Middle-Earth, The Shire: T.A. 3019, September 22nd
Saruman had once been the greatest wizard, no, the greatest power ever to set foot on this wretched land. In some, nay in many ways he still was, yet as he and the few ruffians he had managed to hire – at great personal cost –stumbled through these wretched halfling woods, he couldn't deny that he had taken a bit of a tumble in that department recently.
Halflings, what a useless insectile race; no wonder the dark lord hadn't even bothered to learn of them until last year. Perhaps not the wisest of actions considering, but certainly understandable.
Another leaf landed and subsequently tangled in the great wizard's long flowing hair. By now he supposed it would make quite a fine nest for a passing bird, well at least he'd have power over some form of life. How truly pathetic he had become. Never matter though, soon this pathetic mode of existence would cease; and how appropriate that such a thing should end in the land of the vermin who had caused it to begin with.
The Shire, Hobbiton, The Mayor's Office: T.A. 3019, September 22nd, around the same time
Faldo Proudfoot was not best pleased. This was not a particular anomaly with old Proudfoot these days, for he was rarely even slightly pleased. The only thing noteworthy of today's mood was whom it was directed at. Lotho Sackville-Baggins had almost become as big a pain in the Mayor's side as his cousin before him.
In a place like the Shire, where the most appreciated people were farmers, land was everything. In the past – or so the Mayor had read – all the land had been the property of the great families, like the Tooks or the Brandybucks. That was until tenant farmers began buying the land that their families had farmed for generations. From then on, any hobbit with a big enough bank account could buy land. More than a few of the gentry, the Sackville-Baggins included, bemoaned and lamented this fact as the beginning of the end for polite society.
It had started fairly simply, a field of Long Bottom leaf here, a couple of low rent cottages there, nothing that a well to do hobbit lad wouldn't normally set his cap on. However, it was around the time the fool boy had bought his first mill, that Proudfoot had begun to see something to worry about. Yet by that time it was too late to stop it, at least with legal measures – not that legality really concerned most folk after he'd done away with those lawyer pests. But no matter how many of the brat's properties "accidently" caught on fire, Sackville would only buy more of them. Before long Sackville owned more than half the Shire and to most hobbits that put him higher in authority than even the Mayor. How had Proudfoot let this slip by him? Sackville hadn't exactly been quiet about his extravagances; ever since the Baggins boy had packed up and sold Bag-End, the wealthy little fool had been almost unbearable in his smugness. And Faldo should know, he had to grow up with at least seven masters of smug superiority.
He pushed himself away from his desk and stalked over to the open window. His back hunched as he glared sourly out of it; the leaves were turning a golden-brown colour on the trees and it wouldn't be long now until the first fall of snow. He knew he should be out there; checking on the harvest, making sure all the demands of his office were met…but he just couldn't muster the energy for it today. He found he could muster the energy for very little since Sackville had begun his spending spree.
Right now, he didn't even have the energy to dwell on such things, for his mind kept returning to thoughts of his brothers. Where they could be, who they were now, what trouble could they be making for themselves? All these were answers he had little way of discovering out here in the Shire. He rarely thought of them if he could, it was simply too frustrating; reminding him too clearly of the hole he had dug for himself in this insipid little land. He couldn't just take off to look for his brothers now, no he had responsibilities to live up to.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time, the only way he could see to protect himself and his 'wife' from the Ganymen. His wife, it was still an odd feeling to have a wife. In his last life he had been far too caught up fulfilling the oath or his infatuation with Lúthien to consider actual marriage to somebody. It had been quite a pleasant feeling to begin with, but by the time of his second term as Mayor all he saw when he looked her way was a shackle. Tying him to this land, to these strange people who wouldn't even amount to a speck in the history of Arda, and away from the people he cared about the most. No, things could not go on as they had been, she would have to go.
It was fortunate then that she was the one to deliver the news of the wizard and his ruffians to him, it would have been so inconvenient if he had had to sate his hunger on another one of his underlings. The disappearances were becoming somewhat difficult to explain.
