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.