It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Ten days of Fanfic, and where I am today we've had snow! True, it did ruin my most exciting plans until Christmas, but on the plus side SNOWMEN! I hope that you guys enjoy this chapter, and forgive any typos (as usual!)

Chapter Ten: Light on the Barrow-Downs

Sam had to admit, he did not like the idea of leaving the house of Tom Bombadil. The day had dawned bright and sunny, and the time to depart was approaching. Sam busied himself making sure that all their bags were secured to the ponies and done up properly – it would not do for their lovely, fresh food supplies to get soggy at the first rainfall.

He was halfway through double checking the straps on Bofur's pony when Tom Bombadil hopped into the barn, humming as he went.

"Ah! Samwise, do you not trust your hosts? Tom told you that your things were packed, your wolves and ponies too," the man said, his eyes twinkling.

Sam tried not to wince in embarrassment. "Oh, no sir, no sir, you just can't be too careful. I like to be prepared, me."

"And you don't trust anyone else to do it well enough. It shows in your eyes. You don't trust easily, do you?" Tom commented, in the same tone one would use to acknowledge a cloudless sky. "But that's understandable, given the life you've had. How I was hoping to talk to the brave young Sam Gamgee one day, and ho! Here you are."

Sam's eyes widened, and for a moment he could not help but splutter in confusion. "I, well, uh, I - I'm begging your pardon sir, but what in the Shire are you talking about?"

Tom Bombadil laughed loudly. "No need to look so suspicious my lad. My friend been telling me stories about you since you were a little child."

"Me?" Sam felt utterly stupefied, but he could not help the suspicion that curls in his stomach, or the narrowing of his eyes. "Who's your friend – and why'd he tell you about me?"

An odd, almost sad look flickered over Tom's face for a moment, but his knowing smile remained. "I am older than these woods, friend Sam, and there shall come a day when I should feel that this year I am very young. Friends and loved ones come and go, and Tom and his Goldberry stay. It can be easy with the blurring of the years, to lose touch of what is coming and going outside. But Old Tom has his sources, and he's been sharing stories with Farmer Maggot for many a year."

"Farmer Maggot?" said Sam. "Not Farmer Maggot of Buckland?"

"The very same." Tom tipped his hat. "And two decades ago he came to me and said, 'Tom, I've got a good'un for you. A sad'un, but a good'un.' He told me the story of your family, and of how you chose to follow your heart and your friends to Erebor, and at such a young age. T'was a very brave thing you did, and it struck me as much as it did dear Maggot. Your father went to him, you see, to ask if he knew of a messenger to deliver a parcel to you. 'I sent him to the rangers,' Maggot said, 'I didn't think you'd be likely to fancy a trip to Erebor.' He was right of course. Tom's place is here, with his Goldberry, but he has been curious of the fate of Sam Gamgee for a long while. When you return Maggot brings me tales of it, and I'm glad to see you seem just as good a fellow as he believes you to be."

By now, Sam's cheeks were burning, and for a long time after Tom fell silent, he did not know what to say. For two decades this man, this magical, mysterious man had heard stories of Sam, Sam, the least interesting and least noble member of the entire company, and thought him a 'good fellow.'

Glancing up at the sky, Tom clicked his tongue and cleared his throat. "The goodbye hour is drawing nearer, and the time is growing clearer. You'll soon leave Tom and Goldberry, to pass the deadly downs, for Bree. Stay brave, Samwise, and come again, should your tale lead back to Tom's domain."

With that, the man bowed and headed for the door. The ponies and wolves all trotted after him, leaving Sam quite alone in the barn. The young hobbit blinked, and tried to process what had just happened. He was still puzzling it over when he heard Frodo calling.

"Sam? Sam? Are you out here?" Frodo ducked his head around the barn door and grinned. "Come on Sam, we're all waiting for you!"

"What?" Sam blinked again. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, Frodo, I'm just coming."

