and growing of fields and gardens. We have heard nothing, opposite of such matters, from your part of the Shire and so choose to assume that all is the same for the Tooks.

The good to come of summer, remains yet to be seen, with caution remaining the good friend of farmers everywhere.

Word is that Hobbiton is having a, tall, sizeable crop and,     much activity seems to be normative for all dwelling there.

Esme says that you should know that there,     is good life, hope and strong love now, for those about whom you had great concern. Their strife seems ended and the relationship stable. Yet I fear,     only time will tell the full tale of what life is left to them.

Be well. Be of good cheer. You are ever in our thoughts.

Saradoc and Esme

Paladin read through the letter again, this time marking certain places with red ink. It was an old trick between two old friends and Saradoc would be well aware that his letter might end up at Bag End as easily as at Great Smials. It was a bit complicated for anyone else to figure out, which of course was the whole point to their coded way of phrasing things.

The comma and odd spacing between "our former situation, and yours" was Saradoc’s way of saying things had been bad in Buckland and that he had at least heard rumor of the same in Tookland. Saradoc had excellent writing habits, so the point of that comment was that he was "attempting" something on the chance of it working. Another oddly spaced comma, ". . . hope this finds you, and those . . ." a way of saying they knew there had been nothing getting into Tookland.  More extra spacing in the next paragraph: they had been treated harshly by the Ruffians and they were bringing hobbits into the Hall to give them aid. There was nothing of note in the next paragraph.  The next two sentences were isolated unnecessarily, it meant read them carefully, they say more than they appear to. In the first, Saradoc is warning against any letting down of their guard. In the second, he is making it clear that Ruffians are still numerous around Chief Lotho Pimple and that there appears an increase in their activity. The last paragraph was . . . Paladin closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair . . . it was both assuring and disturbing. It seemed Esme’s gift was leading her to believe that their sons, their cousin and the lads’ friend were alive and well. Yet Saradoc was not so certain.

Paladin let go of the letter and his left hand joined his right, fingers entwined in grey hair. Believe Esmeralda? Believe Saradoc? "What do you believe, Paladin Took?" his mind asked him. "You aren’t much of a Took, you have never been oddly different from other hobbits. Why should you believe this outlandish tale your younger sister presented you with? And yet . . ." He thought about those strangely compelling green eyes. The same in both his sister and his son, eyes that could hold you in place or make you move at their desire. And yet . . .

He opened his eyes to look at the letter. "If," he said aloud to himself, "they live, they will not linger long from home. If they have indeed faced some great evil and have survived to tell the tale, they will have questions about what may have happened at home. If what Esme feels is indeed the truth, our dear ones will be home in two months time, I should think. Perhaps two and half the next, but no more than that." Paladin slowly picked up the letter, as though he feared it would hurt him to touch it. He stared at it, but the answers he sought were not there. He closed his tired eyes and tears found their way past the clenched eyelids. "If they aren’t back by part way through Afterlithe . . . Oh Saradoc, how I pray that you are wrong."

XXXI

Getting Reestablished

There was a closeness to the air in Bag End.

"For goodness sake, Lotho! Let in some fresh air!" Lobelia reached to pull aside the curtains but her son blocked her.

"No! We musn’t, Mum," Lotho said too loudly and quickly. "They said we must keep the curtains drawn."

Lobelia pulled back from Lotho, her color suddenly high, her eyes flashing. " ‘They said.’ ‘They said?’ I thought things around here went as YOU say, Lotho Sackville-Baggins."

"I . . . Yes . . . They, they do, Mother. Eh it’s just . . . just that . . ." Lotho looked from side to side, then over his mother’s head to see the room behind her then turned to check that the window behind him was closed as well as covered. He leaned close to his mother’s ear and whispered. "They told me that they’re spying on us. Yes. Spying. Peaking in at the windows. Listening. And we can’t have any of that sort of thing, can we Mother?"

"Who said who is spying on us?"

"My aids. Some of the workers as well. They have told me they have seen non-worker and non-sherriff hobbits lurking about. You’ve always said they do that sort of thing, Mother. You have always told me to be careful of all the ignorant, jealous hobbits that are around. I . . . I thought you would like that I’m being cautious."

Lobelia looked at her son. Was she suddenly seeing a shadow of his sniveling father in the lad? The feeling passed as Lotho drew himself up and spoke once again in a normal tone.

"They are treating me with such high regard, Mother. They never do a thing without my approval and they are making sure I am thought of properly in the Shire. They told me that I wasn’t looking the proper part of Chief of the Shire by going out myself to nose about. ‘Kings ‘n such stays put in their big cities and tall towers whilst lettin’ their loyal workers, aids and advisors do the wanderin’ about keepin’ an eye on thin’s.’ I gave proper thought to what they were saying. I remembered that in all the stories I’ve heard dealing with Kings and others, that it is always the lesser persons going to them, not the other way around. So I agreed with their assessment and they will be doing all the running about now. They will see to it that all of our needs and requests are met as well. We are the royal family in our fine home." Lotho took his mother’s hand, bowing over it and kissing it. "So, Lady Lobelia, there is no need for any concern on your part. All is well in hand."

The Great Road Tavern was no longer overcrowded with Ruffians. Orders had come through at last. "Get back to work!" was all the message said, but that was quite enough. The messenger had added to it that Sharkey was none too pleased to hear that his men’s efforts in the "Land of the Shire Rats" had nearly ground to a halt.

"These here tree-men has him trapped but good in the Tower." The messenger looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, that’s not quite the right of it. I think he’s stayin’ put so’s they don’t notice that he’s a keepin’ busy." He gave an exaggerated wink while laying a finger to his nose.

And so Naznock was finally able to get his lads out of the tavern and back to their assigned places, with extra attention having been given to the securing of Mr. "Chief of the Shire" Sackville-Baggins.

Saradoc walked along the eastern bank of the Brandywine, glancing from time to time across the swift dark water where the Shire’s shore lay to the west. As he had hinted in his letter to Paladin, the respite from the tyranny of Chief Lotho and his Ruffians had been short lived. Saradoc stopped. He looked hard at the western shore. He had never lived in the Shire but like every hobbit in Buckland, even as some in Bree, he felt bound to it. Even though there had been hobbits living in Bree well before they began to move into the area later called the Shire, somehow, the Shire was home, and home was still in evil hands. The messenger who had carried the letter to Paladin had not returned. Saradoc received word a few days later that he had been stopped by Ruffians as he left Tookland, that his hands had been bound tightly behind him before he was marched off to the Lockholes. It was beginning again.

Saradoc sighed heavily as he turned eastward to look over Buckland. The Hobbits of the Shire would have to find their own paths through these times; he was only responsible for the welfare of the Hobbits of Buckland. He had gone against the council of his advisors, they thought the bad times were over. Saradoc had kept in place everything that had been done thus far to aid his people. But Saradoc took little comfort from his sound reasoning. "Would that it had not been needed," he thought as he started back to Brandy Hall.

The Took elders had met again, decisions had been made, plans implemented. Though the situation appeared to have eased, they would still have goods and products stocked up in storage at the Smials. The winter wheat and barley were being harvested, the summer crops were getting planted. At least half the strawberries had been put up as preserves. New types of medicinal herbs were being planted by the more experienced gardeners through out Tookland. Goods of various kinds had been coming into the barns and storerooms of Great Smials; at least they had for a while.

"I don’t rightly know, Thain Paladin, but the wheat ‘n barley was a-comin’ in right regular till ‘bout a week back." Isenbraad Took-Banks, the hobbit overseeing the storage of grain for Tookland, was obviously uncomfortable as he tried to explain to his boss what had been happening. "Then it started inta just slowin’ down ta a dribble."

"It hasn’t all been harvested, not this quickly," said Paladin as he ran a hand through his hair.

"I know for certain not, sir. I know myself of at least thirty or so what have at least some, if not all their crop still in the field."

Paladin’s hand remained tangled in his hair, fingers scratching nervously at his scalp. He stared at the grain bins. "How much, Isenbraad?"

"Perhaps half of what it ought be."

Paladin nodded his head then walked away without a word. He had heard the same from his wife regarding the early herbs and berries. Pimpernel had received little of what had been anticipated of garments for the clothes exchange. Theribald had sent word that he had received only about two-thirds of the cured pipeweed he had been expecting. Paladin’s fingers continued to worry his head, while his head tried to find a reason why things were going wrong.

Fredegar Bolger and his cousin Ronoldo Bolger had been fishing from the north bank of The Water that was part of Freddie’s family holdings near the town of Budgeford. They had stopped short of coming out of the hedgerow nearest the farm’s main buildings when they heard loud voices coming from that direction.

"Quietly, Ron," Freddie whispered. "I don’t much like the sounds of that. There are voices I don’t recognize." Ron nodded then he and his cousin crept silently to the edge of the hedgerow.

There were Men in the Bolger’s farm yard. Men, hobbit sherriffs and wagons that were being loaded with sacks of harvested winter wheat and barley.

"This is an outrage!" Odovacar Bolger hollered. "An outrage, I say. I thought you took care of all of this business last fall and early winter? Get away from here!"

"You’d best be watchin’ your tiny little self, hobbit, or your teeny self is goin’ ta be gettin’ hurt." One of the men loomed over Fredegar’s father. Only Ron’s touch on his arm kept Freddie from leaping out of their hiding spot. Ron pointed toward the house, Rosamunda Bolger had opened the kitchen door. She now stood in the doorway with her hands, clasping her apron, pulled tight to her mouth.

"I had best be watching myself? No, you had better be careful for yourself. You Men took more than a fair share last time you set your clumsy shod feet on my property, you won’t be taking any more." Faster than the Man could see, Odo let fly a stone at the nearest horse hitched to the wagon. The horse squealed and started to bolt, dragging the Man who grabbed his bridle half way to the gate before the Man got him stopped.

Rosa screamed.

The Man who Odovacar had been taking to task had hit the old hobbit upside the head, sending Odo back several feet before he landed on his back in the dirt of the farmyard. Odo did not stir.

"Any other Shire Rat thinkin’ of gettin’ in my way?" the Man bellowed as he turned slowly to survey the whole of the yard. He took a few strides towards Rosamunda. "You there! Ya be that thing’s female?" he waved his hand back toward Odo where he lay in the dirt. Rosa sank to her knees on the doorsill, her apron now wadded into her mouth to keep herself from screaming again. "You his female?" the Man yelled again and started toward the terrified hobbitess. He stopped a couple of paces away from her, glowering down at her. He kicked a spray of dirt into her face before turning away. "Get moving ya scum and get that wagon good ‘n full afore we drag it on out o’ this rat hole."

The work was quickly done, the Men, sherriffs and the wagon were out of the gate and on the road before Rosa had the strength in her heart or legs to move to her husband’s side. Odo was unconscious but at least he was alive. Several of their farm hands came to quickly move Mr. Bolger into the house as another rode quickly away to fetch the healer. Ron started to move for the farm yard as soon as the wagon started to move but this time Freddie was holding him back.

"We’re following that wagon," was all Fredegar said before heading not for his father, his mother or his home, but along the hedgerow toward the road.

Freddie and Ronoldo had been walking for about two hours without a word passing between them. They kept the wagon in sight or in earshot at all times.

"What if they don’t stop, Freddie?"

"Then we can’t stop."

"But . . . but you’ve no idea where they are headed! We could be still walking tomorrow."

"They have hobbits with them," Freddie panted. "Hobbits on foot, Ron. They have horses that are pulling a heavy wagon. They will have to stop and rest."

The two cousins walked on.

At sunset the caravan stopped, having added other groups with equally full wagons along the way. Fredegar and Ronoldo kept their distance from the encampment yet were close enough to hear the loud speech of the Men if they wished to pay attention. They quickly noticed the Ruffians set no guard over the wagon holding their own food stuffs, allowing the lighter more stealthy Ron to procure a loaf of bread, some cheese and a bottle of wine. It wasn’t until they finished their small supper that they spoke of the day’s events.

"I don’t know why I came with you, Fredegar. I was, and really still am, furious with you. You care about this wretched wagon of grain more than your own father."

"No, I don’t." Freddie starred off at the Ruffian’s campfires as he spoke.

"You left him lying there, Freddie! Without the least bit of a movement on your part to see to him. Nothing more than, ‘we’re following the wagon’ from you. He could be dead, Fredegar!"

Freddie turned to look at Ron, a bit of the distant firelight catching the glint of tears on his cheeks. "If he is dead, Ron, would there have been anything for me to do? And if he’s only injured, they will fetch the healer and I would be sent from his room. Estella is there to comfort our mother." He sniffed a bit into his sleeve to keep it quiet then went on. "As far as I know, none of us know where all our goods have gone. Is it to the other Farthings as we were told when this all started? Is it to Bree? Is it to somewhere us hobbits have barely heard of? We have the chance of finding out, Ronnie. We’ll stay close but hidden. They’ve left scouts all along the way, but they haven’t spotted us. We’ve a good chance of solving this dilemma if we stick with them. I don’t think you noticed, but I caught old Nat’s eye and signaled to him that we were going after the wagon, so they won’t be worrying about us back home."

Ron sighed, relaxing a bit. "No, I didn’t see that. That was a big part of my concerns, cousin. But Freddie . . ."

"I had to, Ron lad, I just . . . had to is all." Fredegar Bolger gazed once more toward the campfires. "I stayed behind once before, I stayed behind and . . ." He sat a bit straighter, taking in a good deep breath as he did. "This time I’ll not stay behind and wait for what may come. This time I move to help us, help all of us hobbits, as much as I can, anyway I can." He looked his cousin squarely in the eye. "You can go or you can stay."

"I’m with you."

They solemnly shook hands to seal their agreement.

Fredegar had drawn their first watch. The Ruffian’s firelight glinting in his eyes well matched his mood. Fatty Bolger felt fierce.

He was pondering it as he sat there, watching the brutes that had hurt his father, that were hurting the Shire. For the first time in his life he felt more his mother’s son than his father’s. For the first time he felt more an adventurous Took than a staid Bolger. Even when he ran for help as the Black Riders stormed Crickhollow, he had been a terrified Bolger running almost without thought for where he was headed. But since then shame had been creeping up on him. Frodo, Pippin and Sam had seen the Black Riders. They had felt the dread surrounding them like a thick fog, yet still they went on. Freddie had thought long about his cousins and friend. As the Ruffians came into the Shire, as Lotho Pimple twisted the Shire until it was becoming unrecognizable, Freddie realized he was probably the only hobbit in the Shire who truly understood that things were darker, deeper, more treacherous than they seemed.

That something good had happened recently, there could be no denying. That spring had come, that the darkness had begun to lift there was no doubt. But the darkness was returning. This time Fredegar Bolger would do his best to act and think as the half-Took he was.

"Wake up, Ron."

"Huh?" Ron was louder than he should have been, Freddie quickly covered Ronoldo’s nose and mouth with his hand before leaning over him protectively.

"Ya hear somethin’, Anthul?" one of the Men said.

Freddie moved his hand off his cousin’s nose as he whispered into Ron’s ear, "Quiet, they heard you."

The two Ruffians stood still listening hard to the noises of the night. "Naw. Don’t hear nothin’. Let’s get this stuff cleared out ‘fore we gets left behind." They turned back to their work without a second look into the woods.

Freddie and Ron both exhaled with relief. "They’re packing up, moving on. We need to be ready to follow." Fredegar whispered. The hobbits quickly gathered up their few things, water bottles and blankets they had gathered from the Ruffians. Soon they were once again trudging along, out of sight, after the caravan of wagons.

So it went for a couple of days. The Men and Hobbit Sherriffs moving north at night along the Whitfurrows-Scary Road.

They were heading to a most unusual part of the Shire: The Hills of Scary. There were mines in and around the Hills where they ended near the town of Brockenborings at their western end. Ancient quarries, turf and vines rounding out and concealing their edges lay near the eastern end of the Hills. Both were full of history, some of it unpleasant in nature.

The Hills of Scary along with the town of Scary were so called because the area had an evil feel about it. The quarries that lay to the west of a curve in The Brandywine River and in the eastern end of the Hills were not of hobbit making. Men from times long past had obtained limestone for the building of their cities and fortresses from these quarries. Good and evil alike came to take the stone from the earth. Battles raged, armies flowed like so much rain water through the fields and hills of Suza, death and destruction often to be found in their wake. Cities and fortifications were damaged, more of the stone was needed. Fights were waged over who had the rights to the quarries. Men slaughtered one another, the bodies of the dead and those not dead were thrown to the bottom of the quarries, lose rock was cast down upon them. More Men came and walked upon the rubble grave that now made up the quarry’s floor to harvest more stone. Evil grew in the northern realm, causing a race of small stature beings to run in fear, some to the south, some to the west. Those who went west settled to the east of a large river, settling as they had before amongst Men. Yet again the evil crept near to them and they moved one more time, putting the river between themselves and the evil. The King gave to them the land of Suza, which the Hobbits named the Shire. The Hobbits spread throughout their new realm, but never too closely to the quarries that lay silently between the river and the hills.

Not long after hobbits had settled the area, gold was found in the western end of the range of hills they now called "Scary". Gold. Even the usually contented hobbits were not untouched by its lure. They dug as only hobbits (and perhaps Dwarves) can. Soon there were tunnels everywhere in the area, the coal that shared the ground with the gold was piled without care, marring the countryside. Finally wagons were loaded and the journey taken to the assayer in Bree.

The loads were dumped into ravines between Bree and the Shire. Hobbits driving empty wagons arrived home to face, with shame, their parents, wives and children. They had been laughed out of the tavern where the assayer did his work behind a counter in a corner.

"Iron pyrite, my good hobbits," the man behind the counter had declared.

"Fools Gold!!" the Big Folk and Little Folk of Bree howled.

"We knew they was a right bunch of fools, movin’ off west o’ here as they did."

"Ought’ve stayed put right here, they ought’ve."

"Well, we’ll all be knowin’ ta trust no Shire Gold!"

For a long while there was little movement of goods betwixt the Shire and Bree, or Staddle for that matter. "Useless as Shire Gold" was an oft heard expression. The land round about The Hills of Scary had lied to the Shire hobbits, brought shame down upon them, and it had cut deeply indeed. Though the towns of Brockenborings, Scary and Quarry remained, they were never very large communities. The hobbits decided to make use of the coal they had dug up. They used up the many piles they had made then dug for the coal itself, reopening only those mines that had bountiful layers of it. The many abandoned gold mines left the area with an empty, dangerous feel to it.

On the third night the caravan of farm wagons turned to the east. All lanterns were blown out as they began following a road that was barely two ruts cutting through the vegetation. Freddie and Ron stopped, staring first at the wagons then at each other.

"You don’t think they are . . ." Ron swallowed hard.

"The quarries? Do I think they are headed to the quarries?" Fredegar felt chilled to his bones. He slowly nodded his head as his gaze followed the passing wagons. "Think about it, Ronnie. Where else could they hide stuff knowing none of us would nose about looking for it?" Beside him, Ronoldo nodded. "We have to, Ron . . . we have to follow them." Again Ron Bolger nodded his head. He never had imagined that he and his cousin Fatty would ever end up doing anything such as this. Spending several weary days chasing Ruffians and wagons all to end up heading for the only evil place in the Shire.

Before the dawn, the wagons slowed to a halt in a copse of trees edged with long grasses. In the distance, the smoking chimneys of hobbit holes could be seen by the growing light, sticking up from small hillocks. This was the tiny village of Quarry. A few families of hobbits, now rather thoroughly intermixed and inbred, had for generations uncounted loved cutting stone. They were Harfoot Hobbits as were most of the hobbits of the Shire but stories were told that these had intermarried with Dwarves in days long past. It was even rumored that some of them had soft downy traces of facial hair. Whatever the truth was, the rest of the Shire hobbits really didn’t care. There were instances when hobbits did like to use stone, not bricks or tile, for various items in their homes and businesses: door-sills, the counters in pastry kitchens, foundations for buildings in areas where the ground was marshy, grave markers, and the occasional memorial monument. The hobbits of Quarry were the sole suppliers of stone. A goodly distance from the ancient quarries left behind by Men, there was another large outcropping of limestone which the Cutter, Splitter, Carver, Stonee and Quarie families harvested.

Talk in the Stoney Way Tavern fell quiet that day at luncheon time as two unfamiliar hobbits came through the door. The two looked around only enough to spy the bar, then headed straight to it. They ordered ales, four large bowls of mutton stew, bread, and two kinds of cheese before asking where there might be an empty table. One was pointed out to them, they went to their seats and began quietly talking to each other. Eventually, the conversations of the locals picked back up, the conversation of the strangers quieted as they listened in.

"So, yourself was speakin’ on ‘bout ghosties, Toby."

"Aye. Let myself be seein’. Ah, yes! They’s been lightin’ their ghostie lights agin. I started to seein’ ‘em blinkin’ agin through trees what grow ‘twixt here ‘n there nigh on three weeks past." Toby Stonee leaned in as he lowered his voice, well, lowered it to his own ears, he was still rather loud in everyone else’s. "Mind ya well, naught will be seein’ heel nor toe o’ myself nigh to them ghostie lights. No nearer than the crest o’ myself’s hill. Needs we naught but ourselves own quarry. I’ll no be goin’ after ghostie stone and naught should yourselves be, either."

There was much nodding and mumbling of approval at old Toby’s assessment of the situation. The two strangers finished their meal in silence before unobtrusively leaving the tavern.