Five hours later
If Saruman had even bothered to imagine the kind of reception he would receive from the hobbits, it would certainly not have been this. For one thing he had never imagined there were this many hobbits in such fine garb, nor so many that could ride horses – even if they were more miniature in stature than such a beast should be.
'Saruman the White?' The leader of the band of hobbits spoke, or rather the hobbit with the fanciest garb spoke.
'That man, whoever he was or might have been, is dead. My name is Saruman of many colours.'
The hobbit smirked at the wizard and replied in a tittering little voice that grated on the Maia's already fractured nerves.
'Indeed. Well whatever name you go by these days mine remains the same, I am Faldo Proudfoot, Mayor of this fair land. I extend to you such a welcome as my position warrants, I give to all visitors.'
The hobbit extended his bejewelled hand, clearly expecting Saruman to do the same. After what seemed like ages, the hobbit finally lowered the ignored hand, his smile stretching just an inch thinner.
'Well, since the niceties are over, I'll get right down to business. SOMEBODY GET ME THE DOCUMENT AND A QUILL!' The last part had been screamed over his shoulder and a small, raggedy looking scribe scuttled out from behind the grander company, and handed the requested items up to the repugnant hobbit.
'Right, if you'll just sign here,' the quill was thrust into Saruman's hand and he found himself signing before he could stop to think. The parchment was rolled quickly shut and sealed by a heavy looking, stamp the second the wizard had taken his pen away from it.
'Well, that's all settled now.' The hobbit handed the rolled-up parchment back to Saruman with far more flair than the action truly warranted. 'I Faldo Proudfoot hereby relinquish my stewardship of the Shire to you…Saruman of Many Colours. Say hello to the new mayor of the Shire, boys.'
There was a half-hearted clap from the hobbits around them, and Proudfoot slapped his palms together as if to call an end to the whole sordid meeting.
'Well, we really must be off, so much to do: people to see, things to eat you know us hobbits, can never have too many meals in the day. Ha! But all joking aside my good wizard, we really must be off! Do be kind to my office, I just had it reupholstered.' The hobbits thundered past the dumbstruck wizard and men, or as much thundered as hobbits on pot-bellied ponies could thunder.
'Well,' said Wormtongue, breaking the silence at last. 'I suppose we better go down then.'
Saruman could only nod, still in too much shock to speak, as he followed his servant and his men down the hill. This was not the way he had imagined this going.
The Shire, the Town of Little Delving, Westmarch: T.A. 3019, September 22nd, several hours later
The young hobbit, in a scruffy scribe's uniform stood in the middle of the square and bellowed to all that would hear him.
'Hear ye, hear ye! Faldo Proudfoot is no longer mayor; he has relinquished his post to someone whom he deemed far worthier of the position than he himself could ever be!'
Around him the hobbits that had gathered began to mutter disapprovingly and speculate on the sanity of their former Mayor.
'Well then,' one of the larger millers of the area yelled over the boy. 'Who has that fool given our Shire to? Come on boy speak up, some people haven't got all day to think of politics. Some of us actually have work to be going back to.'
The boy scribe scowled, his ears turning a nasty shade of red at having been so rudely broken from his flow of thought. But he did in the end, answer the large miller's question; or rather he stepped aside and let the strange man in robes of many colours answer for him.
'I am Saruman of many colours, and I am your new god. Bow and worship at my feet, for there will be no mercy for those whom do not comply with my will.'
At first only silence greeted that strange statement, then a couple of children began to titter, and then their parents joined in and before Saruman could say another word the whole crowd was roaring with laughter.
A few steps behind the wizard Wormtongue began to cringe. Growing up in the horse obsessed nation of Rohan and not being particularly inclined towards the beasts, had long ago trained him for the jeering cackle of a crowd. Yet Saruman, despite his recent indignities, had never heard it, for no one with any sense, not even an orc would laugh at a wizard. Yet these halflings did so now, and quite loudly for such small creatures if the servant was to be truthful.
