A/N: Written for a challenge on the Nightrunners' message board. This is actually sort of fanfiction of fanfiction, if such a thing were possible; I'm playing around in the Nightrunners' version of Tolkien's universe. Thus, I own very little in this story, and bow repeatedly to Tolkien and The Nightrunners while backing away from those who wish to sue me. Thanks to Eric for inspiration, and kudos to anyone who catches the pun in the title.

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I first saw him under a bush.

He was actually under the bush; he had wrapped himself as close as possible to the bush's stem, so that all I saw was a bundle of black cloth with a couple of bare feet sticking out. Boston was enjoying her first sun in a long time, and the campus was sprinkled with students who'd taken their textbooks outside for the afternoon, but he was still an unusual sight.

I sat on a nearby bench and began to look over the task I'd set myself – grading essays. Notwithstanding all the to-do students make writing them, I still believe it's ten times more trouble to grade the blasted things. One can catch the faint sparks of a mind waking up perhaps one time out of a hundred. It is, to say the least, a thankless task.

I looked up sharply at a couple of distant cars backfiring. Old reactions die hard. One hand almost made it to the bulge in my armpit I tried not to think about. This is Harvard, for Eru's sake, I reminded myself. I should get rid of it. Shelving the conflict, I looked back down.

Eventually I could take no more and looked up, stretching my cracking neck. I watched as a dog trotted into view and bounded over to the figure under the bush. He sniffed the clothes thoroughly, then moved to the bare feet. After giving those a thorough investigation, he began to lick them.

The figure twitched, then one foot came flying out with clearly accidental accuracy to land the dog right in the face. It yelped and tumbled backwards. The figure rolled away from the bush, revealing himself to be a young man twisted comically in a long dark coat with an enormous head of bushy hair. Raising himself onto one elbow, he shook his head and gazed around blearily; when he saw the unfortunate canine gazing reproachfully at him, he grinned. An extraordinarily engaging grin. The dog moved towards him, and the boy brushed some dirt and twigs off his face. He heaved himself to his feet and meandered away, with the dog, towards the clump of physics buildings in the distance. His long coat flapped behind him. He still wasn't wearing any shoes.

I smiled at myself; a college professor, hadn't touched an enemy in over a hundred years, whose greatest excitement was wondering why a student was barefoot. I turned back to my essays.

Later that evening, finishing a TV dinner, I looked up from the work I had yet to grade. My eyes were drawn outside; the moon was out and the streetlights called me. I nearly scattered the papers across the floor in my rush outside, suggesting perhaps I wasn't as happy with the respectable life as I'd thought.

The air hadn't lost the warmth of the day, the wind was gentle. I walked down the uneven brick sidewalks, dodging stray tendrils of honeysuckle. I smelled the Cartriges's rose garden, admired Miss Ross's newly painted fence gleaming in the streetlights, and let myself relax into the night. Suburbia could never compare with the forests I longed for, but on some nights it came pretty close.

And something wasn't right.

Something was very much not right.

All my instincts snapped into gear; I nearly fumbled for an arrow but caught myself and grabbed the gun from my shoulder holster as I took off running on silent feet, watching and listening and above all paying attention to that current of fear and anger that was getting closer and closer...

I stopped. It was very close now.

I turned a corner cautiously, keeping in the shadows, hearing footsteps. My eyes fastened on a figure clambering over a fence at the end of the block. He made it over and dropped, crashed into bushes, staggered to his feet and made it to the shadows. The pounding feet were coming closer; they stopped and two more figures were climbing the fence. A voice came from the shadows, clear and unhesitating.

"I'm warning you, I've got a gun!"

The figures hesitated; one, already poised on the top of the fence, pulled out a gun of his own and aimed it into the shadows. He shot once, twice, and his friend made it over the fence, rolling to his feet like a cat and stalking down the street, keeping between the figure in the shadows and his only way out. I saw the light glint off a blade in his hand.

The one with the gun shot a third time, dropped off the fence, and walked menacingly towards the shadows. "You don't have a fcking gun, you lying mother. You're far away from your big campus, and your rules don't fly here. Give it up. You know we're going to get you."

My nerves were calm. I had the whole situation under control. Just so long as that kid had enough sense to stay still and quiet for another few seconds...just let me get closer to the one with the knife...

One more step and I had him. Both arms behind his back, the knife useless on the ground, and my gun at his head. He yelled one inarticulate warning and his friend spun, pointing the gun, ready to fire the moment I gave him a target. He saw I was hidden, hesitated, and at that moment we both heard tentative footsteps. I immediately switched the gun from the knife-wielder to the gunman, but the boy I was holding felt the change and tried to break from my hold; I knew the gunman was turning to the shadows but pulled my gun away from him long enough to knock knife-boy out with one crack on the head, then turned back to his friend and saw the figure in the shadows already collapsing in spasms.

I fired one shot, knocking the gunman to the ground. Grabbing the knife, I leapt to scoop up the fallen gun, and took a few steps towards the body. One look told me he was gone. Then I saw the long coat, and the hair, and I realized what the back of my mind had known all along.

I don't know how long it took, but I eventually came to myself; kneeling on the broken body of the gunman, my hands covered in blood, sweat streaming down my face as I pummeled again and again with the butt of my gun at his lifeless head. I made my aching arm stop moving, and rose slowly to my feet. I moved to the student.

Right through the forehead; that guy had a good aim. His bare feet had scored furrows through the dirt. The face was gone, but I recognized what remained of his hair...

I vomited beside him, and when I was done – shaking – feeling as if I'd just fought my first battle – I drew open his coat, gently. He was wearing a white Oxford shirt underneath. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory tugged. One of my compatriots. Shot while he needed me. Shot while I tried to save him, save myself, save Middle-Earth. Laying his body to rest in the boat he had shared with the hobbits. Seeing the only Man I'd ever admired remove his arm-guards and strap them on himself. We never spoke of them, and Aragorn never took them off.

I worked his coat out from under his body and straightened up. I could hear sirens in the distance. Wrapping my gun in the duster with still-dripping hands, I saluted the fallen student. I ignored the tears pouring down my face and melted into the shadows.