Chapter 1: Trouble at the Ivy Bush

Sunsets were a sight to see in the Shire, especially in winter when the hills gleamed gold as the sun sank behind them. The streets grew quiet: not silent, for the birds still chirped as they settled into their nests and the occasional rabbit or mouse scurried from hedge to hedge, but a hush stilled the world enough that a lone wanderer could indulge in some peaceful thinking quite uninterrupted. Or so Frodo Baggins thought to himself as he climbed the earthen stairs to the Cotton's small burrow. The steps were bathed in shadow, but he had walked them enough to know where to set his feet. It was not long before he arrived at the door and turned the pale knob.

The door didn't budge. He tried once more before remembering the Cottons had taken to locking their door at all times, as had most hobbits in these parts. With a sigh, Frodo reached for the key they had leant him. He wasn't too keen on the tradition (having been used to only locking his door at night) but he understood where it came from. With Saruman's work still being disbanded and several Ruffians still unaccounted for, fear and tension was high in the Shire: too high, for Frodo's like. It wasn't like hobbits to be so on edge, so suspicious, and it pained him to see them so. If life were ever to return to the tranquility of earlier years, they would have to put this fear and hostility behind them. They would have to trust each other again. When Frodo had accepted the key, it was more out of respect for Farmer Cotton than a deterrent to danger. The Cotton's invitation for him to stay in their home during the refurbishing of Bag End was more than gracious. It was the least he could do to respect their wishes.

He was relieved to find he had indeed remembered the key this time. It was a thin knobby slab of metal that felt surprisingly heavy in his hand. He brought it to the lock and fumbled until he heard the latch click. This time, the door opened. The scent of cooling firewood wafted over him and he couldn't help but smile. This may not be home, but it was as close as could get at the moment.

He was just reaching for the lantern when he heard a shout behind him. "Mr. Baggins!" Sheriff Robin Smallburrow came running up the path, gasping for breath. "Frodo!"

"Hullo, Robin!" Frodo greeted the sheriff with a tired frown. In the short time since Frodo had been appointed Deputy Mayor, he and Robin had spent a great many hours together, mostly when they ran into problems with a Sheriff overstepping his boundaries. When Robin came to him unexpected, the news was always bad. "What's the matter?"

"Sorry to bother you so late and all, but there's been some trouble at the Ivy Bush after you left. Hyacinth Bracegirdle is refusing to serve Ted Sandyman, you see, since he did her family nothing but ill when he was working for Lotho—or Sharkey, as it were."

Frodo's frown deepened. Every time things seemed to be mending, something tore them up again. He was beginning to think the work would never be finished. With a wistful glance towards the Cottons' cozy sitting room, he let out a small sigh and pulled the door shut. Rest would have to wait: there was work to be done.

Frodo followed Robin down a winding road to the ivy-covered arch of the Ivy Bush Inn. A few wooden tables stood scattered about out front between old barrels sprouting with flowers. Smoke bellowed from the chimney and footsteps clamored within. It was hard to believe that mere weeks ago, the same building had been deserted save for a scampering rat or a few fluttering insects. Now it was as loud and lively as ever, though the usual laughter and cheer was replaced with vile shouts and belligerent hollers that pierced the night air with mighty wrath.

Robin grimaced. "What did I tell you? There's trouble, alright."

Frodo merely nodded and quickened his steps. Inside the air warmed significantly. A long wooden bar stretched across the left wall. Behind it stood a young maiden he recognized as Hyacinth Bracegirdle (though it had been some years since they'd last met, and in that time she had nearly doubled in both height and width). She was leaving forward with her fist on the bar and a scowl of her face. Across from her stood old Ted Sandyman, red-faced and vengeful, amidst a pile of overturned stools.

A crowd gathered around them. Hardly anyone was sitting. Everyone was scattered in several large misshapen clumps, shouting over one another, desperate to be heard.

"Come on, it's just a drink!" someone shouted. "Let him have it!"

"Don't you dare!" cried another. "He's caused enough trouble, he ought to know better than to show his face 'round here!"

A series of 'aye's and applause broke through the crowd. Miss Hyacinth Bracegirdle threw a rag down with a smug smile. But Ted Sandyman wasn't about to give in that easily. He snatched it up and squeezed it between his fist. "Now listen here, you no good pig—"

"That's enough, Sandyman." Robin Smallburrow stepped forward and snatched the fuming hobbit's arm.

"Take your hand off me, Cock-robin! If I don't get served, you don't either. How many people did you take to the Lockholes, eh? Don't I remember you helping escort Lobelia? And what about that Grubb lad you kicked out in the street? Didn't you steal his wines and ales?"

"Under your orders, Sandyman." Robin clenched his fist and raised it back with force, but Frodo stepped forward with the slightest shake of his head and Robin let his hand fall to his side.

