Every Man for Himself

Disclaimer: Come on – do you really think it even remotely likely that Lord of the Rings could belong to me? sighs Wish it was likely that it could belong to me… Then Frodo and Legolas would be MINE! MWAHAHAHA! … Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Desmond, Reynard and the escaped prisoners (including Seregon) all belong to me though so HA! … er… yes… moving on…

Chapter 9: Storms

4 May 3019 – Late Night

"What-" Desmond stood stuttering on the front doorstep, eyes goggling at the man stood before him in the doorway to a small and rather dingy house. "What are yeh doin' here?"

"Returning home," answered Seregon smoothly. His tone carried a hint of warning that did not go unnoticed by Desmond or Reynard.

"So…" Desmond stammered again. "So they let yeh out o' jail did they?"

"No," replied Seregon shortly. "But I will soon be back there again if you two do not come inside now."

With a quick glance over their shoulders into the silent street behind, Desmond and Reynard disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. Reynard carefully closed the door behind him so as not to make any sound that would cause unwanted attention.

"Why… Why don't we go ter the livin' room," suggested Desmond after a few moments of awkward silence.

"Yes," agreed Seregon silkily. "Then you can explain to me why you have invaded my house." In the dim moonlight that permeated the hallway, Desmond and Reynard exchanged uncomfortable looks.

"Right," said the former at last. "If… If that's what yeh want then…"

It was not long before the three sat around a smouldering blaze in the fireplace. Seregon sat at ease in the most comfortable of the moth-eaten armchairs. His icy grey gaze was locked onto the flames, as if hypnotised by their dance. It reminded Desmond uncannily of the snake charmers down south in Umbar.

This reverie was broken suddenly, however, by the sound of a dull thud that reached their ears. Seregon blinked and looked about him.

"What was that?" he demanded sharply. Desmond and Reynard could only shrug their shoulders.

"Sounded like it came from the cellar," said Reynard nervously.

"Dun be stupid," snapped Desmond. "The rat's tied up. How could 'e poss'bly do anythin'?" This answer brought little comfort to Reynard. He had a sudden perplexing feeling that he had forgotten to do something very important. However, he leaned back in his chair, though a small frown refused to leave his face.

"Rat?" questioned Seregon softly. "Back in business are you Desmond?"

"So ter speak," said Desmond uncomfortably.

"So it is you who the guards were talking about," continued Seregon, a thoughtful and measuring look dawning on his scarred face. "They were discussing the disappearance of one of the King's friends. Apparently he was taken last night. That's what I heard before I killed those guards of course…" Seregon's thin lips curled up into a manic sort of smile. "Was I right in my guess?"

"Yes," said Desmond, looking even more uneasy. "We – we need some more gold."

Seregon laughed outright. The sound was unpleasant – cold, oily and mirthless. It was as though the convict was laughing just for the sake of it. "So you are holding him for ransom are you?" he said. "And have you sent the letter yet?"

"Not yet," said Desmond. "We were gonna get the rat ter write the note tonight."

"I see," said Seregon. "How much are you demanding for him?"

"Er…" Desmond glanced over at Reynard. "We haven' exac'ly sorted that out yet." Seregon's eyebrows rose.

"Where are you doing the exchange?" he asked.

"Erm… Somewhere private?"

"You mean you haven't even decided where you will do the exchange?"

"Not exac'ly…"

"Desmond you are pathetic," spat Seregon. His cold eyes were now hard and stern. "Are you telling me that you just went ahead and kidnapped a friend of the King without having decided exactly what you were going to do with him? Have you forgotten everything I taught you?"

"No," said Desmond quickly, colour rising in his face. "Course I haven'. It's jus'… I dun want them guards comin' after us. It needs careful consid'ration."

"You should have decided everything before you acted," snapped Seregon. "Now you will be blundering through this whole business, not knowing or having the time to think if the decision you make is the best one."

