Arda, Middle-Earth, the Shire, Proudfoot Smial: T.A 2989, S.R. 1389; February 5th

To say Hamfast shook as he peeled himself up from that bedroom floor, was like saying a leaf trembled in the wind. Of course, he shook, of course he trembled all over, the thoroughly dead hobbit, Faldo Proudfoot, had gotten up from his death-bed, thrown Hamfast into the opposing wall, and walked right out that door. That door that lead to the rest of the Smial…that door that lead to Hamfast's children.

The Ganyman's steps were uneven and wide as he half-ran, half-stumbled down that too long hallway. When he at long last emerged back into the foyer, the door was in his sights again, but there was no sign of his children.

'Sam! Marigold! Sam-lad! Little Lass!'

From the direction of what was most likely the kitchen Hamfast could hear the children's laughter, and the giggling of an adult. He almost tripped over his own feet trying to get there, and he most certainly damaged that kitchen door's hinges, slamming it open as hard as he did.

Around the table sat Samwise and Marigold, absolutely covered…in chocolate. Behind them, her back turned to the room in general, stood Mistress Proudfoot; humming something gentle and soothing, as she stirred a saucepan with the strong smell of more chocolate…or maybe that was just his children again.

So there Hamfast Gamgee, 12th generation Ganyman, and famed Gardener of Bag-End, stood; in that doorway, staring at the rather mundane scene before him. He wasn't sure whether it was relief or shock that kept him rooted to that spot, where perhaps he would have stayed for rest of time, if Mistress Proudfoot hadn't turned around.

'Oh, Master Gamgee, I didn't see you there. You quite gave me a fright…I hope you don't mind about the cookies…but the little mites just looked so lost and confused standing there in the middle of the foyer. And baking has always saved to calm my nerves…my husband…is … is he at rest now?'

Hamfast just stood there, unsure of what to say to that. Had… had he imagined all that had occurred, it did not seem likely…but then neither did a hobbit walking off from his death-bed.

'Err…you perhaps haven't seen…that is to say, Mistress…has…has anyone else gone through here before me?'

Arda, Middle-Earth, The Shire, just south of the Brandywine river: T.A. 2990, February 12th

It was a fact known well to the residents of the Shire that the Shirriffs were a bit useless. Oh, they could find your missing cow, or sheep, and they were genuinely good at meandering down a stout path throwing suspicious glances this way and that. But when it came to anything harder, they were quite at a loss for what to do. So, you can imagine their reaction when they got the call about…the body.

The girl, for she could be little more than fifteen, had been found just south of the Brandywine River; and judging by the decay that had set in on her rather beautiful face, she'd been there for quite some time. Or so said the official reports, but of course there were always those rumours. The tall-tales that speculated that it hadn't been rot that had eaten away at the girl's face at all, but teeth – and not the teeth of a beast either. But such speculations are best left to the history books to ponder.

It had taken the farmer that had found her more than thirty minutes to dredge her up, for someone had tied lead weights to her ankles. He'd had to damn near hack the ankles off, the ropes were sunk so deeply into the skin. When the Shirriffs had arrived on the scene it had taken more than half an hour to calm the poor fellow down, and the other half to calm themselves down enough to approach the body without throwing up.

Truth be told even if they had been the best at what they did, they still would have been out of their depth on a case like this. Things like this just didn't happen in the Shire; crime in general wasn't that big of a deal in the rolling hillside country. You got the occasional pick-pocket or domestic dispute, but hobbits in general just didn't have it in them to commit violent acts against one another, certainly not… well... whatever this was. Even now, standing over the mangled body of the girl, the Shirriffs still shied away from the word no one wanted to say.

In fact, if it weren't for the lead weights – two cow dumbbells, probably from a nearby farm – secured around the girl's ankles, they would have written it off as some freak accident or, less preferably, a suicide. Anything would have been better than what it probably actually was: murder.

***
Arda, Middle-Earth, the Shire, Michel Delving, Shirriff Station: T.A. 2990, February 12th, 2 o'clock in the afternoon

The Mayor of Michel Delving stared hard at the tired Shirriff before him. Technically speaking as the Mayor, he was officially head of the Shirriff department, but he'd never felt comfortable wearing that title. There was just something…un-hobbit like about the whole business; he'd never quite understood the sort of hobbit that would willingly subject themselves to that sort of lifestyle. Sure, you generally drank free at most reputable drinking establishments, but it still hardly seemed worth it, when the fisticuffs started flying and you suddenly found yourself at the hard end of a bar stool.