Frodo frowned as Sam walked up to him. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost…"

"I'm alright," Sam insisted, his own eyebrows knitting together as his forehead creased. "That Master Bombadil's an odd fellow, don't you think? We just had the strangest conversation…"

"Yes, I think so," Frodo said with a wry smile. "But I do think it is a good kind of odd. Like Gandalf in a way, but then nothing like him at all." Studying Sam's face, Frodo paused for a moment. "Is there anything that you want to talk about?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah, it's nothing important."

"Very well then," Frodo clamped his hand down on Sam's shoulder for a moment. "We'll leave when you're ready."

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed the barn door open once more. "Fiddlesticks. We'll leave now, I'm more than ready. "

"If you say so."

Shaking his head slowly, Sam followed Frodo out to the front of Tom and Goldberry's house. Their whole group had already assembled, and Bofur was holding the reins of Sam's pony, Bill.

"C'mon, you wee scoundrels, we want to leave before dark if we can," he joked, winking as he passed Sam the reins. "Though if you're stalling to try and stay another day I don't blame you."

It was just as sad as Sam had thought it would be to bid farewell to Tom and Goldberry. With a final warning about some sort of 'barrows' Tom waved his hand.

"Speed now, fair guests!" Goldberry said, her voice warming Sam's heart a little. "And hold to your purpose! North with the wind in the left eye and a blessing on your footsteps. Make haste while the Sun shines!"

True to the mysterious couple's words, the sun held out while Gandalf led them through the forest, but it was hardly visible at all through the odd, foggy lands that the wizard called the Barrow-downs. Sam did not like the downs, not one bit. Odd mounds, old tombs and sloping hills, and thick, clinging mists.

"Stay close together!" Gandalf ordered, throwing a rope along their column. When everyone had a hand on it, they meandered through the fog in single file, and in silence.

Several places behind Sam, Denahi sniffed at the air and paused. Merry nudged him gently with his heels, but Denahi did not move forward. Instead, he took padded to the left, away from the line, until he had almost tugged the rope from Merry's hands.

Furrowing his brows, Merry opened his mouth to command Denahi to stop, but before the words left his mouth, he heard a low, mournful chant – one that sounded as though it was coming from half a world away.

"Cold be hand and heart and bone

And cold be sleep under stone."

Gandalf barked out something that Merry could not quite here, and he was vaguely aware of wolves howling and ponies whickering, but he felt almost like there was snow in his ears. Everything was dulled, muffled, and all that had any clarity was the chant.

"Never more to wake on stony bed

Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon

Is dead."

He could see nothing but the fog. Not even Denahi before him – but no. That was not entirely true. There were two round, yellow lights, suspended in the air. Merry's head tipped slowly to the side. He could feel Denahi growling beneath him, but he could not hear it. He could hear nothing but the dirge.

"In the black wind the stars shall die

And still be gold here let them lie"

A coldness swept through him as a figure took shape behind the lights, and he realised that the lights were eyes. Hollow, and cold. He stared into them, and then felt his fingers leave the rope.

Against his will.

One by one.

Fear seized him, and he called out, but he could barely hear his own voice. He could not hear the frantic replies to his cry, nor the howls of the wolves. All he could hear was the voice, the voice that he was sure came from the phantom before him.

"Till the Dark Lord lifts his hand over

Dead sea and withered land."

It felt as if a ghostly hand had plunged inside his own, and was manoeuvring his fingers without his consent. He released the buckles and catches on the saddle, and then began to dismount. The figure swooped forward, but then Denahi reared like an angry horse, and threw Merry to the ground. Landing with a painful thump, Merry watched in horror as his wolf lunged at the phantom, which let out a shriek, and then vanished like shadows into night-time.

A hand clasped around his throat, a hand that felt sculpted from ice, hard and cold and bony, and Merry tried frantically to reach for his sword, but his body would not move. He could not even prise his jaws apart to scream. He felt the hand drag him backwards, and the world grew greyer, and dimmer. So dim, so dark, that he knew he was moments away from losing consciousness.

And he knew that if he did, he would never regain it.

But there was nothing he could do.

Not a single muscle that he could move.