"The opportunity arose!" said Desmond defensively. "It was prob'ly the on'y time we would've bin able ter get 'im on 'is own without trouble."

Seregon opened his mouth to challenge this response when there came a sudden shattering of glass. All three men sat up straight in their chairs and stared at each other.

"That definitely came from the cellar," said Reynard slowly. There was one moment of silence before Desmond scrambled to his feet. He lurched to the kitchen, groping along the benches and on the floor for the key to the cellar.

"REYNARD WHERE IN ERU'S NAME IS THE FLIPPIN' KEY!" he roared.

Reynard came stumbling into the kitchen and felt along the benches before he remembered.

"I put it in my room," he said.

"WELL DON' JUST STAND THERE LIKE A BLOODY STUNNED FISH!" bellowed Desmond. "GO AND GET IT YOU LUMP OF TOTAL WORTHLESSNESS!"

Needing no more encouragement, Reynard bounded up the stairs, three at a time, and burst into the bedroom he had been using since moving into the house. He felt around for the required key in the darkness for a moment before his fingers finally touched the cool metal. He grabbed it and jumped down the stairs to the ground floor. Desmond at once snatched the key from his grasp and thrust it into the cellar door. As the lock clicked, he kicked the door open so that it bounced on its hinges with a loud 'bang'. As his eyes adjusted to the new darkness, he gave a strangled yell of fury. In a flash, a pair of abnormally large and hairy feet disappeared out of the broken window of the cellar.

Frodo momentarily froze when he heard the shouts coming from the floor above him. Not wasting another precious second, he hoisted himself the rest of the way out of the window and onto the ground. His hands started to bleed as they supported most of his weight while leaning heavily on the broken shards of glass. His elbow was bleeding too, where he had thrust it into the window, but he ignored them. His plans had been discovered and he now had no time to spare.

Even as he pulled the rest of his body out of the window, he heard the cellar door exploding open. He listened in horror as Desmond cried out in voracious rage. Pure adrenaline now pumping through his veins, he stumbled to his feet, ignoring the sharp stab that shot through his left ankle, and began to run down the street.

Back in the cellar, Desmond flew down the stairs and flung himself up the newly positioned shelves. He stuck his head out of the window and saw Frodo disappearing down the street. As Desmond moved again, this time running towards the front door, yelling at Reynard to grab the sleeping potion and at Seregon to follow the escaping hobbit, he allowed himself a very brief smile. Frodo was running downhill. Downhill led towards the gates of the city. Once he was there, he would have nowhere else to hide.

Very suddenly, Frodo stopped running. For a moment he could not fathom why his mind had told him to, as it would only mean that Desmond and Reynard would catch up with him. It would also mean that he would have to face a terrible onslaught of pain – which he did. But suddenly logic struck him and he abruptly turned around and started running the other way. His best bet was to go uphill towards the gates that would lead to the next circle. At least he would then be one circle closer towards the citadel, even if he landed himself in even more trouble. As long as he wasn't caught by Desmond and Reynard…

This new thought egging him on, he increased his speed. Though hobbits didn't look it, most were very fast runners when they wanted to be. And Frodo was no exception. His speed had saved him on many a mushroom and pantry raid in his younger days…

Thinking of how nice it would be to get back to the citadel and into the company of his friends, he continued running, blatantly ignoring the constant pain pulsing through his entire body – though he knew he could not keep up such a pace for long. Lungs that were already struggling against illness quickly became thoroughly abused. As his vision began to blur and spin, he knew he would have to take a rest, even if only for a moment. He took a detour into a dark alleyway where he leaned heavily against the cool wall of a house. He closed his eyes as he fought to regain control of his harsh breathing. His airway felt cold and raw and unbearably dry. He struggled to remember when last fresh water had passed his lips… Refusing to dwell on this train of thought for too long, as it would only make him feel worse, he opened his eyes and jogged out of the alleyway and onto the main road again. He kept to the shadows as much as he could, it being plain stupid to attempt escape if you were in clear view of your captors. For short intervals he sped up before returning to a jog. As time passed, he began to feel nauseous as well as weak and dizzy. He was literally running solely on adrenaline, having used up all of his energy shifting the heavy wine shelves across the room.