Of course, the chair was preferable to what the Mayor was looking at now, quite frankly anything was preferable to what the Mayor was looking at now. It had been a terrible thing to lug all the way down from the Brandywine. The girl, whoever she'd been, wasn't particularly heavy so the weight hadn't been the problem, but they'd been mobbed almost the minute they left the farm. People wanted to know what had happened, but the on-call Shirriffs had kept silent all the way through the crowd surrounding the station. If there was any chance this wasn't what they thought it was, then the panic it would cause would be all for nothing.

As hard as they'd tried though, it hadn't taken long for some loud mouth rookie to let it slip. The riots started almost immediately, this wasn't supposed to happen, the crowd seemed to cry. Maybe in a seedy place like Bree or out in the wild but not here, not in the Shire. Yet for all intents and purposes that's exactly what happened. Once they'd finally managed to get the girl's corpse past the throngs of the vibrating crowd and safely into the station; the Shirriffs' investigation, what little they were capable of, had truly begun. They'd still been unable to identify her yet, for that they'd have to have call in members of the public and considering the state of the mob surrounding their headquarters, they were understandably jumpy about letting anyone without some form of official identification onto the premises. But they'd managed to identify the cause of death with little to no problem, the marks around her mouth and throat weren't really that hard to find. If they hadn't been so distracted, they probably could have found them at the murder sight itself.

Mayor Taft's heart sank at the news. There was no weaselling out of this one. There'd been a murder in the Shire and most likely everyone in the Shire knew that by now. Someone would have to be brought to justice, and his stomach twisted trying to imagine just who that would be.

'It'd be far easier to figure out who killed her or why, if we actually knew who she was, Mister Mayor Sir.'

Mayor Hilbert Taft was not a hobbit known for his quick temper and harsh words, quite the opposite in fact, but right now he was very close to losing his temper. He may not have been the brightest hobbit in all the Shire, but he resented being talked down to by some upstart Shirriff, like he was still a mud covered fauntling. So, when he spoke next his words held more than the faintest tint of venom to them.

'No, Shirriff Brandybuck, surely not… why I thought we could just follow the sight of your large head to the answer. Why surely with its luminescent glow not even the darkest corners of this gentle land will be hidden from our view.' Startled by the aged hobbit's sharp tone the younger hobbit's head snapped back, and he levelled a concerned gaze at the mayor.

'Sir, I didn't mean to offend or insinuate…' but he was stopped halfway through his stumbling apology by the mayor's hand.

'Then perhaps next time lad, you'll think before you open that large Brandybuck mouth of yours, hmm, now won't you?' A sharp nod of the head from the young Shirriff. 'Excellent then, run off now and send in Bottleneck, he's proven a good head on those absurdly large shoulders of his. Off with you now before I lose my temper in earnest.'

The young hobbit made quick his escape, almost slamming into Shirriff Bottleneck as he made his way up from the evidence room.

'Well I'm sure that was necessary wasn't it, Bert.' Laughed Bottleneck, in his nasal fashion.

The Mayor tried to ignore the Shirriff's sardonic tone, but Bottleneck would not be silenced so easily. 'You may have not liked it pointed out to you Bert, but the lad was right, we've got to identify the girl and we've got to do it now. Before the mob outside takes it into their thick heads to storm the place and do it themselves.'

Hilbert slammed his knuckles down hard on his desk, crying out in shock from the resulting pain of the action. Cradling his bloody fist against his chest, Taft turned on Bottleneck with hatred in his eyes.

'I know what you're going to say Bottleneck, so I'll give my final answer to anyone who's fool enough to bring it up within or out of my earshot: we're are not bringing members of the public into the station. Even to identify a body, it's just too dangerous…mob mentality won't be quelled by submission Shirriff, you should know that.'

The Shirriff's face contorted.

'If I didn't know better, I'd say you don't actually want this girl identified.'

