A/N: I'm thrilled that you guys seemed to like the little Tom Bombadil cameo! He happens to be one of my favorite characters, so I couldn't bear to leave him out completely. I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

Disclaimer: You know, usually the fact that one is writing FanFiction is a pretty good clue that one does not own the books.

Although personally I am quite content with existing explosives, I feel we must not stand in the path of improvement.

-Winston Churchill

Blood, and Roses Too

Sam's Journal, entry three

"They call themselves L.E.S" Stride said quietly, "League of the Endeavourers of Sarn, they are representatives of a few of those to whom Sarn gave Rings. Over the years, the power that the Rings control, however slight it might be in comparison to that of the One Ring, has never the less taken over them." Stride's voice grew harsher, "There are only nine who possess Rings that have become what those that you just saw are, only nine that are completely in his power. Another seven have been lost, or destroyed with the help of our agents over the years, and the final three are kept safely by those who know what the rings are, and what they are capable of."

"So," said Pete, "those guys have Rings with them?"

"No," Stride shook his head, "those are merely agents of the nine. The nine themselves wait for more orders from their leader, Sarn."

"But, but how can he be giving them orders?" asked Fred, "I mean, isn't he in hiding or something? If not, then why don't you and a couple of your spy friends get rid of him? Arrest him, or kill him or… well, something."

Stride just looked at Fred sadly. "Fred, no, he isn't in hiding, not really. Sarn Enterprises is running smoothly with him at its head. He goes about his day-to-day business in such a way as to not rouse suspicion, but he is always looking for the Ring. And as for arrest or assassination, well, he's to well protected. Any attempt to take him down so openly would only end in disaster for us. No, keeping the Ring from him is the best we can hope for at the moment."

I jolted myself out of the daze I had been in, as I stared at the still drifting feathers that were the only movement on the computer screen. "So, what now? Mr. Stride, sir?" I asked. I could hear sirens form police cars all around us, and personally, I didn't see how we were going to get out of here. They would probably have the entire area cordoned off.

Stride seated himself before the computer again, and clicked on a minimized page at the corner of the screen, then glanced over at me. "This is where we have to get to:" he said, "Manhattan. We will find the people whom I hope can keep the ring safe, here. Unfortunately, the agents of the nine will already be looking for us. We have to take a route that they won't expect. It is my plan to take the Brooklyn Bridge to get onto the island. It is a longer, more roundabout trip, rather inconvenient and out of our way, but hopefully that will throw them off our scent."

As Stride spoke, he traced the route with the cursor. Pete peered at the screen.

"But, how do we get there?" he asked, "We haven't got a car or anything."

"We'll slip past these police on foot." Stride gestured in the general direction of the loudest sirens, "Then we'll find a cab to take into the city we should hopefully be inconspicuous that way."

"Right. So, when do we leave?" asked Fred.

"As soon as I give the four of you these." Stride stood and walked over to the bed. Stooping, he pulled a large black case from under it, flicked the clasps, and selected four small, scary looking handguns from the array of weaponry inside.

He handed one to each of us, a grim expression on his face. "With any luck, you won't have to use these. But I would rather be safe than sorry." He started for the door, then turned, as if remembering something. "Wait. Do the four of you have any idea how use one of these?"

Fred, Merry and I shook our heads, but Pete, careful and responsible as ever grinned and nearly bouncing at the thought of holding something that could probably cause a few minor explosions and quite a bit of destruction, grinned and exclaimed, "Nope, but how hard can it be, really? Just point the end with the hole at the bad guys and pull the trigger!"

I nearly groaned, but Stride a light rueful smile on his lips, murmured, "Yes, yes Pete, something like that."

Fred and I exchanged a glance, then shrugged. I tucked the gun under my jacket, and followed the others out the door and down the creaking old steps.

Luck seemed to be on our side, as we moved quickly down the dirty grey sidewalks. No police car seemed interested in four teens and an adult strolling down the street, or maybe they just didn't see us. Stride, it seemed, had a way of not being noticed unless he wanted to be. We turned of Barley Street, where the safe house had been, and onto North Ave without anyone bothering us, from there, we cut off onto Green Street. Our luck lasted all the way to Weather Street.

They attacked out of nowhere. One minute the grey streets were empty but for the old plastic bags that skittered in the slight breeze, and the crushed cans and cigarette butts that lined the curbs; the next minute, we were under fire.

Stride acted before I had even had a chance to process the fact that a bullet had just torn past my ear with a sharp, ugly whistle. He shoved me and Pete into the alley behind him drew his pistol and, returned fire while grabbing Merry by the collar of his coat and tossing him after us.