Then, after what felt like hours, he finally sank to his knees, breaking out into a harsh bout of coughing between gasps for air. Sweat was trickling down his hot face, though the rest of him felt oddly cold. A strong gust of wind blew over him and he shivered.

A couple of minutes later, the coughing subsided and the lone hobbit climbed back unsteadily to his feet. With a surreptitious glance behind him, he continued to limp uphill as fast as he could. He couldn't see or hear any signs of pursuit. But he knew that somewhere, two people at least were hunting for him. He continued on, though it cost him immense pain and only persisted to drain him of more energy. But still he continued on. For he was going to reach the gates to the next level and get help from the guards if it was the last thing he did. Even as thunder growled its cautions at him, he did not stop moving forward. Even when lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the streets and giving him no place of darkness to conceal his presence, he did not stop moving forward. And finally when the heavens opened and the skies poured out their tears, he did not stop moving forward.

"Wait!" called Reynard. "Stop!" Desmond and Seregon skidded to a stop and turned to face the panting man.

"What?" demanded Desmond. Reynard did not reply, but stooped to the ground, his fingers lightly brushing over the dust and dirt that had settled on the stone street. He carefully studied a specific patch for a moment before looking forward, then looking back.

"'E's gone the other way," he said, standing up straight and wiping his hands on his clothes.

"What yeh on about?" snapped Desmond. "I saw 'im runnin' off this way." He pointed downhill, the way they had been going.

"I know that," said Reynard impatiently. "But 'e stopped 'ere, turned back around and went boltin' up the other way. Look at the ground. All the way from the cellar 'e's bin leavin' a trail o' blood. 'E must've cut 'imself on the glass. But there's more of 'is blood in this one spot, then there's no more ahead."

"Well how come there ain't two trails back that way then?" demanded Desmond, pointing back up the street.

"I dunno!" snapped Reynard. "He mighta stemmed the blood flow somehow or somethin'."

"How do yeh know 'e didn' keep goin' this way then?" asked Desmond, this time pointing downhill.

"'Is tracks aren't hard fer me ter tell apart from the rest of 'em," explained Reynard. "I can't see anymore of 'is tracks goin' t'wards the gates."

There was the briefest of pauses as Desmond looked to the ground himself, taking the time to think through the next course of action.

"How can we trust you on this?" said Seregon in an almost accusing tone. "How do you know how to track?"

"My older brother taught me when I was younger," answered Reynard gruffly. "'E was a Ranger in Ithilien."

"You're the brother of a Ranger!" exclaimed Seregon, though not loud enough to attract attention from any nearby inhabitants. He grabbed the front of Reynard's cloak roughly, giving him a shake. "That is even less reason to trust you! You could be telling the guards everything for all we know."

"Yeh can trust 'im," broke in Desmond. "Though 'e's useless for anythin' else, 'e knows what e's talkin' 'bout when it comes ter trackin'." Seregon didn't look convinced. "Now let's go before we all get caught by them guards." Following Reynard's lead, the three continued on their hunt. They moved quickly and silently, Reynard occasionally crouching to examine what the ground could tell him. The last time he did this, he stood up grinning.

"What're you so 'appy 'bout?" demanded Desmond.

"'E's slowin' down," said Reynard. "He's tryin' ta get ter the gates leadin' up. 'E'll stick ter the main street. We can pick up the pace a bit, I think."

Grins surfacing on their faces, Seregon and Desmond broke into a swift run up the street. They didn't slow down for anything. Not even when it started to rain.

