The Fire's come for you again, just like it always does in these dreams, only this time it doesn't look like fire, looks like water or smoke or air. Almost like it can't make up its mind what to look like, you prefer the dreams where it sticks to being fire.

It's decided it wants to be water today and you want to scream but you can't, the foul water is already filling your throat and your lungs. You can barely breath let along speak, so how are you supposed to scream?

The Water has begun whispering again. You think it might be talking to you but seeing as how you don't speak any sort of Elvish, you have no real way of telling. You feel something cold and black wrap around your belly, you think they may be chains like the sort you saw hanging unused down at the Shirriff office. You're not sure, but right now you don't really care because you know what part of the dream comes next.

It's the light that really scares you now, after so many dreams like this you've become desensitised to the other dangers around you, but the light well…the light always burns.

You believe it might be trying to talk to you as well, but you've been down here too long by this point and you can't hear it over the screaming in your head anymore. Your body's gone numb by now, just like it always does round this part of the dream. It's not yours no more, not your body anyway but it makes a pretty picture as a cage for your mind. The light's still talking to you, but it doesn't really matter 'because you can't understand one-word outta its mouth.

You'd say it sounds a bit like some of those old poems Mister Bilbo reads you sometimes, though different, older and more unnerving. As if you just sat there and listened, you'd hear the forging of the worlds hidden between the glowing orb's soft vowels and gentle words. The language sweeps over you like always and you find the world growing dark, your vision failing and your surroundings growing blurred. You know what's coming now, you've known it since the start but that doesn't make it any less painful. That doesn't make the knife any less terrifying when it plunges into your gut, or your blood any less vile as it spatters across your frozen face. Or your bed any less wet through when you wake up screaming.

Sam Gamgee bundled his sodden bed sheets up into the washing basket, he'd been lucky … no one had been woken by his screaming this time.

The Shire, Number 3 Bagshot Row; T.A. 2989, S.R. 1389; February 5th

Hamfast Gamgee was not having a particularly good morning; Sam-Lad had been up and about in the night again. Though the boy had attempted to hide it, Ham had caught on quick when he found the lad snoozing on his, now quite bare mattress – wrapped in naught but a thin wool blanket. The only covering that hadn't been completely soaked after the lad's dreams had turned sour and the child had been too afraid of punishment to risk finding more, even for his own comfort.

The tired hobbit had nudged the distraught boy awake and helped him into some dry clothes. Then they'd both set about the task of remaking Sam-Lad's bed before the others could be woken by the sound of his soft crying. Bell had had one of her fits last week, a pretty bad one at that, and she was still recovering – she needed her sleep. The two hobbits made quick work of the small bed and then retreated into the kitchen when the sounds of stirring from the other rooms caught their ears.

Bell was getting worse, Ham mused as he stirred the large porridge pot over the fire, this had been the fifth fit in almost a month and they were getting more and more disturbing each time they happened. She'd been spitting and cursing his name during the last one, they'd had to call healers just to stop her from hurting herself… or anyone else.

'I think it's done, Da.' Hamfast jerked from his thoughts of his wife, and glanced down to his youngest son, who was now staring intently into the bubbling pot of goo. Ham grimaced when he stuck his pinkie into the gurgling depths and brought it to his mouth, it tasted of nothing but burnt oats. They should just throw it out, but Sam was already starting to get fidgety with hunger and truthfully Ham wasn't far behind him. So, sighing inwardly he motioned for Sam-lad and young Marigold, who'd appeared like a ghost from her bedroom sometime after Ham had turned his back, to bring their bowls forward. Even burnt porridge in their bellies was better than nothing at all.

Two hours later

For as long as Hamfast could remember he had been… well…. I suppose the only way to describe it is to give it its proper title…he had been a Ganyman. For those of you not of a Hobbit nature I will describe, to the best of my ability, exactly what that is. For those of you who are I will assume, that unless your education was extremely limited regarding your cultural identity, that you already know.

To put it in the simplest of terms, the Ganyman (or Ganymen as is the plural) is the bridge between life and death. Or rather between the living and the departed. They are the givers of the last tale and are able, if truly needed, to cut the string that ties a soul to this earthly plain.