Taft flopped back down into the plush chair behind his ornate desk and flashed a sharp sneer at the Shirriff before him. 'Well it's lucky you do know better then, isn't it?'

'Yes sir. How would you like us to proceed with the investigation?' Bottleneck continued listlessly. Taft's lips pursed as he thought, and for a time the two hobbits remained like that, one sitting, and the other standing still as the very stone the building was built with, wishing to be anywhere but in a place like this. At last though, after what felt like decades, the Mayor finally came to a decision.

'The hair…' The Shirriff blinked down at the older hobbit in confusion.

'Sir? I don't under…'

'The girl's hair…it was red, wasn't it?' A sharp nod from the befuddled hobbit above him and the Mayor was off again. 'Right… right, well not too common a hair colour in these parts now is it. Odds are someone with red hair is going to have a connection with the victim.'

Biting down hard on his tongue Bottleneck swallowed back down his laughter, and any protests that might have crossed his lips.

'Yes sir, we'll get right on that, sir.'

The mayor nodded satisfied that the matter at least for today, was at a close.

'Very good, well go on then…get right on that will you and stop cluttering up this office with your benign presence.' And with a sharp nod, the Shirriff did just that.

Middle-earth, The Shire, Hard-bottle; T.A. 2990, February 14th

Oswalf Halffoot was a handyman, that was the simplest way to describe what he did for a living. Strictly speaking he'd never actually been called a 'handy-man' before in his life. He mostly got by, by doing odd jobs, things that other more well-paid 'handymen' refused to do. If he had any pride his mother had once said, he'd refuse to do such things too, but he had a wife, two faunts and a third one on the way back in Hard-bottle, and pride didn't keep a roof over your head.

Which was why he was here, waiting for the hobbit who had insisted on paying him under the table…or bridge as it turned out. They'd agreed to meet under one just a little past midnight, but that had been an hour ago. Really, he should just go home…go get some sleep. His benefactor had obviously backed out of the deal…and yet he couldn't go home without the money and meet his wife's eyes. He had to stay…at least for another hour…just to make sure the deal was off. His feet were cold, his fingers felt like they were about to drop off from frostbite and he was pretty sure the very water in his eyes had frozen solid. But all that fled his mind as soon as he saw the grand looking hobbit come marching up over the grassy verge.

Oswalf had seen his new employer maybe once or twice before today, and never as close as they were now. The gentlehobbit was a dandy and no mistake, as his wife was wont to say; rose tinted waistcoat and plush jacket barely encasing the round pot-belly that any hobbit of proper substance ought to have. But his voice was as hard and as rough as the gravel they stood upon.

'Halffoot.'

'Sir.'

'I suppose you've heard the news, haven't you Halffoot?' The gentlehobbit fiddled with the cravat around his throat as he talked, a nervous habit Oswalf guessed. His mother in law had developed a similar one, only her's involved whacking him on the head with her walking stick whenever he entered the room.

'No sir can't say I have, the Little'un had a fever, I haven't been out of the house all week…why has something big happened?'

A smile tugged at the corners of the older hobbit's thin mouth.

'I suppose so… but that hardly matters to these proceedings…now, do you have everything we discussed?' Oswalf nodded and handed the satchel over, it was soaked through from the trip he'd had to take through the river to get to this place.

'Hope they all still work, normally they wouldn't being what they are, but my brother in law makes up a special batch right there. Nothing and I do mean nothing gets into those, especially not water.' The other hobbit grunted in approval as he studied the sack's contents with an expert's eye.

'Yes, these should do for our purpose just fine…'

Oswalf began to twitch slightly as the silence that followed the statement seemed to consume any sound that tried to break it, until Oswalf couldn't even hear the birds chatter in the trees south of the river bank. It grew to such an uncomfortable level that Halffoot had to fill it with something, anything, even the white noise of a scream would be better than this.

'I followed your instruction on how to get here, but what I don't understand, you see, is…well, why'd I have to wade through a river when there's a perfectly fine dirt road down yonder way? And you wouldn't run the risk of getting your materials wet and damaged as much…if you get my drift, sir.'

The other hobbit failed to give a response to that, or at least failed to give a verbal response. Instead his eyes rose to meet Oswalf's and there was something in them, something…un-hobbit like. Oswalf's feet moved backwards, desperate to get away from any creature who could give a stare like that. But the gentlehobbit wasn't done with him yet.