They made their way back to the trees that hid the group of wagons from the view of the citizens of Quarry. Fredegar and Ronoldo sat down with a few low stones between them and the Ruffians.

"That, my dear Ron, was a most profitable luncheon," Freddie sighed as he patted his stomach.

"Yes. It seems like ages since I ate my fill." They sat quietly for a few moments. "Did you notice, Fredegar? Did you stop to think about it? They had ale, cousin."

"Yes, I noticed and thought about it both. Ale and an open inn with no shortage of food. No rules were posted on the doors, either."

"All that and the Ruffians passing within a few miles of their village. How do you figure it, Freddie?"

Freddie closed his eyes as he leaned back against one of the rocks that shielded them from the Men’s encampment. Ron waited patiently, his cousin usually closed his eyes when giving serious thought to a matter.

"They do not wish to rouse those hobbits’ curiosity," Freddie said as he reopened his eyes. "If Lotho’s Men do anything out of the ordinary, there is no guaranty the hobbits from Quarry will stay away from the other quarry, the ancient quarry. They can’t afford to have that happen. Lotho’s thugs need to keep their hiding place a secret and what better way to do that than to leave the nearest hobbits alone while keeping them afraid of ghosts."

Ron nodded. "And in the meantime, what do we do?"

"When the Ruffians move, we move, until we find out exactly where our food and goods are going. Then like the fog in the morning, we’ll fade away and head for home." Fredegar looked to the south. "We have a lot of work to do when we get back."

Troubles Brewing

"I tell you true, we be courtin’ danger if we follow along behind this Thain o’ ours like a bunch o’ Northfarthin’ sheep."

The group of farmers at the Thistle Inn was mixed, nods of approval being about even with disapproving frowns as they listened to Old Grig.

"I had a talk with him, autumn last, tryin’ to get him to see reason. But he’d have naught of it and now we all are havin’ to live with his sorry excuse for a decision. Sly he is. Right sly and servin’ his own best interests by shuttin’ us off from the rest o’ the Shire." Grigory winked and lay a finger to his nose. "But I’ve got him and his figured out, that I do. He and his will be livin’ high and mighty, they will, and on our hard work."

Isenbras Took of Whitwell sat with his arms folded and resting atop the ledge of his stomach. He was not so easily convinced. "I had my own talk with Thain Paladin afore all this got to be what it’s become." The group’s attention switched to Isenbras. "He had a good understandin’ of what be what, and a good mind to get to the bottom o’ it all. He’s a steady hobbit, is Paladin Took. Was afore he became the Took and I figure he be one still." There were a good many nods and quiet "ayes" amongst the listeners. "What proof you got against him, Grig?"

"My own head and eyes, youngster," Grigory said while sitting up as straight as his old joints would allow. "I’ve seen how it is, none what live at the Smials ever be hurtin’ for anythin’. They’ve always got plenty o’ everythin’. So it ought be easy to figure why all the grain, weed, and goods are to be sent to the Smials." Grig brought a fist down on the table, causing mugs and hobbits to jump. "There ain’t to be no Gatherin’ in Tookland he says, so he went and had us all chase them Gatherers to the borders, but . . ." he paused for effect, meeting eyes with several listeners as he slowly looked around. "But what does you call us takin’ our goods to the Smials?" The crowd murmured. "It be the same thin’, it does." More and stronger murmuring followed this statement. "As long as we keep them Men on their side o’ the Tookland border, why be there a need for goods to be ‘Gathered’ to the Smials?"

At that the group became quite raucous. Grigory gave a nod and a wink to a couple of grumpy looking hobbits sitting at a table in the shadows at the edge of the common room. They returned the gestures before leaving the inn, unnoticed, to make their way to the next Tookland public house. At the Thistle, it soon was clear which farmers and tradeshobbits supported the Thain and which did not . . . the numbers were not in Paladin’s favor.

As Thrimidge continued on in ever increasing warmth and sunshine, crops were harvested as crops were sown in the fertile soil of Buckland. While the Hobbits harvested and sowed crops, the Ruffians harvested hobbits and sowed fear.

"I did as best I could, Master Sir, but ‘tweren’t no good. Someway, they found out the where an’ why-for of things an’ near to cleaned it out."

Saradoc smiled at Fosco Bumbleroot, trying to set the frightened farmer at ease. "I am sure you did your best, Fosco, and that is all I can expect of any Bucklander."

Fosco swallowed, nodded and his shoulders relaxed a bit. "They has spies about, Master Sir. They’s got to. I had that hidey-hole well an’ goodly covered, I could scarce find it. Yet when I went last even to fetch out the sacks o’ winter wheat I’d set in there, half ‘twas gone. Twenty sacks o’ the forty we brought in from the field, gone; just plain gone, Sir."

"Have you, or your family, noticed any strangers about?"

"Ha! ‘Tis all there be about is strangers. Leastwise that be how ‘tis seemin’, Master. Though neither me nor mine could be rememberin’ hearin’ nor seein’ any about when we took our wheat to the hidey-hole."

Saradoc sighed. He brought his finger tips together, closing his eyes as he rested his lips gently on the ends of his fingers. He gave himself time to gather his thoughts and words. "Yes, well . . . I have to agree with you on the number of strangers amongst us." Saradoc raised his head to look into the anxious farmer’s eyes. "It couldn’t be helped, no fault to you and yours in the matter. Is there anything else, Mr. Bumbleroot?"

"Yes, Master Sir, there be more. There be worse, if ya please . . . well, more like if ya not be pleasin’. They went an’ took away the Knotwise lad, Sir."

The Master of Buckland broke out in a sudden chill sweat. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed. "They did what?"

Fosco swallowed hard again as he nodded vigorously. "They took him off with ‘em. Said they was needin’ more helpers, an’ as he were a strappin’ young lad they could make use o’ him. His dad, old Milner Knotwise that be, said as they tied the lad’s hands behind him and marched him off."

"Thank you, Mr. Bumbleroot, thank you." Saradoc’s words were slow, his voice, oddly quiet. "I . . . you . . . said you have twenty sacks of wheat left from that field?" The farmer nodded. "Keep them for your family. Dig a cellar in a bedroom floor and put the opening into it under a bed. Hopefully, the Men will not find it there. Thank you, again."

Fosco Bumbleroot waited a few moments, but the Master of the Hall said nothing more. He bowed awkwardly before leaving the Master’s office as quickly as he could without being rude. Saradoc Brandybuck sat in the stillness of his empty office as the daylight faded through the windows, trying to imagine why the Ruffians needed more workers.

In the White City of Gondor the days of spring had been filled with joy, sorrow and hard work. Sorrow at the burials of the fallen soldiers and citizens, sorrow over families forever sundered as well as homes and businesses destroyed. Hard work, as the people of Minas Tirith began to repair their city. Yet over all there was joy. There was new life in Minas Tirith, there was hope . . . there was a King.

On the first day of May as Men reckon and name the months, Thrimidge to the Shirefolk, Aragorn had been crowned and proclaimed before his people as King Elessar. The hobbits were among the lords who stood with Aragorn as witnesses. Frodo of the Nine Fingers, The Ring-bearer, bore the crown to Gandalf who then set it upon the King’s brow.

In peace and joy the members of the Fellowship, save the one who gave his life for his friends, lived in a stately home in the King’s City. Merry attended Eomer and Eowyn until they left for Rohan to make ready for their uncle’s funeral. Pippin had light duties with his King and Faramir, who had been made Prince of Ithilien. But for the most part Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf and King Elessar (Strider as the hobbits still called him) spent many happy hours in one another’s company. But despite the restful effects of the evening’s wine or ale, the hobbits were plagued from time to time with nightmares. All the other members of the Fellowship were warriors, as such they were troubled less often by the shadows of battles fought. For the sons of the peaceful Shire, it was a different matter altogether.

Pippin’s sleep was not being restful. Hazy dreams of dark foreboding figures grew in his mind, then slowly faded, back into the mist. He heard the voice from the palantir. He shrank from the sound into a deep place. He felt things crunching against the back of his head, matting into his hair. He smelled drifts of dead leaves in the autumn.

Peregrin Took stood on the wide lawn to the south of Brandy Hall. A thinly shrouded moon shone eerily over the landscape while lighted windows, like little yellow eyes, gazed out from the huge smial. But he knew, too few windows were lit.

Suddenly he was inside the Hall, in a section of tunnels he did not recognize, with hobbits hurrying about him. None saw Pippin. They seemed to see, they seemed to even pass, right through him. Esmeralda Brandybuck stopped before him. She sighed. She lowered her head while pulling up a corner of her apron to wipe her brow. She walked through the astonished Pippin, who then turned to follow her.

Old hobbits, sick hobbits, hungry hobbits who ate their food faster than even Pippin could imagine, Esme visited them all. Pippin watched her hugging them, tending their needs, feeding those too weak to feed themselves. After what seemed like hours, his Aunt sat wearily down at her dressing table. She put her head down on her arms and sobbed. Pippin reached out his hand, gently touching her grey hair. She raised her head, looking into the mirror.

"Pippin! Where are you?" Tears rushed down her pale cheeks.

He tried to speak. He tried to give her comfort. His reflection faded in the mirror.

Peregrin Took hugged his Elven cloak tight about him with his left hand while carefully carrying a small oil lamp with his right. The troubling dream had ended his sleep. He climbed the stairs to the roof of the house in Minas Tirith where he could gaze off to the north west . . . where his homeland lay far beyond his sight.

Plans

The very darkness of night seemed to have oozed its way into the large kitchen of the Bolger farmhouse. The lamps and the glow from the fire on the hearth appeared as they might if the flue were partially blocked allowing smoke to haze the room. But the air was clear.

The kitchen was filled with hobbits. They sat on chairs, counters, overturned buckets and the floor. Odovacar Bolger, only recently out of his bed and still recovering from injuries inflicted by the Ruffian, sat at the head of the table. But the attention of those in the room was not on the head of the family but rather on his son and one of their cousins. Bolgers, other relations, friends and farm hands had come to hear the news brought to the Bridgefields and Budgeford by Fredegar and Ronoldo.

"That evening, after we had gone to the inn at Quarry, we followed the wagons the rest of the way. We followed them to the quarries." Freddie took a big swallow of the strong hot tea in his mug and waited for a response from everyone.

A chill moved through the stuffy room. Several of the hobbits shivered. No one spoke for several long moments.

"Ya went ta them quarries? Ta the ones where them odd hobbits at Quarry dig stone?" Nob Gamwich finally managed to whisper.

"No. It wasn’t to those quarries the wagons went, Nob. They don’t want Shire hobbits knowing what they are doing. They even left those Sherriffs they had with them at the stand of trees near the town of Quarry." Fredegar brought his gaze up from the worn surface of the kitchen table to slowly look around the room at all the familiar faces. His eyes finally came to rest on those of his father. They stared at each other from opposite ends of the table, Fredegar silently asking for reassurance, Odo silently giving it. "It was those other quarries, Nob, all of you; it was the old quarries."

Some in the crowd looked shocked, others scared, others nodded their heads knowingly.

"You went to the quarries," the strong deep voice of Tobias Bolger inquired, "or is it that you went into the quarries?"

Fredegar continued to look at his father. "Into them, Uncle Toby. Ronnie and I went into the old quarries." Freddie took a deep breath. "We went into them because the wagons went into them. We kept to the shadows, we made no noise, we saw no ghosts." He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. "We could feel the evil of the place though, and we could see the couple hundred Ruffians who are living and working there. They had about fifty hobbits there as well, but we figure them to be Bree and Staddle Hobbits, their manner of speech was somewhat different to ours. They seemed happy at their work, so Ronnie and I are sure they’ve been lied to about what they are doing. There were no guards set nor were they being watchful, as the brutes think no Shire hobbits will dare to come near those quarries. They have tons of our goods. In cool deep caves they have our food and ale. In dry caves they have sacks of our grain, our hay and straw. They are eating our food, drinking our ale, making bread with our grain and feeding their beasts with our beast’s fodder."

Freddie opened his eyes and his father flinched at the boldness he saw in them. His son stood, shoulders squared and head high, fixing the crowd of hobbits with his fierce glare. Ron rose to stand beside his cousin.

"They are not being watchful, did you all hear me?" Fredegar continued to look carefully at each hobbit. "They are not being careful. Ronnie and I got in, and Ronnie and I got out again. If we are careful, if we are not greedy, if we are willing to go slowly . . . some of our food and our ale and our harvested crops will indeed be OURS again. We can do this thing. We can strike a blow against Lotho and his Ruffian Men. We can fight back against those hobbits who have crept out from among us to side as Sherriffs with these villains." He looked again into his father’s eyes. "Who will stand with us?"

Every hobbit in Rosamunda Bolger’s kitchen, including Estella and Rosa herself, rose to stand with Fredegar and Ronoldo.

Naznock sat in comfort at the Great Road Tavern, feet propped up on the hearth where a small fire, befitting the time of year, burned merrily. He had good reports to send off south. The Gathering had begun again with the coming of spring harvest. More would follow through the summer and into the large harvest season of the autumn. He sneered, thinking with pleasure that he and his lads would be eating and drinking well in the coming months.

May was near to becoming June. Natuck and Slengan were doing an excellent job of keeping the ridiculous "Chief of the Shire" and his harridan mother in their wretched little hole in the ground. Slengan was showing a real gift for charming the old hag while her idiot son believed everything thing Natuck said without question.

Naznock took a long slow drink of his ale, replacing his mug on the table with a solid thud. The next little annoyance was also well in hand. Tookland grains and goods were not all moving to the center of their little realm. Tooks had been found who had sided with Lotho’s becoming Chief while having little love for their own Head Rat. These had readily believed the slander against that . . . what was his name? Naznock thought a moment before the name came to him. Paladin, Paladin Took. Yes, they had believed what they were told about him and had been more than happy to spread it about. Naznock’s raspy chuckle escaped him. The Took’s Head Rat thought he had seen the worst Naznock and his lads could do when they sealed off his borders. He was in for a surprise.

And that brought Naznock’s thoughts around to Buckland. Something wasn’t right there, though he couldn’t say what it was. They seemed cooperative enough. Things were moving along smoothly. He paused. Too smoothly? He stared into the flames dancing in the grate. He would tell his lads to try being more observant. It was well they were taking a good many of the healthy young males from Buckland and putting them elsewhere. The Hobbits from the far north of the Shire, whom Naznock had sent to Buckland, would feel no real loyalty to the land’s deposed Master, so they would be easier to set against him.

Naznock sighed. All in all, Sharkey was getting what he wanted out of the rat land called the Shire.

The Gaffer had stayed with Daddy and Dimm Twofoot until Lotho’s Men once again filled the streets and byways of Hobbiton. They dare not chance breaking the Rules, so the recent widower returned to live in his lonely shack. Bell’s quilt remained on the neatly made bed. The lap-robe and shawl she had knitted for herself were draped over the back of her rocker. These things did not haunt Hamfast, they comforted him. They reminded him that there was love to be found in this life and that it never really dies. They gave him a reason to hold on to his friends and family. Wrapped in the quilt at night, he was once again wrapped in Bell’s embrace. Touching the shawl and lap-robe was touching her and their Sammy. The lad had saved his own money to buy the yarn for his Mum. "In a nice warm yellow, Mum, ‘n the palest of pinks. Like the sun a shinin’ down all bright ‘n warm on them pink roses you love," was what their lad had said to Bell on his birthday when he gave the gift to her.

On this early Forelithe morning Ham Gamgee did what he did every morning. He and his achy joints made the long walk to the privy, then back to the shack to get dressed and fix breakfast.

"Just breakfast now, you be noticin’ that, Bell? Not enough food for first ‘n second breakfasts any more." The Gaffer sighed. "Nor enough for afternoon tea. I’m not complainin’, mind, just remarkin’. I be savin’ the complainin’ for when there be nought for elevenses ‘n dinner. It’ll be a sorry day in the Shire when there ain’t but three meals a day."

Since Hamfast Gamgee truly believed that, wherever his dear Bell’s spirit dwelt it was somewhere that she could see and hear him, he spoke to her as he went about his day.

"‘N I know you seen there be naught for this one ‘n only breakfast than porridge. Aye, naught but porridge." He lifted the lid on the pot and stirred the hot cereal. "Mind, I like porridge well enough, but it made a nicer second breakfast after a first o’ eggs ‘n scones, bacon ‘n sausages, fried taters n’ gravy all washed down with some o’ your good strong coffee." Ham replaced the lid, set the spoon in his bowl then went to dip his cup into the water barrel in the corner of the single room. "‘N there I go, makin’ myself all hungry for what I’ve nought. Right fool-headed that be." He set the cup on the small table next to his bowl. "There be no eggs, no scones, no bacon nor sausages. There be taters, but I saves them for luncheon. ‘N there ain’t no coffee, strong nor weak." He swung the pot away from the small fire, grabbed the handle with a towel then dished up his breakfast. "It be seemin’ to me that is what they, them Ruffians ‘n Lotho Pimple, want. That there be nought for us regular folk. I hear tell there be crops, but I hear tell they be gettin ‘gathered’. ‘Gathered!’ Plain stolen is all that means." The Gaffer set the pot down to put his hand to his chest. His breaths came rough and hard drawn for a few minutes before settling back down. "Forgive me, m’love," he sighed as he finally caught his breath. "I’ve it better than some, from what I hear goin’ ‘round. I get some o’ the old things from time to time from the Cottons, bless ‘em. Like this here butter," he said as he put a dab on his porridge. "No cream, but this be right tasty."

Ham picked up his bowl and cup, balanced them in one hand so he could open his rickety front door then close it behind himself before taking a seat on the bench that Dimm Twofoot had made for him. It wasn’t anything like the view had been from #3 Bagshot Row. This was just a plain, dusty road, scrubby tufts of grass here and there set against a backdrop of more black tarred shacks like the one against which he was leaning his back. The warm sun of the new day felt good to his various aches and pains. The front of his tiny house faced east and he enjoyed watching the morning grow. In the late afternoon, early evening, the Gaffer enjoyed an identical bench beside his back door where he watched the day’s ending. He didn’t like to look to the north. Northward lay heartache.

The Men had started to put up shacks around Bag End, ruining a good portion of the garden Ham had worked in most of his life. Part of it they hid behind a tall fence. Worse, to the old hobbit, his dear old hole was gone. It hadn’t been enough for Lotho to merely kick them out of their homes, no, not nearly enough. Bagshot Row was gone. The fronts were ripped off the old comfortable holes. Floors ripped up and ceiling beams torn down, interior walls demolished until no trace of them remained. A sand and gravel pit; Hamfast’s home had become a sand and gravel pit called Hill Pit, accessed by Pit Road. The bitter taste of bile came to the old Gaffer’s mouth, burning his throat every time he looked to the north.

This morning, there wasn’t any comfort in the view to the south either. Ham had nearly finished his porridge when his eyes caught a wisp of something that looked like a smudge-cloud pulled across the otherwise clear sky. He followed it back till it became dark and dense. Back to where it rose straight in the Shire sky before the high winds caught it to draw it toward the north-east. Although Hamfast Gamgee had never been there himself, he knew the smoke, for smoke it was, rose from Tookland.

The dawn came early to Tookland, but it wasn’t the rising of the sun. The light was orange and flickered through the windows and onto the walls of farmhouse and farmhole bedrooms. The stillness of predawn was broken, not by the twitters, chirps, and songs of birds, but by the ringing of farm bells. Every farm whose land touched upon the borders had smoldering, flaming fields. Those, and only those, who had refused to take the spring grain harvest to the Great Smials found their granaries burning, or worse, exploding.

The families and farm hands ran to the fields lugging water-swollen blankets or buckets only to stop and stare. Just behind the line of flames were Men. Ruffians and Hobbit Sherriffs, spaced close enough that it was hard to get past them yet not too closely packed together either. Their hands held short swords and knives, clubs and whips . . . pitch-forks and hay-rakes. Every tenth one, or so, held a bow with the arrow nocked but lax, waiting only for a reason to draw back the string. Slowly their line moved inwards. Oiled straw was spread upon the fields, just ahead of the flames, so the fields filled with young green grasses from the spring planting, alfalfa, wheat, barley, and oats were smoldering. The smoke first blocked the stars then defaced the sun.

The morning dragged on. A few Tooks were injured while trying to attack the lines but, as according to orders, none were killed. Suddenly the Ruffians and Sherriffs quit laying down the straw. They raked the fires out. Many of them left while those who remained started moving about in the now familiar pattern of border patrols. Excepting the eastern end of Tookland where The Green Hills were poorly suited to grain crops, the entire border of Tookland was moved inwards by ten acres that morning.

Merry awoke to his younger cousin urgently shaking him and calling his name. The Took’s green eyes were wide with fear, his hands cold and trembling.

"Smoke, Merry! I smell smoke. Oily smoke."

"There’s no smoke, Pippin."

"And green grass smoldering, Merry. I can smell it, Merry. Get up! We have to sound an alarm or something."

Merry got out of bed and went to his room’s window. He got up on the small bench placed there to enable the hobbits to comfortably look out over the sill and from there he leaned out as far as he dared while sniffing the air. There was no smell of smoldering grass nor smoking oil, nor did a fire’s glow compete with the light of the not quite risen sun.

"I can smell it. I . . ."

"Pippin," Merry interrupted. "There is nothing burning."

"But Merry . . ."

