Diem Kieu: Thanks! :D In all honesty, it's not the most exciting chapter, and definitely very short. It feels like I haven't updated in forever, though. O.o Guess these last two weeks have just been crazy! DFTYA!

Later that day, we jogged along the road to pick up time we had lost by resting. It was a lot of work, and my heartbeat clogged my ability to hear until I slowed . . . and then I heard hooves behind us. I spun around, and after a hesitant, unsure moment, Sam and Pippin did the same. The bend in the road behind us concealed whomever was following us.

"Do you suppose it could be Gandalf?" Sam asked.

My eyebrows narrowed, suddenly remembering the wizard's instruction to stay off the road. "It could be," I said, "but if it isn't I don't want anyone else seeing us." My stomach sank, as though I knew it wasn't Gandalf. "Even if it is Gandalf," I said, almost more to assure myself than Sam or Pippin, ". . . well, it is just better to stay hidden."

Sam and Pippin launched into a hollow off the road immediately, and I turned to follow—but some little trace in my core, it felt to be perhaps curiosity . . . and yet too dark for such a thing, tugged at me to remain in place. I stared down the road for a quiet moment before leaping off and behind a tree root. I watched, still darkly curious, as an ink black battlehorse, shod with armor, labored down the way towards me. I sank farther down, but my curiosity pushed me up again, stabbing me rather mercilessly in the gut.

My eyes locked on the rider, assessing the cloak that covered his face, the ridged armor on his hands and feet. He drew his horse to a halt level with me. He scanned both sides of the road, and then . . . then he leaned out over me, sniffing the air. I admit it took me aback, and I did my best not to recoil from the invasive gesture.

Suddenly the stab in my stomach turned to a half-soothing ache, as though something was rubbing on the inside of my skin. I innately reached for the Ring, my eyes drifting shut. A voice entered my mind, whispering that things were all right, that I could use the Ring to hide, to be safe. We were still in the Shire; most of me rationalized touching it. My hand drifted to the chain around my neck, down the links of it, tracing the slender rises and falls.

The rider stiffened, and my hand dropped from the Ring's chain at his movement. He slapped his reins against his horse's neck, and it plodded off, slowly at first, then sped up and galloped away.

I swallowed, trying to push away the sting in my stomach. "Certainly queer," I murmured, unsure how else to describe it. I turned to the other hobbits, who rose from place. They were probably too deep to have seen the rider, so I described the situation to them, still flicking my gaze back up to the road once in a while . . . as though he would turn back.

We decided to make faster time, but regardless of the progress we made towards Buckland that day or the farther away the mysterious rider grew, I still felt sick. We did our best to progress that day, but were carried away by an ethereal singing I heard early on, a tingling, high sound that felt to be a part of nature itself. I craned my ears, and Sam halted his chatting with Pippin to ask the matter.

"Elves," I whispered.

I led the lads traveling with me to a circle of trees around a small clearing, where the sound was strongest. The day had gone by rather uneventfully, and it was nigh night when we stumbled upon a horde of Elves gathered around a fire, eating and drinking and dancing. Graceful as they were, it surprised me to find them in a position such as this, singing historic poetry that sounded like the work of my father. They bid us join them, and I suppose the lads enjoyed themselves, but I confess my mind was trapped on the Ring within my pocket.

One kindly Gildor seated himself next to me on a log before the Elves' fire, expressing excitedly that he wished I would join them. Once I removed my hood the Elves recognized that I was female, and I suppose he attributed my disconnection to the matter of my minority.

"Thank you, sir," I said, "but I'm afraid I haven't the heart at present. I am fatigued from the day; we've walked far. I hope you'll understand." My mind wandered again to the Black Rider . . . and then Pippin spoke up abruptly. His voice teetered with the swoon of far too much ale, or perhaps strong Elvish wine.

"Ho, Elves!" he cried out, and the host looked up at him. He hesitated in place, then fixed his gaze on me. "Are any of you familiar with any sort of Black Rider about the Shire?"

Murmurings began, and I buried my aching head in my hands; I feared Pippin would do something like this, although I confess a Black Rider was not what I had in mind, more along the lines of the Ring itself. But Gildor stood at last, lifting his glass into the air, and silenced the group.

"Yes," he said, his voice lowering. "There have been strange tales, and a dark spirit creeping over this land." He flicked his gaze to my pocket, and I initially lifted my hand, about to shield the Ring as though I had to protect it from the most trustworthy of creatures. I lowered my hand through what conscious force I could muster together and nodded for him to continue. He mentioned something briefly about a Black Rider pursuing Baggins.

Immediately my thoughts turned to Frodo and my father, and I panicked. I stood to grab Gildor and beg him to explain further, but he suddenly stated that the idea reminded him of an old tale, and he began singing again. I pleaded with him to listen to me, but the Elves all joined him, and soon Sam and Pippin sang with them.

I sank away from the Elf, back to my log before the fire with nothing more to consider than my worry on Father's behalf, or perhaps Frodo's. I imagined it likely that this Black Rider had something to do with my father, with the adventures he'd had before now. I didn't venture to believe the rider had anything to do with the Ring, but it was entirely possible, particularly regarding my reaction at the rider's presence earlier.

At the thought, my stomach crunched, prepared for the impact of sting from the Ring. I almost . . . anticipated that sting, enough that I wanted to be ready for it when it came, and I initially fingered the Ring. My stomach churned, angered in a numbing sort of way. After a minute I reasoned with myself and let the Ring go, but I still wanted to touch it, as though my body were only guarding itself unnecessarily against some strange feeling it could grow accustomed to. Maybe I just needed to prove to myself that I could carry this Ring.