At last, at long last, the gates to the next circle came into view. Frodo gave a small sob of relief. As he stumbled closer to them, he tripped over his own feet, falling with a splash into a very muddy puddle. Well this was just fantastic! Now he was muddy as well as soaked through to the bone. What was it with him falling into puddles anyway? Nevertheless, he shook his annoyance off and stood up again, swaying slightly before he moved on. Through the heavy curtains of rain, he could make out the guardhouse – its windows illuminated gold by the warmth of a cheery fire from within. With a trembling hand, Frodo knocked on the door. It was some moments before it opened. More golden light spilled onto him as he stood shivering, looking up at the towering soldier.

"Yes?" he said to the hobbit. "What do you want young master?"

"Please sir," croaked Frodo, his voice barely audible through the cacophony of the storm, his wide eyes pleading. "I need to get back to the citadel right away."

"Do you have the right passwords, young master?"

Frodo gaped up at the soldier, a new coldness of unease settling in his stomach. He had not been told the passwords. He had not needed them – he had always been with someone who knew them when he had ventured out of the seventh circle.

"N-no," he answered. "I'm afraid I don't have the passwords."

"Well I'm sorry, lad," said the soldier. "But I can't let you go to the citadel without the proper passwords – security reasons, you know."

"You don't understand!" exclaimed Frodo desperately. "I'm Frodo Baggins – a friend of the King!" The soldier laughed.

"You, my lad," he said. "Are a young boy of no more than ten summers if I'm any judge. Now go back home! I have more important things to do than waste time on a young scoundrel like yourself! The King's friend indeed!"

With that, the soldier snapped the door to the guardhouse shut, leaving Frodo still standing out in the rain, a look of pure disbelief on his white face. This could not possibly be happening. There was just no way!

He stumbled back from the guardhouse as though it was some vile enemy, purposely working against him. He stumbled back until his body slammed into something. Something that felt suspiciously like a person. He turned around to find himself staring up at Desmond's livid face. Lightning flashed, bringing the shadowed streets into sharp relief. Frodo's eyes widened in cold fear. For one heartbeat he stood frozen so, then he spun back around to bolt off. But Desmond was too quick for him. He had barely gone three steps before he was sent crashing to the muddy ground as his left ankle was caught in a stern iron grip. He screamed out in agony at the sudden unexpected pressure on his injury.

"Rey!" yelled Desmond. "Get that potion out! Quick!"

Reynard fumbled in his pockets for the sleeping potion, but was quickly distracted by another somewhat muffled scream. He looked up to see Desmond clutching his nose in anguish. Frodo had kicked him in the face with his powerful foot. Even now the hobbit was struggling to stand up. However, as Reynard gave an inarticulate cry, Frodo was swept off his feet in a swift motion and held tightly in Seregon's stalwart arms.

"Hurry up," he said sharply to Reynard. Reynard quickly resumed his fumbling until he pulled out a glass bottle.

"Hold 'im still!" said Reynard intolerantly, for Frodo was struggling furiously against Seregon's robust grip. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Seregon changed his grip so that he held Frodo in one arm. Using the other, he drew out a sharp curved knife and held it to the hobbit's throat. Frodo stilled at once.

"Another move and you die," warned Seregon. Frodo glared up at him.

"You wouldn't," he said, his voice now hard. "You need me." Though he still wasn't sure exactly what the men's intentions for him were, he recalled Desmond's words to him that he was apparently going to make them rich.

"Correction," hissed Seregon smoothly. "They need you. I couldn't care less whether or not they make their money from you – or if you die."

Frodo's eyes widened in a new-found fear. Taking advantage of the moment, Reynard quickly opened the bottle, holding it under the hobbit's nose. Too distracted to notice what was happening, he took a breath and felt himself grow suddenly drowsy. In a heartbeat he was out cold. Grinning in satisfaction, Reynard put the stopper back in the bottle and returned it safely to his pocket. But even as he was pulling his hand back out again, the door to the guardhouse opened. The three men stiffened. Reynard glanced over at Seregon to see that he had somehow pulled his hood back up in a flash. Desmond hastily got back up to his feet as the same soldier that had opened the door before stepped out into the rain. He frowned as he beheld the three men and halfling.