The others, having noticed Frodo's presence, began talking at once, their words tumbling over one another in a jumble. Some, it seemed, were happy to provide him with the latest updates compete with their own personal commentary while others demanded quite unpleasantly just what he proposed to do about such "an awful fuss." The result was an ambush of words through which Frodo walked with his hands up, as if in surrender, as he pressed through the crowd in silence. Hobbits parted on either side of him, their shouts quieting to whispers as he passed. Frodo caught one hobbit remarking it was a shame Merry Brandybuck hadn't come, for he'd surly put Sandyman in his rightful place. Ignoring the comment, Frodo stepped further into the circle that had now cleared around the bar.

Sandyman scowled. "Come to gloat have you? Tell me I told you so? Well, save your words, Baggins. I was just leaving."

Frodo stepped between him and the exit. "I can't say that wouldn't please me, Sandyman, to never see you again. But as Deputy Mayor I have an obligation to all Shire folk, including you. If you truly wish to stay, you have every right to remain in the Shire, as long as you follow the law. Last I heard, you were guilty of no more than perhaps a few crude words at my friends' expense—" Here the crowd interrupted with wild objections.

While Frodo waited for them to die down, Sandyman seized the moment. "Guilty?" he spat. "It's you whose guilty, lad! You and your odd friends who disappear when the going gets tough and ride back just in time to save the day. Where were you really, I wonder? How can we be sure this all wasn't really some cockeyed plan of yours to take over the Shire?"

"Now hold it right there, Sandyman!" Mr. Cotton forced his way to the front of the circle, red-faced and livid. "You're got no right going around making such outrageous accusations! There ain't a soul in here who doubts Master Baggins' loyalty, and just as few that trusts yours. Mr. Frodo here has done nothing but help, and you—you've done nothing but stir up trouble!"

The crowd was quick to agree with Mr. Cotton. Sandyman heard their cheers and taunts, and saw well that the vast majority's allegiance lay with the Deputy Mayor and his friends. "Fine, take his side!" he cried. "You'll see soon enough, when you lose your jobs and homes, and are left to fend for yourselves in the streets! See how well you survive with out Sharkey looking after you!" He leaned over the bar and spat at Hyacinth's feet.

A collective gasp ran through the room. Robin stepped up and reached for Sandyman's shoulder. "Alright, Sandyman. You've had your fun! Say goodbye to the Ivy Bush—this is the last time you'll be seeing her."

"Wait." Frodo's words caused the Sheriff to frown, but he didn't let go of Sandyman though Frodo continued, "I'm sorry you lost your mill, but you know as well as I that it was doing more damage than good. But you're a strong hobbit, so it seems. If it's work and a roof you want, there's still work to be done and hobbits willing to shelter those who need it. The Cottons could use some assistance fixing Bagshot Row, if you'd like. I'll see you're paid as well as the others."

Mr. Cotton gaped at Frodo. He seemed about to protest, then turned to Sandyman to access the scoundrel's reaction. Sandyman's eyes narrowed, alight with a blaze as he tried to find the fault in Frodo's words. The last thing he wanted was to give into someone like Frodo, but he would be a fool not to take him up on such an offer. If indeed, the offer was genuine.

Frodo turned to Hyacinth with a polite smile. "What happened this past year was Sharkey's fault," he said, keeping his eyes on hers though he raised his voice so the crowd could hear. "Sharkey and his dreadful men. But they are gone now, and let us see that the last of our ill-will went with them."

"They're not all gone!" An old hobbit scoffed, pointing at Sandyman. "Not yet."

Frodo turned to face the crowd, but otherwise ignored the interjection. A collective 'hush' trickled through the crowd and it soon became so silent, Frodo could hear his words echo in the arched ceiling. "A war has been fought here. Never before have we faced something like this. I'd be lying if I told you I knew how to recover. But, I think, if we ever wish to see the Shire returned to what it once was, we have to stop fighting. Leave your grudges behind. Make amends where you can, and tolerance where that fails. Only then will the war truly be over."

The hobbits shifted uncomfortably, fearing Frodo had picked up his uncle's habit of making long speeches. They looked at one another, toying with the hope of hearing something magnificent and the fear of getting stuck listening to an hour of poetry. As such, they were both pleased and annoyed to see Frodo turn back to the bar where he met Hyacinth's eyes with a smile and said, as merrily as if it were a night of celebration, "Three drinks, Hyacinth, if you would be so kind. One for me and my friends—" here he gestured to Sandyman and Mr. Cotton, "—so that we may drink to the end of this rift and cheer to the start of setting things right."

Whether from guilt at her rash actions or the fact that every eye was on her, Hyacinth blushed. She stifled her embarrassment by sweeping her hair behind her shoulders and getting to work. Before long, she had three wooden mugs brimming with dark ale on the counter before her. Frodo handed the first to Sandyman. The hobbit scowled. His distain for Frodo showed on his face, but with over a dozen pair of hobbit eyes on him, even he knew when to give in.

The second went to Mr. Cotton, who didn't look the least bit pleased. He had never much cared for Sandyman, but after the cruel things the hobbit had done and said in previous months, he had begun to despise him. Nevertheless, if Sandyman was giving in, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to protest. He raised the mug in a symbol of cheer and clashed it against Sandyman's. They clashed so hard, Frodo feared the mugs would break, but they remained firm as the hobbits pulled them apart and drank from them.