"It was a dream, Pip, just another dream." Merry steered the shivering lad over to his bed. "Lie down, Pip."

Oddly cooperative, Pippin did as he was told. Whether it was Denethor’s last moments,the razing of the city, or the terror of the palantir Pippin had problems with dreaming about fire. Pippin was already asleep as Merry pulled the blankets up to cover his cousin’s shoulders.

The Summer of Our Discontent

Summer wound its way through the Shire like an old lazy brown creek. In many ways it was a rather normal summer for the land, though not nearly so normal for its inhabitants. As every crop matured it was "gathered".

In Michel Delving the residents seemed to slink through the town square, no one wanted to draw attention to themselves; they tried to appear as though they were not there at all. Furtive glances fell upon the Lockholes. Longing, concerned thoughts reached out to those hidden within. None of the hobbits in the town really knew what was going on inside the old building and hole. Oh, they had at first. At first there had been hobbits working there, but now it was only the Men who went in and out of the Lockholes. Hobbits only went in.

Will Whitfoot stood looking out the tiny window in his cell door, not that there was much to see. The cells were arranged so the doors with their small windows were not opposite one another. The former Mayor of the Shire saw only a mouldy brick wall, like those of his own cell, across the narrow dirt floor of the aisle-way. He turned away from the opening but quickly turned back as he heard voices in the passage.

"Move ‘long, vermin!" A loud slap was heard. "Move ‘long or I’ll do more’n smack ya up-side yer head!"

Will drew back as the voices neared his door, unpleasant things could befall a hobbit caught watching at his window.

"Where’s this’n gettin’ puted?"

"Number One."

"In wi’ his lordship, eh?" An evil chortle followed the reedy, nasal voice.

"Aye, wi’ his lordship. Get yer key in ta lock would ya, it smells worse’n a stable back here."

Will went as far back from the door as he could. He had been smacked about a bit once before for "crowdin’ ta door". He sat down on his blanket and huddled up against the wall.

"Gots company, yer lordship!" the reedy voice hollered as the silhouetted figure of a hobbit was shoved headlong into the cell to land on his face in the dirt. "Hopes ya two ain’t enemies!" The heavy oak door thudded shut. Neither hobbit moved as the laughter of the Men faded down the narrow tunnel.

Will crawled over to the hobbit on the floor and gently touched his shoulder. "Are you alright? Have they hurt you badly?"

"No," was the faint response.

"Are you from around here? From Michel Delving?"

"No."

"It is just that your voice is quite familiar to me."

"Proudfoot. Olo Proudfoot. I do recognize your voice, Mayor Whitfoot."

"Olo! They have gone and thrown a healer in this dismal place? Why, whatever did you do, Olo?"

The Hobbiton healer slowly sat himself upright. He swayed a bit and The former Mayor scuttled around in the damp dirt to sit behind him.

Will pulled at Olo’s shoulders. "There now. Just you lean back against me till you’ve got your head about you again. You can answer when you feel able." Olo nodded and sighed as he leaned back, but then he rather awkwardly pulled away.

"Mayor?" he said as he twisted to look behind himself.

Will gave him a wry smile in the dim light. "I suppose it needs no healer to tell I’m not half the hobbit I used to be. What food they give us has two primary qualities; it isn’t very nourishing nor is it plentiful."

"I can see that."

"Mind, I can’t by any stretch of reason claim I’ve been starved, however, three bowls of porridge a day is not exactly what we hobbits are accustomed to, even if they are fair sized bowls."

"No, Will, it is not." Olo sighed as he turned and leaned back against his friend again. "You asked why I was brought here. I was supposedly ‘hoarding food and giving it to undeserving residents of the Shire’." He snorted in disgust. "I was giving extra food to the oldest, the youngest and the weakest. But alas, they were old, young and weak hobbits, so those who are watching out for our welfare came to my home and escorted me on this trip."

Olo was interrupted by several coughs heard from beyond the cell door. He ran his hand along the damp floor, his eyes roved over the crumbly bricks and somewhat rotted wood of the beams above them. "The food isn’t all there is here that isn’t healthy."

It is dark in the holes that get dug into the earth. It is dark in valleys below the hill tops and under the trees. And sometimes the dark is good.

A hobbit shouldering a large sack silently draws near a tree with an oddly twisted branch, then whistles part of the nightingale’s song. Out of the nearby shadows comes the other part of the song. With no word between them the sack moves from one hobbit to the other before they slip into the darkness in opposite directions. The nightingales of the Shire seemingly always move from east to west. East to west . . . from the ancient quarries to the "gold" mines of the Brockenbores.

It had taken a mere week to put the system into operation for "Re-Gathering" goods. Since there were hobbits at work in the quarries it wasn’t that difficult to remove the needed items. The Shire Hobbits dressed and spoke a bit differently than their custom, and blended perfectly with the Bree and Staddle Hobbits. The Re-Gatherers could move thirty or more sacks and barrel of goods from the quarries to the mines each night and often did so. They carried no torches, no lanterns. Few of the hobbits of Brokenborings knew that the old "gold" mines were now alive with activity, they, and the hobbits of the towns in the northern part of the East Farthing, only knew that there was food and goods to be had once more.

"Fatty! Where are we putting the flour?" Ronoldo called out as he carried in a bag of the heavy powder. No one seemed to have noticed that Freddie was less of a "fatty" than before. The work of setting up the Re-Gatherers, and running a couple legs of the relay himself most nights had started to whittle away his ample stature.

"Third on the right-right, Ron," Freddie replied and Ronnie headed down the first tunnel to the right, where he would then take the next right before putting his sack of flour into the third room off that tunnel.

"As I was saying, Rolo" Freddie turned back to the hobbit he had been conversing with, "I think we need to consider expanding our operation. There are hobbits in need throughout the Shire. I feel horrible helping only us East Farthingers who live north of the East-West Road."

"Well, I can be understandin’ that right well ‘nough, Freddie, but we might oughtn’t be spreadin’ ourselves too thinly." Rolo Boffin looked uncomfortable.

"That’s a good point, Rolo, but I think the Ruffians will start to notice soon that we’re looking too well cared for in our part of the Shire. I fear they will begin to suspect something is going on."

"Freddie!" Robin Mosstoes yelled. "Where are ya wantin’ the wee kegs o’ honey?"

Fredegar sighed. "Easier if I show you," he loudly replied, then turned back to Rolo. "We’ll discuss this some more later," he told him then trotted off to show Robin and his crew where the honey was stored.

The Took elders sat around The Took’s dining table once again. This time they were a rather subdued group. Eglantine, her face pale, dark smudges beneath her eyes, sat stiff and proper directly across from where her husband stood. He had made it clear that this time she was to be at the table. That this time she would be where he could readily and easily see her. Paladin had not said as much but Lanti knew he needed her loving support.

"Gentlehobbits and hobbitess, there is no question, I am sure, in the mind of anyone at this table as to the reason for this meeting." Paladin paused as several mumbled assenting responses were heard. Paladin began to slowly walk around the table. "I will not, in any way, shape or form, accept full responsibility for what has happened." He walked in silence for several paces before stopping. "Did I anticipate this? No, I did not. Did I even think of such a horrendous event when I suggested to all of you the plan to move a goodly portion of our foodstuffs and goods to Great Smials? No, again, I did not. Had I even considered the possibility of raids against our lands by the Ruffians of Lotho Sackville-Baggins? No, not even that."

Paladin walked back to where he had started, looking at no one, his face stiffly set as though fighting great pain. He rested his fisted hands upon the table then leaned his weight against them. With his head bowed, he said nothing for several minutes. The elders stirred uneasily.

Paladin looked up and into the eyes of each hobbit in the room, settling last upon his wife’s eyes. Yes, love still shone there. He had not yet lost what was holding him together.

"No, my friends and kin, I have no insight into what will be. But . . . I did fear treachery of some sort. I was not so naive as to think Lotho could afford to have these Men under his command see him so easily set aside by me. When he cut us off from the rest of the Shire, I did not think he would leave the matter there." Paladin began to pace about the room once again. "But I definitely felt in my heart that we needed to safe guard our food and goods. And where would be best to do this? What place is most accessible to all Tooklanders?"

Paladin had once again returned to his place at the table. One smooth, swift movement brought Paladin around to face those at the table and his fist slamming down upon its surface.

"I will not tolerate these rumors that I was putting my own family above the rest of Tookland! I will not tolerate the whispered accusations that the residents of Great Smials would eat their fill whilst others went hungry!" The Thain of the Shire glared at the elders of the Tooks. "Yes . . . I have been told of what had been happening throughout our land. I have been told of how the talk in the taverns and inns turned many Tooks against the head of our family. Against me."

With those words the fire in Paladin was suddenly doused and he wilted into his chair. For a few silent moments he sat, elbows on the table, his face in his hands. Several around the table looked guilty, some looked at Paladin as though wishing they could offer him comfort. Lanti held back her tears, they would do no good in front of this august group.

Paladin’s head came up slowly, bringing his gaze once again to the hobbits seated around him. "Forgive me. We don’t need pointless outbursts at this juncture, we need to be as optimistic as possible, we need constructive ideas." He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "What do we have?"

Sorrows and Fears

"Ah! Just smell that, Mr. Frodo. I’ve sorely missed the smell of the wind blowin’ over open fields. Smells nigh onto the Shire in the summer." Sam drew another deep breath in through his nose, closing his eyes to help savor the aroma of the dew moistened earth. "Near to the Shire, but not quite as good soil as we have back home."

Frodo grinned and shook his head. He never could be as discerning in such matters as Sam was. An Elf of Lothlorien, riding near to the Ring Bearers nodded appreciatively.

"You have the soul of a gardener, Master Samwise, not merely the occupation, to be able to tell this so easily."

"Well," Sam blushed and stammered. "Well. All I can do is be honest on it and be givin’ the credit where it’s due. I’d know naught ‘bout nothin’ if it weren’t for my old Gaffer. Now he’s a born gardener and no questionin’ that."

"Then the son has inherited well from the father, I would say, and you are strong testimony to the quality of his tutorage." The Elf bowed his head before returning his gaze to the broad plains before them. Sam continued to blush.

It was the vast open plains of Rohan that had set Sam’s nose to twitching as the members of the Fellowship rode mingled amongst the company riding as escort to the body of Theoden son of Thengel, King of Rohan. Frodo and Sam rode near to King Elessar, Pippin rode with the knights of the High King. Gandalf on Shadowfax and Legolas with Gimli on Arod moved as they chose, sometimes with the company of Gondor, sometimes with the Elves of Lorien and Rivendell and sometimes with the host of Rohan. Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, Hobbit of the Shire, Holdwine of the Mark, Esquire to King Theoden rode upon the wain which bore his liege lord’s body keeping watch over Theoden’s sword, shield and helm. The Riders of the Honor Guard did not speak, but Merry’s keen hearing enabled him to listen to the Men of the Riddermark riding nearby. They spoke of Theoden King as he was before the dark times of Grima Wormtongue. They spoke of the confident young man who had led his eored with both strength and kindness. They spoke of the man who had spent many hours listening to gardeners and apothecaries to learn all he could of herbs. When Merry heard this, he hid his face and wept as the procession made its slow somber way to Edoras.

For fifteen days they travelled thus, so that it was only in the evenings when they stopped to make their camp for the night that the hobbits were able to spend time together, Merry and Pippin being given leave by their respective lords to have this time free of duties and to share quarters with Frodo and Sam. Aragorn and Eomer had counseled together in this matter.

"Our friends are, in the nature of their kind, much recovered from the Quest of the Ring," Aragorn said. "Yet, I also know there lingers a great deal of pain, both of the body and of the spirit, though they show it not to us. I am concerned for troubling memories of their Great Journey being stirred during this journey homeward."

Eomer nodded. "The King’s passing has borne heavily on Merry. Though he has wept openly on occasion, for the most part he has held to the silence of the King’s honor guard. It will be to his benefit, I agree, to have time away from the company of Men to be with his kith and kin."

These concerns proved to be legitimate mostly in regard to Merry and Pippin as Frodo’s decision at Amon Hen had led him and Sam away from Rohan, not toward it. Rohan and Edoras held no memories at all for them. Merry’s thought’s during the silent ride on the wain were of the turbulent Ride of the Rohirrim taken along this self-same route, the dread of battle, the horrors of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Pippin too had ridden this road before. His ride upon Shadowfax was a hazy memory at best but one with terrors at its beginning; fear, loneliness and Denethor at its ending. Merry’s hardest times were during the day, riding in silence upon the funeral wain when there was little else to do but think. Pippin’s odd dreams had marred his sleep for a while and now they increased in frequency while gradually beginning to invade his waking hours.

So the last journey of King Theoden slowly progressed as July, as some call it, ended and August began. On the seventh of that month the escort arrived in Edoras and three days later Theoden son of Thengel, seventeenth King of Rohan was laid to rest in his barrow. Then the great hall of Meduseld was filled with feasting to remember well the King now passed and celebrate the King now come. Praises were drunk to Eomer, eighteenth King of Rohan and also to his sister, the Lady Eowyn, as she and Faramir, Prince of Ithilien were officially betrothed in the sight of all present. On the fourteenth day of August those travelling further north and west-ward took their leave of King Eomer. Meriadoc Brandybuck, Holdwine of the Mark bore away in his heart the bond of love and fealty he shared with his King and the White Lady of Rohan, along with a small silver horn. An heirloom of their House and the only gift he would accept.

The company went at a leisurely pace as they made their way to the Deeping Coomb and Helm’s Deep. It was now, with his responsibilities as a knight of the Riddermark and esquire to the fallen king no longer needed, that Merry had time to notice that his younger cousin seemed weary. Perhaps not to the eyes of other members of the Fellowship, they had become accustomed to the slightly more serious Sir Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor. Pippin’s weariness would appear as attention to duty and rank to their friends. Perhaps not even Frodo and Sam would notice as they were with Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn much of the time while permission had been granted to Merry to ride with Pippin and the High King’s Guard. But his elder cousin did notice that Pippin would seem distracted as they rode along during the day. A strange look would come into his eyes, his brows would draw together ever so slightly as though he were uncomfortable or worried, but quickly all would pass and his eyes would be their usual bright clear green again.

In the evenings, Pippin seemed his usual high-spirited self, whether he and Merry were with Pippin’s fellow knights of Gondor, the Elves of Lorien and Rivendell or it was a small gathering of the Fellowship. But in the large elegant tent the hobbits shared for sleeping, it was a troubled Pippin who lay on the cot set between the canvas wall and Merry’s cot. Merry soon began to wonder if his restlessness was the reason for Pip’s choosing that spot for his cot, as far from Frodo as possible, fearing that his tossing about would wake their older cousin. It had been the part of the tent Pippin had claimed for his own starting with the first night out from Minas Tirith.

This day’s riding, as they neared Helm’s Deep, Pippin’s eyes had gone blank three times that Merry was aware of, as he had been trying to keep count the last day or so. The company spent the night in the mighty fortress and for reasons of his own Merry had requested he and Pip be given their own room, separate from Sam and Frodo. There were questions he felt needed asking.

Merry had long ago perfected the art of looking asleep when he wasn’t. This night, he quickly became sure of his guess about the location of Pip’s cot to Frodo’s while they had been in their pavilion. Now that their older cousin was completely out of the way, Pippin didn’t bother with lying there turning over and over like a sluggish mill wheel, he rose, checked that Merry was sleeping, then stole silently out of the room. A few hours later Pippin returned. Merry let the lad get settled in his bed.

"Up and . . ."

"What!" Pippin’s startled exclamation combined with rising, full bodied, a noticeable height off the bed was most rewarding. Merry sat up while calmly restating his question.

"Up and about rather a long while for a trip to the privy, weren’t you?"

Pippin now lay on his back with his right hand over his heart while his left raked through his tousled curls. "You. . ." he finally managed to say between panting breaths, "you were . . ." he drew in a slow deep breath, "you weren’t asleep."

"No."

"I can’t believe I still go for that." Pippin said, sighing out the deep breath he had just taken.

"What’s wrong, Pip?"

Pippin quit raking his hair and leaned up on his left elbow, the better to appraise his cousin’s expression. It was rather stoney he decided. "Well, there’s no taking the long road ‘round with you is there, Merry?"

"What’s wrong, Pip?"

"I’d a bit of indigestion and I . . ."

"I’m more than happy to keep asking till you can take no more of it, you know that, Peregrin Took. What’s wrong, Pip?"

The knight of Gondor’s eyes widened before he rolled forward to place his face in his hands. "I’m afraid." Whispered words, uttered in the voice of a small hobbit lad Merry had comforted more times than he could count. Merry knew to say nothing. In a few moments the soft voice came again from behind hands he saw were trembling.

"I’m afraid I shall find my way to . . . that part of the Great Smials that we were . . . that we aughtn’t have gone near. You remember. We left at such a run that we kept tripping . . . falling."

Merry held his breath.

"I think I’m going mad."

Merry’s breath left him as though it never meant to return, while his stomach clenched tightly. Of all the hobbits of the Shire and Buckland, madness was not spoken of lightly by the Tooks. They knew all too well . . . it ran in their blood.

Merry paused until his breath finally returned to him. He hoped the pause had not gone on so long that it further frightened his best friend. "What makes you say that, Pippin?" Calm; he forced his voice to stay calm.

"Dreams, Merry, strange dreams."

Merry tried not to chuckle with relief. "Well, we’ve all had plenty of those. As soon as everything had calmed down enough for us to really start thinking about all that had happened. Dreams aren’t . . ."

"They’ve started coming in the day light," Pip interjected. His face, noticeably pale even in the dim light of the small oil lamp, popped out from behind his hands. He sat up, legs dangling, feet nowhere near the floor as his whole body leaned forward with his earnestness. "We are riding along and . . . and . . ." The lad’s eyes took on a haunted, pleading look. "It’s suddenly as if I’m somewhere else. A flash, a mere moment of time, then I’m back, back on my pony, back next to you. But you’ve not noticed and you’ve kept on talking and I don’t understand because I’ve missed part of it." Pip gasped in a breath. "And it’s different, Merry, different from when I daydream or simply don’t listen." Merry felt glad that this last admission brought a short, faint grin to Pippin’s lips. "And there’s . . . there’s . . ." Pippin’s head drooped and Merry could barely hear him now. "There are people Merry . . . people I . . . I know can’t really be there, but I would swear that they are."

Pippin’s mind was flying as fast as the bird he was named for. Soaring. Spinning.

Plummeting.

How much should he say? How much could he bear admitting, even to his dear Merry? Pippin forced the words from his mouth.

"Your Mum, Merry. It . . ." He raised his eyes to look deeply into those of this friend whom he trusted above all others. "It has happened before, Merry. When I was little. Only a few times and I only spoke of it with her once." Pippin didn’t mention that his aunt had not questioned anything his young self had related, that she had seem to be expecting to hear his strange tale. "But . . ."

Merry waited but Pippin seemed to have frozen in mid-sentence. "But?" he eventually encouraged.

Pippin’s eyes slowly closed. "It happened a lot on the Quest. It seemed that whenever I was . . . whenever we were . . . really sorely frightened, that she was there with us."

"You mean you saw her with us?"

"Well . . . ah . . . no. I didn’t see her."

Merry was finding this all increasingly confusing and upsetting. Over and over his brain was repeating, "He’s not mad. He’s not going mad," but he was sounding less and less convincing to himself. "Then what, Pip?" he said aloud. "I don’t understand."

Slowly Pippin’s eyes opened. The wavering flame of the small lamp seemed caught in his eyes. Merry stared as the light glimmered in his cousin’s Took eyes. Green eyes. Merry’s mother’s eyes. A small memory stirred in Merry’s mind. In the midst of the Orc camp, when he and Pippin had been dropped near to one another, when their hands had touched, when a vicious kick had shoved Pippin against him, when Merry rubbed his chin gently against his young cousin’s head to comfort him: there had come to Merry a glimpse of his mother’s face and the scent of lilacs.

"She is with me, Merry. She is in my head, my heart; she is in my eyes. Seeing us. Watching over you."

The soft voice was Pippin’s. The soothing voice was Merry’s mother’s. The spell-binding voice was a stranger’s, melodic and clear.

"I don’t know how. I don’t know . . . She is there to help me. She is there to help us. Hearts bound together."

Merry was surrounded by the voice and the stars flashing and dancing in green eyes. Then without warning he was back in the stone walled bed chamber lit only by a small lamp, in a great fortress of Men with his cousin-brother sitting across from him, his strange green eyes now closed. For a while neither spoke.

"You aren’t mad, Pip," Merry whispered as he got out of his bed to sit beside Pippin. He pulled the lad into a hug, holding Pip’s head to his shoulder, running gentle fingers though the soft golden brown curls. "I don’t know what this is, but you aren’t mad." Merry thought again of their captivity, of somehow feeling his mother so near to him. "Not mad," he said hugging Pippin tighter and laying his cheek against Pippin’s head. "A Took. Not a mad one, mind you. Just a Took."

Pippin clung to his beloved cousin. "Thank you," he whispered.

Merry held Pippin till sleep over-took him, then laid him down, covered him snugly, kissed his forehead then climbed into his own bed and soon joined his cousin in sleep.

A/N: To those of you who have stories that I have been reading and responding to, but I have recently faded from view . . . there is a good reason. The reason is as follows.

I am pleased to announce that the writing of "While We Dwelt in Fear" is complete. It has ended up totaling 46 chapters, with an Epilogue containing three sections.