"What's going on here?" demanded the guard in a suspicious tone.

"Nuffink, good sir," replied Desmond, still covering his broken nose.

"What happened to your nose?" continued the guard, looking unconvinced.

"Wasn'd wadchin' where I was goink," said Desmond huffily.

"What's wrong with him?" asked the guard, pointing to Frodo.

"My son has been ill," said Seregon softly. "A fever. He managed to run out of the house while we were distracted. The effort has proved too much I'm afraid."

"Must be a mighty fever," commented the guard, still frowning. "He knocked on our door. Thought he was the King's friend. You should get him home quickly."

"Yes," said Seregon. "We'll do that. Sorry to inconvenience you." The soldier nodded and disappeared back inside the guardhouse. Reynard released a sigh of relief before he turned back to the others.

"We should get back," he said. Not another word was exchanged between the men as they made their way through the storm to Seregon's house. Frodo didn't so much as twitch in his drug-induced sleep.

"What do we do with 'im now?" asked Reynard. The three were looking down at Frodo who had been put on one of the armchairs in the parlour.

"Well we can'd pud 'im in da cellar again," said Desmond. He now held a filthy cloth to his broken nose as he tried to stem the bleeding a bit. But even through the cloth the other two could hear the acrimony in his voice.

"The attic then?" suggested Reynard.

"It will have to do," said Seregon, his tone carrying outright antipathy. He scooped the hobbit back in his arms (none too gently) and disappeared out of the room. His footsteps were heard echoing up the stairs to the second floor, before they faded out of hearing as they continued up to the attic. Desmond turned to face Reynard.

"Whad I would like der know," he said. "Is how the rad managed der move them shelves agross da room."

"Must be stronger than we thought," mused Reynard.

"Yeah," said Desmond. "Sdrong enough do break 'is robes doo. Wonder 'ow 'e managed dat?" He gave Reynard a significant look.

"What yeh lookin' at me like that fer!" exclaimed Reynard.

"BEGAUSE, YOU INCOMBEDENT GOOD-FER-NUFFIN' EXGUSE OF A MAN!" roared Desmond furiously. "YEH FERGOD DER DIE UP 'IS 'ANDS AGAIN!"

"SO THAT MAKES IT MY FAULT THAT 'E ESCAPED?" bellowed back Reynard. "YOU WERE THE LAS' ONE OUTTA THE CELLAR! YOU DIDN' NOTICE 'E WASN' TIED UP!"

"ID WASN' MY JOB DA CHEG!" shouted Desmond. "YOU UNDIED 'IM, YOU SHOULDA DIED 'IM BAG UB! DERE'S NO EXGUSE REYNARD!"

"WHAT 'BOUT THE HALFLIN'? HE'S THE ONE WHO DID THE BLOODY ESCAPIN'! WE DIDN' TEACH 'IM A GOOD ENOUGH LESSON!"

"That will be amended," hissed Seregon. He had returned from the attic, a carefully blank expression on his pale face. "Once he has awoken he will write the letter, then he will pay the price for his actions. He will learn what happens when lower beings like himself are disobedient."

"And 'e'll ged a good wallobing, no misdake," muttered Desmond.

"He will," agreed Seregon. "Now, do you have paper and ink? He should be waking up within the next hour."

Perhaps two or so hours after the storm had broken over the city, Peregrin Took trudged back to the room he shared with Merry, dragging his heavy heart along with him. Since hearing the information that Legolas and Gimli had gathered, a sense of leaden dread had accrued within him like the growth of an avalanche. The last time he had felt this worried, Merry had been on the brink of death after helping to destroy the Witch-King of Angmar.

