Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to all who have shown interest in my story. In answer to Amarth: I regret to say that the Dwarves will not be making an appearance. I simply did not know enough about them nor very many of their names to form a pack. Perhaps I'll make them wolverines. And as for the Hobbits… read on.

This chapter isn't as long as the first. Sorry! I had to stop, or else the chapter never would have ended. Hopefully the advancement of the plot will make up for it's short length.

Things are getting deeper as the story unravels and the threat is made clear…

Chapter Two

In the northeast, a cold wind was biting across the tundra. It struck unmercifully against the two wolves huddled against its' chill.

            Thranduil and Legolas. The only surviving members of the Mirkwood pack. Famine had ravaged their land for years, slowly killing out the weaker wolves, until only the alpha and his son survived.

            Both were of the tawny, blonde fur color, with bodies that were too thin, weakened by the lack of food. Legolas had once been a pup famed for his speed; now, he was tethered by the duties of beta to his father.

            Survival was their only objective.

            Presently, when the wind wasn't snapping so hard, Legolas rose and paced about. His large ears swiveled back and forth, his nostrils quivering. He sensed a danger, a threat, but could not quite place it.

            Old Thranduil rose and sensed his son's nervousness. He nuzzled the younger wolf, telling him to calm down. But Legolas paid no heed.

            Not only did he sense some unknown threat, he had long ceased to be a calm and collected wolf. At times driven mad by hunger, he still pined for the loss of his family and stared into the bleak abyss of his future. There was little hope for the Mirkwood pack.

            And still, the shadow taunted him, teasing him and daring him to fight it…

            ~

To the south, another pack was restless. They, too, were small in number. And they, too, had a member who sensed danger.

            Young Eowyn of the Rohan pack was jumpy. She walked up and down the sleeping area, tossing her head and whimpering. Her brother Eomer tried to calm her, but to no avail.

            The alpha, Theoden, rested his weary head on his paws. He was getting older, and Eomer was not yet ready to take over the pack. The young male was strong and smart, this was true. But one obstacle remained in his way…

             A little distance off sat the beta. Wormtongue. Long-limbed and dark grey, he glared from his slit yellow eyes at Eomer from where he was. It was painfully obvious to Theoden that Wormtongue expected to lead the pack at the old alpha's passing. But it was not be. Eomer was far more suited to being a leader.

            But if he made Eomer the alpha… Wormtongue would surely fight him for dominance. And the young male was by no means ready for that. It took a powerful and experienced alpha, like Theoden, to keep unruly wolves like Wormtongue in their place.

            And still the young female Eowyn paced, turning her gaze towards the East.

            ~

            And far off in the West, all was peaceful.

            It was a lush green land, overflowing with partridges and ground squirrels, foxes and lemmings. Plenty to eat. No famine. And a pleasant wind that brought rain for the earth, and snow in the winter.

            The land of the Shire pack.

            Hobbit wolves are much smaller than either Elven or Numenor wolves. They are gentle and good-natured, with round little bellies, short stubby legs, and fine curly fur. They fight only when in danger of their lives, if then. Most of all, they know almost nothing of the world beyond their territory.

            For the Shire pack's land is separated from the rest by the icy River Brandywine. Few cross it, and it is a virtually impassable barrier, one that guards the Hobbit wolves from the anger and hatred outside.

            On a fair green hill the pack rested. The old alpha, Bilbo, dozed in a contented heap of brown fur. He was aged, but did not fear for his leadership, for he was also wise and knowing. He had lost his mate the year before shortly after she had her pups, but she had died a peaceful and natural death. Almost asleep, Bilbo still kept one eye on the activity below.

            Merry, the headstrong beta, was romping in the grass with the pups. He himself was only a little older than they, having risen to his position through his strength. He all but led the pack, looking to Bilbo for guidance occasionally but mostly playing the role of alpha.

            The other pups adored him. The two youngest, Pippin and Frodo, were particularly fond of tussling with the beta. Pippin was a bit too curious for his own good occasionally, and it often fell on Merry's shoulders to keep an eye on him. Frodo, in the meantime, was the sweetest pup that Bilbo could remember in a long time, with wide blue eyes that were a rarity among wolves.

            Pippin was currently in the process of pinning Merry, who was a deal larger than him but still played along, when Frodo bowled him over entirely. His quarry lost, Pippin turned his attention on the other pup and chewing his ears. Merry tackled them both, and they turned over and over in a pile of furry legs and paws.

            From the sidelines, Sam watched. He was a bulky little wolf, stout in body and heart. He preferred not to tussle, seeing as he was a bit too large for the pups and hadn't Merry's gentle touch. Instead, he watched, his mouth hanging open in a happy grin that showed his fangs.

            Old Gaffer, the senior member of the pack, ambled lazily up the hill and flopped down next to Bilbo for a nap.

            And Rosie, the pack's female, had her pretty brown eyes fixed on Sam, who watched the pups unaware.

            All was peaceful and serene, as the paradise of the Shire territory remained undiscovered.

            ~

            It was only a matter of time till the dam broke. And when it did, it came with dire consequences.

            The Gondor pack had split up for a hunt, lazily patrolling their tundra, when a gunshot shattered the air.

            Boromir threw himself to the ground in terror, having only heard that sound in connection with the death of his mother. A few feet away, Aragorn crouched low to the ground to make himself a smaller target. He knew of guns and their dangers, and was not so blindly afraid.

            Denethor and Faramir also huddled together, ears rotating to listen for any sign of danger. But Beregond was nowhere to be found.

            Not even an hour later, the pack stumbled across their beta, his body stretched out grotesquely in the snow. A black stain was spread across his chest… the stain of the Great Hunter.

            The alpha yelped in alarm, telling the pack to stay back. They stared at their fallen companion in shock for a while, Faramir pacing back and forth nervously. Denethor's ears strained, and he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. With a cry, the Gondor pack fled.

            ~

            Celeborn was startled awake in the middle of the night by the gut-wrenching wails of grief. It was the call of mourning. He got to his feet and listened.

            The Gondor pack was howling in agony, telling of loss and death.

            Counting the voices, Celeborn realized that Beregond, the beta, was not singing.

            Galadriel woke and listened, her eyes clouding with sorrow. Though she did not like the Gondor pack, it was heart-rending to hear their song.

            Suddenly, the voices ceased and Denethor sang alone. The message was horrifying:

            'Beware. The Great Hunter is on the prowl.'

~ To Be Continued