Frantically, I looked around for Fred; he had been trailing just behind Stride as we walked, and I just behind him. That meant he had to be here somewhere. He couldn't just disappear! Oh, where was Fred! There! He had ducked behind one of the many avant-garde sculptures that seemed to pop up everywhere in this part of town. The twisted blob of metal and glass dented and shattered in places as bullets rained off it, but Fred appeared to be safe, for the moment at least.

Beside me, Pete was shaking, and I saw him fumbling with his gun. Merry was looking dazed, possibly from jolt of being tossed into an alley like a piece of old gum. I tried to think, to straighten my mind out. What could I do? How could I help Stride? How could I help Fred? Fred! I saw the black suited figure creep up around the sculpture a moment to late. By the time I screamed "Stride!" the figure already had Fred by the throat, and was wrestling with him, apparently trying to get at the ring.

Stride whirled around and aimed at the figure, but he couldn't fire without risking hitting Fred too. Fred kicked out viciously, and the figure stumbled backwards.

It was enough. Stride released three quick shots at the figure before it had a chance to launch itself back onto Fred. One of the bullets found its mark in the figure's forearm.

Fred tripped over backwards, and fell, his gun skittering off over the asphalt. As Stride fired another few bursts, the figure took off, only slowing down enough to fire a few rounds back at Stride and Fred. I caught glimpses of three of four other figures fleeing over the rooftops and into alleys, each one of them shooting off an occasional burst.

I had just let out a breath of relief when I heard one last crack of a shot, and saw a rose of blood flower across Fred's white T-shirt on his left shoulder, just a few inches above his heart.

Everything seemed to fall into slow motion. The shooting had stopped, and now the only sounds I could hear were the thudding of my heart, the screams of far off sirens, and the horrid, shrieking, half screams, half gasps that were coming from Fred.

I ran, or at least tried to run to him. But it was like one of those awful dreams where you have to run. You know you have to run, but no matter how fast you tell your legs to move, they still fell slow, heavy, like you're running through syrup.

Finally, I made it to him. Stride was already there. He had torn off a sleeve of his shirt, and was pressing it against the horrible wound. Blood seeped around his fingers, as Fred's face turned a sickly, pallid shade of chartreuse. My ears filled with dizzy buzzing, and my mouth was dry. The red of blood seemed to fill my vision, but I told myself I would not be sick. I would not, I would not, I would… I had to turn around and bite my lip to keep myself from vomiting.

"Sam. Sam!" I head Stride call my name in his deep, controlled voice. Slowly, I turned to him.

"Yes, s-sir?"

"Sam, you sweater."

Blindly, fingers fumbling, I pulled off the sweater and handed it to him. He pressed it against the wound and the navy wool darkened almost to black as the blood soaked into it.

I turned away again and there was a sudden screech behind me. I spun back to see a glimmering white Mercedes skid to a halt in front of us. A woman with long, perfect blonde hair sprung gracefully from the driver's side door and flew to kneel beside Stride.

Without a word, he moved away and allowed he to look at the mass of blood that Fred had become. Quickly, she opened a purse and began to dress the wound, he words flying as fast as her fingers.

"What were you thinking Stride? Kids in a firefight! How could you be that careless? You're getting rusty. Ron Del sends me to keep an eye on you and help get you into Manhattan, simple job, he says, nothing to it, and what do I find? Bullets, blood, and children! We need to get him to Ron quickly, he keeps a couple of good doctors these days, and God knows we've needed them!"

"Gloria, calm down." Stride's voice was as even as ever. "I can take the boy, you take care of the others.

"No you will not take the boy! I can drive much faster than you can, don't deny it. You get these three to HQ safely, and by the quickest route. Not by Queen's Midtown Tunnel though, that's where Ron told me to go, he says he has it set up so that if I'm followed, he can make sure no one can get in there after me, and I have a feeling that he means no one, not even you."

Then with a whirl of expensive looking leather and rose colored silk, Gloria picked up Fred laid him down in the back seat of the Mercedes, ran lightly around to the other side, and slide gracefully through the window into the driver's seat.

The gleaming white car took off with a screech and the smell of melted rubber, leaving me, Merry, and Pete with an ever grim looking secret agent, a pool of our friend's blood, and the echoing sound of sirens headed our way.

There's the review button! Go on, click it! I dare you…

Shout outs:

Random: Thank you! I'm flattered! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

AshleySciFigirl: you're welcome for the cookies Yes! You noticed the cameo! Score! I'm glad you liked it. I agree, Professor Tolkien is probably spinning like a top because of my story at the moment. I can only hope that there are other fics out there that are more distressing than my humble attempt at writing. ;-)

Merlyn2: Yay! Someone else noticed Tom! Thank you! Enjoy the chapter!

Robotminione: Thank you for the suggestions, they are always appreciated. As for public awareness in the second and third book, I am rather intrigued by the idea of a WWIII, but I won't give away too much now, only rest assured that I will try to make it as epic as possible