Shuddering at this thought, Pippin soundlessly closed the door to the bedroom and began pacing, the same questions revolving in his head. How could things have become so bad? Why had Frodo, of all people, been taken? Why couldn't his cousin just be left in peace for a while without some sort of catastrophe occurring?…

What was worse, Pippin had received news, not minutes after returning to his post, that the city's most dangerous criminals had broken out of the jailhouse. In the morning he would be expected to help search for them. Perhaps he would be able to search for Frodo at the same time? He sighed and began to change into his nightshirt, all the while being careful not to awaken Merry. He was just about to climb into his own bed when there was an incensed howl of thunder followed instantly by a vivid flash of lightning. The tween jumped in surprise. Through all his worrying, he had completely forgotten the raging storm. He gazed at his bed for a moment, before tentatively making his way over to Merry's instead. As he snuggled under the comforting covers against his sleeping cousin's back, his mind drifted off to another time and another place, both so far away…

It was 1402 and one of the hottest summers that the Shire could remember. While June had brought one of the worst droughts, July had decided to bring some of the worst summer storms.

Eleven-year-old Pippin lay quivering in bed on one of these tempestuous July evenings, not in the least bit sleepy, though it was well after midnight. He had always been petrified of storms. His sisters gave him no end of abuse for it, but he just couldn't help it! Whenever the first claps of thunder would rumble through the skies, he would always run straight to his parents' room and dive into their bed, refusing point blank to come out until the storm had passed.

But now he wasn't at home with his parents and sisters. Now he and Merry were visiting Frodo at Bag End. Though Merry had been travelling to and from Brandy Hall and Bag End a lot since last autumn when Bilbo Baggins had disappeared, this was Pippin's first visit without the elderly hobbit about. And he was not too happy about it. Since Bilbo's infamous departure, the young lad had noticed a definite change in Frodo. He seemed much more sadder and quieter these days. In Pippin's mind, he was far too responsible, reliable, sensible, dependable and a lot of other things that ended in '-ble'. This, in turn, made Pippin feel sad, as he did not like it when the people he loved weren't as happy as they should be. He personally could not see what the problem was. After all, Frodo had a huge, luxurious hole all to himself. He didn't have to worry about the grown-ups telling him to wash behind his ears and between his toes. He didn't have someone screeching at him all the time to tidy his room or help with the chores. Frodo could do whatever he liked whenever he liked and no one would give him any grief for it.

There was another crash of thunder, and Pippin burrowed deeper still into his nest of covers, clutching his toy rabbit to him like his life depended on it. This also happened to be his first time at Bag End during a thunderstorm. And the more unfamiliar surroundings did nothing to help his current phobia. The lightning was casting horribly scary shadows onto his bedroom wall. It looked like a clawed hand dressed in tattered black cloth was about to strike out and grab him…

There was another boom of thunder and flash of lightning, and Pippin was out of his bed and racing down the hallway faster than you could say 'boo'. He burst into Merry's room and plunged into the covers, on top of a very grumpy, groggy and bewildered cousin.

"Pippin," mumbled Merry, his annoyance quite clear through his tone. "What are you doing?"

"Merry there's something outside my room it's got horrible clawed hands and it's going to try and gobble me up I think it's one of Bilbo's trolls can I stay here with you!" squeaked Pippin in one breath. Merry groaned.

"No," he murmured shortly. "Nothing's there, Pip. It's just your imagination. Now go back to sleep."

"But Merry I haven't been to sleep!" argued Pippin.

"Then go to sleep now," mumbled Merry. "In your bed."

"Merry why can't I stay here?" whimpered Pippin.

"You kick when you're like this," muttered Merry, already falling back asleep. He gave a long yawn. "I want to have a good night's sleep thank you very much. Now go back to your room like a good lad. Go on!"

