Sev left him periodically to row—in fact to take his shifts rowing—but he didn't notice. Whenever she returned to him she lifted him from the cold wood of the raft and into her arms, resting his head on her shoulder. He had since they begun quieted, but the pulse of life within him kept Sev beyond worry's reach, so she pressed to feel it.
Once he woke up she backed away, as he was still too entangled in sleep to notice she'd been holding him so closely. As soon as she slept Frodo managed to row for some time, allowing Merry and Pippin off to the side. Sam might have resisted if he'd gotten any sleep for the night, but had not so far, and so drifted away. Frodo took his moments completely alone to fear the Ring, and only hope they made it to Bree as quickly as possible. He stood near Sev, taking her warmth into his feet. He knelt down next to her resting form once the current seemed to carry them well enough, and his fingers brushed the hair out of her face. Warmth scattered up his arm like excited fireflies; he backed away before he wanted to do so.
Only when it began to rain did the other hobbits awaken, although Sev remained stock-still as the others hastily drew hoods over their heads. Merry quickly grabbed the oar from Frodo as Sev sat up. She turned to Pippin and asked under her breath if Frodo had done any rowing.
Pippin's only response to that was "No harm has been done."
She didn't quite understand, but she didn't ask and stood up to take the oar from Merry. They were near Bree; she could feel it . . . or at least she hoped she could. Before she could do anything, Merry docked against the side of the river, and Sam tied the raft down on the shore.
The rain, having begun earlier, suddenly began to pour hard. The hobbits pulled their hoods hard over themselves, and Frodo tried to subtly stick close to Sev; her warmth easily kept him dry. It perplexed him when the other hobbits seemed to keep their distance from her, and Frodo wondered if they were still intimidated by her.
When the five of them reached Bree's wooden city wall, Frodo stepped up to the main door to knock, but Sev covered it first. While she had no intention of speaking to any strangers, she did wish to help in whatever way she could. Then she stepped back and fingered the hilt of her dagger, waiting. A sheet of wood far above the hobbits' heads creaked open, revealing an elderly man with a lantern. He peered into the darkness.
"Who goes there?" he asked in a strong accent.
"We are hobbits of the Shire," Frodo said loudly, and the man finally looked down. He slipped the wooden sheet closed and ducked down to open one on Frodo's level. "We seek refuge at the inn of the Prancing Pony."
"Queer to have five hobbits out of the Shire at a time like this," the stranger mused. "What's your business in Bree?"
"Our business is our own," Frodo insisted.
"All right, all right, didn't mean to offend ye, little master," the man said. "Just strange folk been goin' about." He closed the smaller peek-door and opened the gate.
As she watched for the Prancing Pony, Sev dryly considered how a stranger could possibly be suspicious of "strange folk" if he knew anything about the people in Bree. Towering men shoved into Frodo, and shorter ones fingered Sev's hair and shoulders with dark chuckles. She hissed at them. Most would back away, but some pinched her cheek as they continued walking. She almost bit one for fear less would not keep her safe.
Frodo turned to at least make sure nothing had harmed her, but then she grabbed his shoulder and gestured ahead.
"The Prancing Pony," she muttered, and Frodo followed her gaze to a somewhat sinister-looking sign bearing a rearing horse and the name of the inn, all painted in fading gold. The hobbits dashed through the street, and Sev held the door open for them to enter.
Warmth—only in the most limited sense—reached them once they stepped inside. The men within (loud and abrasive) only frightened Sev more, and she stayed close to Frodo as the other hobbits lowered their hoods. Sev refused to, keeping hunched over. She still received odd glances, but refused to internalize them.
Frodo stepped up to the main counter, and Sev hastily followed. "Excuse me," Frodo called out over the clamor of the inn. An elderly fellow, Mr. Butterbur by way of what Sev recalled about Bree, bent over the desk, peering around until he spotted Frodo far below the level of where he'd been searching.
Mr. Butterbur greeted the hobbits and proceeded to outline the "nice accommodations for little folk, Mr. . . .?"
Frodo paused. "Underhill. My name is Underhill."
Mr. Butterbur nodded, although he looked a little skeptical.
Frodo continued. "We're friends of Gandalf the Grey; can you tell him we've arrived?"
