The Prancing Pony

The streets of Bree were crowded, narrow, and mud. Arabelle tried to keep a hold of the hobbits, as the five friends were jostled about by carts and people. Why there were so many out in such foul weather, Arabelle would never know and always wonder.

A man with a cart shouted gruffly for them to get out of his way, and Arabelle pulled Pippin against her side just when he might have been trampled. Gently, she wrapped an arm around the youngest hobbit, and offered an encouraging smile.

But inside, she was not so confident. Part of her insisted that she not go inside The Prancing Pony. Part of her said to stay here, with the hobbits, so that she could protect her new friends, and always have adventures with them.

The other part of her, the part that was her father's baby, cried for him; that part of her balked at being alone for even a little bit, and she missed Erik terribly. She also missed her mother, Charles, and Jillianna. Jillianna had, after all, been her first - and best, after her father - friend.

To never see Erik again... or Charles, Jillianna and Christine, as well...

Outside of the inn, Arabelle had to stop again. She took a deep breath and looked up into the rain. She would have to say goodbye to the hobbits in the morning. She would be leaving them tomorrow. And she would never see her four dear friends again.

"I'll miss you," she whispered as she followed into the inn after the others. Just before Frodo, in the lead, would have entered, he turned, startled blue eyes piercing Arabelle's.

"That's right!" he remembered. "Gandalf is supposed to bring you to Rivendell tomorrow..."

And then all four pairs of eyes were looking up at her, and Arabelle fought to keep back the tears. With effort, she managed a small, apologetic smile.

"Now is not the moment to dwell," she said thickly, swallowing. "We don't have much time left together, so we must make the most of it. I can promise you one thing, however," Arabelle added, kneeling in the mud and pulling the four hobbits in close. "I will never forget you."

Arabelle pulled her arms tightly around them, and sighed.

"I'll remember you all for the rest of my days," she promised.

Once inside the inn, Strider went to the counter, and rented them a room for the night. Erik was really very glad for the chance to rest before Arabelle came. The pressure in his chest had already backed away, but to be safe, he sat on one of the two beds and pulled the bottle of hawthorn. He slid one of the tablets into his mouth and swallowed. Strider had not noticed; he was still poking around the room.

"We have some time before the hobbits will arrive," the Ranger said.

Erik sighed. He was glad for the rest, but he wanted to see Arabelle again, to know that she was alright.

"It has been a long journey," Strider continued. "Will you come down to the tavern for a drink?"

Erik shook his head. It had been eighteen years since he'd had more than an occasional glass of wine, and even in all his time under the opera house, when his life was at its darkest, he had never had more than a few small glasses at a time. Really, he didn't much care for the taste of most alcohols. Only wine really went down smoothly, and he doubted there was much beside ale, mead, and beer, here.

Strider frowned, but accepted Erik's decision to stay in the room.

"I'll bring her up the moment they get here," he promised. This close now, he could see the exhaustion writ across his companion's face and in the slight slump of Erik's proud shoulders. "Rest. You'll want to talk with her tonight."

Without really thinking about it, Erik nodded slightly. He was tired, actually. He hadn't traveled on foot that much since he was a boy, running from his mother's house.

Carefully, he lay back against the pillows, feeling tired and old; his bones were still sore from the weather and the travel, and he was still soaking. Quickly, he stood up from the bed, and pulled off his cloak, hanging it on a peg in the wall. He crossed the room to the little fireplace, and, using the tinder kit, managed to get a little fire flickering. He warmed his hands for a moment, then moved back to where he'd dropped his pack by the bed.

He took off the mask, and wrung it out, then set it by the fire to dry for a few minutes. Even though he was alone in the room, he did not feel comfortable without the mask. As quickly as he could, Erik wriggled out of his wet clothes, and placed them and his boots, by the fire. Barefoot, he went to his pack and dug through it. Under food and emergency provisions (Oh, Christine, he thought with a soft smile), he found a tunic and pants that were dry and pulled them on.

With nothing else to do, he padded around the room, silent as a cat. That, along with the power of his voice, was one thing that had not changed with age; Erik could still move without a sound.

Or at least, not a sound from the floorboards, he admitted as one of his knees cracked.

"Maudit storm" he grumbled, plopping moodily onto the bed. God above, but he hated getting old. It was in quiet moments like these that it was brought home to him; he did not have very much time left. He was thirty years older than his wife, and fifty one years older than his eldest child. He was nearing the end of his life.

Really, it amazed him that he hadn't died sooner, with his heart, and all the drugs he'd used in Paris and Persia. The scars - mental and physical - of both places still haunted him with a vengeance. It really was because of his wife and children that he still lived.

Like after that attack beneath the opera house, when Christine had removed his mask. For two weeks, she'd played nursemaid, and for most of the first of the two weeks, Erik had truly expected to die. In the first three days, it was near impossible to move without pain flaring in his chest.