And as for his master, well when Wormtongue would look back on this incident he would concede that although this was a new experience for the wizard, his reaction to it was disappointingly predictable.
Every single house, mill, farmer's market, dance hall, blacksmith, everything in Little Delving was a blaze in less than a minute. The cackling around them had turned to screams of terror and Saruman roared with his own laughter.
'Every hobbit will die. You serve no purpose in my plans, no purpose to the world, you are a waste of the gift of men, the people you sponge off of; really, I'm doing everyone a favour. Goodbye, even your screams bore me.'
The Shire, Northfarthing, Bindbole Wood: T.A. 3019, September 30th
Daisy Gamgee did not particularly care for the out-doors. Not that she didn't see the use of it, you couldn't grow up as a hobbit or a Gamgee and not, but she'd never really seen the good of her being out in it. It was all right for Samwise, who was a gardener born, or Hamson who had to travel a great deal for his work, but she was a solicitor. The only time she should be outside is when she was running to the market to stock up her larder.
Yet here she was, in one of the most out-door parts of the Shire, clinging to a jagged cliff face. And why, well same reason most folks in her family ended up doing things they were unsuited for really: a blooming wizard. But none of that really mattered until she found her sister again. At least she had an idea where the daft lass would be: in that blasted cave.
Marigold rarely left that cave since Ma had died, not at all since Sam had left with his Mister Frodo on some foolish quest. Marigold had never exactly been specific on where her secret cave was hidden; but she had dropped enough hints over the years for Daisy to guess. She knew for a fact it was in this bloody wood because her sister had said so herself last Feasting Night; after much precarious amounts of alcohol.
Daisy's shins scraped against the rock as she pulled herself fully onto the small ledge. She barely had time to try and dab the blood away with her ragged robe – one she had used for official business back when the Shire was still allowed lawyers - before it caught her eye. Perhaps it had once been the entrance to a cave, but something had destroyed it. The way was crumbled and filled in with large rocks. A wave of panic gripped the eldest daughter of Hamfast Gamgee then, and she lunged for the once entrance and began to scramble against the rocks, all the while screaming: 'Marigold! Marigold!'.
Marigold had kept herself in the same trance since the morning her brother Sam had left Hobbiton. It wasn't as hard a thing to do as some people thought, you just had to keep your focus and Marigold Gamgee was very good at doing that.
Or at least she was good at doing that when her name wasn't being screamed incessantly from the mouth of the cave.
'Daisy?' If there was anyone who she would have bet good money would not be found near the mouth of her cave that cold September day, it was her sister Daisy. There was never a more indoors hobbit born in all of the Shire.
Rising onto the balls of her feet Marigold peered out of the small gap between the stones of the gateway. Yep, there she was, she was a tad dirty and ragged looking but there was no doubt that it was actually Daisy. She was even wearing the robe Marigold and Sam had given her when she'd passed the Shire's bar exam – they'd saved a whole half-year of earnings between them to afford it. It almost made her want to scream to see the state of it now.
'Marigold! Marigold where on earth are you!' Her sister's voice was beyond frantic by this point and Marigold's pity overrode her need for secrecy. Tapping a combination of small pebbles to her left, the rocks began to move; but rather than going forward – where they would no doubt have crushed Daisy, they rolled sideways. Almost as if they were sinking into the walls themselves.
Whatever they were really doing, they were gone soon enough and now nothing stood between the two Gamgee sisters. It was Daisy who took the incentive then, throwing her dangerously thin arms around her pale sister.
'Stupid girl.' She murmured into her younger sister's golden curls.
'Funny coming from the one who climbed up here in her good robe. Watcha thinking of Daisy, you could get caught by one of Proudfoot's boys if you're not careful.'
Daisy seemed to crumple then, as if all of the energy that had been holding her up thus far had just drained out of her body then. Marigold wrapped an arm round her sister and tried to drag her into the cave, but she wouldn't be moved until she said her piece.
'Proudfoot's gone Marigold, Sharkey rules the Shire now.'