Thank you so very much, all of my readers, for staying with me on this journey. I apologize that is has taken such a dreadfully long time. I will post twice weekly from here on, with this posting being two chapters. When I started "Fear" I knew it would not be a short work, but I had no idea of the ride it would be. There have been panics when I thought I had lost parts of the story. There have been (as many of you are aware) several periods of "writer’s block", and times when I was writing but it was worse than pulling teeth, one time taking 6 hours to get two pages of text.

So, once again, thank you, thank you, thank you . . . more than I can express . . . to all of you who have read and enjoyed "While We Dwelt in Fear".

XXXVII

Names

A hobbit paused just inside the gloom of a stand of trees near to a hobbit house on the outskirts of Stock. He looked cautiously about. He had his ears, so to speak, wide open. As far as he could tell all was well, there in the near darkness of an overcast night. Rolo Boffin crept stealthily across the open yard of the house then up the path to the kitchen door.

Tap! Tap-tap! Tap!

Light gleamed into the night for a few moments as Rolo slid quickly through the door.

Something covered the whole lower half of his face, his arms were held tight to his sides, his back held firm against someone else’s body. Rolo started to squirm.

"Keep movin’ that way," a coarse voice growled in his ear, " ‘n I’ll wrench yer neck ‘round right quick ‘n ya won’t move ever again."

Rolo was trussed then sat on the edge of the kitchen table before he could even think about trying to respond to the threat. Farmer Sandybanks and his family sat in a row upon the floor, bound with ropes, handkerchiefs tied over their mouths. The room seemed full to overflowing by the presence of only three Ruffians.

"Where be the Shire Rat what’s thinkin’ ya pathetic little scums can get back what ya gave o’er ta us Gatherers? We be on ta yer thievin’ ways. Where be he ‘n what be ‘is name?"

Rolo Boffin said nothing.

The Ruffian struck him hard across the face, knocking him over onto his side. A huge hand grabbed Rolo by the hair and yanked him back up.

"Where? Who?"

Rolo said nothing.

One of the Ruffians picked up the Sandybanks youngest child, a tiny little lass whose eyes were huge with horror above the handkerchief that covered most of her face. He sat her on a chair right in front of Rolo. The huge Man struck her hard across the face, then drew his hand back to deliver a second blow. Rolo stared, his gaze frozen on the face of the little girl.

"Brockenbores. Freddy Bolger," Rolo whispered before the second blow could fall. The Man’s strong arm swept him off the table and into a wall. Rolo Boffin slid unconscious to the floor.

Near The Yale. Near to Whitfurrows and Frogmorton. In hobbit houses and holes along The Water, nearly to the Oatbarton Road on the west and nearly to the Bridge of Stonebows to the east the words that came from beaten hobbits were the same. Some held out longer but all eventually betrayed the names: Brockenbores. Freddy Bolger.

It surprised the hobbits. Surprised them that the large usually blundering Men had been able to sneak up on them. But these Ruffians were hunters and trackers who knew their work well. They had searched out the correct abandoned mine. They had laid their trap. All the Re-Gatherers were beaten, bound and loaded onto wagons. Fredegar Bolger took his blows, He thought of Frodo and Merry and Pippin and Sam. He held himself firm; they would not and they did not make him scream. Fredegar Bolger walked before the wagons. Fredegar Bolger dragged a ten-pound keg of ale behind him, extra punishment for the leader of the "Shire Rats Rebellion". Fredegar Bolger was watched by every hobbit on every farm and in every town; forced from their homes to stand along the road as the grim company passed. Fredegar Bolger and his Re-Gatherers were paraded all the way to Michel Delving where he was placed alone in the darkest, dankest, smallest cell in the Lockholes. The windowless door slammed shut. Fredegar Bolger’s heart begged the forgiveness of the hobbits who had been hurt. Fredegar Bolger wept.

XXXVIII

In Green Eyes

Merry continued to watch Pippin closely, at least as closely as he could without being obvious about it. As often was the case with Pip, getting things out in the open appeared to have helped him a great deal. Merry could tell. His cousin’s smiles sparkled in his eyes and his laughter was deep. Yet, there were still times when the light in Pippin’s eyes dimmed and Merry knew Pippin’s strange daydreams had not ceased.

Nor had the nightmares become any fewer, with the youngest hobbit now creeping out into the night to ease his mind by walking about. Sam and Frodo still slept more soundly than the Brandybuck and Took, while knowing what Pippin was up to allowed Merry to readily return to sleep. Unless Merry’s own memories haunted his sleep in which instance the cousins went walking together.

And so at last the company came to Isengard. They rode along the road to where the massive gates once stood, but the gates were there no longer. The stone walls the furious Ents had torn as easily as a Man tears stale bread were gone as well. Already there grew within the circle of Isengard beautiful groves and orchards of trees. The only thing in Isengard not of the Ent’s planting was the tower of Orthanc, still shiny black, rising from the center of a sparkling clean pool. News was passed along. Saruman had been released from his former home. Treebeard had seemed hesitant to admit to letting him go, indeed, Gandalf had not been pleased with the news. Greetings and fare-thee-wells were exchanged between Treebeard and the high-borne folk. Sad was the parting of the Eldest, the Elven lords and the Lady Galadriel. Merry and Pippin shared a parting Ent draught with the old Ent while Sam sat upon his pony thinking to himself that those two had already let themselves get enough taller than Mr. Frodo. When all had been said, the company moved on its way along the road to the mouth of the Wizard’s Vale.

Soon they arrived to a point where, had they turned aside off the road to the west, they would have come to Dol Baran and so to the place where Pippin had looked into the palantir. But now, there was no need to seek a sheltering place to hide from prying eyes and the company would stay to the road. When they came to the joining of the road to Isengard and the Great West Road, King Elessar took his leave of them as the West Road was the route back to Minas Tirith.

* "I wish we could have a Stone that we could see all our friends in," said Pippin, "and that we could speak to them from far away."

"Only one now remains that you could use," answered Aragorn; "for you would not wish to see what the Stone of Minas Tirith would show you.  But the Palantir of Orthanc the King will keep, to see what is passing in his realm, and what his servants ore doing.  For do not forget, Peregrin Took, that you are a knight of Gondor, and I do not release you from your service.  You are going now on leave, but I may recall you.  And remember, dear friends of the Shire, that my realm lies also in the North, and I shall come there one day." *  

So they parted company. Though those who had been there the night Pippin looked into the Stone wondered at his comment, they said nothing to the young knight of Gondor. Only Gandalf rightly guessed. It was the strong love Pippin had for Boromir, who had died trying to save him; for Faramir, whose life Pippin had saved; and for Strider, who had served and guided the hobbits from when they met in Bree, and loved them still as their High King, that had brought such a statement from the youngster’s lips. Gandalf knew Pippin had no real desire to look into a Seeing Stone, even though the lad knew that Aragorn was now their keeper, but he kept his musings to himself.

Pippin stayed up late that night. Only the guards on duty for the night remained awake when he finally made his way to the hobbit’s pavilion. Made his way there . . . and past. Warily he left the fading glow of the campfires and entered the darkness beyond the line of sight of the guards. Pippin stopped his outward progress on the far side of a large boulder, but did not sit nor lie down; he paced.

"I’ll be fine if I just stay awake," he whispered to himself. "Just stay awake. Shouldn’t be that difficult, I’ve stayed up all night often enough when I’m on duty. Nothing to it really," he chuckled lightly. "Just pretend I have to guard this boulder and keep pacing back and forth before it. Nothing to it."

But another will had other plans. Pippin’s pacing gradually turned to stumbling, stumbling to falling, falling to end up sprawled in the dirt at the boulder’s base.

He was standing below the crest of a hill, so as not to be seen as a hole in the thinly misted night sky behind him. He wasn’t quite sure where the hill was, nothing looked familiar in the faint glow of a shrouded moon. The dark mouth of a cave gaped in the side of another hill across from him. He crept toward the black hole. But the creeping felt odd. His body didn’t seem to fit him. Closer. Closer. Small figures moved undisturbed in and out of the opening. Small figures carrying things. He crept closer. Closer. Closer. The body that didn’t fit Pippin pounced upon a hobbit who carried a sack of grain upon his shoulder. He could feel the hobbit, small and squirming beneath him, fighting for breath beneath him like a hobbit ‘neath a troll, until it lost consciousness from lack of air. Large hands that were his yet not his bound the small body.

"Rat catcher’s here, little Shire rats!" a course voice using Pippin’s throat yelled as the large hands tossed the trussed up hobbit to another Man who added the small body to a group of similarly bound, though mostly conscious, hobbits.

Pippin moaned as he lay face down in the dirt near the boulder.

He was shoving a bound hobbit down a road in the glaring light of a cloudless day.

"Come on ya pathetic excuse fer a pony!" He once more shoved the hobbit, who was dragging a barrel behind him. "Look sharp ya useless fool, ya got yerself a crowd come to cheer ya on." Cruel laughter came out of Pippin’s mouth. "Get yerselfs out here, Shire Rats, so as ya can see what be happenin’ ta them what thinks they can go against the Chief ‘n ‘is Men." The Ruffian/Pippin heard a gasp off to his right and turned to see who had dared to make a noise.

Pippin struggled against nothing at the foot of the boulder, but elsewhere he struggled to get out of this body within which he was trapped. More harsh laughter gushed out of him as he saw his cousin Rosamunda and her husband Odovacar clinging to each other at the side of the road. Tears flowed freely down their wrinkled cheeks.

"Look!" Another shove to the battered hobbit dragging his load down the dusty road. "Give ‘em a smile." The ungainly Man’s body convulsed with laughter while Pippin went numb inside it. He was looking at the face of Freddy Bolger.

There was darkness. Cold and vast. Painful darkness. And a voice.

"You know who I am, don’t you, my little knight of Gondor."

Pippin did not reply.

"Did you like what you saw? Was it pleasant to have a glimpse of your home?"

Pippin did not reply, but his sickened heart must have somehow betrayed him for the honeyed voice continued.

"Ah, you did not. I can understand that, small knight of the new King. I am so very sorry."

Deep within himself Pippin felt a pain beginning to grow. A pain he had felt before. A pain he had no wish to ever feel again.

"Did you truly think I would not know?"

The pain and shame grew.

"Did you think my skills had grown so weak that I needed the Stone to see?"

Alone at the base of the boulder, alone in the searing dark, Pippin curled in upon himself. Alone.

"Do you think I did not know who it was among you had used the Stone?" The laughter cut through the small soul which had no other presence to help bear how wretched and filthy he felt. "It served only to magnify, to clarify those things which I already saw. I knew who it was my Lord Sauron held in his fearsome grip. I knew whom it was he saw." Darkness, anger, rage, loathing sliced the little one like knives that could split a hair.

Then it was gone.

Light flowed gently around him like the golden mists of an autumn’s morning. Warmth, not of a roaring blaze but soothing as flame kissed embers, replaced the soul-numbing cold. Gradually Pippin felt dainty fingertips caressing his right temple along the hair-line. He slowly opened his eyes.

"It’s you," he whispered, weariness slurring his voice.

"It is I."

"You were in Lorien and you . . ." His words and thoughts were slow and hard to master. "When I was . . . I was nearly dead."

"Yes."

In a rush Pippin’s thoughts and eyes grew sharp with the memory of what had just befallen him. "You weren’t there!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "The . . . other time. You weren’t . . ." Pippin felt his world collapsing about him again, ". . . there. I was alone then. All alone." The small body on the ground trembled, fragile fingers continued their caressing. "He looked at me. I . . . I was a speck of dirt. He . . . the Dark Lord was in my head. He made me want to . . . to die . . . die if I did not tell what He wanted to know. He . . . was in my mind . . . and I knew I was nothing . . . I was filth, decayed and loathsome. A speck, for Him to flick away then watch crawling through the filth . . . He began ripping me apart . . . for the pleasure of ripping . . . the pleasure of destroying . . . and I was alone. Alone."

Sobs shook Pippin. His agony spilled from him in silent wailing. The soft fingers continued their comforting caress. Time passed until Pippin wept away much of the repulsive burden he had borne in his soul since taking the Stone of Orthanc into his hands. He had spoken to no other about how ruined he had felt, and had continued to feel. At last he was able to look again at the unusual being at his side.

"Why?" he whispered.

"We were prevented, my Falcon. She whom you love as though she were the mother of your life was thrust away from you. I flung myself uselessly against the wall of his refusal." She ran her fingers through his sweat dampened hair, but avoided looking into his wide, searching eyes. "He . . . He was strong then. We ached in fear for you but there was naught left to us, only to comfort one another." She smiled, her eyes tracking the movement of her fingers through his softly curling hair. "But you did not break, my Falcon. You held true to those to whom love binds you. Cousins, long trusted friend and Fellowship all."

Pippin struggled to quiet his thoughts. Something about all of this was important. He sat up to better look at her. He felt . . .

"Someone I love as my own mother?" He stared hard at her face but still she would not bring her eyes to meet his. "Aunt Esme. You mean my Aunt Esme, don’t you?"

She nodded her head causing her golden red hair to brush against her face.

"You . . . you’re a part of all this, aren’t you? You know about it all, don’t you?" She nodded again. Pippin tried to catch her gaze but she continued to evade him. "Who are you?" he asked. "What are you?" Peregrin Took whispered.

She raised her eyes to his at last.

Pippin stood in an ancient forest. Dry leaves of autumn gave their scent and gentle sound to mix with the deep quiet of the woods. For a moment, he half expected to see a young Treebeard step out of the tree-shadows. What wandered into view was a hobbit. He was tall and fair for a hobbit and Pippin knew at once this was a Fallowhide who had little of Stoor or Harfoot blood mixed within him. The hobbit looked at them, for Pippin knew he was seeing with her eyes. "My Took." came the whisper in his mind. Love, strong and pure flowed around Pippin and the Fairy, then from them to the fair faced hobbit: then he was once again Peregrin Took, gazing into a pair of glittering green eyes.

"It’s true!" Joy and a feeling of comfort overflowed in him. "It’s true. I thought it . . . I had been taught that they were only stories."

The Fairy smiled lovingly at her child. "As you thought the tree shepherds were mere tales told by the hearth-side while Oliphants roamed only the lands of imagination." Her eyes sparkled with merriment.

Pippin laughed. "As the people of Rohan and Gondor told stories to their children of the strange halfling folk." Then he grew thought full. "Are you . . ." He hesitated, it seemed a rather private thing to ask. "Are you a ghost-fairy? You can’t possibly still be alive, you don’t look nearly that old." He clapped his hands over his mouth as soon as the words left it and his eyes widened. He took his hands away. "I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t mean to be so rude."

She laughed her golden laugh. "My Took was also forthright. It is a trait I both posses and admire, my Falcon." She tipped her head to one side. "In the creation of all things it was given hobbits to be akin to Men, to be of similar heart and mind, though of lesser stature. It was given fairies to be akin to the Elves," she smiled, "though also of lesser stature, and like them we are immortal." She sighed softly and looked down at her intertwined fingers. "Long ages, to your kind, had I lived before I met My Took, before he claimed a heart ne’er before claimed. And I have lived long years since. It was granted to me to bestow a gift on those who would come from our joining. ‘Tis that there will always be, in each generation born to the clan, born to the name of Took, a few in whom my blood will flow nearly pure." Her eyes once more raised to meet Pippin’s. Gently, she again caressed his face. "Small of frame and feature, early born, filled with a knowing that others of their kind have not, and gifted with a Fairy’s eyes. Your eyes. Esmeralda’s eyes. And more. For I placed a blessing upon the Tooks that they be both plentiful and prosperous, and so it has been."

A small frown creased Pippin’s brow. "Before, you called me your Tookling Falcon, now you’ve used just Falcon. Why? Aren’t I your Tookling any longer?"

"You are a fledgling, a Tookling, no longer. You have flown high and strong, though terrors and death surrounded you." Her eyes, now soft and warm, still held his gaze while the soothing caress of her touch continued. "You may not have come of age as it is reckoned by your people, but you are a youngling no longer."

Pippin nodded his head as he yawned. "I’m tired," he murmured as he lay back down, suddenly unable to stay upright any longer; unaware it was her doing. "What is your name?"

"Cullassisul, Sir Knight of the High King. Sleep peacefully. This night I promise you, no horrors will fill your dreams. I will watch over you." She drew his head onto her lap and drew his cloak about him. "Dear child of my child."

* italics are a direct quote from: "Many Partings" in ROTK.

Enlightenment and Madness

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins sat at her dressing table in her bedchamber, running the bristles of the silver-backed brush Lotho had given her through her hair. She paid little heed to the brush though usually she spent time admiring it. She paid little heed to the thinning grey hair it was passing through, though usually it worried her. She stared into her own eyes as the mirror reflected them to her. Good strong eyes which still saw the world around her clearly, though they were getting a tad bit cloudy around the edges of the irises. But it wasn’t the clarity of her eyes that had Lobelia’s attention this day, it was the expression in them. Her grey-blue eyes held question and doubt . . . they held a touch of fear.

How long things had been changing, she really couldn’t say. Had it been in the spring when Lotho had begun to act so peculiarly? Had he been afraid of more than snooping hobbits? And what about herself? There was a tightening at the corners of the eyes in the mirror and Lobelia was drawn forward toward her reflection. With a slight nod she acknowledged the truth, she had let herself be swayed for much too long a time. Shuttered up windows, all their needs met, supplies supplied. A high wall about the garden.

"A most lovely jail Bag End has become," she said aloud to the Lobelia in the mirror. "I should’ve set my jaw and gone where I wished months ago. And you knew it." Lobelia reached for the face in the glass with her right hand while touching her cheek with the left. "But you surely did not expect anything the likes of what you saw, did you, old lass? No. Didn’t expect the likes of that."

Her eyes held their gaze but her hands slowly sank to rest on the polished top of the dressing table. She had heard some sort of commotion coming from the direction of the town whilst out in the garden one afternoon two weeks past, and decided to try the latch on the door in the high wooden fence. It had opened. She walked around the side of the fence to where she could look down The Hill toward Hobbiton. Now, even more clearly, she could hear the loud voices and could see figures scurrying about. None of Lotho’s Men were around the hole, so she took herself off down the lane. She didn’t go bold as brass right to the front of the crowd, as was her custom, but choose instead to stay at its edges, away from the Men who might recognize her. They were riding by on their big horses. Behind them were a couple of wagons full of hobbits with bruised faces, holding onto the wagon’s sides with bound hands. There was apparently something else moving along the road that she could not see for the hobbits in front of her, but from their reactions, it was more upsetting than the spectacle in the wagons. They went as far as the green, turned about, then headed back toward Bywater and the Great East Road. Before the Men ordered the crowd to disperse, Lobelia had started back to Bag End, cutting through the fields with their black-tarred shacks so as to avoid the lane. She jerked to a halt four feet away from old Gamgee. No words were said betwixt them but looks were exchanged. He tipped his head toward one of the repulsive huts before opening its rickety door, going inside then shutting the door behind him. Lobelia somehow made her way home though she was aware of nothing until she was shutting the door in the fence behind her.

Slowly she came back to the present, once more aware of her reflection in the mirror. "So, Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins, you got what you always claimed you wanted. You live in Bag End and I truly doubt either the Thain or the Master, have more wealth. All the Shire has seen you and your son rise to the top while they’ve all been put in their places." She searched the face in the mirror, delving deep into those eyes surrounded by the wrinkles of time. "Huh!" she huffed. "And I can see just how deliriously happy you are with your life, old lass. You’ve hated them all, all these long years, and to what end? You wanted it all for yourself, wealth, power, influence. Well . . . here ‘tis, Lobelia, here it all is."

Lobelia sat quietly for several long moments reading the things she saw in her eyes. Slowly her eyelids closed. Slowly, she sighed, a deep sorrowful sigh. " ‘Twas all for the best, this being an unwitting prisoner in my own home. If I had been out and about, if I had seen it all happening more slowly, over time . . ." She sighed once again, her head drooping, her shoulders rounding. "Bound and beaten hobbits being carted away to the Lockholes I should think, brought up this way to strike fear into the hobbits of Hobbiton. Old Gaffer Gamgee living in a hut that is little more than what one would build for a privy. I’ve never liked the old windbag, always going on as though he knows everything about everything. But really," she looked again at the Lobelia in the glass, "does he deserve to live in a privy-house? Does he, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins? You wanted them all to suffer as you have suffered." A fire glowed in her usually cold eyes. "You’ve never, understand me now, you venomous old hag, never, never, never have you lived like that! Never, never were you paraded about to be shamed before the eyes of every hobbit in the Shire!"

Lobelia glared at herself until the flash of fury passed. Tears gathered along her lower eyelids before forming drops on her lashes, before forming tracks on the dry skin of her cheeks. She would do something, though at the moment she had not the slightest idea what, but she would do something to make amends. The haughty coolness of her grey-blue eyes was washed away by her heartfelt tears. It never would return.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins sat in his study. In his large chair. Behind his large desk. In his mind it was a sunny day. In his mind they were all sunny days. He never looked out of Bag End’s shuttered windows.

He looked at the map of his mighty realm, spread in all its glory before him on the desk. Small wooden cubes of several different colors were placed here and there upon its surface and Lotho gleefully moved a few of them from one town to another.