Mr. Butterbur halted. "Gandalf?" He mused to himself for a frightening moment before epiphany crossed his face. "Oh, yes! He's an older fellow . . . long, grey beard, pointy hat." Frodo smiled and nodded hopefully, but halted when Mr. Butterbur concluded: "I haven't seen him around here for six months."
Frodo thanked him slowly and sank away from the counter. The hobbits began to huddle, and Pippin pulled Sev into the group of hobbits although she attempted to back out. She ended up sandwiched between Pippin's arm and Frodo's. She felt a blush running madly to her face, and didn't say anything. Frodo dried off quickly with her warmth nearby, and pulled her slightly away from Pippin. She glared at them both, although neither noticed enough or cared enough to let go.
"What do we do now?" Merry asked under his breath.
The consensus—headed by Pippin and joined by Merry, Sam, and eventually Frodo—was to get ale. Sev declined, wishing to keep her head. Besides, she'd tried ale once and understood perfectly why Rosie never took any for herself. Had the mood been lighter Pippin might have teased Sev about it.
The five were seated by Butterbur at a huge table and quickly offered mugs of ale bigger than Sev's head. She stared at them suspiciously as they were dispensed among the hobbits; she didn't trust anything about this place, particularly since men kept staring at her. She hissed, and some backed away.
Noting the benches weren't too long, Sev turned to go look for Gandalf . . . but Frodo didn't want her to leave too, so he gently grabbed her hand. She turned back to him. Noting the moment of loss in his eyes, she remained with him. She couldn't do much, didn't dare do much; sharing a bench with Frodo and Sam, she was shoved against the former to avoid falling off the edge. Frodo didn't mind it, as a matter of fact felt her closeness combating the Ring, combating the growing apprehension at Gandalf's absence.
Even when the mugs came out, Sev watched Merry slip away back to the bar. Sev glanced after him and the eyes following the halfling, then turned to shift her gaze to Frodo. Being so close she could see little until she noticed the darkness clouding his face. He fingered his mug and his thoughts muddled within him: worry for Gandalf, a growing purr of the Ring in his pocket, uncertainty about the future, fear lurking at every corner with enemies and ruffians on the rise.
Gandalf had to come.
Frodo didn't realize his thoughts decided to vocalize themselves. "He'll be here, Sev. He has to come."
Merry came back, but Frodo didn't notice. Sev glanced up at the hobbit, who eyed his enormous, foaming mug hungrily. When he sat down with a moan of ecstasy, Pippin spun to face him. "What is that?" He gawked.
Merry only flicked his gaze away from his precious mug for a moment. "This, my friend, is a pint!" He immediately turned and proceeded to bury his nose in his prize.
"It comes in pints?" Pippin's mouth opened wider as Merry made a distracted noise of pleasurable affirmation. Pippin set his sights on the bar. "I'm getting one."
Sev's eyes slipped closed as Sam tried to stop the relentless hobbit; getting drunk wouldn't help any of them, but at least Frodo hadn't even touched his. He stared distantly at the table. "He has to come, Sev."
Sev felt her sympathy growing, and her desire to protect the hobbit that mattered more to her than anything. She didn't want to watch him fall. Her fingers slipped over his shoulder, probing his back. Frodo's eyes flickered with the gentle warmth prodding the stress out of him. It lulled him to a gentle numbness; the cold fought with her warmth too hard to let it be anything better or more.
Sev's hackles raised when Sam tapped Frodo's shoulder, and he jolted. Her hand braced carefully against his shoulder, almost no longer present. Sam pointed past Sev. "That fellow's been nothing but staring at you since we arrived."
Sev only could process, Sam, you're not helping his stress before Frodo turned to her. Their noses almost touched before she looked away, into the corner where Sam had pointed. As Frodo tore his gaze from Sev, near as she was, to look up as well. Both pairs of eyes caught a hooded stranger, cold and haunting in the corner. He sat somewhat casually, and Sev immediately distrusted the look of him: how his legs crossed, the pipe in his mouth, the shadow of his eyes, the thin beard on his face.
Frodo leaned over Sev to catch Mr. Butterbur. Sev bent forward, but that only resulted in Frodo laying his arm across her shoulders once he caught the bartender's attention. The warmth calmed him, and she rested there, hoping he'd be all right.
"Excuse me," he said. Butterbur leaned over Sev, and she grew apprehensive. Her growl rippled against Frodo's arm. "Who is that man in the corner?"