It is said that in every Ganyman's life there comes a time when they will look at the dead, at the wraiths hiding behind the crack in the world and they will think, look at all I have done for them. Isn't it only fair they repay the favour?
The Prince had done it, and so had a thousand generations of Ganymen after him. Hobbit upon hobbit, upon hobbit all looking into that gash in the sky and thinking, why shouldn't I? The dead were once living, wasn't it their duty to help the living? To help me? However, all of them, every lass or lad that had ever held a Gany-staff, had thought better of it. The dead were not meant to dwell with the living, even for a short time. This is known.
So, all of them turned away, until of course…Marigold Gamgee.
One week later
Sharkey's thugs had taken to patrolling round the edges of the Shire, just in case some unlucky fool was quick enough to get by the trapping gates. Such a group of thugs was lingering near the base of the party tree now. A few of the more alert members hefted axes over their shoulders, but the rest were far too high on Old Toby to be much use even to their masters now.
It was about the same time that that first axe hit the trunk of that tree that the ground began to shake. Most of the men were already stretched out on their backs so this caused them little more grief than throwing them up in the air and landing hard on their arses. The men on their feet on the other hand, well at least now they knew those axes were sharp enough.
For their leader – the only man whose blade had hit the tree instead of his own neck – the sight that now surrounded him was something out of some kind of nightmare.
In front of the man the ground had spilt open; transforming what had once been a rolling field of well-trimmed grass and neatly planted flowers into a bottomless hole that seemed to suck all the light out of the sky. Strange creatures of smoke and soot were clawing their way out of that hole, their gnarled hands scratching at the earth as they struggle upwards, leaving long gashes of scorched rock in their wake.
If he'd been at all able to the large man would have moved, run even. But he was trapped. Frozen to that spot, not purely out of terror – although that was very much a part of it – but because the palms of his hands, during all the turmoil had somehow fused to the handle of his axe. He'd have screamed at that too, if his mind hadn't been so preoccupied with screaming at the creature, no the hobbit lass now standing right in front of him. Around her feet the ash and dust from below flicked and danced as if her furry toes were some form of stage for them. Then just as he was about to faint from the terror, she spoke in the most Hobbitish way possible.
'Now see here Lad, you're treading on the land of my people with no right warrant to do so. Chopping down trees, burning whole villages and towns to the ground if they don't agree with you. I'd call you a right daft one, if that weren't an insult to every daft bairn that walked upon and under this earth. Wizards should know better than meddling with folks they don't hardly understand. Hm, well you might be no wizard but the one you serve certainly is, run off and fetch him will you. Me and mine have some choice words to bend his ear with this day.'
'So, you see you really have to leave my dear wizard, or we'll be forced to kill you.'
The creature in front of him talked as a Halfling did, it even looked slightly like a Halfling, but it just simply could not be one. Halflings were nothing, no power within them at all, they were even worse than men. The hobbit shaped creature that sat in front of him now was something quite different, she didn't just have the potential for power, it throbbed through her like nothing he had ever felt before.
'What manner of creature speaks to me now?' Said the quite mad wizard.
'A Ganyman sits in front of you wizard, though we are not creatures as you so call me, merely professionals who take the wellbeing of our clients quite seriously indeed. Which getting down to the point again, you'll have to leave. Otherwise, we'll be forced to kill you, we don't want to mind you; because hobbits are a peaceful folk, but we will if you don't stop this foolishness right this instant.'
The wizard's face twisted into a distorted mockery of a smile and he leaned over the desk – which was far too small to incorporate his frame anyway – and he began to laugh.
'Oh dear, oh dear; a hobbit girl with her skirts all in a twist tells me I must leave? Truly I have been bested this day, truly this is my weakest hour.'
As his laughter bounced round the room, filling it with its boisterous sound, another far smaller noise joined it. It was a small creaking sound almost like… Saruman's desk finally gave out from under him.
The wizard's face turned an impressive shade of rouge as he lay there sprawled across the shattered remnants of his desk. And then Marigold did something that she would come to regret sourly in the coming days, she laughed.