"Mine! All of it, every foolish hobbit and every Man. Mine," he laughed to himself. "Every crop in every field. All the live stock can be "dead stock" if I so choose." He stopped. He looked about the room. He tipped his head this way and that, listening. He was always watching, always listening. "They can send their spies, it will do them no good. I know where they all are. I know their sneaky ways. Mother taught me. I know all about them. Natuck caught that hobbit cook poisoning Mother’s tea and he caught that cleaning servant trying to set fire to our home. Well, ha!" Lotho snapped his fingers. "So much for their little conspiracies and plottings. They shan’t get anything past Chief Lotho Sackville-Baggins. I have others whom I trust. No hobbits are going to worm their way into Bag End."

The Chief’s rambling was interrupted by a knock upon the door.

"Enter."

"Just your faithful Natuck, Chief Lotho," said the Ruffian as he came in and shut the door behind himself. Natuck really was having a harder and harder time not laughing out loud every time he came into the fool’s office. "I see ya be thinkin’ on movin’ some of the lads about again." He gestured at the map as he spoke.

"Yes, yes," Lotho said cheerily. "I’ve had reports of hobbits trying to hold back gatherable goods on the new farms in the far West Farthing. We can’t have any of that, can we now." He winked broadly at Natuck.

"That be truth, Chief. And I heared it be Tooks involved."

It had quickly become obvious to Lotho’s Men that all they need do to gain his cooperation in any matter was to utter the incantation, "Tooks are involved." The Chief hated and feared the Tooks more than any other family of rats in the Shire.

"Then, then . . . we . . . yes," Lotho muttered, standing up to better shuffle around some of the small colored pieces on the map. "Ah, move half the Green Group . . . and, and . . . let me think . . . a third of the Purple Group, and ten or so from the Black Group out to those farms that are being un . . . un . . . uncooperative. Yes. That should handle things." He sat down with a thump. His face was flushed, his breathing quick. "Thank you, Natuck. You may go now."

Natuck gave Lotho a small bow before turning to leave. Lotho did not see the wicked smile on his trusted servant’s face. Natuck knew there were no groups to go with the little colored cubes, and even if there were, the Ruffians were heavily concentrated at Michel Delving, Hobbiton, around Tookland, in the East Farthing and Buckland. There were no new farms nor bands of the Chief’s Men in the far western reaches of the Shire.

Doubts

Paladin son of Adalgrim, The Took and Thirty-First Thain of the Shire sat in his office in the Great Smials looking out the large window. His heart’s cry was to return to being a farmer. How he wished his only worry was for his own family, his own land, his own crops and his own live stock. But the ancestral tree had played against that, now he sat alone in this office with the whole of Tookland his concern. Paladin huffed as, with the hint of a wry grin, he reminded himself that ‘twould be the whole of the Shire if the Ruffians hadn’t put Tookland under siege. He had worked long and hard when farming, working alongside his hired hands, but never had he felt so drained as he felt at this moment. September was nearing its end . . . so was Tookland’s food supply.

There had been more burnings. None as all encompassing as the first, but every blow grew harder to take. There had been raids. Cattle and sheep slaughtered then left to rot in the fields, chicken houses emptied of their occupants. At least there were fish for the catching in ponds and streams that were well within the borders. Five Tooklanders had died from eating fish or drinking water from a stream and two ponds parts of which lay outside Tookland’s shrinking boarders. The waters had been poisoned by the Ruffians.

Dusty old tomes had been pulled from the shelves of Great Smials’ library. Nearly forgotten fragments of tales and wisps of old sayings were being pieced together at hearth-sides. Hobbits had once been wanderers. They had planted no fields, tended no herds, they had lived off what they found or hunted. The old stories sometimes spoke of these other things hobbits had used for sustenance. Berries that had long gone uneaten when ones of sweeter flavor had been grown were being sought out. Tubers and roots of plants long since passed over in favor of potatoes and carrots, parsnips and turnips, were now appearing on the tables of hobbits in the smallest of houses and holes to the tables of Great Smials. But even here, there was trouble lurking. Some things needed special handling or were easily confused with plants that were poisonous. A few children had died after eating the berries of the Deadly Nightshade vines. Several families, living in the eastern parts of Tookland where the Green Hills were forested, had been sickened, some to death, eating acorns and baked goods made from acorn flour. Eglantine and several other herbalists travelled to the east to teach those Tooklanders how to properly cure the nuts so they could be eaten safely. And then . . .

Paladin’s thought’s were interrupted by a gentle tapping on his leg. Pimpernel’s daughter, Primrose, stood at his side.

"Grand Da, may I sit on your lap?"

"Of course you may, my wee Rose," Paladin replied as he lifted the nine-year-old into place. She snuggled up tight then sighed contentedly. The two sat in silence for a while as they looked out the window at the slanting afternoon sunlight on the grassy meadows.

"Why aren’t Mummy and Daddy eating with us, Grand Da?"

The question startled Paladin. It had been hoped the children, especially the younger ones, wouldn’t pay mind to their parents either not being present at certain meals or being present yet not eating. The adults of Great Smials had decided to not partake of first breakfast, elevenses and afternoon tea, making sure there would be the usual amount of food for the children at all meals. It was an idea Lanti had as a way to stretch the food stores. Many of the Tweens had quickly surmised what was happening and volunteered to do the same as their elders.

"They say they have meetings or they say they aren’t hungry, but Grand Da, how can they not be hungry? I’m always hungry and Mummy and Daddy never said things like that before. And why are there so many meetings, Grand Da?"

Despite the corner Paladin had been backed into, he smiled as Rose’s long speech reminded him of Pippin when he was a little lad. His smile faded as he thought of his son. They hadn’t returned. Afterlithe had come and gone and their dear lads had not returned. Neither he nor Eglantine had spoken a word about the matter but they read it in each others eyes . . . they knew they would never see their dearest son, nor the others, again in this world. He shook away his gloom and noticed Rose looking to him for an answer.

"We are all getting ready for some changes to be made to the Smials, dear one, that is what the meetings are for." He shifted a bit in the chair. He wasn’t as accustomed to thinking up quick stories to get out of a jam as Pippin and Merry were. "And, eh . . . well all that thinking, planning, discussing and such, well . . . it makes grown hobbits not be as hungry. Eh, it upsets their tummies."

"Oh," Primrose said softly as she nodded her head. "That’s not fun, having upset tummies. No wonder they don’t feel hungry, Grand Da. I don’t feel hungry when my tummy is upset. I was scared. Aladabras told me that the Mummies and Daddies weren’t eating at all just to not eat because there isn’t e . . . e . . . there isn’t lots of food. But if you’re sure they have upset tummies, Grand Da . . . why do we call being angry being upset and call icky tummies upset, Grand Da? Are our tummies angry?"

Paladin sighed in gratitude for the change of topic. With very little effort he thought of an answer that satisfied his granddaughter. She then gave him a sweet wet kiss on the cheek before skipping out of the office. Paladin’s heart was nowhere near as light as he once again took to staring out the window. What more had some of the young ones figured out and how many more were being frightened by the stories they were hearing?

Esmeralda and Saradoc leaned their backs against the heavy oak front doors of Brandy Hall. Neither moved for a few moments then Esme turned to embrace her husband and weep into his shoulder.

"Now, now, my Beloved Took. Steady yourself. They’re gone now." He gently rubbed her back and kissed the side of her head.

"But . . . but for how . . . how long, Saradoc?" she asked while sniffling and taking gasping little breaths. "They have . . . they have been here . . . in . . . invaded our home . . . three . . . three times this week. Three times, this week alone . . . my dear."

He kissed her head again. It was a true statement. Three times in the past week, twice the week before, Ruffians along with what seemed a hoard of Hobbit Sherriffs had barged in the front doors of the Hall. Without so much as a "by your leave" they had searched the huge smial. By some wonder, some miracle, they had not found the small entrance to the two old wings of the Hall where they were keeping those Bucklanders who had been secretly brought into Brandy Hall for care and safety. Esme lifted her head and looked into Saradoc’s eyes.

"They know. They must know what we have done and they won’t stop coming until they find the others."

"I’m afraid you are right, Esme," Saradoc said as he gently pressed her head back to his shoulder. "Yesterday there were notices posted rescinding the various travel passes that had been issued. I had heard rumors that there were hobbits in the northern part of the East Farthing reclaiming gathered goods. It was true." This time he lifted her head so their eyes met. "Lotho’s Men raided the operation and captured most of the hobbits involved." He paused and swallowed at the lump forming in his throat. "It was Fredegar Bolger that had started it all, it was Freddy leading them. The Ruffians hauled them all away to the Lockholes."

Husband and wife stood tightly together. Saradoc was filled with gloom. He knew in his heart the end of Buckland and the Shire was near at hand. He knew in his heart that his son, nephew, cousin and their friend were never to return. They would have, should have, been back by now. His gloom deepened. ‘Twas for the best, his heart told him. Best the lads did not have to come home to . . . no homes. How long would it be, he wondered, until he and his Beloved Took joined Fredegar and the others in the Lockholes?

Esmeralda had no such fears for her son’s life, she knew Merry and the others lived. She knew they were drawing nearer to home. The fear that froze her heart was what they would find when they arrived. Would they even get past the gates and guards at the Brandywine Bridge?

Two figures sat on a simple wooden bench at the back of a tarred shack in Hobbiton. They sat together with the ease of old friends, comfortable in simply sitting together on a Halimath afternoon, soaking in the warmth of the sun as she shone down out of a clear sky.

"It be gettin’ worse."

"Aye. ‘Tis."

" ‘Spose it can be gettin’ worse yet."

"Aye. Wakes me up with the willies ‘n sweats, dreamin’ ways it can be gettin’ worse."

"Aye, makes for two o’ us then."

Daddy Twofoot reached over to pat the Gaffer’s hand as they sat in silence once again.

Rosie Cotton walked slowly along the hedgerow, out of sight of the lane. She smiled grimly at the thought that she used to have her thinks while walking in the lane. Her family was still doing all they could to help friends and family who lived in Bywater and Hobbiton, but it was getting harder and harder to do. Young Tom had nearly been caught the last time he took what things he could up to the Twofoots and the Gaffer. Her father . . . well, as much as he could, he kept trying to stir the hobbits up for a fight. He still felt they could win back their homeland if they banded together, though his talk had quieted down for a bit after the Bolger lad and those others were herded through town. Up to Hobbiton and back through Bywater again to the Great Road. She figured the Ruffians suspected her father and others here ‘bouts of trying to work against them, so Lotho’s Men made a fine show of their prisoners.

Lotho. Lotho Sackville-Baggins. An unpleasant person to have brought to her mind. Rosie huffed. Not worthy of the name "Baggins", he wasn’t. Odd though. Rumor had it naught had been seen of him, nor his harridan mother, for several months now. That they hadn’t even been to see "the parade". How very odd.

Rosie stopped at a fence and leaned against the top rail. "Sam will be back," she whispered aloud. "Sam and Mr. Frodo and those fool cousins of his. Be back to set thin’s straight as a plumb-line, they will." She sniffed as warm tears wet her cheeks. "I just hope they’ll be comin’ home right quick."

Revelations, Celebrations and Visions

in Rivendell

Frodo strolled in the fading light amongst the trees and plants in one of the many gardens of Rivendell. They had arrived late that morning to a good deal of pomp and ceremony that the hobbits could really have done without, especially he and Sam. Frodo’s main comfort lay in the fact that the bulk of the celebrating was to happen on the morrow, 22 Halimath, or September as it was outside the Shire. Frodo sighed as he smiled. He and the others had returned in time to celebrate his and Bilbo’s birthday which was to be a grand occasion indeed. Bilbo would be one-hundred-twenty-nine years old and Frodo himself . . . he chuckled a bit . . . yes he would be fifty-one. How odd it seemed that only one year had passed while everything had so drastically changed. He shivered. For a moment, just the slightest bit of time, he wanted to touch the Ring, then it was gone and he didn’t even remember having the thought.

Frodo walked further until, down below him, after a couple of zigs and zags of the path, he saw a figure standing in the middle of a small bridge gazing down into the clear water of a bubbling stream. He decided to go talk to Merry.

"Where’s Pippin?"

Merry jumped at the unexpected voice while Frodo quickly grabbed his left arm to save him a tumble into the cold water a few feet below the bridge.

"Make some noise, would you? You nearly sent me for a swim, Frodo."

"At least you know how, cheeky Brandybuck!" Frodo chided his cousin as Merry straightened out his shirt sleeve and tunic. "And we hobbits are supposed to have rather good hearing so I had no idea I would startle you."

"I do have rather good hearing, thank you very much Mr. Baggins, but I was deep in thought."

"Well, I could say that’s a surprise but I’m talking to you, not Pippin. Which amazingly enough brings me back to my original question. Where is our young cousin?"

Merry nodded toward a bench a short way back up the path, he and Frodo headed for it as Merry answered. "Said he was feeling ‘peckish’. Not that I’ve known that to be a common complaint of his but I didn’t press the point. I’m assuming it means he has gone to his bed as our dear eldest cousin, Bilbo, has."

They sat down on the bench. For a while neither spoke. They listened to the song of the stream and the chatter of some birds. They each thought their own thoughts.

"He went quite pale when we came across Saruman," Frodo said without looking at Merry. "In spite of Pippin’s indignant words, which as I recall, were not said to the old wizard himself, he seemed quite shaken by it all." Frodo looked to his right and studied his cousin’s profile for a few minutes. "I’ve been keeping an eye on him since then and he doesn’t quite seem himself. Oh, on the surface Pip is his usual chipper sunny self, but I would swear that something is troubling the lad." Merry said nothing, only stared at the ground between his dangling feet. "Merry?" Frodo waited. "Am I right?"

"He doesn’t want to trouble you," Merry finally said, speaking softly. "It’s nothing really. He’s just tired. Keeps having nightmares and such so he isn’t getting much rest at night. You . . ." Merry finally looked at Frodo, who now noticed that Merry didn’t look all that well rested either. "You have been in good spirits, for the most part, Frodo. We didn’t want to pull you down by telling you about something that would worry you, especially seeing as there isn’t a thing you can do about it except worry. Don’t say anything. Don’t let on that I’ve told you, it will just upset him, make things worse."

"But, it’s all . . ."

"Frodo Baggins, if you say it’s all your fault, I’ll thrash you good. And you know I can do it."

"But . . ."

"No. We made our own choices, Frodo. Fatty stayed behind because he chose to. Pippin went because he chose to. He insisted. Like when we were here at the start of the Fellowship, he wasn’t going to be left behind and I figured best he come along openly than his trailing us the whole way." Merry looked off into the distance across the valley. "We all . . . we all got hurt, Frodo. We all were hurt and did some hurting to others. We all saw horrors and terrors worse than any fireside stories of our childhood." He looked at Frodo while laying a firm hand to his shoulder. "We neither of us regret it, Frodo. He and I have talked about it, talked about it a lot, we don’t regret that we went with you. We don’t regret the things we did after we were parted from Sam and you." Merry took hold of Frodo’s other shoulder and gazed steadily into his elder cousin’s wide blue eyes. "I’m to be Master of Buckland some day and Pip’s to be The Took and Thain of the Shire, for goodness sake. Do you think we were ready for that before all of this? I could no more imagine myself able to be in charge of so much than I could imagine riding into a battle. And Pippin! He used to turn pale and tremble at any little mention of him becoming Thain, and not just because it would mean his father had passed on. We know we can do it now. We know we can do what we were born to, because of the Quest. So don’t try to take false blame, Frodo."

Frodo brought his hands up to grasp Merry’s arms. He smiled at his familiar, yet new, cousin. "I’ll do my best. I make you no promises as it still hurts me that you have all taken such hurts. But I won’t forget this talk, Merry." He looked over to where the sun was soon to drop behind the mountains. "We’d best head back before it gets too dark to see the path." Frodo looked once more into Merry’s eyes. "I won’t forget." The two old friends and cousins stood, embraced, then headed up the path to the Last Homely House.

The next day was one of high festivity. The Lord Elrond was in a jovial mood the likes of which the hobbits had never seen. The whole day, whether Bilbo was awake or not, was given over to music, food, story telling, food, games and more food. The Last Homely House rang with laughter and song.

Only the high folk seemed unaware of any troubles the youngest of the Little Folk was having. He suddenly faded off in the middle of some of the songs he sang. Though quickly recovering his smile and excusing himself by reason of a poor memory or too much fine food and wine, but the other hobbits knew something wasn’t quite right with Pippin.

The closer they had come to Rivendell, the worse the dreams and daydreams became. Though much of the time he felt fine, other times it became difficult and tedious to maintain his facade of being "the cheerful, silly hobbit". He was tired, he was frustrated, he was scared. Too many thoughts circled in his head. Too many glimpses of far away things. The closer they came to Rivendell, the closer to the Shire, the worse things became. And now he was having trouble enjoying the day long party. He couldn’t keep his mind on things. Something was wrong. No. Many things were wrong. Finally, in a well-done charade of being drunk, Peregrin Took staggered off to the room he shared with his cousins and Sam. He changed into his nightshirt, carefully folding his livery, placing it on a shelf in his wardrobe then gently closing the door. He padded softly over to his bed, burrowing under the blankets till not even his curls could be seen.

The sky grew dark. Stars shown fiercely in the endless reaches of blackness, though the hour was early. There was no comfortable possition. There were no cheerful thoughts he could stay focused upon. It was as though he could hear the whole of the Shire and Buckland weeping. He could not get warm, his bones began to ache.

Pippin sat up. Without thought, he picked up one of the small pillows on the bed and clutched it to himself. He swung his legs out from under the covers, put his feet to the stone floor and walked out of the bedroom.

He walked away from the sounds of people. He came to a balcony. The stars seemed to be falling on him. They weren’t stars.

They were sparks.

The celebration had drawn to a pleasant end. The rather tipsy hobbits helped each other, as best they could, to their sleeping quarters. Sam barely made it to his bed and flopped upon it, fully clothed, snoring softly within moments. Frodo and Merry, with a goodly amount of boyish shoving and jesting, stripped off then put on their night shirts. Merry mumbled good night and fumbled into his bed, covering his head with his blankets. Frodo began to doze off when something nudged his mind. He tried to go to sleep anyway, but something was wrong. Finally, he raised his head and squinted through the dim light in the room.

At first he thought it a trick of the poor lighting. Then just his imagination. Then he was wide awake.

"Pippin!"

Frodo had run over to what was now obviously, to his wide-awake brain, an empty bed. Merry had sat straight up, Sam had jerked awake and fallen out of bed.

"Where’s Pippin?" Frodo loudly asked no one in particular. Merry was next to him, throwing the bedclothes to the floor then lying on them to look under the bed. Merry turned wide terrified eyes to Frodo and Sam.

"He’s not here! We have to find him." Merry was already up, heading for the door.

"Merry! Wait!" He paused to let the others join him.

"We don’t know this house that well in the dark, for all us bein’ here for a month or so. I’ve forgot quite a bit of the lay of it, that bein’ a whole year ago." Sam took Merry by the arm and started to steer him out the door and to the left down the corridor. "We’ll wake the Lord Elrond and old Gandalf first, Mr. Merry," he said, reverting for the moment to the old formality. "They’ll get the household up and they’ll know a good sight better how to search." Merry nodded mutely as he was led by Sam. Frodo followed behind.

Lanterns in hand Elves, the young hobbits, and Gandalf began to search the large sprawling house. It was Sam and Elladan who found Pippin, still on the balcony of what had been Arwen’s chambers. He was on his side on the stone floor, still clutching the pillow while muttering. Sam made to run to the lad but the Elf held him back.

"Hold, Samwise. Go slowly. Something is strange here, I feel it." Slowly Elladan moved toward the small body on the floor. "Come with me, Sam. Hold the lantern and make no move to touch him."

They circled around until they were in front of Pippin. Elladan went down on his knees motioning as he did so for Sam to move closer with the light. Pippin’s eyes were open. The Elf sat quietly a few moments before whispering, "Get my father. Get Gandalf. Go quickly. Do not yell for them until you are out of this room and into the corridor." Sam turned and ran. In a few moments, Elladan could hear his yells for help.

When Sam returned to the balcony with Gandalf, Lord Elrond was already there, next to his son, kneeling beside Pippin. Gandalf held Merry back when he finally arrived, Frodo came to stand silently beside Sam. Elrond gave heed to no one but Pippin.

" ‘S alright. Alright. I’m here. ‘Tis alright," the youngest hobbit whispered over and over as he rocked back and forth. There was a strange depth to his eyes which was occasionally hidden behind a slow, long blink. Elrond reached out and tugged at the pillow, as though to remove it from Pippin’s grasp.

"No!" The exclamation was emphatic though only slightly louder than Pippin’s previous muttering. Quicker than most could see Pippin tightened his hold and curled himself around the pillow. "Won’t leave. Don’t fear. I won’t . . . leave. You’re alright. ‘Tis alright. Alright." He returned to his cadence and his rocking, while gently caressing the pillow as one might when soothing a hurting friend.

Elrond looked to the wizard. "Gandalf, you will take the other hobbits to their quarters, please."

"No!" Merry burst out as he struggled to get free of Gandalf’s hold on him. "No, I won’t leave him like this. I . . . He . . . I know how to comfort him. He needs me."

With a glance between them Frodo and Sam moved one to each side of the distraught Brandybuck, taking him into a strong, loving hug.