Realising defeat, Pippin returned miserably to his own bed. Perhaps Merry was right. His mother had always told him that he had a very vivid imagination, whatever that meant… He felt his eyelids drooping shut when there was another flash of lightning so bright that he was sure he would have been blinded had he looked straight at it. Instead he opened his eyes fully and looked up at the wall. There were now two clawed hands, reaching towards him, ready to snatch him from his bed and…

Thunder clattered at such a great volume that Pippin could have sworn every pot, pan, glass, mug, plate, bowl, spoon, fork and knife in Bag End had crashed onto the kitchen floor. Without a moment's hesitation, he was leaping out of bed as though it had caught fire and was zooming back down the hallway. This time, though, he went straight past Merry's room and shot into Frodo's, hurtling deep into the covers until he was nothing more discernible than a quivering lump. Upon feeling the weight of his younger cousin slamming into him, Frodo awoke with an 'oof'. He bolted upright and looked about himself, completely bewildered as to what had just happened. But when he looked down and saw his blankets quivering, he allowed himself a small smile before he lay back down.

"Pippin?" he said softly. The lump beside him gave a muffled sound of reply. "You're not scared of the storm are you?" Part of the lump shook extra vigorously from side to side in what Frodo guessed to mean a very unconvincing 'no'. But just then, there was another crack of thunder and Pippin's upper body emerged from the covers, arms flinging themselves around Frodo's middle.

"I see," said the elder hobbit with a slightly bigger smile. Lightning momentarily lit up the room and Pippin's green eyes widened impossibly as he looked up his cousin.

"Why does it do that?" he whispered, as though scared the storm would hear him and retaliate.

"Do you remember the tale of the battle between Huan the Wolfhound of the Valar, and Carcharoth the evil Wolf of Morgoth?"

"And how Carcharoth bit off Beren's hand when he was holding that jewel?"

"That's right," said Frodo. "The Silmaril. The thunder you hear now is an echo of Carcharoth's howls of fear at Huan's strength, and pain of the Silmaril's power and burning light."

"Oh," breathed Pippin, his eyes wide with awe. "That's not very nice. No wonder thunder is so scary."

"Indeed," agreed Frodo. "But do you know what the lightning is?"

"No!" whispered Pippin, anticipation on every inch of his face.

"They are stray rays of light from the Silmaril, illuminating the skies with their brilliance and goodness to scare off Carcharoth, and give us hope that good will always win in the end."

"But the lightning scares me too," said Pippin worriedly. "Does that mean that I'm bad like Carcharoth?"

"Of course not!" said Frodo with a comforting smile. "Things with great power, like the Silmaril, can be scary to lots of people, you know. Take Gandalf for example. He's a very powerful wizard, and though he's mostly nice to us, sometimes he can be very scary too."

"Oh," said Pippin, understanding dawning on his features. "So scary things can actually be good things too?"

"Sometimes," said Frodo carefully. "But there are creatures in this world who are scary and bad. Goblins and orcs and trolls are scary things, and will never be good."

"Then how do you know which scary things are good and which ones are bad?"

"Sometimes you just know. Or else someone will tell you. Someone you trust, mind," he added quickly. He didn't want to think of what could happen if Lotho Sackville-Baggins started telling any more terrifying tales to the young Took.

There were a few moments of silence between the two hobbits, and Frodo thought that perhaps Pippin had drifted off to sleep. He was proved wrong, however, when the hobbit made another enquiry.

"How do you know all this, Frodo?" There was a short, hesitant pause, as if Frodo was contemplating whether or not to answer.

"My mother once told me," he said softly. "A long time ago when I was about your age. You see, I used to be afraid of storms just like you." Pippin suddenly sat up and stared at his cousin in astonishment.

"You were scared of storms?" he exclaimed. "But you're not scared of anything! You're the bravest hobbit in the Shire – everyone knows that!"

Frodo laughed outright at this and shook his head. "Pippin," he said. "No one's completely fearless. We're all afraid of something."

"Well… You're not now!" insisted Pippin. "And neither is Merry or Bilbo or Gandalf-"

"That's not true!" said Frodo. "Bilbo's afraid of plenty of things to be going on with. And Merry… well I'd best not say in case he finds out. Now go to sleep, lad. You've had a long day today, and it won't do for you to be tired and grumpy on the morrow."