Middle-Earth, The Shire, First Trapping Gate: T.A. 3019, November 1st
'Well,' said Merry, his face falling as he looked up at the great wooden obstacle. 'Whose bright idea was this, do you suppose?'
Pippin who had climbed down off his fine pony to take a better look at the bloody great thing, frowned up at his cousin.
'I'm expecting it was probably one of Proudfoot's lot or the like, but there's no way to be sure unless we go knock. I just hope it's not a Took that's gone off the deep end like this.'
'Valar help us if we ever have to go up against that Pip, but I feel this is something different entirely.' Frodo sighed, flexing his gloved hand as he stepped off his own pony. 'It doesn't feel like Proudfoot's work either, as mad as that hobbit may be, I don't believe he would ever actually block off the Shire like this. Even in that twisted little mind, it simply makes no practical business sense.'
Behind them Sam grunted as he swung his bad leg over his pony's side. 'Proudfoot's done far worse than put a gate up before.'
Approaching the strange gate Frodo raised the hand that still had all five fingers and rapped his knuckles against it. Above them a small slit opened, and a pair of very blue, very familiar eyes looked down upon the four hobbits.
'Sam Gamgee? Where the Blarney Son have you been all year, you left our Rose in a fit of worry.' Sheepishly Sam hobbled to the front of the four hobbits and called up to the irate farmer.
'I'm grieved to hear that Tom; I didn't mean to hurt them when I left. If you open this gate for us, I'll tell as much as I can about where I've been wondering this past year. Then perhaps you'd be up to telling us what's been occurring in the Shire, this is a mighty impressive gate you've got here. You wouldn't mind telling me how that came about would you?'
To the left of them a small, thus far unseen, doorway clicked open and Pearl Took stuck her head out.
'Well then come on in, quickly now before somebody sees you. I've got quite a few things to say to you Peregrin Took and quite a few things to yell at the rest of you.'
The doorway was so narrow in width that they had to go single file and turn slightly sideways as they went through it. As soon as they were, Pippin and Frodo found themselves caught in the choking embrace of Ms. Pearl Took. She had probably wanted to whack them across the ear just as hard, Sam concluded, but concern for her brother and the fact that nobody really wanted to hit Mister Frodo won out in the end.
'Running off like that with not even a note left behind, well I just don't know you anymore, Peregrin Took. I don't know whether to be enraged that you would go throwing yourself in harm's way like that or relieved that you somehow threw yourself out of it at the same time. At least for now, though if you think you're heading into that place with some foolhardy plan to make it as it once was, I will hit you with my ring hand.'
'What?' Said Pippin who was almost too flummoxed by his sister's words to speak.
'I believe you have much to tell us, perhaps we should hear it in a safer location though.' Frodo had never been completely comfortable in darkness again after the quest.
Sliding down from somewhere on high Tom Cotton's voice hollered down to them over Frodo's concerns.
'If privacy's want you want Mister Frodo, then there's no better than this here trapping gate.'
Frodo's polite smile froze on his face and stretched nearly an inch thinner before he was able to speak again.
'Well then, I suppose you might as well tell us what's been going on here, for starters what on earth is a trapping gate?'
'It's a gate that traps things Frodo, try not to tire yourself with that implication.' A small candle flickered to life under Pearl's face as she set it down on the small table in the middle of the wooden chamber. It was barely strong enough to light the table, but at least they could see each other's faces now.
'Sharkey raised them to begin with, faster than any hobbit could think to pull them down. And before you ask no I don't particularly know who he was before he came here, I don't particularly care either.' It was to her brother who Pearl Took directed this last scathing remark at.
'Sharkey raised them with magic.' And something in the way she said it, so calm, so final, broke Merry then.
'What on Valar happened here Pearl? Who on Middle-Earth is Sharkey and what did he do to the Shire?' Merry's voice was just short of shrieking by this point. 'Is he some kind of wizard, how on earth are you hiding from him, or are you not doing that at all? Are you working for him, are we your captives? What have you done Pearl Took, I thought we were family?!'