"Come along, Merry. We know we can trust them. Remember, Elrond saved me before, he can help Pip better than we can this time." Frodo leaned in closer to his cousin’s ear and whispered, "This may have to do with the nightmares you told me about. I think we need to do as Lord Elrond wishes."

Merry eventually nodded his head in agreement and the hobbits, along with Gandalf and the Elves, left the room. Merry kept looking back at his dear cousin until they turned the corner into the corridor and Pippin was gone from his sight.

Elladan spoke softly to his father. "He is seeing things afar. I fear I have been too charmed by his usual hobbitish good nature, both at the time they were here at the start of things as well as now, I had not noticed the signs before. This one has the blood of the fey folk in him."

"Yes." Elrond lay a hand upon the hobbit’s head. Pippin shivered then continued his rocking chant. "We may move him now. Turn back the bedclothes on the bed in here, and pile together the pillows as I want him partially sitting up. I wish to keep him separate from the others until this time has passed, for I wish to speak with him alone."

Elladan did as his father bid him while Elrond lifted Pippin from the floor and bore him to the bed. Nearly an hour later, the young hobbit’s whispered words changed.

"Yes. Yes, Aunt Esme. You can do this. Both can . . . do it. I’m here. Won’t leave. Together. Strong enough all together. You can make it." This continued for half of another hour, the strain of exertion showing on Pippin’s face. Then, "Safe now. Be cared for. Safe now." The lad’s eyes closed and remained so, his body relaxed into the soft pillows, he slept at last. Elrond again laid a hand to Pippin’s head. Pippin drew a long, slow, deep breath then relaxed even more.

"You have endured enough for this night, small Knight of the High King. You have earned restorative sleep with pleasant dreams." Elrond removed his hand and sat back in the chair to begin his vigil until Pippin awoke on his own.

Buckland

Pippin stirred a bit but didn’t fully awaken. He felt oddly fat to himself. His arms were wrapped loosely about his chest and stomach and his body felt big and mushy. No. He moved his hands a bit, enough to find edges. No, he wasn’t suddenly much pudgier than he recalled, he was holding onto something soft and squishy. It was soft and squishy behind him as well. Bed. A bed. But he felt as though he was sitting up a bit too much, his hazy brain decided. Pippin squirmed until he was laying more levelly, rolled onto his side, then he and his thoughts faded away once again.

The next time he returned to the realm of wakefulness it was with a higher degree of awareness. Light was putting a glow on his eyelids, the sounds of falling water and birds teased at his hearing. Pippin felt warm and cozy yet with a feeling that there was something . . . important . . .

The feeling passed. Lazily, Pip opened his eyes.

This wasn’t his room.

His eyes opened wider as Pippin started to look around. No, not the room he shared with the other hobbits. Not a room he recognized. He sat up, realizing as he did so that he was holding onto a pillow. As he started to set it aside, he became aware of someone staring at him. Slowly he looked to his left to see who was there.

"Lord Elrond," Pippin managed to whisper.

The High Elf nodded.

"Have I been ill?"

"Do you feel ill?"

Pippin sighed, wondering to himself why he couldn’t have received a simple "yes" or "no". "Well," Pippin said, scooting himself back up against the pillows before leaning into them. Without realizing it, he once again held the pillow to his chest."I’ve woke up enough times in my life with a healer at my bedside to know that is usually what it means."

Elrond grinned. "No, Peregrin Took, you have not been ill."

Pippin leaned his head back and sighed. He was just about to say that was good news when Elrond spoke again.

"What did you see?"

The youngest hobbit twitched before turning his head to the right, away from the inquisitive Elf. "I . . . That is an odd question, my lord. I saw my dreams, I suppose."

There was a long silence during which Pippin grew increasingly uncomfortable. He knew Lord Elrond was sitting there, looking at him, expecting a better answer than the one he had given. Pippin began to feel a somewhat familiar sensation in his mind. He had felt it before, somewhat like what happened with his aunt, more like his first meeting with the Lady Galadriel. His head jerked around, green eyes flashing, he looked straight into Elrond’s eyes.

Time was meaningless.

With a sharp gasp Pippin closed his eyes and turned away. "I’m sorry," were his soft, strained words.

"Sorry?"

"You had to have, you must have . . . felt . . ." the lad let out a breath while clenching his teeth. "I haven’t done that in a long time. I’m sorry."

"Haven’t done what, young Peregrin?"

Pippin wondered why Elves had to be so difficult. "You had to have felt it. I . . . I tried to change your thoughts." Pippin had been amazed when he had felt the Elf Lord’s thought’s begin to soften, this was, after all, one of the High Elves not some unsuspecting hobbit.

Elrond chuckled softly. "I goaded you into it, Peregrin, though I will admit, you surprised me."

"I haven’t done it, well . . ." Pippin opened his eyes, "since I was around twelve years old." He was looking away from the Elf Lord beside his bed, staring out beyond the balcony at the sun-lit valley where Imladris lay in seclusion from the rest of the world. He sighed then turned to look at Elrond. "That is, at least, I’ve not done it to someone who is my elder. My father had caught me in some mischief and was telling me why it was a bad thing to have done and was about to dole out my punishment. I caught his eyes because I knew . . . well, I knew I could have a lighter punishment than I would otherwise. I had done it before, you see." Pippin blushed. "This time as I felt my father’s thoughts start to bend, or whatever it is that happens, and I suddenly knew it was a wrong thing to do." An earnest expression filled the lad’s eyes. "I love my father. I love him and respect him. It wasn’t right to play with his thoughts, so I closed my eyes taking the punishment he intended for me. But, I didn’t think it would, that I could, well . . . You’re an Elf. I’m just a Hobbit."

"Just a Hobbit?" Elrond gently touched Pippin’s arm. "You know differently."

Pippin lowered his eyes while nodding his head. "I didn’t though. I didn’t know until just a bit ago, on the trip here from Minas Tirith."

"It is the reason I did not wish you to be a part of the Fellowship."

"What!" Green eyes were again flashing with anger. This was a hurtful issue standing between them that had not yet been dealt with. Pippin sat up, the small pillow he had been clutching dropped onto the bed. "You were going to do that because of something I couldn’t help? Something I was born with? This . . . thing I didn’t even know what it was? For this you wanted to keep me from my cousins?" Pippin snorted out his breath. "Oh! I’m impressed! The wisdom of the Elves, eh! Didn’t you realize I didn’t even know about it?"

Elrond sat unruffled by the Hobbit’s fury. He spoke calmly. "Nearly revealing Frodo’s identity at Barliman’s inn. Not bothering to prepare well for the journey even after you were given leave to be part of the Company. Driving your betters to distraction with endless questions and leaving the group when something along the way would catch your curious eyes. A stone down a well. The palantir. My fear this blood ran in you strongly enough that every member of the Fellowship could fall victim to your eyes. Yes, even Legolas."

Pippin was seething and smarting under this barrage but a feeling like a cooling breeze touched him, catching at his mind.

"Stay your wrath, my Falcon. The High Lord, The Half Elven, Son of Earendil the Blessed, speaks the truth"

"As does the one whose gift you carry within you, Peregrin, Child of the Tooks of the Shire."

Pippin blinked owlishly at Elrond who smiled at him in a fatherly manner.

"Yes, I am aware of her. I feel her presence and hear her thoughts as do you. I speak truthfully," he paused a moment to ensure he had the lad’s full attention, "but incompletely. I feared your curiosity, your mischievous nature, the lack of controlling one’s self that is inherent in the fey folk. I feared you using your faerie’s eyes. But . . ." With this the Lord Elrond, to Pippin’s amazement, went down on his knees before him. "I need entreat your pardon, for I forgot something most important."

"You . . . you forgot?" the hobbit whispered. "You forgot something?" The look of wide-eyed innocence and youth had returned to Pippin’s face.

"Yes, I am not perfect young hobbit. There is only one in all of creation who is. I am definitely not he. I forgot what your kind calls good fortune or good luck. I forgot that the fey folk rarely bring evil upon anything, that their curiosity and mischievousness most usually ends for the good." He gently put his hand to Pippin’s cheek. "Gandalf remembered this and so spoke in your defense. It ended well that you went on the Quest. You were needed there. I was wrong in my wish to have you remain behind or return to your homeland."

Pippin’s first impulse was to hug the Elf but quickly decided that may not be best. He reached up and took Elrond’s hand from his cheek, holding it between his own small hands. "You have my pardon and more. Most of the Shire is leery of the Tooks, why oughtn’t you be." Pippin smiled.

"Then all is well between us, my young friend." Elrond returned to his chair then looked solemnly at Pippin. "What did you see?"

Pippin gasped. He had hoped he would not need to relate the tale, but quickly knew in his heart this was what needed to be. He closed his eyes, the better to bring the images to mind, steeled his heart, then began.

"I couldn’t enjoy the party very much as I kept feeling all on edge. I couldn’t settle down inside, I kept fading out, seeing short glimpses of Buckland. Foreboding. A chill." He took a shallow breath. "I finally decided to go to bed, well, to try going to bed. At least getting away from everyone else. But I couldn’t get comfortable. I felt jittery, fidgety. Distracted. I barely remember getting back up and wandering off down the corridor. I only really remember making the decision to turn away from the Hall of Fire." Pippin swallowed, coughed a bit then swallowed again. His hands fumbled about until they came upon the pillow, which was quickly snatched up to once again be held to Pippin’s chest. "The stars were falling on me. I cowered. The stars . . . the air changed. There was smoke in the air. Oil. Wood. Straw. Manure. Hair. Flesh. All smoking . . . burning. Sparks drifted on the wind, falling all around. I . . . I wasn’t me. I mean, I was but . . ."

Pippin felt a tender touch. "I understand. Just speak what happened," said a firm, deep voice.

"We were with a crowd of hobbits lined up along a fence. The fence around Marrodoc Brandybuck’s farm. I know that family, they live very near the Hall. She had her shawl around her but we were still chilled. There were Men there, lots of Men, Men like at Isengard. And Sherriffs. Lots of Hobbit Sherriffs. Too many. So many. She was frightened but I had to see what was happening. We moved forward. They had set fire to the barn. The Men and the Sherriffs. Marrodoc, his wife and children were on the inside of the fence. Tied. They were tied together." Pippin clutched the pillow tightly and began to rock back and forth. "Sparks. Flames tearing into the black sky, hiding the stars. They had laid trails . . . laid trails for the flames to follow. When the fire got to the front of the barn, it spread along the ground to all the other buildings. It spread to the house. The Men laughed and made jokes. They wouldn’t let the family turn their heads away from the sight of their burning home, and the Men smacked the tops of their heads if they shut their eyes for more than a blink. All the live stock was in the barn and the stench was horrible. The children were crying. The Men laughed."

Pippin’s eyes opened wide, glazed as they had been the night before. For a few moments he was silent, listening to the sounds in his memory.

"Fire. Flame. Smoke. I . . . I’ve seen too . . . too much of them." Tears began to slip down his face. "We turned on the man next to us. She screamed and screamed and screamed as though she were mad. We were mad. We pounded her fists against him. He laughed. She . . . she is old and . . . and small and she couldn’t hurt him. ‘Look lads!’ he said. ‘I’ve a bug crawlin’ on me.’ He hit us. With the back of his hand he knocked her to the ground. We lay there. I heard my uncle’s voice. I heard a blow land and something fell against her legs. Then all was quiet for a few moments. ‘Off wi’ all ya! Remember, this be what happens to little furry footed rats what try ‘n hide food from Gatherin’. Move ‘em along, little Sherriffs, and right smartly! Nobody touch these two.’ We were nudged hard in the stomach. ‘If they get up ‘n get home on their own, so be it. Else-wise, they can lie here in the mud and die as they be deservin.’ Get Farmer Mud Rat and his micelings in the wagon, so they can go visit the Lockholes.’ There was the sound of feet, hobbit feet, passing by us. Gentle touches and whispers of, ‘Be strong, Master. We’ll come back, Mistress,’ or just the sound of sobbing. Then no sound. Cold. Wet. Smoke."

Pippin had fallen to his side. He curled up, gently rocking himself. " ‘I’m here, Aunt Esme. With you. Won’t leave you.’ I had to help her. Had to. We all lay there. Cold seeped into us. She ached all over. I struggled and we got up. Fell down. Uncle Saradoc, he helped . . . helped us up. We all stumbled. Stumbled to the Hall. Slowly to the Hall. To the door. There was light and blankets and warmth. Safe. Safe now."

Gradually Pippin’s rocking ceased. He opened red swollen eyes and looked at Elrond. "We need to go home. We need to leave at once. He’s there. She saw him but didn’t recognize him." Panic brightened Pippin’s eyes.

"Who is there, Peregrin?"

A shiver shook Pippin violently from head to toe. Elrond, with his keen Elven hearing, barely heard the name, "Saruman."

Neither spoke. The Elf Lord knew of the struggle going on within the hobbit. Minutes ticked by.

"No," at last was heard from Pippin’s lips. "I can’t tell the others. I can’t. And . . . and, things happen in their own times and ways." Pippin looked up into Elrond’s eyes. "That is the truth of it all, isn’t it, Lord Elrond? Frodo was supposed to leave sooner, but the word didn’t get through. If he had, Merry and I might not have gone and so much may have changed. Faramir and Boromir had their dreams at just the right time to allow Boromir time to travel here for the Council." The young hobbit sat up. "Bilbo could have said no to the dwarves and Gandalf and not found the Ring at all, and then things may have all turned to darkness. And . . . and perhaps there is a reason that we shouldn’t change our plans, that I should keep my knowledge to myself. Could that be the right of it, my lord?"

"Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor, you have grown in more than stature. That is indeed the right of it, as you say." Elrond stood and gently lay Pippin back against the soft bed. He pulled the bedclothes up around him, tucking him in. "I too feel there is no reason to change your plans. Perhaps, though they may not be pleasant things, there are events which need to occur to ready the Shire for your arrival."

Pippin yawned. "I really rather doubt we’ll even be noticed." His eyes slowly closed.

"There, young Peregrin, I think you will find you are mistaken." Elrond laid his hand upon Pippin’s head, softly spoke a blessing over him, then left him to rest. He would send Merry in to watch over him.

Sharkey

Lobelia tried to answer the door but, as usual, she wasn’t allowed. Natuck was there first.

"We be right honored, sir, that you’re visitin’ here," he said as he moved aside to let a very different looking Big Person into the entry-way.

"Indeed."

The Man was tall, very tall, yet it didn’t seem to trouble him to be inside Bag End. He was clothed in raggedy, rather dirty, light colored robes, his white hair longer than the other men, his long beard had a black streak in it. Behind him, crouching as though he was in fear of the other, was an equally ragged Man all dressed in black. The first man looked Lobelia over, then spoke.

"You must be the mistress of this . . . smial I think is the correct term? A certain Mistress Sackville-Baggins?" The Man’s voice was deep and soothing with a cultured cadence that did not match his unkept appearance. His eyes had a strange gleam that seemed to flare brighter as he said "Baggins".

"Yes," Lobelia said hesitantly. I am Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and you are?"

"Sharkey"

The sound of axes filled the air. In Bucklebury. In Woodhall. In Bywater. In Hobbiton, In Michel Delving. Trees were being felled throughout Buckland and the Shire. Felled and left lying. Hobbits tried to get the wood, hobbits were beaten, hauled off to the Lockholes. The trees were left to rot. Sharkey’s orders

Grain was Gathered. Hobbit workers took it to the large new mills that Lotho had built. They were turned away. Sharkey’s orders. But noises came from the mills. No one knew what it was the mills started doing, all anyone knew was that millponds and mill-streams turned dark. They stank. The fish started floating to the top.

There was hammering. Hammering on doors. Hammering on the few trees left standing. Hammering on posts that had been hammered into the ground. Hammering in tacks. Tacks that held the new Rules. More Rules. Harsher Rules. Sharkey’s orders.

It had been two weeks since her guests had arrived and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was having trouble deciding if she was more frightened than angry, or more angry than frightened. Sharkey had moved in. The second day he was there he had Lobelia moved out of her room, the best in the hole, without a word to her. The Men just grabbed her things and threw them, literally threw them, into the smallest bedroom in Bag End. Sharkey took her room. Dust and debris were everywhere as the Men ripped down the ceiling in the room and raised its height to better accommodate its new occupant. No one cleaned up the mess.

No one cooked for her any longer. And there was always a Man watching the kitchen doling out what she could and could not have. The Men tracked in mud and dirt which no one cleaned up. She could hear Lotho’s voice in his office, but she was not allowed in. He never came out.

In two weeks time Bag End was in deplorable condition. Holes had been knocked in some of the walls, tiles torn up off the floors, several pieces of the furniture were broken. No one spoke to Lobelia. No one listened to her. No one even looked at her. So no one noticed when she left.

At first she was cautious, looking carefully about for signs of anyone following her. But she quickly realized no one was. She walked down the Hill and into Hobbiton. Lobelia began to wonder where she was as very little of what she saw looked familiar. There was some sort of building with dark heavy smoke lumbering out of its chimney. The smoke barely rose while everything near to the place was covered with greasy feeling soot. There were no autumn flowers. There were no autumn leaves for the trees were all dead upon the ground. Everywhere she looked there was tacked up a long list of rules. The paper they were on was grimy and the rules severe. She couldn’t believe it all. Enough was enough! Whatever Lotho thought he was doing, he had gone much too far. It was high time her worm of a son came out of that office. Lobelia turned toward Bag End. She walked through what had been the Party Field. The tree lay dead upon the ground.

Lobelia was nearly at Bag End’s door when she heard, then saw, a wagon full of rowdy Men, lumber, and tools coming up the lane. Lobelia headed right for them. Widow Rumble, Daddy and Dimm Twofoot watched as Mistress Lobelia walked right up to the cart.

*"Where be you a-going?" she yelled up at them.

"To Bag End."  .

"What for?"

"To put up some sheds for Sharkey."

"Who said you could?"

"Sharkey.  So get out o' the road, old hagling"*

Sharkey was it! Lobelia had had quite enough of Mr. Sharkey. He was destroying her home and the town. He was destroying the whole Shire for all she knew. He had said, that first day at Bag End, that he was Lotho’s buyer from the south, and the supplier of the Men who worked for him. She thought of the wagon load of hobbits with their beaten faces. She remembered the look on old Gamgee’s face as he went into his privy-house sized shack. She wondered how long these ruffians had been doing this Sharkey’s bidding. Lotho would hear about this, but first she would tend to these hooligans

*"I’ll give you Sharkey, you dirty thieving ruffians!"* She yelled as she raised the point of her umbrella and rushed at the largest of the lot. They laughed as he grabbed her about her ample middle. They laughed as they tied her hands behind her. They laughed as they continued to Bag End, emptied the supplies from the wagon, tossed Lobelia Sackville-Baggins in, then began her trip to the Lockholes.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins would never know what happened to his mother. He never even knew she was gone.

*taken from "The Scouring of the Shire", ROTK

The Whole Shire

Cold winds blew down from the north-north-east, too cold for the time of year. Ghost Winds the hobbits of the Shire called them for they came down from the desolate lands of the old kingdom, then they blew over, around and through the Hills of Scary and the ancient quarries. They were winds that went to your bones. It was a bit more than half-way through Winterfilth, there was no Harvest Festival to look forward to, no Yule celebrations. The future of the Shire was as dire as the weather.

In Brokenborings the hobbits scrounged what edibles they could find. There was not a farm that had not been thoroughly searched several times after the Re-Gatherers had been found out. Of late, several farms and homes had been burned to the ground. Food was scarce indeed. The bark of some trees was somewhat edible if boiled long enough. Any plant growing in the wild that was known to be the least bit palatable was sought after. Parents began to fear the need to eat the family pets. But they gathered together at night around what fires they had upon their hearths and would sing the old songs and tell stories of the old days.

Odovocar and Rosamunda Bolger, their farm-hands with their families, were all together in the Bolger barn in Budgeford. It was their home now as Ruffians had taken over the smial. They had all lost someone to the Lockholes, some of the hobbitesses having lost both husband and sons. But they took comfort in having one another and were determined to do the best they could.

In Michel Delving the presence of the Lockholes added to the gloom. There were times that those passing near to them could hear the sounds of weeping, or moans of pain. The large numbers of Ruffians and Sherriffs in the town added to the tension as the hobbits knew everything they did was closely watched. Within the prison it was becoming more than over crowded. Most of the cells held at least five hobbits, a few as many as eight. There was no privacy of any kind in any situation. They were still fed three times a day but the gruel was thin and barely nourishing. Still, the hobbits held out some hope. There were few females in the Lockholes, few children (and they were with their families), while beatings had become less frequent as the guards spent as little time as possible in the foul-smelling recesses of the tunnels. Only one hobbit was alone in his cell. Fredegar listened to as much of the talk around his cell as he could, faint as it was with his door having no window. He played chess in his mind. Freddy smiled. He would be ready to beat them all soundly on the chessboard when Frodo, Merry and Pippin returned.

The adults in Tookland held to their pledge; the children still ate better than they did. That wasn’t saying too much. Most adults ate twice a day so the young ones could eat thrice. The number of raids upon their farms and towns was increasing. Something had changed, and the Tooklanders had no idea what it was. The Ruffians seemed to be getting bolder. Rumors continued to ferment at the inns and taverns while, from a lack of necessary ingredients, ales and wines did not.

It was in the evening of 15 Winterfilth that Eglantine Took had to go in search of her husband. Paladin had not been seen by anyone all that day. She was near to becoming frantic when she thought of their dear Pippin and knew she needed to look once again in the library.