It is said, by some of the more superstitious folk, that when a Ganyman is about to be born a crow will fly into their mother's birthing chamber and circle the room until the baby is born. Then the bird will land… dead …at the infant's feet. It was of course complete nonsense, not least because birthing chambers as a rule were kept tightly sealed from all outwardly distractions. Which would include open windows and birds flying about the place, as any hobbit midwife or healer with a lick of sense could tell you. And while it was true that some of the skills needed to be a proper Ganyman were innate from birth, it still required a great deal of training to probably harness them. And not every babe born with a psychic gift was going to be up to be a Ganyman, even if they had a strong connection to the other side.

For Ganymen were at their hearts… storytellers.

Which brings us to the core of the matter, the reason for the Ganymen's entire existence as a people: The Last Tale. Legend goes that if the last words a hobbit ever speaks in this waking world is their deepest secret, then they'll live on through the telling of its tale and thus their soul will not fade into nothingness. It was an ancient hobbit custom set down in the days before days. Before the wandering years, before Mirkwood, before the three clans, before Mother Magda and her Blarney Son, even before hobbits knew they were hobbits. Some say it was a tradition started by the ancestors, the ones who came before. But no one could say for certain, because strictly speaking no one - except perhaps the Ganymen themselves - could even say what the ancestors were, they simply lived too long ago.

Times back a Ganyman would be called to every hobbit's deathbed, rich or poor, cruel or gentle, but in later years they'd fallen out of favour…among the gentlefolk anyway. After Bullroarer Took's famous last words of 'I don't need a Ganyman to tell my stories', the powerful family had dropped the age-old tradition as if it was so much childish nonsense. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, wherever the Tooks lead the other well-to-do families would follow. Which was why the message from Mistress Proudfoot was so very strange, by rights the Proudfoots weren't the richest of families, but they were still well off enough to call themselves gentlefolk.

But now wasn't the time to worry about such oddities, right now Ham had a duty to a hobbit on his deathbed.

He'd debated leaving Sam-lad and Little Marigold at home, but eventually decided against it. Even if they never developed a call to it, which considering Bell's once grounded nature was more than likely, it was still good for a youngin' too see Gany-work at least once in their lives, without the fog of loss and grief getting in the way.

The Proudfoots' smial – for no self-respecting gentlefolk would live in anything else – while undoubtedly fine as smials go, was not half so grand as Bagend. The lamps were already lit inside the round windows when the three of them reached it and Ham knocked tentatively on the large red door, his Ganyman Staff clutched tightly to his breast. The round door creaked open and a large weathered face poked out, frowning at them over its long-crooked nose.

'Yes?'

Ham steeled his shoulders, not in a mood to be waylaid from his duty and the dying hobbit inside by disapproving relatives

'I'm the Ganyman, the Mistress of this house called for me…please let me in.' The old hobbit snorted but moved back just enough for the trio to squeeze past. Once inside Hamfast's eyes by passed the specifics of his surroundings, and instead landed directly on the door farthest to the right. He felt the familiar tug in the middle of his chest, and knew where his charge lay.

One hour later

By the time Hamfast had arrived at the dying hobbit's bed, the patient was already in the middle of his death-throws; so, it hadn't been the easiest of Last Tales to acquire…but then again, his patient this time was still technically living, so it hadn't exactly been the hardest either.

The Hysterical soon-to-be-widow shrieking at his side hadn't made the situation any simpler. He needed quiet to work, and he needed it now – unfortunately that meant he had to be a bit callous. He hadn't exactly thrown the grieving Mistress out of her husband's death-chamber, but his suggestion had been strong enough to mistake it for so.

Once she'd removed herself from the chamber, black streaks of makeup blotching her cheeks and a half-chocked sob concealed within her throat, Hamfast had been able to get down to work at last. If this was an ordinary run-of-the-mill Last Tale then right about then Hamfast would have been restraining the patient's arms, he might have even let her stay to watch, but something deep in his gut told him this had to be done now.

Climbing up onto the bed, Hamfast straddled the old hobbit, pinning him down firmly onto the mattress with his own quite sizable weight. The Ganyman's fingertips pressed into the old hobbit's temple, and the death throws seem to still and freeze in place. It was said that the final words of a hobbit were his Last Tale, but of course, as any good Ganyman knew, words didn't have to be spoken out loud. Which was a good thing, when the patient was a far gone as old Proudfoot was.

