A/N: Before I get going on what I like to call 'The Freaky Chapter' (mwa ha ha), I would like to invite any and all who read this to join my LoTR fanfic/fanart/RPG mailing list, 'The Hobbit Hole'. If you're a Lord of the Rings fan, we like you- if you're a Lord of the Rings fan who likes to role-play, we REALLY like you. ^.^ To join, go to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/hobbithole

And now, on with the story. . .

CHAPTER 4: The Power of the Ring

He was tossing in dark dreams.

If he had given it up willingly, it would probably have been another matter altogether- but no. . . It had had to be stolen from him, stolen, furthermore, by one who had not been able to understand the implications of his actions. What had he done to deserve this. . .?

Bilbo pulled the blanket further around himself, shivering. Eventually, maybe, he would be rid of it. . . But how long would it take? Days? Months? Years?

A small part of him longed to stick it out, to push proudly on until the day when he could forget his coveted trinket and go back to life as it had been. But a great deal of him wasn't willing to go that far. Life as it was had become the ring, though he didn't even realize it himself- life had become that assurance, that knowledge that somehow a small piece of gold kept him safe, kept him free from all harm and fear and doubt. Years of deprivation from emotions such as those had caused them to build an ever-growing cloud over him, and the absence of the ring had released the rain. The glimmering glint of light shining off gold was the only sun in his reckoning.

Bilbo hardly acknowledged his nephew's return to the home, only to give him a little nod and tell him good-night.

Little Frodo went to bed sadly. He felt bad for his uncle, and he sensed intuitively that there was a little more to it than a simple, common illness. . . But that turned out to be the extent of his guessing, and he went to sleep peacefully, while Bilbo stayed up by the fire for many an hour that night, sitting unsheltered in the rain.

He was not the only one- although, for Peregrin Took, the rain was a bit more literal.

"I swear he'll dry out; shrivel up like an over-baked potato if he goes on like that," Paladin sighed.

"Make him stop, Daddy," Pearl Took whined, her hands clapped over her ears.

"Pip, dear, what's wrong?" Eglantine cooed. She was bent lovingly over her son, who was lying prostrate on his bed, the pillow soaked with tears, his back heaving with sob after ever deeper sob.

Pippin never answered her, despite her coaxing and kind words. The truth was, he couldn't even describe what he was really feeling, no less explain why it was that dark and terrible and sorrowing thoughts kept returning to him- why it was impossible for him to stop crying. He was crying because it was unfair for Merry to take what had belonged to him, he was crying because all the fun he had been able to have with the ring was gone, he was crying because he couldn't explain why he was crying and why he wasn't able to stop.

But the most important reason for his weeping was one that he could not even begin to fathom, much less put into words.

From the moment he had lain eyes on it, the ring had begun to pick at him with its claws. . . And when he had grabbed it out of Frodo's hand, those claws had closed, latching onto him with a death grip from the very moment his hand touched the ring. The voice of the ring had spoken to him, and told him to hide the ring in his pocket until it was safe; it had beckoned him to put it on, told him of all the things he could do with its abilities; it had, on the night after he had discovered its powers, filled his head with imaginings of all the possibilities of mischief he could come up with, and pranks he could pull, when he had it on. And now it was gone, and the wounds left from the claws sank deep into Pippin's young flesh; they had very near torn him apart.

He was still sniffling into his pillow, his sobs diminished in volume but still present, when his family finally gave up and decided to go to bed, hoping he would feel better in the morning. And by morning he would have stopped crying- but the wounds of the ring would take many days to fully heal.

There was a third who stayed up that night. But he felt neither rain pounding on his skull, nor wounds tearing into him.

Merry's eyes glowed as he studied the ring that he was circling between his fingers. The room around him was dark, but the gold of the ring seemed to reflect a sort of inner light. . . Mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Fantastic.

He had no desire to put it on- it was enough only just to LOOK at it, to feel its weight in its hands, to know that it was HIS.

The ring recognized this situation all too well.

Merry shifted from his side onto his back in bed, and gazed lovingly up at his treasure. Small and simple and beautiful- that's what it was. He circled it on and on, studying it from every angle, searching it with his eyes as if it contained some great secret he was bent on discovering.

He rolled onto his other side.

He brought the ring closer to his face, smoothing over the outside with one index finger.

He closed his fingers around it.

Felt nice holding it. . . He sighed, and sunk into his pillow.

He held the ring to his heart that night as he slept. . . And as Merry slept, Pippin cried, and Bilbo felt the rain of sorrow pouring down upon him. And the ring felt the beat of Merry's little heart from beyond his hand, and it lovingly wrapped its dark claws around that heart, grasping at it for all it was worth.