The Elves offered to house us that night, and while it blurred past me I recalled Gildor assuring me that Frodo and Father would be fine . . . that the rider wasn't looking for either of them.

By morning the Elves were gone. Most of that day passed as the one before had, although we met Merry in Buckland after a dinner with Farmer Maggot and his wife, who offered us dinner and a beautiful bag of mushrooms that night. We met Merry along the road, and he took us to stay at his home that night.

I ought to have been grateful. In hindsight, I was. But I felt a residual ache in my stomach, still. Growing rapidly uncomfortable with the situation, I finally decided to leave the Ring in another room as I ate, and I was somehow able to enjoy myself there. I forgot about my pain when I settled into a soft mattress at last that night; I was so hesitant to take up the Ring again when I awakened the next morning, but it called gently to me, so I accepted it and moved on.

I don't remember much of that day either. But I do recall my feet burning that night; I expressed to Sam, after I failed to get any sleep, that I wanted to go down to the river near us and cool my feet. I fell asleep there, in the shadow of a welcoming tree.

To make a long story short, the tree evidently had a life of its own. I realized at that time, when the tree began to "eat" us (for lack of a better term), that my sense of panic was not up to speed. I did not fear the tree, nor did I fear dying. I had a horrid sense of ambivalence, one that I didn't recognize until my companions began crying out for help.

And thus we met Tom Bombadil. He recognized that I was the "Baggins lass" right away, although how he knew me I didn't understand. He kissed my hand, much to Sam's chagrin, and led us off to his tree, all the while singing and leaping, tagging me along enthusiastically. He addressed me kindly, flicking his ecstatic gaze to my pocket more than once. We ate at the courtesy of his companion Goldberry, who also treated me well.

The evening—full of tales and songs—passed so quickly. I suppose I couldn't have recognized at the time how horribly I would miss times of light and unburdened enjoyment. I'm afraid I don't recall the feeling anymore; that was something I took for granted as well.

I lay down to sleep, but I couldn't manage to get there. The darkness was rather comforting, however, shielding me from pains that I didn't understand.

I heard Goldberry singing softly in the primary trunk of the tree that night. Perhaps I could have been sleepwalking, but I somehow wandered in, watching her with a swan—with only one wing whole—tucked onto her lap. Looking back, I perceive it was, perhaps, only a dream. The swan made no sense, and neither did the halos of white light in her blonde hair. Candles danced around her, and Tom stood in the corner. Soon he joined her in her singing; it was in Sindarin, some subset of the language I understood bits and pieces of. I got lost in the hollow wood surrounding the two figures, Goldberry in her shimmering dress and Tom's bright eyes. Slender harmonies caressed my ears, soothed my aching stomach, and soon numbed me altogether; I floated, a cloud anchored only by the weight of sweet rain.

Tom's bright eyes found me. I'd forgotten, in the haunting melody and the lyrics of bittersweet destiny, that I simply was; was a creature, a being of coherence and existence.

"My dear, come." He gestured to me, then took my hand and led me to a stool off to the side. Goldberry softened her song, not looking at me. The swan protested in her lap, and Goldberry paused her song to quiet it before she continued to stroke its back.

Tom laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and sat me down. "I see the echoes of trouble in you," he said. He laid a hand over my stomach. "What is it, dearest lass?"

I shook my head; I'd brought the Ring with me, and now it seemed that its home in my stomach and Tom's touch were fighting. I squirmed at the battle in my body; a gentle tickle against the inside of my skin soon grew to an angry growl, a scrape as though clawing its way out.

"Tom, please!" I cried at last as my stomach burned.

Tom's hand shot into my pocket, and he yanked back with the Ring in his hand. The pain in my stomach vanished, but I crumpled with a residual ache onto the stool. Goldberry stopped her singing, and the swan trumpeted angrily, flapping its good wing. She pressed it against her lap, first frantic until she managed to grip the swan's body and hold it against her legs. The swan trembled, tucking its head into its wings.

Tom lifted the Ring into view, pinching it gently between his thumb and pointer finger.

"You are burdened," he said sorrowfully. His guileless eyes grew solemn, and he stared down at my stomach. Then his gaze lifted once again to mine, and he knelt before me. He took my hand, but didn't give the Ring back.

"Sweet Baggins," he said. Then he paused and shook his head. "I wish I could say something to comfort you, but in truth . . . this is your fate. Even if you were to give up the Ring now the consequences would remain within you." He then pressed the Ring back to me, and I held it to my stomach with the onset of stinging, as though it would be quelled with the contact. All it did was intensify the feeling, and I crumpled on top of it. My breath squeezed in and out of me.

Then I heard a crack, and I looked up. Goldberry and the swan were both frozen, staring down into a nest alongside the wall, where three eggs the size of my fists began to crack open. Peeps sounded, and the swan leaped up from Goldberry's lap. The lady stopped it with a gentle chuckle, then lowered the squirming swan to the ground. It—she, I gathered—waddled over to the nest, cooing with excited intermittence as her injured wing trailed behind her.

She surveyed her cygnets, rubbing her beak against their wet fuzz, before she glanced up at me. For a moment I could see my reflection in her eyes . . . leastwise, perhaps I did.

I dreamed that night about being that swan. But instead of the joy of the hatched cygnets, I only felt the agony of laying the eggs—and watching them rot.