"Paladin?" Eglanine pulled the heavy curtain aside. Her husband was sitting on the floor beside the tall window, sound asleep. For this moment, he looked more like his son than he usually did, hiding in Pippin’s old hiding place. "Paladin, my dear." She eased herself down beside him then kissed his cheek.

"Um?" He didn’t open his eyes.

"I love you, Paladin Took," Lanti whispered in his ear, her breath causing it to tickle. He awkwardly raised his hand and swatted at his ear. "I love you," she said once more.

"Then the madness of the Tooks has found its way into the Banks’ family." He shuddered but did not open his eyes. "Only a mad hobbitess could still love me."

"I will be right back, my love," she said before getting, rather ungracefully, up and going to the large sofa to fetch the lap robe from its back. She returned to her husband, sat beside him once more, then wrapped the blanket around both of them. Lanti snuggled up tightly against Paladin, she could feel that he was shivering.

"Why are you here?" His voice was tear-choked. "Why? I . . . I . . ." Paladin drew a sharp breath and shuddered once again. "I have failed and we shall all perish because of it."

"You, Paladin Took, have not failed." He turned his face to her and started to protest, she put her finger to his lips, then put her lips to his in a gentle kiss. "They failed you."

"But I’m responsible. It is I who will be held accountable. I . . ." He huffed softly, closed his eyes, rested his head against the cold glass of the window and whispered, "I’m The Took and our family, our clan, is dying." He winced as the words pained him. "I’m Thain of the Shire and have been of no help to it."

Eglantine drew his head away from the glass and onto her shoulder. "They did not do as you told them to do, my dear husband. The Tooks, as Tooks are wont to do, went their own way. You know as well as I, they listened to outsiders who were snuck into Tookland by those who were unhappy with your becoming Thain. If they had done what you wished . . ."

"They did what I wished, Lanti!" His head jerked up off her shoulder, there was a fire in his eyes. "They refused the Gatherings. They turned away the thieves. They helped shut us off from the rest of the Shire. Shut us up in our own little plot of earth. Shut us away from those I’m sworn to help defend. They listened to me right well, Eglantine. They did as I told them and sealed our fate." He turned his head to the window once more. "My decision, my leadership condemned us to death by starvation and disease. I have failed."

For a bit nothing more was said. Lanti waited until she could no longer feel his heart thudding as though he had just run a race before she spoke. "Do you know what is happening outside our borders, Paladin? Do you truly know? All we hear are the lies told by those sent to deceive us. But we have seen the smoke rising in the sky just as it rose from the burning fields of Tookland." She took his face in her hands, turning it toward her own face. "I do not think all is well beyond our borders as the scoundrels say. I have had some of my patients, those . . ." She closed her eyes. She knew she was treading on thin ice. "Those with eyes like Esme’s and . . . and our dear son’s." Paladin did not stop her so she continued. "They have said the Shire suffers as Tookland suffers. I believe them, my dear one. I do not believe that it would have made the slightest difference if you had agreed to the Gathering."

Paladin looked long into her eyes. Love was there in those soft brown pools. He took his dear wife into a fierce embrace and wept long upon her shoulder.

Saradoc looked up as Esmeralda came into his office.

"They are gone," was all she said as she sank wearily into a chair.

Saradoc raised an eyebrow. "They found nothing."

"Nothing."

Saradoc sighed and slumped with relief.

"I fear it won’t be long before they succeed."

He looked up sharply. "I know . . . I know." He rose and began to pace. "They come every day now. They are starting to know whom they have seen and whom they haven’t seen." He paced a bit more before returning to his chair behind the desk. Saradoc reached for a thin stack of papers then thudded them on the desktop to even them. "I’ve drawn up instructions . . . I’ve . . . They shall know what should be done, should the worst befall us."

Esmeralda rose then leaned across the desk and clasped both her husband’s hands in hers. "I am prepared for what may come. But I will say this to you as well, though I know . . ." she paused. She closed her eyes to gather herself. "Help is not far off. I . . . I’m not sure what, nor who, but it comes. It is near. I will not give up hope until I hear the door of a cell in the Lockholes clang shut behind us." But she did know. Her nephew had been with her the night Marrodoc’s farm had been burned to the ground, he and his family carted away. Pippin had been there and somehow she knew, he and the others, he and her dearest Merry, dear Frodo and Sam were not that far from home.

Saradoc lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them several times before laying his head atop them. "I will try, I will truly, truly try, to share your hope." She drew her hands away, walked around the desk to sit upon his lap. His arms wrapped lovingly around her.

Bleak. The sky was bleak. The scenery was bleak. The Gaffer sat on his front bench, bundled well against the cold, eyes on the barren dirt beneath his feet. Down the way a bit, Daddy and Dimm sat on their front bench, further yet was the Widow Rumble. It was as close as they could get to one another. It was Rule # 34: "No congregating of Hobbits allowed. Two or more Hobbits may only be together if they are of the same household." So, despite the unseasonable cold, they sat out on their little wooden benches. At least they could see each other. At least they knew that none of them were ill. Along the row of huts sat the forlorn figures of the old and poor, bravely keeping each other in sight.

Yet, the change had begun. It was growing in the hearts and minds of the Hobbits of the Shire and Buckland. It just needed a nudge.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Chief of the Shire

He liked Sharkey. The old man seemed a bit odd, true, but he was being most supportive. He agreed with everything Lotho decided. He had moved him to a different room for his office, one deeper into the Hill. A room with no windows, no outside walls. ‘Where there can be no chance of spies, Chief Lotho, my friend.’ Shakey had said, his voice so very warm and soothing. He always showed such concern.

The room was a bit chill, it was freshly delved into the earth, but Lotho knew his dear friend would have the walls tended to soon. Lotho never needed to leave the room, so thoughtful of Sharkey. There was a small simple bed, a nice sized desk with lots of pigeon holes, the large map of his realm hung upon one wall, a table where he took his meals, a chamber pot beneath the bed.

From time to time, Lotho would wonder now his mother was faring. But the concern was fleeting. Sharkey had confided to Lotho that Lobelia had been seen gossiping with other hobbits and Sharkey was unsure of her trustworthiness. This really came as no surprise. Mother had been acting strangely of late. He had begun to wonder . . . for whom was it that she was spying on him? Just as well that Sharkey kept her away.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts as he lay upon his bed, dozing. "Enter," Lotho said, his voice sounding strange from lack of use and drowsiness. The door opened. It was only Sharkey’s servant, Wormtongue.

Wormtongue slunk about Bag End like the shadow of a thought. The Men loathed him, so they ignored him, except to shove him out of their way as needed. Saruman . . . Grima trembled and looked furtively about at the mere thought of his Master . . . Grima was Saruman’s good dog. Wormtongue bared his teeth at the thought, looking all the more dog-like in truth. He had done the hunting for food while they had wandered, using his bare hands as Saruman had allowed him no weapon. He gnawed the bones and gristle that his Master cast aside. Then they were here, in this place, in the Baggins’ place. At least Grima no longer had to hunt. He now had the scraps from the Men as well as the Master. Well, until a bit ago. The men still threw their scraps into the corners of the kitchen and dining room. But now, well . . . the Men fouled the piles. Grima did not know that Saruman had ordered them to do so. The only scraps Wormtongue received were the Master’s. But Saruman was content, almost happy. They were living where the Shire rats were from, where the evil little rats who had come with the Tree Demons had been bred. Saruman was decorating it to his liking, Grima cackled at that thought! A little surprise for the Lordly Rats.

The Master had told his Men to leave the silly little Chief’s hag alone . . . totally alone . . . unless they saw her outside of Bag End. Wormtongue chuckled gleefully, Saruman couldn’t have her out and about amongst the other little rats, could he? No, he couldn’t have that. She might tell them who was really in charge of their sty. They had orders. The Men had orders. Drag her off at once if they ever saw her out of the hole. And they did. Wormtongue laughed until he coughed and retched.

Saruman smiled to himself. Things were most satisfactory. Perhaps, he thought, he had miscalled these pathetic creatures: rats were smarter than these foul little fools. Rabbits. Hobbits. Saruman laughed. Yes, much better. Scared, brainless, defenseless Rabbit-hobbits.

He was becoming quite comfortable in their little land, it would soon be most homey indeed. He would soon take care of, what was it called? Ah, yes! Tookland. His men would move in and kill every Rabbit they found. The hills, the Green Hills, Saruman laughed, they would be green no more. Ore lay beneath them, of that he was certain. Well, reasonably certain. He would have them dug flat if need be and if there was no ore . . . just as well. He cared not.

Buckland. Now Buckland would be interesting. How much of it would remain above water when the dam was built at The Bounds? He was looking forward to finding out. But, for now, there was another small matter to attend to.

"Move along, Worm! How long must you take to slither down this tunnel?" Saruman’s voice had none of its smoothness now, Grima no longer needed it, or did he? "Now then, Grima."

Grima looked up, his eyes flashed for a moment at the use of his real name. Saruman continued to speak, his voice as it had been of old when dealing with Grima . . . honeyed poison.

"You have not been feeling useful since we have arrived here, have you, my good Grima?"

The man in the black ragged clothes cowered, then drew closer as he shook his head. He said nothing.

"You feel I’ve no need for your talents any longer, that I keep you about only to chastize you." Smooth flowed the words from Saruman’s lips. "Am I right in this, Grima?"

The man inched closer to the wizard. This time the head nodded.

"I am truly sorry, my most loyal associate. It has been most careless of me to allow you to feel I no longer have need of you. As it is, I have great need of you at this time." They arrived at the kitchen. Grima started salivating. There was stew cooking over the fire. "I do suppose it seems an unimportant task, but perhaps you can take dear Chief Lotho his dinner?" Saruman placed an empty tray in Grima’s hands.

Grima only had eyes for the stew in the pot, the ladle dipping into the stew, the stew pouring into a bowl. "Yes, my lord," he said absently.

The bowl was placed upon the tray along with a spoon, a piece of bread, a mug of water . . . and a long sharp carving knife.

"Come along now, dear Grima." The wizard took hold of his slave’s shoulders, turned him about and gave him a small shove toward the door way. "Prove to me that I have been wrong to neglect you so by doing a good job for me now."

Grima nodded and walked on ahead of his master. He nearly stumbled twice, as his eyes were fixed on the bowl of stew instead of the debris strewn tunnel. He kept having to swallow.

"Here we are," Saruman intoned as they came to Lotho’s door. He leant close to Grima’s filthy hair that covered the man’s ear. "How good that stew looks, don’t you think, Grima?" He paused to let the thought sink in. "And how good it smells. Does it smell good to you, Grima?"

Grima’s eyes grew brighter. His stomach churned from all the saliva he had been swallowing.

"You would like that bowl of stew yourself wouldn’t you, my dear Grima." The Voice was low. The Voice was soft. The Voice and the bowl of stew were the only things in the world. Grima nodded. "There is a way for you to have the bowl of stew all for yourself. Shall I tell you the way, my good Grima?" Grima nodded. "The little one inside has no need of the knife, my dearest Grima. He has no need for the knife." The Voice. The Stew. "See, there is only the slice of bread, not a loaf. There is nothing to spread upon the bread. The little one has no need of the knife, Grima, my old friend."

The Voice.

The Stew.

The Knife.

"Should something happen to the little one, you could have the bowl of stew, Grima."

The knife was taken up from the tray. It was placed in Grima’s hand so that it was held by curled fingers hidden from view beneath the tray.

Saruman knocked upon the door. A faint "Enter" was heard.

The door was pushed open.

Grima carried the tray to the table.

Lotho began to sit up.

Lotho gasped.

His life’s blood flowed around the knife, buried to its handle in his heart.

Grima cared nothing for the dead hobbit. He turned back to the table.

The bowl and the bread were gone !

He heard soft laughter.

Saruman stood behind him, looking at the bloody corpse . . . holding the bowl of stew and the bread.

"Good! You have taken care of their miserable little ‘Chief’, my dearest Worm. Very good. You deserve a reward."

The Voice had changed. Wormtongue cowered. Hatred filled his eyes. Saliva ran from one corner of his mouth.

"This?" Saruman smiled as he gestured with the bowl. "You think this is your reward?" He looked down at the bowl in his hand. Saruman dipped the bread into the thick rich gravy, let some drip lazily off onto the dirt floor before putting it into his mouth to bite off the juices-soaked bread. He chewed a few moments. "Quite good, this." He looked at Wormtongue. "This?" He gestured again with the bowl. "This is my dinner. Oh! Are you hungry Worm?" Saruman used the hand holding the bowl to gesture toward the small bloody figure on the now soiled bed. "Have some Hobbit!" Saruman swiftly passed through the doorway, flinging the door shut behind him. As he flung himself at the door, Wormtongue heard the bolt on the outside slide into place.

Two days later, the smell of meat beginning to turn finally got the better of Wormtongue.

A Note to My Readers

Well, we’ve come to where we have all been anxious to arrive: the end of, "While We Dwelt in Fear". I feel like many of you have said you feel, both glad for the end but sad for it as well.

I know some of you will not be too pleased at the ending I have chosen. Please bear in mind that the intent of this story was to deal primarily with occurrences in the Shire during the War of the Ring that Tolkien hinted at but did not cover in detail, as well as coming up with original events of my own that, as best as I’m able, fit into Tolkien’s narrative; for example: Tolkien says nothing about events in Buckland during this time so that is all original to this story. I will not be delving much into The Scouring of the Shire as Tolkien covers that rather thoroughly. I saw my task as getting the Travellers and the Hobbits of Buckland and the Shire from the beginnings of the Occupation through to the point of their reuniting.

For me, there were three major events concerning the Traveller’s return that Tolkien did not cover. Pippin getting through to Great Smials to raise the Tooks, Sam going and fetching the Gaffer to bring him to the Cotton’s, the return of Merry to Brandy Hall. These are to be found in my epilogue. Sam meeting Rosie isn’t covered in great detail by Tolkien, but it is covered, so I let that be.

And now, a final word of thanks to all who have read this story faithfully over the past year and a half. Whether you have never posted a "review" ( I prefer "response", sounds less intimidating :) ) or have been responding all along, I thank you. It has meant so much to me that this story has been read and enjoyed by so many readers. It was a thrill to have it win the MEFAward for Drama - Incomplete as that was voted on and awarded to me by readers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all, each and everyone.

Hugs and Gratitude,

Pearl Took

*Then World Behind and Home Ahead*

It was a strange feeling, once again walking through the gates of Imladris to leave it behind. But it was a cheerier event this time as they turned not toward the unknown, but the known. The hobbits were finally headed home.

It was a mixed journey, though mostly pleasant. Frodo ailed at first, haunted by his wound and vague memories of his flight at the Ford of Bruinen. But the ache and gloom passed away and most of the journey was a grand time for the hobbits and Gandalf. They took their time, enjoying the fresh autumn air and clear blue skies. If they came to a stream or pond that looked good for fishing, they stopped and fished it. If they crested a hill and the view was superb, they would camp there. They felt like hobbits again despite their finery. They played pranks on each other and Gandalf as well. They wrestled and tickled and rolled down hills. They sang as they rode, as they fished, as they sat around their camp fire in the evening. They kept moving closer to Buckland and the Shire.

The chill weather continued to shroud the Shire. The West wind brought moisture from the distant sea, the cold Ghost Winds mixed with the rains turning them to a dampness that penetrated even the most snug of hobbit holes. More hobbits were falling ill. The sick were still being brought covertly into Brandy Hall, so more hobbits were posted as sentries while the surprise inspections continued. It had now been a bit over a month since Esme had felt any sense of Pippin or Cullassisul anywhere near to her. She felt more alone than she ever had in the crowded smial. Saradoc had meeting after meeting. Meetings with Ruffians. Meetings with Bucklanders. Meetings with residents of Brandy Hall. Meetings with everyone it seemed except his wife.

Eglantine Took tended the sick as best she could. Her supply of herbs and medicaments was running low while the number of patients was rising. And Tooks were being shot at by the Ruffians and Sherriffs who patrolled the borders, shot and wounded. Shot and killed. Between illness and attack, there were an increasing number of young orphans being brought to Great Smials for care. Paladin was struggling. Everyone wanted him and they all wanted him first, they all wanted him now. Some offered sincere help, most complained. Heaviest of all was the burden of knowing that he hadn’t expected to be what he had become. He hadn’t been trained up for the task from the time he was a lad. Finally, he took to his bed, speaking to no one . . . not even his wife. At night he fell asleep clinging to Lanti while locked in his troubled silence.

Young Tom Cotton walked down the road that had once been Lobelia Lane. The sign had been taken down by one of Sharkey’s men and had not been replaced. He looked about cautiously before tossing a small packet underneath the bench in front of Widow Rumble’s shack. Another went under the Twofoot’s, the Gaffer’s and so on down the row. Behind him, furtive figures emerged from the hovels to sit upon the benches. They would reach down to tidy their foot-hair or look at something in the dirt before slowly getting up to go back inside. The packet would be gone. The small bit of ham and cheese wasn’t much, but the Cotton’s own supplies were running low. Young Tom didn’t realize that knowing someone cared about them was as important to the folks in the huts as the items of food themselves.

Weathertop rose above the horizon as the sun hastened to sink beneath it. The shadow of the ancient watch tower loomed across the road. Frodo bowed his head, his shoulders rounded and he bid Gandalf to hasten them away from the hill. Then the Shire’s cold and rain reached out for them, so by the time they reached the Prancing Pony the hobbits and Gandalf were wet, cold and more than ready to see the inside of Barliman’s house.

Frodo had felt his wound aching, felt the cold of the Witch King’s breath and blade. Sam was recalling the pain of not guarding, or adequately helping, his master and friend. Merry felt again the terror of falling to the ground, unable to move. Pippin was caught up by both memory and the present. He remembered that Weathertop was the first time on the Quest he had so keenly felt the presence of his aunt. He was suddenly pulled away from Frodo, Sam and Merry. His aunt’s heart was crying out to him. Pippin heard her sobbing as though it was carried upon the wind and the closer they came to Buckland and the Shire, the more sorrowful voices he could hear. He remembered that the Fairy, that Cullassisul, had said there were many of her green-eyed Tooks. Pippin began to wonder if he was hearing them all.

Things were more than different in Bree as well as at the Pony. The Gate Keeper was more guarded, the inn was nearly empty - even the common room. Bob, the stable-hobbit, went home in the evenings now while neither Nob nor Barliman himself seemed truly at their ease. The first night the hobbits and Gandalf were there they kept to their room and Mr. Butterbur came to them for a chat. The travellers told much about the things they had seen upon their journey while old Barliman seemed more in need of telling them of events in Bree. He told them of how outsiders, *"newcomers and gangrels" as he called them had begun to frighten away the nicer, more local, clientele. He mentioned the deaths from the fight just into the new year. *"It isn’t safe on the road and nobody goes far, and folk lock up early. We have to keep watchers all round the fence and put a lot of men on the gates at nights," he added. But, though this was a bit unsettling to the hobbits and the wizard, Bree wasn’t the Shire, and it had always been less sheltered.

The next day the hobbits walked about the town a bit, visiting various shops despite the ever-present rain. Word soon spread that those hobbits who had caused such a stir a year back were once again at the Prancing Pony. Once again, to Barliman’s delight, his common room was full of customers. Part way into the evening a lad called for a song, bringing a sudden silence to the gathering. His elders all too well remembered what had happened the last time these particular Little Folk had taken to singing. But the silence quickly passed as the room filled with happy chatter once again.

Early next morning, after a hot and hearty breakfast, the travellers packed up, ready to ride the last part of their journey that lay outside the borders of the Shire. With them came Bill the pony, who had found his way to Bree all the way from the West Gate of Moria. It was as they were leaving that old Barliman’s memory was nudged into remembering a further bit of news they all should hear. There was trouble in the Shire, if the talk some folk passed along was true. *"But one thing drives out another, and I was full of my own troubles. But if I may be so bold, you’ve come back changed from your travels, and you look now like folk as can deal with troubles out of hand. I don’t doubt you’ll soon set all to rights. Good luck to you! And the oftener you come back the better I’ll be pleased." With those words of warning and encouragement they took their leave of one another.

The travellers rode in silence until they were away from Bree, well on their way to the Shire. Then they began to discuss Mr. Butterbur’s parting words which had brought a shadow over the group that weighed more heavily upon them than did the steady rain. Sam said it had to be what he had seen in Galadriel’s mirror, the Shire in ruins. Merry added that whatever was amiss, it must reach as far as the South Farthing as Barliman had mentioned a shortage of pipe-weed from the Shire. Pippin, knowing more than he would say, named Lotho as the probable cause of it all. But the worst thought come from Gandalf. *"You have forgotten Saruman. He began to take an interest in the Shire before Mordor did."

The mention of Mordor chilled the hearts of Sam and Frodo. Well they knew what Sauron had planned for the Shire and all of Middle-earth. Merry and Pippin were both remembering where they had found two barrels of Longbottom Leaf. Pippin shivered as he remembered the dream he had after the company had left Isengard.

Eventually Gandalf left them, having the need and deep desire of a long talk with Tom Bombadil. Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin, the four who had begun this journey together, were near to bringing it to its end. They felt even more strongly now the need to make the Shire before the day was ended.