Frodo gave them each a curt nod of approval. So there was hope for Sandyman yet. It pleased him to see so. He then ordered a round of ale for all present (to which he received such monumental shouts of gratitude, he wondered why he hadn't thought of trying this in the first place). Within minutes, the rift seemed to mend. Sandyman was gathered amidst a group of loud and rather boisterous hobbits speaking of the "glory of the odd Baggins's'" which began with Bilbo's remarkable party for his 111th birthday and continued here and there to all sorts of outlandish events, some of which were exaggerated or mistakenly accredited to Bilbo while others, Frodo concluded, were entirely fictional (such as Bilbo having attempted to hatch a dragon's egg). Mr. Cotton returned to his friends in the corner having a quite chat and a peaceful smoke.

For nearly an hour, Frodo stood at the end of the bar, accepting various words of gratitude with the occasional nod or smile. Though he was the topic of much conversation, he hardly said a word himself, other than brief pleasantries and vague responses to prying questions. When he had stayed what seemed an appropriate amount of time, he set his drink on the counter, unfinished, and slipped outside.

The sun had gone. The moon lay hidden behind a cloud, but the sky was speckled with stars that lit his path in silver rays between patches of flickering lanterns. Frodo turned the corner and the clinks of mugs and reels of laughter dwindled, fading beneath his footsteps.

There had been a time when Frodo enjoyed walking at night, when he had looked upon the shadowed trees with awe and the moonlit fields with delight. But all the trees in sight were felled with nothing but stumps or rotting wood and the fields were dry and limp or thickened with mud. Yet not all his bereavement could be blamed on Saruman. Part of it stemmed from himself, for he no longer looked upon the Shire in the way he once had. It had been home once, and would be again he hoped; but, as he stared out at the darkened lands, he saw nothing more than a wavering scene that he could neither feel nor give meaning to. It didn't seem real, but merely as passing and distant as clouds in the sky.

Only when he was with friends or busied in work did the feeling fade, only then did it feel like he was part of the world once more. But he wasn't happy, just distracted. As one who wishes to avoid an inescapable event delays with menial tasks, he filled his mind with challenges to delay the rise of his own thoughts. He found this surprisingly easy to do with all the management needed for relocating the homeless, repairing the damage, and removing the stains Sharkey's men had made upon the land. But each night, when he was alone, his thoughts crept in unheeded.

Often, they were of his friends. Merry and Pippin, alone, captured by orcs or lost on the battlefield. He thought of Sam, dear Sam, who had faced more pain and torment than any living soul should ever have to face. Sometimes, he remembered his own suffering. Images of Shelob's lair and the Cirith Ungol would resurface so vividly, he often had to touch the walls or open windows to assure himself he wasn't still trapped in those dismal places. Other nights, there was no clear vision, but he would break out in sweat, fearing some great malice lingered in the corner waiting to devour him or worse, bring him back to the horrid forsaken land of Mordor.

Yet worst of all were the nights when he felt neither triumph nor fear, only a great aching emptiness as if his very soul had been plucked from his body, leaving him hollow and hopeless. It was these nights he feared the most, when the world faded and dwindled until it seemed a thin veil in swelling darkness.

Frodo pulled himself from his thoughts and back to the hills around him. To his surprise, he found he was at the very spot where the Battle of Bywater occurred nearly a month ago. Even in the dark, Frodo could see the cliff-like slopes rising on either side of him. He remembered the solemn day well. More than the battle, he remembered the aftermath when he and his friends gathered the fallen hobbits and laid them to rest. Never before has such grief touched the Shire.

Frodo hadn't realized he'd stopped until a light came up behind him. Startled, he turned and slunk back. He relaxed when he saw it was only Mr. Cotton.

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo, didn't mean to startle you." Mr. Cotton held up his lantern. "I didn't see you there in the dark. What are you doing walking about without a light? It's not safe, I tell you. Not safe at all. Then again, nothing seems to scare you warriors these days."

"Except light." Frodo smiled tiredly. "And if any of us is a warrior, it's you. I saw the fighting you did here last month, and I must say you make a far greater opponent than I do."

Mr. Cotton fidgeted at the compliment, trying hard to hide his smile. "Well, all I can say is, those Ruffians sure better not show their face around here or they'll have the both of us warriors to reckon with."

Frodo pulled his eyes from the battlefield as Mr. Cotton clapped him on the back and led the way home. Perhaps, he thought, as the breeze picked up and pried the final clinging leaves from their branches, there was hope for the Shire after all. Things were changing for the better. Maybe it really was time to put the war behind them.

Listening to Mr. Cotton hum an old working song, he climbed the shabby steps to the Cottons' burrow with a tired smile. Little did he know that, at that very moment in the far corners of the Shire, two young Ruffians were keeping the war very much alive with every intention to bring it to that very doorstep.