The room blazed with light then, the shadows scuttling backward into its farthest corners. The illumination brought clarity to where they sat, the tall narrow walls of the trapping gate now brought to the forefront of their thoughts.
But the four weary travellers barely glanced at them anyway, no their main focus was sitting right in front of them, a hand curled round what had once been the gentle flame of the candle. Tom Cotton grinned at the four and released the flame, letting the room fall back into darkness once again.
'There are no collaborators in this gate, Brandybuck. You ought to be watching your mouth lest we start to think you might be one yerself.' Tom Cotton's rustic drawl was dark and low, resembling far more a dog's growl than a voice of a hobbit.
Pearl snorted.
'Yes, well if Mr. Cotton is done showing off, perhaps we better see you home and on your way.'
'Yes,' said Frodo at last. 'Yes, I think that would be best.'
Ash clung to their clothes as they rode by what had once been a thriving part of the Shire. The houses, those that were still able to stand that is, were charred. Their once brightly painted doors all molten and black, fused to the stone as if someone had set Dragon's Fire against them.
Sam's fingers trembled against the reins of his pony, and his leg ached something fierce. He didn't know who this Sharkey fellow was, but he had a horrible feeling of what he'd done to the Shire. At the head of the small party Tom and Mister Frodo turned left, up the path that would lead to Bagshot Row and Sam felt a sudden overwhelming fear grip him then. He didn't know what he would find up there, and a small tiny part of him didn't want to find out.
As they wound down the path towards Bag-end, hobbit children skittered round the legs of their ponies, their heads bowing as the party passed. Sam frowned down at the little ones, never having known a hobbit child to seem so thin and ragged before.
Tom raised his hand and called the others to a stop, glancing over his shoulder at them he nodded in the direction of Bag-End, or rather what had once been Bag-End. For it could no longer be called that anymore, for one thing because it was no longer at the end of Bagshot Row.
A line of small, round tin houses had been erected to the right of the once great smial of the Baggins clan. They didn't seem to have anyone living in them, so Sam failed to see the point. Other then of course to make their once beautiful and comforting home seem even more bleak and abysmal, as if Bag End itself didn't already accomplish that.
The once hobbit-hole had always been of an impressive size, it was the finest crafted in the Shire after all, but it had never been…well what they saw now. The thing stood taller than any hobbit could ever reach, a large spherical chimney set in its sharp angular roof. No longer was its door of the pleasant wooden variety, now it seemed to have been modelled after the very gates of Mordor itself. The whole thing existed in a cloud of smog of its own creation, and Sam could tell Mister Frodo felt faint just looking at the monstrous thing.
Then those terrible doors opened, and a man stepped out; and Mister Merry and Pippin looked like they were about to be sick.
'Wormtongue,' the man's head flicked round at the sound of Merry's voice and he stared at the five hobbits. And then the most amazing thing of all happened, instead of retreating like a wraith into this terrible version of Bag End, Wormtongue approached them.
He seemed unwilling to meet Merry or Pippin's eyes but smiled almost gratefully up at Tom Cotton. Something that seemed even stranger, was that Tom Cotton smiled back at Wormtoughn as if the two were actually on friendly terms.
It was absurd.
'How goes the reconstruction, Grim?'
'It will take time to mend the damage Master Cotton, but we're making a good start – the interior of the smial is almost restored. Although it may be some more months before we can move onto the rest of the lane, let alone…let alone everything…else.'
Grima Wormtongue trailed off at that, his shoulders hunching in on themselves. Thin and ragged as he was now, he looked almost harmless. And yet how could a man who had betrayed his own people – a people as wonderful as the Rohan had been to Merry, and hobbits like him - could ever be so humble, or so trustworthy. He knew things, terrible things, and innocence could not be so easily feyned to those who knew who the rat's master was. It would seem, that his cousin had a similar notion, for he was talking now, strong and forceful like any true leader should address his subject – and he was talking to Wormtongue.