An enormous paw came down upon his chest, and then a tremendous weight, crushing the air from his lungs, and before he could gasp, the ground was crumbling beneath him and he was falling, and a voice was shouting and the hand loosening and –

He landed with a crash on what felt like solid stone, and cried out in pain. And then he cried again, for he could hear himself, and feel the rip of his voice from his throat, and he could hear Denahi whining. His eyes focused, and he saw that it was his wolf that had crushed him. His wolf that had knocked him out of the grasp of whatever phantom had seized him.

"Good boy," he whispered hoarsely, reaching awkwardly around to stroke Denahi's ears. "Good boy… Where are we? What was that?"

Denahi just whined, clambering to his feet and leaping from whatever it was they had fallen onto. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Merry massaged his rump and looked around. He was in some sort of earthen chamber, with pots overflowing with gold and jewels, and dozens of swords, clothes and lanterns lying, abandoned, in a far corner.

There were other weapons and strange artefacts displayed more skilfully, hung from the walls or on stands, but it was the pile in the corner that drew Merry's attention, and Denahi's. But then Denahi whined, and backed away.

And Merry caught sight of the bones.

He gasped, shuffling backwards, and almost toppling off the dais he had landed on. Then, a horrible thought took hold of him, and he slowly glanced down. Merry groaned.

He was sitting on a stone coffin. In a chamber full of human – and possibly even hobbit – bones.

"Merry? Merry?"

He looked up at Kíli's voice, at the broken ceiling above him, and the fog that rolled above it.

"I'm here!" he called, and Denahi howled helpfully. "We're down here! Help!"

"We're coming!" Kíli's voice was tight and panicked, but every word gave hope to Merry. He moved his hand to the right to push himself up, but his fingertips grazed something that made him pause. A dagger – as long as a sword for him – with a leaf shaped blade and fiery gems around the hilt. He picked it up and peered at it cautiously. After all, hobbits picking up strange, glittering objects in strange, underground places was what had gotten him into this mess.

But there was something that drew him to the blade. It was just lying there, on the coffin, alone and unclaimed. He supposed that if he showed Gandalf, it could not do much harm to take it. Merry picked it up, and found that it was pleasantly light. His own sword, forged with Kíli's help in Erebor, was similar in style, but heavier and longer.

"Well, Fíli always says you can never have too many knives," he muttered to Denahi, who glanced at him, huffed, and then let out another howl, staring plaintively at the hole they had tumbled through.

"Merry!"

Kíli's face appeared over the edge of the hole, pale and strained, but Merry had almost never been happier to see him, and he scrambled to his feet.

"Kíli!"

"Are you alright, are you hurt?" the dwarf demanded, as others appeared there too, blocking off what little light Merry had.

"I'm not hurt," Merry insisted. "Perhaps a couple of bruises to rival Pippin's, but I'm alright, Denahi too, I think. Just get me out of here."

Leaning half of his body over the edge, Kíli reached down with both arms, grabbing Merry beneath the shoulders as if he was still a child. Then, with a grunt, Kíli straightened up, and Merry's feet left the stone. Several rough hands grabbed at the back of Merry's shirt, and then he was thrown onto the damp grass.

Getting Denahi up proved a little more difficult, as the wolf was hard to coax up onto the coffin. Once they had, however, Ori and Ehren had been able to lean down, and between them tug the yelping wolf out of the barrow.

"Well, Master Merry," said Gandalf, looking even wearier than he had before, "it does not look like any lasting harm has been done. What is that in your hand?"

Merry handed over the blade obediently, and Gandalf's eyebrows raised.

"Indeed? This is a Dagger of Westernesse, a blade forged in Arthedain in the early ages. Many such blades are enchanted – no, not in any evil manner, Meriadoc. This is a blade worth keeping a hold of, my dear hobbit," he said, gazing at Merry with interest. "But if you could refrain from falling into any more barrows, our progress will thank you."

"Sorry," Merry said, stroking Denahi behind the ears. "I couldn't help it."

"I do not doubt it," replied the wizard. "The Barrow-wights power can break all but the very strongest of wills. You did well to hold out for as long as you did. But, thanks to your canine companion, and to myself, you are safe, and I do not believe we have lost anybody else. Bilbo?"