But Christine, though she had been somewhat repulsed - Erik knew it, and hardly minded; there were times when his face still repulsed him, after all - had taken excellent care of him. She had brought every meal to him as he lay on the couch, and, on the first couple of days, had cautiously fed him by hand. If he hadn't let his foolish pride get in the way, he'd have stayed on that couch longer, as much to have more of Christine's devoted attention as to regain lost strength and let his body recover.

And yet, here he still was, alive, and waiting for his daughter to arrive at an inn, in a city in another world.

Frodo spoke to the man at the counter in the inn.

Arabelle didn't really pay much attention until she heard, "Underhill, my name's Underhil," from Frodo. It seemed odd that he should use a false name, but then she remembered what Gandalf had said back in Bagend.

You'll have to leave the name of Bagins behind you, for that name is not safe outside the Shire.

"We're friends of Gandalf the Gray," Frodo was saying. "Can you tell him we've arrived?"

The barman looked confused and the hair on the back of Arabelle's neck stood up. Something was not right.

"Gandalf," the man muttered to himself. "Gandalf... Oh, yes! I remember! Big gray beard, pointy hat."

Frodo nodded, a smile growing on his face, and Arabelle felt relief. They would be in safe hands soon.

"Not seen him for six months."

It took every ounce of Arabelle's will-power not to cry out in frustration.

"What do we do now?" she heard Sam whisper, and it was this that brought her out of her surprise. She might not know much about the situation, but someone had to hold them safe. Someone had to be sure that their size was not used against them.

"We will wait," she said softly. "We have a room. We ought all to take warm baths; we're soaked. Things will only go worse if one of us takes sick. Come. Who are we supposed to ask?"

...

...

Arabelle sighed as she slid completely under the water. Half an hour since they'd reached the Pony, the five friends were all ensconced in a washroom respectively, enjoying hot baths.

It has been too long, Arabelle thought to herself. Bree may have been a small village, but it had easy access to hot water with all the large fireplaces. And the size of the tub reminded her so much of home.

It was nice, to be able to take a bath in a tub that was meant for a human, rather than a hobbit.

Refreshed at last, she stood, and began to dry first her hair, then the rest of herself. Arabelle pulled a second dress from her pack - mercifully dry - and slid it on over her shoulders. Hair still damp, but looking more like curls than rat's tails, she stepped out into the hall, and made her way into the room that she and the hobbits had rented.

It was peaceful, there. Quiet and still. She could think, for a moment; alone and unwatched.

Arabelle certainly felt the need to think.

Gandalf was not here. Could that mean that her family was in danger? Had the wizard even been able to get them to the Rangers who would take them to Rivendell? Had he been delayed in meeting them? How would she get home, now?

Whatever had happened was not good. It unsettled Arabelle greatly that Gandalf was not there waiting for them all, but worse; they did not know why. None of the five friends could even begin to guess why the wizard was absent. Arabelle, though, had far more to lose if trouble had come. Her entire life was heaven only knew where, in this strange, dangerous world.

For a long moment, Arabelle fought tears. She could not keep the images of her loved ones, hurt or dead, somewhere in the wilds of this faraway place.

She ran her fingers back through her hair - a very Erik gesture - and sighed. Crying would not save her family. Crying would not keep her friends from harm. Crying would help no one. It was up to her now, to protect the hobbits and find out why Gandalf was not here.

"Oh, hello, Arabelle."

It was Merry. Arabelle offered a smile of welcome. She'd had the least interaction with Merry, but already she could see that he was like herself in many ways; stubbornly independent, brave, a bit rash, but still very much in need of his companions (Just as Arabelle felt lost without her father, so it seemed Merry felt lost without the other hobbits around).

At the moment, however, he just looked young and vulnerable, in only a shirt and his pants, still rubbing at his hair.

"I think I may go for a walk about after this," he was saying.

Arabelle shook her head.

"I wouldn't, Merry," she whispered. "Remember those riders. There is something inhumanly evil in them."

"They're following us, aren't they?" Merry asked, eyes wide.

Repressing a shiver, Arabelle glanced out the small window. The room they'd rented out was hobbit-sized. The innkeeper had one of his workers move in a larger bed for Arabelle, but everything else in the room was tiny.

"I wouldn't be surprised," she said absently, pulling her gaze back to Merry. "They did before. Remember yesterday?"

Merry nodded and looked back at the door.

"Will you come with us? Frodo said that they were all going to the taproom when they were done."

Arabelle smiled. Frodo was clearly very eager to see Gandalf and get the danger over with. Merry, it seemed, did not want to be alone; even with the larger Arabelle for company, he appeared nervous and unsure, looking like a wild creature ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

"Alright," Arabelle agreed, standing. "Let's go see the others."

...

...

Frodo was... dancing... on a table. It wasn't the strangest thing she'd ever seen, but for Arabelle, it came close. She knew when he'd been begged to get up there and sing that he had no desire to. His heart was not in it. Frodo was worried by Gandalf's absence, and didn't want to draw attention to their group.

