"Chapter 1"

Six Months Ago…

"Peregrin Took! What do you think you're doing out here by yourself?!"

Eglantine's voice could be quite loud when she wanted it to be, despite the fact that she was normally quiet-spoken. Her children were certainly the ones who heard her shout the most—as did her husband indirectly as well—but none so much as Pippin. It seemed that that was all she did was shout at or for him on some days. But he was used to it.

He sighed where he stood looking over the fence of the smial to the spacious fields and farms of Tookland. It was evening drawing a beautiful spring day to a close. The green of the Shire was stunning this year and the scent of budding flowers and growing grass was heavy on the light wind blowing. "I'm coming, Mum," he called back, moving away from the fence to show he'd heard her. He waited until the door shut before he leaned against the fence again.

He wanted to go see Merry, but he knew his parents would never allow it. Not now, and certainly not by himself. Buckland was too far away to travel to by himself in their opinion. Of course, nobody traveled alone anymore. Not since something had started to kill livestock and drag their carcasses away. Not since hobbits had started catching sight of an elusive Shadow that spent its time waiting for victims.

Or so those eyewitnesses claimed anyway. Those accidents had started happening some three months ago, and pippin had laughed away them all, sure that it was just superstitious talk—until almost a month ago. Then he had realized just how serious this was.

Sighing, he pushed off of the fence and made his slow way to the yellow door of the smial. There was no point staying outside—he was stuck inside Tookland with no way to get out.

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The next morning he received a surprise—a very welcome one at that. A loud, insistent pounding at his door brought him out a dream of mushrooms and he raised his head out from beneath his pillow just in time to see the door slam open and a familiar golden haired figure came in like a conquering hero.

"Morning, Pip-squeak!" Merry Brandybuck exclaimed cheerfully, arms outstretched as if to receive his younger cousin's praises. "I have come to save you from withering away from inactivity and boredom!"

But Pippin merely hid his head beneath his pillow again.

Merry dropped his arms and crossed them over his chest, cocking his head. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "it was a lot easier to get you out of bed before you became a tweenager." He walked around to the end of Pippin's bed and tore the covers off; grabbing his younger cousin by the ankles, he proceeded to haul him out of the bed. He ignored Pippin's immediate protests and kicking and continued to pull him over the edge of the mattress. 'It's your own fault, you know, Pip. If you just got out of bed by yourself we wouldn't have to do this. I could go and get that bucket of ice water, of course—"

"No!" Pippin squeaked, suddenly fully awake. "No, I'm awake, I'm awake, you don't need to splash me again!"

Merry smirked, letting go of his cousin's feet and watching Pippin frantically climb out of bed. "Works every time."

Thirty minutes later the two cousins were walking down the street together, heading to the local pub. "How did you escape Aunt Esme?" Pippin asked Merry with a sly smile.

Merry grinned. "Snuck out the back door," he replied teasingly—but then he sobered and shrugged. "Told her I needed to see you. Mum understands. Ever since…"

"Yeah," Pippin agreed, feeling it would be too difficult to say it aloud. It had been hard hearing about it. He bumped his cousin's shoulder with a reckless grin, firmly pushing away his private thoughts and instead focused on making Merry smile. "C'mon, Cousin—I'm going to beat you at eating the biggest breakfast made this side of the Shire."

Now Merry did laugh. "Of course you will," he said. "I'm nearly an adult. You're still only a young tweenager. Poor Pippin, stuck a tweenager for so long, and still so far to go—" He was still laughing when Pippin pushed him into the hedge beside them.

The one subject they didn't want to talk about came up anyway, through their third course of eggs and ham. Merry had slowed down his eating, merely pushing his food around his plate while Pippin, with all the gusto of youth, continued to eat his fill until he noticed. "What's wrong, Mer?" he asked around a mouthful.

Merry didn't look up from his plate, but the younger hobbit heard him clearly. "It'll be a month this week. One month… They never even found his body." He blinked, still looking down at his plate, and Pippin chose to allow him to push back tears if he needed to. Instead, he leaned in closer so as to not be overheard.

"They say Frodo's death is odder than his parents' drowning," he said softly. "Down at the smials, even here at the pub—it's all they talk about sometimes. Father had to punish one of the workers for talking about it the other day." He sighed unhappily.

Merry looked up at him sharply, his deep blue eyes burning. "There wasn't anything odd about Frodo's parents drowning," he retorted, "and you know it."

"I know it, sure," Pippin said hurriedly, keeping his voice soft, "but you have to admit that nobody expected Bag End, of all places, to be broken into. It's in the middle of Hobbiton, after all! If that isn't odd I don't know what is. Why did it happen at Hobbiton?"

But all Merry could do was shrug helplessly. "I don't know. I don't think we ever will."

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It was nearing evening when Pippin started home. Merry had gone his own way, heading back to Buckland and Brandy Hall, so Pippin walked by himself, thinking nothing of that. He knew that his parents would have something to say about it when he got home but he'd deal with their punishment—probably a grounding—when he came to it. He didn't pay attention to passersby's, swept up in his own thoughts, never thinking that he would be getting some answers to his questions.

There was little warning, but when it came it was already too late and he was unprepared for it. Walking along the road back to the smial, he was whistling one of the Walking songs to himself lazily, feeling pleasantly relaxed from the drinks he'd consumed, when suddenly his keen hearing picked up on the near-silent tread of someone behind him in the grass. He spun on his heel, feeling disturbingly sober very quickly, but did not see anyone. The footsteps had stopped as soon as he had.

"Who's there?" he called, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

"Now, Pippin," a voice admonished behind him, "is that how you greet your cousin?"

Pippin froze, feeling like he had been punched in the gut. There was no way he was hearing that voice. No way. He turned. "Frodo?"