In a plain building made of plain unpainted wood with plain uncurtained narrow windows, a fairly large group of hobbits sat all gathered up as close as they could to a hearth in which burned a fire much too small to heat both levels of the two-story building. There was no singing. There was no jesting. There was little talking. These were the hobbit Sherriffs responsible for guarding the gates on the Brandywine Bridge.

"Might there happen to be more of this soup to be had?" Hob Hayward asked Doggin Brandybuck, who had been the cook for that evening’s meal.

Doggin shook his head. "Ya ask that every meal, Hob, and every meal ya already be a-knowin’ the answer. Why do ya have ta do that? Give ya pleasure, do it, ta be always bringin’ ta mind that there be no more than what ya have there in that bowl?"

"Don’t know, Doggin." Hob sighed and looked sadly down at his empty bowl. "Might just be as that old sayin’ puts it: ‘Hope doth eternal spring." Somehow, well, it just don’t be feelin’ right to this old hobbit to be givin’ up for good ‘n for all."

His friend looked at his own empty bowl before draping an arm around Hob’s shoulders. "Aye." Doggin squeezed Hob, patted his back then rose to prepare for cleaning up.

Hob Hayward sat staring into the small fire. It would soon go out and the damp drafty building would become even more chill. Had it been all that long ago, he wondered, that there was wood enough for a fire to warm a room the whole night through? That there had been first and second breakfasts, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper . . . all with not only plenty, but enough for extra helpings or to be put aside for another meal? Why did it seem so hard to remember going to an inn or tavern of an evening for a half-pint or two to go with good talk, good singing, good games . . . the good company of good friends? Had that been some wonderful dream? Was this just a nightmare? Would he ever . . ."

Every hobbit in the building went tense. Someone was pounding on the far gate, hollering too. The Sherriffs all looked at each other . . . they were frightened, but they knew what they were supposed to do. Bothlo grabbed his horn and ran up the stairs where he would throw open a westward facing window and sound the alarm. Hob joined the others in dowsing the lights. Taglin Goodbody, as head of this unit, stuck his head out a window facing the Bridge.

*"Who’s that?" he hollered as loud as he could. "Be off! You can’t come in. Can’t you read the notice: No admittance between sundown and sunrise?"

Hob could hear a voice yelling in reply but he wasn’t near enough to the open window to be able to understand the words. Taglin slammed the window shut. Apparently the answer he’d received was not to his liking. The covered lanterns had been lit and handed out, at Taglin’s nod they all ran out the door, uncovered their lanterns and headed for the inside gate. Taglin had it unlocked in a flash then he, Hob, Doggin, Moro and Tad moved onto the bridge toward the far gate. Four figures, who sat upon ponies, were just beyond it. The Sherriffs slowed their steps. They had not seen the likes of these people before. The ponies wore rich trappings and the riders were well wrapped up in what obviously were long expensive cloaks. Two of them were rather large and appeared to have gauntlets with leather vambrace above them, cunningly tooled with strange devices. When the ponies shifted, the lantern light caught the gleam of metal upon their breasts. Suddenly one of the larger ones pulled back the hood of his cloak revealing that he wore a helm upon his head. He spoke, claiming to be Merry Brandybuck, calling to Hob by name.

*"Bless me! It’s Master Merry, to be sure, and all dressed up for fighting!" said old Hob. "Why, they said you was dead! Lost in the Old Forest by all accounts. I’‘m pleased to see you alive after all!"

The ensuing discussion did much to enlighten Master Merry and his companions. First they were refused admittance; orders they were told, orders from the Chief in Bag End. When Frodo heard "Bag End" his heart clenched, then anger began to smolder inside him. That could only mean one thing: he had sold Bag End to Lotho, so Lotho was the cause of it all. Frodo spoke out about the need for the Baggins family, meaning himself, to deal with the matter. The Sherriffs fell silent, their faces blanched in fear. *"It won’t do no good talking that way," said one. "He’ll get to hear of it. And if you make so much noise, you’ll wake the Chief’s Big Man."

That clinched it for Merry. He had heard quite enough and hearing that Lotho had brought in Men to do his dirty work was all he needed to take action. He and Pippin climbed the gate. The Sherriffs ran off the bridge as another horn call sounded. A Man appeared from out of one of the other plain drab buildings, storming onto the bridge to challenge the four hobbits. Bill Ferny it was and he was dealt with quickly. He chose not to test Merry’s ability with a sword, while a parting kick from his former pony, Sam’s Bill, seemed to be the final insult. Bill Ferny was never seen by any hobbit again.

The four Travellers came through the first gate and onto the bridge.

The Sherriffs approached once more, amazed at what they had just witnessed. Merry looked about, making sure he had been correct in what he had observed. He was. The Bridge Inn was gone. "You’ll have to put us up," he said to the gathered hobbits, only to be told that wasn’t allowed. No taking folk in. No sharing or eating extra food (the Travellers wondered what was meant by extra food). Pippin spoke up saying that they had food of their own which they would be happy to share, all they needed was a place to get out of the rain. None of the Sherriffs moved. Frodo’s heart went out to them, he would take charge so less fault concerning all of this could be assigned to them. He ordered that both the far and near gates be locked behind them. Frodo and Sam dismounted. With Merry and Pip they walked across the bridge. The gates were shut and locked.

Frodo Baggins, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took and Samwise Gamgee were back in the Shire at last.

The End

*all lines in italics are quotes for ROTK

Epilogue

Part I

The Ride of Peregrin Took

The night was dark, horribly dark. Paladin Took’s thoughts were darker. He had failed. Failed his family. Failed his friends. Failed his heritage. A gloom he thought could never befall a hobbit weighed heavily upon his heart. Every thought only led down darker more lonely pathways. All was lost.

Paladin heard her come into the room. Heard her get ready for bed. He felt her pull back the bedclothes, sit upon the edge of the bed, lie down and cover herself up. He felt her stretch herself along his back, wrapping one arm and one leg around him, as she had done every night since his torment had begun. She gave him some room as she felt him begin to roll over, then they clung to each other as though some wild force of nature was trying to tear them apart. Eglantine stroked her husband’s hair as he sobbed himself to sleep. A few nights before he had finally written a note to her, placing it upon her pillow, explaining that he wanted to speak to her, was desperate to speak to her . . . but could not.

"I find myself unable to speak at all, my dearest. It came upon me one afternoon in my office and it is for this reason I have kept to my bed. Best, I feel, that it is thought I am ill, not incapacitated in such a strange manner."

And so she had safeguarded his secret, telling the rest of the Tooks that The Thain was ill with fever, and being a healer, she was readily believed.

Pippin and those with him had ridden as fast as they could toward Tookland. Half a mile from the first rise of the Green Hills he signaled a dismount. Quietly, he explained what needed doing and they all set to work. Out of one of his saddlebags, Pippin pulled out the shirt he had worn for most the Quest, it was all he had with him that would tear easily. He and the others began to tear whatever cloth they had into strips to bind around any part of saddlery or bridle that was metal and might jingle as they walked through the fields and into the woods. Pippin stopped as his tearing suddenly stopped. He looked down at the shirt in frustration, they were in a hurry, he had no time for uncooperative cloth. His tear had met an obstacle. A lump quickly formed in his throat as he looked at the corner from Merry’s handkerchief still stitched to his shirt. Pippin closed his eyes and clutched the shirt to his chest for a few moments, then he tore around Merry’s gift, gave it a quick kiss before tucking it down inside his innermost shirt next to his skin.

They saw the patrols just inside the woods. More to the point, they saw three Hobbit Sherriffs and one Ruffian Man sitting at a campfire.

"If they are all together," Pippin whispered to Togo Proudfoot who stood next to him, "then there is a stretch of the land not being watched. I want you to go east, send Rolly west, and see which side is short of guards. Then come straight back." Togo and Rolly went separate ways and the rest waited with Pippin. Soon Rolly was back.

"There’s one not far to the west." he reported.

Togo was longer in returning and reported a fair gap to the east. Pippin sent two of his hobbits a short way to the west between the four at the fire and the nearer guard, the rest followed him stealthily in the darkness around the circle of light cast by the campfire. When everyone was in place, Pippin stepped into the light, sword drawn, cloak thrown back, helm gleaming upon his brow.

"Good evening to you," he said in a quiet tone. The four around the fire jumped in surprise and stared at this apparition with the image of a tree glowing upon its chest. In a few seconds time all four were knocked unconscious, firmly bound together then tied as a group to a tree. Pippin’s next move was to get to one of the small side entrances into Great Smials, one that went directly to The Thain’s rooms: directly to his parents. He left two hobbits as guards over their prisoners, then his group with their ponies moved through the gap into Tookland.

He left the others at the edge of the woods not far from the smial and crossed the lawn to the small round door, took the key from its hiding place then entered the small tunnel. Pippin was assailed by familiar sights and smells, though he noticed the smell of supper was disturbingly absent. He paused a moment, leaning against the wall to collect himself. He was home.

Eglantine stirred sleepily. A voice was calling her, calling her Mum, but it didn’t sound like any of her daughters.

"Mum, wake up." Shaking was now added and Eglantine turned her head toward the doorway of the room. She could tell the lamp had been turned up. She opened her eyes.

She nearly screamed. Fear filled Lanti Took’s eyes as she tried to edge closer to Paladin and further from the intruder. Beneath the covers she began hitting her husband in the chest to wake him up.

"Pippin!"

Lanti wasn’t sure which should cause her to swoon, that this apparition was perhaps her son, whom she had given up for dead, or that Paladin had said Pippin’s name. Paladin in that instant felt his darkness lift. There was hope! His mind had quickly grasped that not only was this his son, but that before him stood a warrior armed for battle . . . who had made it through the patrols and into Tookland.

"Da! Mum!" It was then Pippin realized that his mother was still looking confused and frightened and that he was still wearing his helm. He hurriedly unstrapped it, pulling it from his head. "It’s me, Mum, it really, truly is me."

A great deal of hugging and crying along with everyone talking at once filled the master bedroom of The Took and Thain of the Shire.

" . . . thought you were dead . . ."

" . . . we couldn’t get word from anyone . . ."

" . . . wonderful, beautiful, horrible and frightening . . ."

"Are you taller?"

"I’m a Knight of the High King of Gondor, but he’s really my friend Strider."

" . . . and we’ve had troubles . . ."

This last brought Pippin back to the present. "Oh, Da! Oh, I’m forgetting myself. I . . . we . . . Frodo, Merry, Sam and I, we’re raising the Shire. We’re standing up to them, Mum, and we are putting them on the run. But we need more help, Da. We need the Tooks, Father." Pippin paused for a breath then took his father by the shoulders. "Thain Paladin, will you call a Shire-muster?" To his father’s surprise, Pippin went down on one knee before him, drew his sword then held the hilt out to him. "This sword is sworn to the service of the High King, and I am his messenger and representative to the Shire. I offer this sword and myself to your service as well, as Thain of the Shire. Will you accept my service?"

Paladin blinked back tears of joy and pride. "I . . . eh . . . yes. Yes, I will accept your service, Peregrin Took, Knight of the High King."

Father and Son embraced, then they both drew Eglantine in as well. Moments later, Paladin was dressed, Pippin was heading out to escort his "Hobbits-at-arms" to the main entrance of Great Smials. He had been planning strategy as he had ridden to Tookland. Soon the Thain of the Shire and his son would be leading troops of Tooks into battle.

Part II

Samwise Gamgee and The Gaffer

Sam and Jolly Cotton headed off to fetch the Gaffer, going cross-country to better avoid Sherriffs or the Chief’s Men. As they hurried along, they talked quietly together.

"I owe you more’n I can say, it seems Jolly. You and your family. We’ve had a bit o’ what it has been like here whilst we’ve been gone, what with no inns and no hospitality and naught but a lot o’ fool rules. I’m . . . well I’m more’n grateful for you n’ yours keepin’ watch on my Gaffer."

"Well, it started out just being the Gaffer, the Twofoots and Widow Rumble. It be, let me think . . . startin’ early Halimath that we took to aidin’ all those as is livin’ in them shacks." Jolly felt a pain in his heart as he heard the sharp hissing intake of Sam’s gasp. He laid his hand on Sam’s arm and they stopped walking. "I’m right sorry, Sam, but as we’re a-headin’ that way and you’ll soon be seein’ for yerself, well . . . I may’s well tell ya that ‘tisn’t pretty. And Sam," Jolly paused and took hold of Sam’s other arm. "Yer Mum, Sam, she . . ."

"She’s gone, isn’t she?"

"Yes. She passed end o’ last Rethe. I’m sorry Sam."

Sam rubbed at his eyes a few moments then looked at Jolly. "Thank you for tellin’ me, Jolly. I wouldn’t have wanted to go openin’ my mouth and havin’ somethin’ hurtful to my Gaffer come out o’ it. Let’s get goin’."

When they got to the row of shacks, Sam was glad it was night . . . everything looked bad enough in the dark, he didn’t think he was really ready to see it all in the harsh light of day. Jolly stopped in front of Number Seven and knocked three quick short knocks on the ill-fitting door. They waited a bit then he knocked the same way again.

"He must be asleep, Sam."

"And near to deaf as a post." Jolly could hear Sam’s smile.

"Why don’t ya open it up, Sam. Ya bein’ his son it don’t seem so much like just bargin’ in."

Hamfast Gamgee felt himself being shaken, while someone kept mumbling at him. "A moment, Bell. A moment," he muttered. But "no" his brain said to him, "not Bell". He woke up a bit more.

"Gaffer. Da. Wake up. You needs be wakin’." More shaking. "Gaffer, it’s me, it’s Sam. I’m back, so’s Mr. Frodo, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin as well. Wake up."

Ham opened his eyes to see a pair of hazel-brown ones looking right back at him. "Sam?" He blinked a few times. "Back yerself up lad so as I can see more’n just yer eyes a starin’ at me." When he opened his eyes again, his son had stepped back and the Gaffer noticed Jolly Cotton was there as well.

"You need to get up, Gaffer," Sam said. "We are doin’ somethin’ about all this mess Lotho Pimple’s gone ‘n caused, but I want you some place better’n this. I’m here to fetch you to the Cotton’s."

"Alright, alright lad. Then ya need be givin’ me room ta get up and get myself dressed decently."

The lads helped the Gaffer get dressed, then he unexpectedly turned and hugged his son. "She’s gone, Sam-lad."

"I know, Da. Jolly told me."

"She used that shawl from the yarn ya got her, used it right to the end. Loved that shawl, she did."

Sam just nodded his head, which was resting against his father’s.

The Gaffer sniffed loudly as he pushed away from Sam. "You be right uncomfortable to hug, Sam-lad. What be ya doin’ in all that ironmongery?"

Sam wiped his tears away and smiled. That was the Gaffer he knew and loved. As they headed out of the dreadful hut, Sam took his mother’s shawl from the back of her rocker.

Part III

The Hobbits of Brandy Hall Welcome Home

Meriadoc Brandybuck

He reined his pony to a stop, his cousin doing the same beside him.

"Why are we stopping, Merry?"

Merry Brandybuck nodded his head toward what lay just up the road and to the west. "There it is, Pippin. Home."

"Well, the backside of it, at least." Pippin jested.

"Yes, if you insist on being picky about it, Pip. But home none-the-less."

"You did remember to send word from Standelf, didn’t you?"

"Yes, Pippin."

"Telling Aunt Esme and Uncle Saradoc we’d be here this afternoon?"

"No, Pippin. I was too daft to remember to give my parents fair notice of our arrival. I felt it much better to just sneak up on them in the night as you did to your parents." Merry gave his cousin an exasperated look. "Yes, Pippin, we’re expected."

"That being the case, why are we sitting here, upon our ponies, upon the road, not moving? Oughtn’t we be moving toward the Hall, Merry?" Pippin raised his eyebrows and gestured toward Brandy Hall with his head.

"I want to just . . . enjoy the view . . . for a few moments, Pippin. I," Merry paused and sighed. "I don’t think they are going to be all that happy that we aren’t going to be living at the Hall, only near it at Crickhollow." He paused again then turned to look at Pippin. "I really need a happy homecoming, not an argument over where I choose to live."

Pippin reached over and hauled his cousin into a hug, nearly unseating Merry in the process. "They shall be so overjoyed to see me, they won’t care where you are going to live." Merry tried to pull away but Pippin didn’t let him. "Really, Merry. You know better than that, or at least you should know better than that. We, you, will be in Buckland. You, we, will be a mere two miles away. It will be well, Merry, my lad."

Merry gave Pippin a squeeze before letting him go and reseating himself more securely on his pony. "Yes, well, I hope you have the right of it, Pip." They clicked to their ponies, heading for the Hall at a leisurely walk.

There was hardly a hobbit who lived at Brandy Hall that wasn’t in the large main entrance to greet the Master and Mistress’ son and nephew. First at the doors were Merry’s parents. The hobbits of the Hall hushed as Esmeralda and Saradoc first stared at, then greeted, then crushed their son with hugs and kisses. Eventually, Pippin was pulled into the hugging as both lads were dear to the Master and Mistress. After sufficiently greeting everyone, the two Heros of the Battle of Bywater headed into the ballroom. For the first time in a long time there was food enough for all. There were music, dancing and laughter. Every eligible lass wanted the chance to dance with the tall, handsome, Travellers and they tried to oblige them. Finally, the hobbits grew tired. Bidding the Master and Mistress, as well as the guests of honor, good night and heading to their apartments or guestrooms. When all the others had left, Esmeralda, Saradoc, Merry and Pippin retired to the Master’s quarters, Saradoc having instructed the servants to not trouble with cleaning up until the next morning.

They talked long into the night and the early morning. Merry and Pippin telling of their journey and when they would mention a certain month or date, Saradoc or Esme would tell of the happenings at that time in the Shire and Buckland. Esmeralda was aware of things that were being avoided, left unspoken. At those times she would look at her nephew, but Pippin always had his head down. Eventually the tale wound down to the return of the four hobbits to the Brandywine Bridge.

"The rest you pretty much know," Merry said with a sigh. "We’ve spent the rest of the time till now helping the Shire-folk see the remaining Ruffians to the borders. We also began training them to better defend themselves should things, the world outside the borders, go so wrong again."

Saradoc looked at these two hobbits whom he loved so dearly. "Well, my lads, if I may still call you that." Merry and Pippin blushed and nodded. "Then, my dearest lads, this is all a wonder. I won’t deny that, like most everyone else, I had given you up for dead." Silence followed this, though Esme was glaring at her husband. He had not dared to admit to her before that he had doubted her assurances that the four Travellers were alive. "It is a marvel and a joy to know I was wrong," Saradoc continued. "And to know . . ." he was choking up a bit, "To know you have handled yourselves so well, representing us hobbits to the wide world in such an honorable way. Knowing . . . knowing you went through . . ."

Esme’s glare softened. She got up to comfort her dear Saradoc. "Having you tell us even a bit of all you endured, our dear sons, you have made us so very proud of you both."

Saradoc nodded before speaking again. "I beg you to forgive my losing hope and doubting you all."

"Da," was all Merry said as he went to his father, got down on his knees and held him tightly. "It’s I should be asking forgiveness of you. Running off and saying nothing."

"You had no choice, lad. You were right about that. We would have thought it was some mad prank or game you were at and done everything we could to prevent you four going anywhere. It was the right thing to do."

Merry nodded his head against his father’s shoulder. After a bit, Saradoc turned and kissed the side of his son’s head. "I think it best we all get to our beds, Son, with instructions to everyone to leave us be until we choose to arise. Does that sound good to you, Merry?"

Merry nodded as he drew away from Saradoc. "Yes, sounds lovely, Father." Merry helped his father up, they both embraced Esme then started for the door with their arms about each other, Merry’s arm on Saradoc’s shoulders, his father’s arm where he could more comfortably reach, around his son’s waist. When they got to the door, Merry turned. "Are you coming, Pippin? We’ve our old room together."

"A moment, Merry, you go on ahead and check for snakes under the beds." Pippin winked at Merry who shook his head while rolling his eyes.

"The lad’s a knight and still wants me looking under the bed for him," Merry chuckled as he and Saradoc left together.

Pippin and his Aunt Esme held one-another tightly as they both wept. There was much each of them wanted to say but it was awhile before their tears subsided enough to speak.

"Thank you," Pippin finally managed to whisper. "It meant so much, it helped so much." He drew a deep breath then released it in a sigh. "I’m sorry as well. Sorry you . . . that you saw . . ."

Esmeralda reached up and laid her fingertips gently against her nephew’s lips. "I knew my son was alive." She closed her eyes but left her fingers where they were. "I knew Merry and you, dear Pippin, were alive. And Frodo and dear Sam as well. It was hard, yes, but I knew what no one else did. It helped me to bear what was happening here."

Pippin kissed his aunt’s finger tips then took them away from his mouth. "I’m also sorry that I wasn’t as much help to you. I think I could have been but . . . I fought it all. I thought I was going mad. I didn’t know."

Esme smiled up at the tall young hobbit, standing in her embrace, dressed in the uniform of the King he now served. "You know now."

Pippin nodded. "She showed me. She showed me her meeting with Her Took, long years ago in the woods and I knew and understood it all."

They held each other tightly awhile longer then Pippin placed a kiss on the top of his aunt’s head. "We’re both nearly exhausted, my dearest Aunt Esme. I think I need to go make sure your son is still good at clearing snakes out from under beds."

Esmeralda Took Brandybuck looked up into Peregrin Took’s warm smile. In both pair of green eyes, the stars were dancing.

Finis