'Where is your Master, Grima? Where is Saruman? For I have need to speak with him,' said Frodo Baggins, with all the weight of a judge passing sentence. But Grima Wormtongue did not answer him, instead he crunched back and let his eyes fall entirely to the ground. It was Tom instead, who sighed – a peculiar sound, filled with deep sorrow. Though why anyone would feel grief for Saruman, even if they did not know him as the monster he was, was something Merry Brandybuck just could not comprehend.
'I'd hoped we could put this off, but I suppose that was a fool's hope.'
'What are you talking about, Tom?' Said Samwise Gamgee, who had been a silent as a dead fly as they rode up Bagshot Row but now trembled with energy that he Brandybuck could not quite place. 'What happened here, where is that villain Saruman?'
'She stopped him,' said the farmer in exhaustion.
'She? Who is she?' Replied the gardener.
'Oh Sam, you already know.'
Same place, Seven Weeks ago
Marigold Gamgee was going to die; she'd realised this as soon as she stepped out of her cave but only now did, she fully comprehended what this would mean for the Shire. Another wave of energy struck the rock she had taken shelter behind, she rolled away just before one of them could find its mark on her head.
No more Ganymen, sure Proudfoot had tried his darnedest to eradicate them, but he could only ever have succeeded on a legal level. He couldn't destroy them completely, couldn't make them forgot who they used to be, forget what the ancestors had taught them. No, all that had taken was for one stupid selfish girl to hoard that knowledge. To not teach it to others even when they begged her, to haul herself away in her cave denying that she needed anyone else to complete her calling. No, all it would take was one selfish individual like that and Ganymen would be truly dead. At least in the shire anyway
A sharp pain down her leg told her that she hadn't rolled fast enough. One of the blasts had clipped her in the shin. Glancing down she saw the thick line of blood running down her leg.
'Come out little Hobbit, I have a gift for you.'
Marigold Gamgee was going to die that day, without even a song to mark her passing Perhaps that was true, perhaps this was fated, for her to die for her people and not even be remembered. But that did not mean that she would just sit here, waiting for such a day, for such a moment to come. If this was her day to die, then she would take the wizard with her.
She stood up, from behind her rock and faced the wizard. Or course doing this meant that her vision of the surrounding area was now no longer impeded. From up on the hill of Bagshot row she could see miles of the Shire, of Hobbiton below her and it was a terrible sight indeed. And yet it was not the sight of the ripped fields, or broken trees or even the destroyed rubble of the houses of her neighbours that made the young Ganymen tremble that day. No, it was the sight of the dead, of the creatures of shadow and earth that she had called forth from the world between worlds.
It was they, not Sharkey, that had split the land, struck down so many of it's people and sank their teeth into their necks…it was the dead. You see the land of the dead is a terrible place, even the dead do not wish to dwell there, and by letting the dead back out onto the living plain – no matter how needed the intervention – Marigold had passively given them permission to come and reclaim that bright realm for their own. But the dead cannot truly exist in this world anymore, and thus the only outcome was mutual destruction on all sides.
And looking now at the wizard, as he laughed maniacally and raised his staff to strike her down, Marigold understood what she must do. It was the only way to break the spell that brought the warriors of the dead forth – she and the wizard must die today, by each other's hand or the counter spell she was even now muttering under her breath, would not work at all. And as he raised her own staff to meet his, she thought about poor, simple Sam away on his journey with Mister Frodo. Ah Sam, she would tell him one day when they met each other again on the other side of the crack between worlds; see who is the murderer now.
Middle-Earth, The Shire, T.A. 3021, October 6th
In the middle of the party field there stands a tree – it is an elvish tree though of what kind most folks won't be able to tell you. We could waste valuable narrative time extolling on the wondrous virtues of the tree: it's beauty, it's wisdom, it's general good behaviour at festival time; but to be honest we probably don't have the time.
Besides it's not really the tree that matters anyway, but rather the hobbit that planted it. He kneels now in front of it, well…in front of the stone planted at it's base anyway. It is a headstone, with the name Marigold Gamgee etched onto its black stone.