"No, no, we're all here," said Bilbo tightly.

"Then let us get out of this place, and thank Denahi for preventing his master from being lost entirely. Without him, I doubt I would have had the time to banish the Wight before it vanished with you forever."

A chill ran down Merry's spine, but then Kíli's arm wrapped over his shoulders and chased it away.

"Lovely thought, Gandalf," said the dwarf, squeezing Merry tightly for a moment. They shared a smile, and Kíli ruffled Merry's hair. Then, they mounted their wolves, took a hold of the rope once more, and followed Gandalf through the foggy downs.

Though Merry was now painfully alert, hours passed without word or incident, until at last they reached the woods on the other side, as the sun dipped below the horizon.

"Not far, now," the wizard's weary voice rang over them all. "Not far. If we press on, if we put on just a little speed we will reach the Prancing Pony before Barliman closes his doors."

Merry sighed heavily, his eyes aching, and urged Denahi to go faster. It felt cruel to do so, when the wolf had just saved his life, but Denahi did not complain. He simply sped up, and panted more heavily. However, the benefit of riding as Merry did was that it was very easy to hug one's wolf while you rode, and he took full advantage of this now.

"Good boy," he murmured.

It was sooner than Merry anticipated, however, that they saw the lights of a nearing village. Bree, he thought, relief easing his travel-weary muscles a little. They rode with renewed vigour to the gate, and made it to the Prancing Pony two whole hours before the bar was to close, which was better than he could have hoped for.

When they gathered around several tables, Merry found himself sandwiched between Kíli and Pippin. The dwarf raised his eyebrows and studied him.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course." Merry grinned. "It's alright. You don't have to tell my mother you let me get hurt just days out of the Shire."

Kíli smiled back, but it was weary, and he fiddled a lot with something that hung around his neck. When Merry looked closer, his eyes widened.

He had no idea that Kíli still wore the medallion Merry had 'carved' when he was but nine years old, and terrified of losing his dwarf forever (or twenty-one years) on the Quest for Erebor. Even then, no one could make him feel quite as safe as Kíli could. He had grown up believing that he had the best Guardian of any child in the Shire, and he still believed so.

He glanced down at the table, waited until Pippin was arguing with his sister, and then spoke, keeping his voice as light as possible. "Kíli… If Denahi hadn't been there-" Beneath the table, Denahi whined, and shifted his head on Merry's lap, bumping it beneath the table. Merry smiled slightly, rubbing the wolf's ears. "Do you think you could've found me?"

"I don't know," Kíli said, in an equally easy tone. But his eyes met Merry's, and were so full of conviction that Merry felt almost winded. "But I know I would not have stopped until I did, be that when I was beyond dead and a Wight myself."

"That would be a terrible waste of a life," commented Merry.

"Aye," said Kíli seriously. "But that doesn't change a thing."

Merry smiled, and sighed, finally feeling at least a little safe again.

At one of the other tables, Sam waited for the ale to flow and studied their surroundings. He had been to the Prancing Pony many a time, and it seemed just as cosy and quaint tonight, save one detail. In the corner, there was a hooded stranger staring at their group. He had been staring since they entered, and Sam could see the shadow of a sword by his side.

Glaring at the stranger, Sam ran his fingers over his own knife. Its sheath on his belt felt natural to him now – Bofur had insisted on him having a knife on his person at all times, ever since he was twenty years old.

"Just in case, Sammy-boy. Whenever you leave the house, you take this with you. With any luck you'll never have to use it, but it's always best to be prepared."

"Alright, Sam my lad?" Bofur said cheerfully, plonking himself down in the seat opposite Sam. "That wasn't our easiest journey, was it?"

"I wouldn't say so," Sam said darkly, peering around his guardian to the stranger. The hooded man still stared at them, the smoke from his pipe the only sign of movement. "Here, what d'you think of that man over there? He's done nothing but stare at us since we walked in."

Frowning, Bofur looked over his shoulder. "I see… Doesn't look awfully friendly, does he?"