His cousin smiled at him from where he stood on the edge of the road. He still looked the same—the same dark hair, fine features, and clear blue eyes Pippin remembered. There was no sign of violence or the struggle Bag End's neighbors had sworn they'd heard the night Frodo disappeared on his body, no blood, no torn clothing. "Who do you think it could be, dearling?"

Pippin shook his head, hard and insistently. "But—you, you disappeared," he said blankly. "Everyone—we thought—"

"That I was dead?" Frodo finished with an odd, wry smile. He laughed quietly. "People spread rumors to suit their own needs, you know, Pippin."

"Where did you go?" Pippin nearly shouted; now that his shock was passing he realized that he was well and truly furious with his older cousin. Furious enough to confront him. "You've been gone nearly a month, we all thought you were dead—all of Hobbiton was going crazy since Bag End was broken into—" He broke off his rant, breathing heavily, wanting to continue but not having the heart to do so. "Just tell me, Frodo, just tell me one thing: where were you?"

He was expecting his cousin to look very shocked at his outburst, ashamed too; expected to hear him apologize and explain what had happened even if upset Pippin.

But Frodo merely shrugged. "I was—around," he said evasively.

Something whispered 'wrong' in Pippin's mind, and he realized that he wasn't just furious with his older cousin anymore. He was uneasy—there was a slight tightening in his gut that left his heart pounding and an odd taste in his mouth. Merry may have been the one to grow up with Frodo, the one also to know him the best, but Pippin had spent enough time around Frodo to know him well too, and his cousin's answer now was as un-Frodoish that was possible. He took a step back in instinct before he could stop himself.

Frodo noticed that and something darkly amused entered his expression. "You know, you always had a tendency to believe in only what you could see," he remarked softly. "Even if it wasn't something you knew."

This wasn't his cousin. This wasn't Frodo at all. Pippin didn't know what was going on, if this was just a hallucination or something darker: he had to get help. He wanted to find Merry. Merry would be able to tell him what was going on. He had turned and was running when he heard the creature behind him laugh, teasing him. He heard it move but when he looked he saw his cousin had disappeared. When he turned back he realized, however, that he had been mistaken.

"Going somewhere, Pippin?"

He felt something hard hit him over the head, and senselessly he fell to the ground in a heap.

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His head was aching when he woke up, and he felt dizzy. The smell of fresh grass filled his nose, making him want to sneeze. Opening stinging eyes, he blinked to bring his world into focus. It took him a moment to see but soon he realized that he was lying face-down in a small sheltered grove, one he thought was right on the borders of Tookland. It was dark now, well after the time the sun had set, and a chill had overtaken the air. When trying to move he realized with a surge of horror that his hands were bound behind his back and that his feet were likewise tied. He couldn't move. He tried to, feeling panicked, but couldn't even roll over onto his side.

"You'll only hurt yourself doing that."

Frodo's voice above him made him jump and he struggled to crane his neck to see. His cousin stood by his feet, watching him intently, and for a moment they merely looked at each other, vivid green eyes meeting clear blue.

"Frodo—why are you doing this?" Pippin whispered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. There was no answer. "What are you?!"

A strange, almost sad smile crossed his cousin's face. "Still a hobbit, if that's what you mean," he answered. He moved up to Pippin's side, noiseless and quick. "I'm not a ghost." As if to prove his point he gripped Pippin by the forearms and hauled him into a sitting position, but the younger hobbit felt his fingers were ice-cold, almost harsh, unlike the warm ,gentle fingers he remembered.

"You can't be real," he said dazedly.

"Bag End was attacked," his cousin said, standing. "I'm surprised that it didn't wake all the Shire up. It had been quick—too quick. I fought back from—well, whatever it was. I never saw it."

Pippin shuddered. "What was it?" he asked trembling, afraid to hear the answer.

And now Frodo smiled—but it was a smile laced with danger. Something predatory. He disappeared into the darkness behind Pippin, seeming to melt into it like he had turned invisible. Then suddenly he was behind Pippin, crouched beside him.

His cousin's breath felt hot against his cheek, a gentle fluttering caress that nonetheless sent a shiver of ice down Pippin's spine. There was something very wrong with the other hobbit, an aura of danger that he knew without thinking that he did not want to see it.

"You will find, Pip-dear," Frodo said softly, "that appearances are not always what they seem to be." A low chuckle caused Pippin's skin to break out in agonizing goosebumps, and he heard a whisper of movement to his right that made him frantically twist where he sat—but his cousin had disappeared again. Then he heard him speak on his other side: "Your mistake, Pippin—and my benefit." And before Pippin could move he felt something sharp like a needle but a thousand times more painful pierce his skin on the vein running down his neck. He cried out in pain and shock but still he was unable to free himself. Then with a rush of horror he realized he wasn't just being bitten—his blood was being drawn up out of his body.

"No—' he gasped, struggling all the more, "No—what do you think you're doing-?"

"Just relax, Pippin," Frodo replied smoothly, his voice muffled. "It will be over before you know it."

And soon Frodo felt himself start to go blank as it continued, even as a part of him shuddered and wanted to fight back; but the pressure on his neck grew more strident and insistent and his heart started to fly in his chest. His limbs grew heavy and he became light-headed, and half in a dream he felt himself list to the side and onto the grass. Frodo guided him onto his back and they were now pressed nearly body to body. Finally, dying in the grass, unable to draw breath, his vision and other senses going dark, he felt the mouth at his neck detract and deadly-cold fingers stroke his hair. As he slipped—pale and limp—into oblivion he heard Frodo speak:

"I'll be back for you, Pippin. Don't try to run—I'll find you if you do."