Pippin lay down on the bed and snuggled up against his cousin. The lightning continued to flash, and the thunder continued to growl, but the young hobbit no longer felt terribly afraid. Especially not with Frodo there. He knew that Frodo would protect him from anything.

He was finally drifting off to sleep, when there was yet another crack of thunder – the loudest yet. He didn't properly awaken, but he distinctly heard the door opening and the mattress shifting as Merry hurriedly climbed in on Frodo's other side.

"Frodo?" whispered Merry. "You don't mind if I stay here tonight do you? It's just that… with this big storm and everything… well I wouldn't want you and Pippin to get too scared or anything… And we might as well stick together, don't you think?"

With his eyes still closed, Frodo smiled and expertly shifted the blankets so that the three of them were covered cosily.

"Goodnight lads," he said softly.

Pippin shivered at the memory and burrowed closer to Merry. His eyelids were growing heavier and heavier. As another flash of lightning tore across the sky, he wondered if the light of the Silmaril brought any hope to Frodo now.

Yes, he thought. Of course it is. Frodo won't give up. We'll find him soon. And with that thought, his eyes closed in sleep. He was too exhausted to even notice the small tear that rolled down his face.

TBC

A/N: This chapter has officially received the Lexi Stamp of Approval. :D (Thanks Lex!) I am so sorry that I took so long to update everyone! My deeeeepest apologies! Unfortunately I've had a huge amount of homework lately and I've got exams coming up in a few weeks which I have to start revising for groans. Not to mention that I obtained the most horrible thing I could possibly get… WRITER'S BLOCK! So those are my excuses for not updating for so long. Do with them what you will, I just hope this chapter isn't too much of a disappointment. Like I said, I got writer's block and had A LOT of trouble putting even one decent sentence together at a time. But enough of all that…

Breon Briarwood – Hahaha. I hope that when things get better the story won't get worse! :P

Elijahs-gurl – Thank you very much! Your faith in my abilities as a writer is very encouraging :) Sorry to leave you hanging for so long! (you can read the above excuses if you wish) But I'll keep trying to update as quickly as I possibly can. :)

Graphite ZK – My apologies for leaving you hanging! But the evil little demons inside my head keep egging me on. (hehehe!) Info on Seregon, eh? In future chapters you should definitely know him better, but I think now you're starting to get the idea. He is definitely not nice though! And I think he's certainly bringing out something, particularly in Reynard. Those two haven't really gotten off to a good start, and I think Seregon's doubts of Reynard's capabilities will just encourage him to prove himself more. Becca – Well… Frodo did get out of there… only he got back in again. :s Sorry!

Indolosse – Hehehe. Thank you Bronwyn :D Your compliments mean a lot to me :D This chapter should probably give you a bit more reason to worry about Seregon. As to how the prisoners escaped jail… well… maybe you'll find out in the future ;)

Iorhael – This chapter should answer your question. Ah indeed! I doubt very much whether Seregon would help anyone unless there was something in it for him. Evil baddie.

Kaewi – I'm feeling much better, thank you :) Hopefully these baddies will lose in the end too, but we'll just have to see, won't we :D I'm glad that the descriptions of Legolas are to your liking. (hehehe) I hope to put more of him in soon, along with several others, come to think of it ;) But the relationship between Legolas and Gimli… well I guess it's just gotten to that point where the insults are virtually meaningless between the two of them. sniffs Besides, an ELF would NEVER stoop so low as to argue with a DWARF about trivial matters :P

Stephanie – Hmmm. Things are getting rather complicated, aren't they. The connection between them is a bit strange – it just kinda popped out of no where in my head – but perhaps it will end up helping more than hindering… hmm… I guess we'll see. ;) And keep hoping for Sam's safety. With things the way they are in the city, he's gonna need all the help he can get, I'd say!