Arabelle could understand why. The strangest sense of foreboding had come over her, and she felt it would be wise to keep a low profile here. Something was about to happen; something momentous, and Arabelle had no idea if it would be good, or bad.

When Strider saw the group enter, he did not at first see the girl. When he did see a female figure cross the barroom, she was well behind the group of hobbits. It was possible that this was not his target. That the people who had just entered were not the ones Gandalf had asked him to guide to Rivendell with him - seeing as Gandalf was not here, however, it seemed that he and Erik would be guiding them in the wizard's place.

When, half an hour later, the girl returned from the hall she'd walked down, a hobbit at her side, and sat with the three other halfling new-comers, he knew.

This was Arabelle; the daughter of his companion. He sat forward to go to her, tell her that her father was here, but someone shouted for one of the little ones - the one who had named himself Underhill when they'd arrived (he was Baggins, then; Gandalf had told him that Underhill would be his traveling name) - to sing a song. Underhill was obliged to stand on a table and sing.

At first, the little hobbit showed no interest whatsoever in it. But as the song progressed and nothing untoward occurred, he began to enjoy himself, and to dance a little jig. Near the end, he jumped and spun, very nearly landing on a tray of crockery and sending it and himself crashing to the floor. The fate was avoided, however, and the little one climbed down with the help of his friends amidst laughing and cheers.

"What's that?" Strider heard one of the halflings demand moments later.

"This, my friend," replied another, "Is a pint."

"It comes in pints?" the first gasped, barely waiting for his fellow to reply around a mouthful of cup. "I'm getting one."

"But you've had a whole half already!" a third hobbit argued. His words went unheeded, and likely unheard. The first hobbit was already climbing up onto a bar stool.

It was while the one was gone that the hobbit who'd spoken last noticed Strider's eyes on their company.

"That fellow's done nothing but stare at you since we arrived," he heard him say to the fourth, pointing out Strider's location.

The girl, Arabelle, quickly pulled his hand down.

"Do not make it so obvious that we know," she hissed. "Take care, Samwise."

So. Now he knew at least three names. The girl was, without doubt, Arabelle, Erik's child. The stout hobbit who'd noticed him was Samwise, and Underhill's true name, as Gandalf had told him, was Frodo Baggins. All he had now to do was determine the names of the other two, and he could go to them.

"Baggins? Sure I know a Baggins. He's over there. Frodo Baggins. He's my second cousin, once removed on his mother's side."

"Pippin!" the one now publicly identified as Frodo Baggins cried, leaping up. Strider saw Arabelle start after him, but the little one was already at the bar. He'd grabbed the other's arm - now identified as Pippin - to silence him, but tripped backwards over the foot of one of the men sitting there. There was a flash of gold and all Strider's doubts vanished.

Then Frodo disappeared.

Chaos erupted in the room.

Arabelle cried out, and ran to where Frodo had been. She pulled Pippin away from the bar, meaning to chastise and remind him that Frodo had given the innkeeper a different name on arrival, for a reason, but never got farther than getting him off his seat.

A man, cloaked and unknown, was forcing Frodo roughly up the stairs ahead of him.

"Sam! Merry!" she barked, pointing up the stairs. "He took Frodo. That way!"

The words seemed to wake Pippin up to the danger, and he grabbed the closest thing to hand - a chair - and followed.

As they rushed up the stairs, Arabelle drew her sword. She was furious; furious with this stranger for taking her friend, furious with herself for allowing it. She had vowed to protect Frodo and the others, and already, she'd failed. The moment trouble hit, she'd been so baffled by Frodo's disappearance that she'd let an unknown enemy slip right in and take him.

At the top of the stairs, they heard a door slam. Arabelle listened closely, and thought for a moment, then dashed to her left. There were only two doors down this way, and one of them was closed. With a snarl, she kicked out at the door with all her strength, and the five of them went charging into the room.

"Let him go, or I'll have you, Longshanks!" Sam growled, fists up.

Arabelle took Frodo by the arm and dragged him back behind her.

"You have a stout heart, little hobbit," the stranger said to Sam, sheathing his sword as he spoke. "But that will not save you."

As he spoke, Arabelle became aware of another in the room - hidden in the shadows by one of the two beds. Her defenses raised at once.

"You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo," the stranger continued. "They are coming."

The figure in the shadows had moved closer, and Arabelle caught a glimmer of eyes beneath the hood.

"Who is your companion?" she demanded. "I will not trust the word of one who keeps secrets."

The person stepped forward. He was incredibly tall and imposing, but when he drew back his hood with one pale, almost skeletally thin hand...

Arabelle let out a shriek and flew into her father's arms.

Chapter is finished! I had meant this to be up sooner, but I'm in a fight show, so I've been a bit busy with rehearsals. But I swear to you, guys, I won't abandon this. And I still intend to finish my other stories, fear not.

Erik; It's about damn time you brought my baby back to me!

... You're welcome.

Arabelle; DADDY! *promptly glomps Erik*

*father/daughter snuggle time*

D'awwww. Isn't that cute? Review, please!