The Hobbit smiles a tired grin at the thing, and he slowly traces the letters of the name with his shaking hands.
'Mister Frodo left today Gold, off to see the elves. In there…in their land across the sea. I didn't know he was gonna leave, or I'd have told you last time we talked. Just thought we were taking Mister Bilbo…but looking back now I really should have known. He was…he was never quite the same after the ring. He'd take these funny turns you see, go all quiet and lock himself in his study. I thought…well…I thought that was just normal, after all Mister Bilbo did that all the time. Especially on the anniversary of Da's death. Me and Rosie we tried to help, and little Elanor too…in her little ways. She's only a babe still, but growing Gold…growing fast. She looks a bit like you, mostly like Rose, but the hair's all you.'
He sits there on relative silence and lets the tears trickle down his cheeks again.
'I wish you were here; I wish I could have been more of a help to both of you – but well, listen to me waffle. You've got better things to do than listen to old Sam; Ganyman like you, why in the other world I bet you're a fine lady warrior. With a fine silk dress and a sword at your hip – just as proud as Mari on her wedding day1. I don't mean to keep you, just…just wanted to talk. I know where Mister Frodo's going, it's for the best…but I just needed to get the weeping out before I try and explain that to Rose.
'Oh Rose, she'll be ever so grieved – she…she was going to make his favourite dish tonight – that will be a bitter sweet meat to swallow now. Still, must get on, can't leave her to worry about me too…that will do no one's nerves any good.'
And with that the hobbit got up, patted the stone and left. The stone remained standing; it's face blank, just like all stones. And something was odd about that headstone. For it was almost like it was watching the hobbit leave, with eyes of its own.
Back at Bag End
Rosie Gamgee held her daughter to her breast as her husband hung up his cloak at the door.
'Well, I'm home.'
She couldn't help the smile that came to her lips at his tired voice; it had been a stressful day for both of them perhaps, but there was almost nothing the sound of his voice couldn't fix for her. Well almost nothing, he certainly couldn't make the hobbit sitting in the armchair opposite her go away.
'Will? Will Whitfoot? My Ancestor, what are you doing here? I'd thought you would be hard at work in Little Delving.'
The large hobbit puffed up his chest and shook his head.
'Not today Sam, in fact I have a little proposition for you, and I was hoping you'd take the time to hear me out.'
Sam's eyes flicked to Rosie's and he frowned slightly when she gave no nod of encouragement.
'Okay…but I can't promise anything.'
'That's where we hit a road-block Sam, this isn't really a request, it's an order from the Mayor of the Shire.'
Sam's face screw up, the faint lines of his old scars puckering under the strain. 'Order? What need of you to throw such a weight around Will? I thought we were friends; you should know old Sam would never turn you down. Not capable of it.'
And Will Whitfoot laughed at that, though it was a strange sound – forced and too loud to be of natural make. It made Rosie want to shrivel up and wilt back into the ground. But enough of that kind of thought, Sam was sitting down now a look of confusion across his lovely lined features.
'What is this Will? What's wrong?'
'Nothing!' Snapped the politician too loudly.
Sam's mouth disappeared into a line, and Will Whitfoot sighed and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a letter, with a golden seal of a turtle-fish emblazoned upon it.
'You have a brother in the East, don't you?'
And as Sam took the letter and read it with growing horror and wonder, Rosie looked down again at the golden crown of her daughter's head. Sometimes if she grew tired or lost focus on her training, she'd not be able to see her baby girl at all; all she would see was a small glowing ball of perfect light.
1 Just as proud as Mari on her wedding day – a saying referring to the ancient hobbit Mari (sometimes referred to as Mary in more modern tellings of the tale) who instead of going along with her greed obsessed father's plan to marry her off to an evil king, chopped her bride-grooms head off with a battle axe when he stood beside her at the altar. She then led a rebellion against the evil King's government. The species of the evil king often depends on the telling; some say he was a goblin, others an orc, but many of the more rustic tellers will stay true to the belief that he was one of the encroachers. A strange, very vaguely described race that show up in most early hobbit legends.