Butterbur's expression darkened, and he inhaled slowly. "He's one of them Rangers. I don't know his proper name, but folks around here call him Strider." He turned away cryptically.
"Strider," Frodo whispered. Sev's eyes flickered up as Frodo backed off of her, and she saw the pipe's embers illuminate Strider's cloaked eyes.
Except for Sev's hand at his shoulder, Frodo couldn't feel anything anymore. The world melted away, and his eyes slipped closed. The Ring seemed to crawl out of his pocket and into his fingers. He turned the smooth, gold metal around in his fingers, a cold, harsh voice entered his mind.
Baggins. Baggins. Baggins . . .
Sev saw the Ring and reached forward frantically to alert him, but then something halted them both.
"Baggins!"
Frodo's eyes shot open. He turned around, and Sev glared as her gaze turned back to Pippin. The latter sat at the bar, gesturing to Frodo with his mug. "Sure, I know a Baggins! Frodo Baggins! He's over there."
Frodo glanced down in disbelief, and Sev's hackles raised. She turned to stop Pippin as he explained his relation to Frodo, but Frodo was faster, more desperate. He leaped up from the bench and dodged through the crowds to get to Pippin and grabbed his arm. Pippin shoved back, and Frodo collapsed to the hard floor. The Ring flew out of his fingers; Sev stared in horror as it flipped through the air. Frodo reached up to grab it . . . and it slipped around his finger.
Sev stiffened when he vanished, and she leaped up to find him.
Everything surrounding Frodo grew faded and blurry. The shapes of men and the entire inn blackened and grew almost liquid in form. Then a loud crackling coming from his side caused him to look up . . . and a fiery light filled his vision. A huge, draconic eye, composed almost entirely of fire, blazed through the inn. Its voice crackled and rumbled through the air.
"I see you," it growled.
Frodo scrambled away from the coming fire, then tore the Ring from his finger. The world faded back to a dim, relatively quieter reality.
Strider approached the floor where Frodo had disappeared, but Sev got there first, drawing her dagger. Strider turned to shove her aside as both spotted Frodo the moment the Ring came off.
Sev lunged against Strider's hand. "Don't hurt him." She intended for it to sound threatening, but it honestly came out far more of a plea. Frodo heard her and perked into a sitting position, scanning the room for her.
"If anything, he will hurt himself," Strider hissed, stepping forward. Frodo stood to back away, but his head solidly smacked against the table he'd hidden under. As he rubbed his head, Strider grabbed his upper arm in a vice grip and yanked him to his feet. Sev leaped for him, but Strider locked a hand around her shirt collar. She reasoned not to fight unless she knew he meant to harm Frodo.
"I wouldn't draw more attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill," Strider snapped, turning with both halflings. He shoved them both up the stairs; Sev followed Frodo until the ranger backed them in to the room he'd evidently taken for himself. He ushered them aside, and Sev protectively stepped in front of Frodo.
"I can avoid being seen when I wish," Strider said, turning away. He licked his fingers and began pinching out candles. Then, as he spoke he turned, letting his hood fall from his face. "But disappearing entirely! That is a rare gift."
Frodo swallowed, and Sev's fingers tensed around her dagger.
"That is no trinket you carry," Strider warned.
"I carry nothing," Frodo insisted. Sev flinched at the lie—as she always did—but remained silent.
"Oh, believe me, I know," Strider said.
Frodo's eyebrow cocked. "Who are you?"
Strider didn't respond, glancing at Frodo. "Are you frightened?"
Fearing the conversation's direction, Sev grabbed Frodo's hand while they spoke. She felt his pulse race under her fingers as he replied: "Yes."
"Not nearly frightened enough," Strider persisted. "I know what hunts you."
Sev leaned forward to ask more, for Willation had mentioned nothing about black riders. Immediately, however, the door flew open behind Frodo, and Sev slipped away from his side, drawing her blade while Strider did the same.
The three other hobbits stood outside, Merry with a chair, Pippin with a torch, and Sam with nothing but his fists.
"Don't touch them, or I'll have you, longshanks!" Sam exclaimed.
Sev relaxed, backing away, and Strider sheathed his weapon. "You have a stout heart, master hobbit, but that will not save you." He gestured to the wall, where there were four beds lined up. Although Sam graciously offered to give up his own rest, Sev declined and backed away from the hobbits while they tried to sleep.