Sam narrowed his eyes as the man stood up, walking towards them with slow, purposeful steps. Standing up, Sam prowled around Bofur – to the dwarf's spluttered protest – and strode right up to the man, his hand on the hilt of his knife. His other hand he thrust towards the man's face.

"Listen," he snarled, "I don't know who you think you are or what you're doing –"

"I am here," the man growled back, "for your company." Then he removed his hood, grinned at Sam, and spoke in a much more pleasant tone. "As for who I am, well. It has not been that long, I should hope, Sam?"

"Estel!" Sam cried, immediately dropping his knife to wring the man's hand. "Why, it has been a long time, it has! What luck you're here as we are!"

"Less luck," Gandalf said, striding over and putting his hand on Estel's shoulder as cheerful cries of greeting rose from the company. "And more loyalty. Thank you for coming, Aragorn."

"So," Gimli raised his eyebrows with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "This is the friend you would have protect us. Not bad, Master Gandalf. How are you, laddie?"

"Well, but I shall be better when we find better shelter. The enemy is not far behind you, I fear."

It was then that Sam noted something odd about his old friend – it had been a decade, almost, since Estel last visited Erebor, and in that time his eyes had grown dark. Grimmer. Like the other rangers that Sam had met. He had never thought 'Aragorn' suited the man, but now it seemed that Estel had grown into his true name.

"Where would you have us go?" Bofur raised his eyebrows. "I happen to like The Pony, and I know of no safer place in Bree."

"Unfortunately, it is known you like The Pony," said Aragorn. "And the good-will of Barliman Butterbur will not protect you from the nine. They will find you here." He turned to Gandalf, looking even grimmer than before. "I fear they are close. There is a house down the street that is unoccupied, I have loaned it for the evening. We will be safer there, I trust."

"Indeed," Gandalf nodded. "I think that would be the wiser choice. We shall eat here, then make for this house."

Sam paused for a moment, and then, rather hesitantly, piped up, "But won't they just keep looking, if they don't find us here?"

dark look passed between Aragorn and Gandalf, and Sam swallowed.

"The matter is complicated by our number," the wizard sighed. "Were there less of us we could set up decoys, but we are more than twenty, without taking into account wolves and ponies. We must hope that the riders are still intent on secrecy."

"Lovely," muttered Bofur.

The mood lifted significantly when food and drink was soon brought to their table, and Sam tore into his dinner with gusto. He imagined that it would be a while, yet, before he would have so good a meal as this. By the end of it, however, he was nodding over his tankard.

"Am I going to have to carry you to bed, Sammy-boy?" Bofur asked, throwing his arm over the hobbit's shoulders. "Like when you were smaller than Bodin?"

"I'm awake," Sam protested with a grin. He nodded across the table at Bofin, who was snoring with his head against the wall. "You worry about him. I'm alright."

"Ah, lad, it's my job to worry about you." Bofur bumped his shoulder into Sam. "No matter how grown up you think you are."

Sam grinned down at his tankard. He loved his Old Gaffer more than words could say – or at least more than his words could. Bilbo or Kíli or Frodo could probably come up with some fancy poetry that would work. But just as much as he loved his papa, Sam loved Bofur. The dwarf was a second father to him, and had been since the dwarf claimed the lonely hobbit as his ward. More than any of the others, Bofur and his family understood how it felt to live your life as a pauper and then to suddenly be thrust into nobility. Bofur had cared for Sam as if he was his son, and even now with Bombur's five eldest children under his care, Bofur always made time to see that Sam was alright.

"Still," Sam said after a pause. "I'm all but an adult now. Only one more year and-"

"Aye, lad," Bofur interrupted. "But the same can be said for Kíli, and that goes to show that your age in years is as useful as hair curlers are to a hobbit. You're younger than the twins when it comes to years. I'll always think of you as that wee lad in a little one-piece pyjama set, making flowers out of the cuttings of emeralds."

Rolling his eyes, Sam drained the last of his drink. "I think-" he yawned. "I could do with going to bed."

"Aye," yawned Bofur. "I quite agree. I quite agree…"

And so do I, for that matter! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know if you did. I enjoyed writing it. Until I next see you, take care :D