The Tale floated through Proudfoot's dementia-addled mind and into the Ganyman's. Hamfast saw each detail as it happened, as if he were in the story, living it right here and there. What seemed like years, decades even, to the two hobbits on the bed was barely a minute in the world beyond and with a cry like a wounded Eagle, Ham flopped backwards off the bed and began to sob.

When a Hobbit soul gives up its Last Tale, it moves on to the world beyond, into the Ancestor's Caverns, where not even a Ganyman can properly enter. Leaving not but a whisper of its past self to continue through the story that the Ganyman will tell, but Faldo Proudfoot…did not do that.

Oh, he gave up his Last Tale to the Ganyman, every horrifying bit of it, but as for moving onto the world beyond…well…that he did not do. Or at least so it would appear to the still gasping Ganyman now lying on the old hobbit's floor. For you see…Faldo Proudfoot's body was still very much breathing when Hamfast Gamgee shakily climbed to his feet.

Hamfast could have been sure that Proudfoot's spirit had passed over. Nay he was sure, he'd felt the body go limp with the spirit's absence himself. Yet Proudfoot was undeniably alive, of that little the Ganyman could be certain of. Laying his hand on the withered chest, Hamfast spoke in soft low voice.

'Master Proudfoot? Are you there, Master Proudfoot? You've given me your Last Tale you can move on now; you won't be forgotten while I breathe good master, I can promise you that.'

As the Ganyman spoke the old master's chest shook in an unrhythmic fashion, it was as if something was forcing the old chest to move up and down against its will. Suddenly Faldo Proudfoot's hand lashed out and struck the Ganyman where he knelt by the bed, sending the other hobbit careening across the floor and smack right into the adjoining wall. And as Ganyman Gamgee began to slip into unconsciousness, his eyes beheld the horrific sight of Faldo Proudfoot's body, standing up from his death-bed and walking out the door.

Middle-Earth, South Lands (or The Dark Land to the heathens of the West), The Yellow Mountains: T.A. 2989

It is a strange land the Great Wizard has led them to, not cold or boiling as the rumours had led them to believe – but strange none the less. The whole place feels…calm, as no mountain should. For mountains, whether their bellies be filled with fire or not, are grand monuments to the gods. Left here by the giants that had made them, or at least that was what Akunosh's nursemaid had always told him when she was tucking him into bed at night. But then the Nursemaid had been of the lower classes; his father, a man of wealth and education, might have said something different. Akunosh didn't know, but all the same he couldn't help the feeling of disappointment as he climbed the steady slopes of the Yellow Mountain. There was nothing particular awe-inspiring about sun-bleached rocks, or scrabbly blades of grass and for a boy of fifteen – who had joined the Blue Wizard's cause to seek adventure, that was a terrible blow indeed.

Still, seeing a Silmaril might make up for it. He hoped anyway, he'd never seen one before, so it wasn't like he had anything to base it on. For all Akunosh knew it could be just as dull as the mountain… and that was the moment when they saw the body.

Small, but clearly not a child – the thing had been wrapped up in a multi-coloured shawl and then just left out on the rocks. Probably for more than a couple of days giving the smell of the thing. More than a few of the younger recruits hurried away from the sight; and even a couple of the older soldiers screwed up their noses. But Akunosh stopped by the body and let himself fall behind. Then, when he was entirely certain that no one was looking at him, he knelt by the strangely wrapped thing and stared at her face.

She was old, her shrived face, raisin like to look upon, baked by the sun now scorching his back. Slowly he pushed back the shawl from her face, her hair was still black even despite her clear age…but it was not that that Akunosh stared at, it was her ears. They were small like the rest of her, small and …pointed, he'd never seen such strange ears before, they weren't the ears of men.

His Nurse had told him many stories as she tucked him into bed at night, but always his favourite had been the stories of the Halflings. Small creatures who belonged to no god of the west – sometimes in the tales they were kind, and helped travellers when they were lost; but other times they were wicked. Tricking the big Folks into wondering off the path and drowning, but whatever they were, friend or foe, good or evil, they had always captivated Akunosh. And they were here, they were real…and they were the people they had been sent to slay.

Up the mountain he could already hear the screams, and felt himself begin to shake.