'You'll be waiting at your house at the time I specified, is that agreeable to you?' Oswalf nodded just hoping he could bring this uncomfortable conversation to a close.

'Excellent… well I believe that concludes our business for tonight, please do give your good wife my best, will you?' Oswalf nodded dumbly as his rich benefactor turned on his heels and climbed back into the carriage that had been waiting for him, just off the beaten road.

Oswalf Halffoot felt his feet give out from under him, and like so often happened these days found himself down in the dirt and muck, all alone.

***
Early next morning

Oswalf and Daisy Halffoot's door was kicked in at a little past seven. And if the young mother hadn't gathered her children into the kitchen to dish out what little breakfast they could afford, it may very well have crushed one of them – the swarm of Shirriffs very nearly did anyway.

Oswalf was dragged out of the back of the dry dirt hobbit-hole, where he had been still sleeping on the paper-thin mattress that made up the couple's bed. Daisy Halffoot screamed and clutched her two children tightly to her breast, as the arresting officers clapped a pair of irons on her befuddled and still half-asleep husband.

'Mister Oswalf Bongo Halffoot, in the name of the people and the law of the Shire, I am arresting you under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to legal representation, I must warn you that anything you say here will be held against you in a court of law.'

The last voice Daisy heard before they hustled her husband out onto the street was his own, rising clear and loud over the rumble of the Shirriffs surrounding him.

'Daisy, I love you…I need you to know, I love you.'

***
News Reporters, a strange breed of hobbit that seemed to pop up not some ten years ago, crowded in closer to the podium as the Mayor made his speech. His voice was a booming rumble as per usual, but there was something different about this speech. For never, in one of old Taft's speeches had there been such an electric buzz through the air, not that there were many of them to draw comparison to. There'd been his inauguration speech of course, and then a couple about some harvest or other, but that had been about it. There really weren't that many things to make a speech about when you were Mayor of the Shire, if anything the Shire was a place to put off giving speeches.

'My good hobbits of this gentle land, a great travesty has struck us as we slept…there has been a murder among us.'

The crowd gave a collective gasp, they all knew this already of course, but it was the theatrics of the moment, tradition stated that somebody had to gasp.

'Yes, as hideous a thing as it is to even contemplate… a murder has indeed happened in the gentle hills of our dear Shire. This young girl, who we may never yet know her name, was snatched from us in the bloom of her youth. A tragedy, a true tragedy.' At this old Taft paused and shook his head as if contemplating what a true honest to gods tragedy it all was.

'But this crime was not only an evil act against an innocent girl of our native soil, but against all hobbits. From the Thain himself right down to those strange folks in Bree, we are all touched by this tragedy. So, with that in mind, it is with utmost relief and pride that I can announce that the Mayor's office and the brave lads and lasses of the Shirriff's station, have apprehended The Brandywine Killer!'

A loud cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd, which had grown greatly in size since the start of the Mayor's speech. Their cheers became even louder, deafeningly so, as the 'Brandywine Killer' was hauled up onto the stage in chains. Oswalf Halffoot stared determinedly down at his two red furry feet, his shock of red hair covering most of his face from the reporter's view.

'This hobbit….no this creature, for I daren't even use the name of our kind in the same sentence as this abomination, for fear that it'd be sullied by associated with this thing… this worker of evil…this child of Sauron!' The jeers of the crowed rose and Oswalf closed his eyes…waiting.

And then he didn't have to wait any longer.

The explosion took the Shirriff station, the Mayor's office and all the reporters that stood outside. For those very few who survived the blast and were still competent enough to recount it later in life, it was like the world froze still for that one brief second, and everything and everyone was encased in light. And then it all sped up, as if it were rushing to catch up with the rest of the world. Dust filled the air and choked out the last of the sun's rays, and in the distance a child screamed, and the world became darkness.

Middle-Earth, Rhûn, The Red Mountains, Holdfast of the Four Dwarven Clans: T.A. 2991

Fëanor lounged against his new throne or tried to anyway – the thing was not exactly made for an elf, or an elf in the body of a wizard to lounge upon. Bloody Dwarves, some craftsmen they were, couldn't even make a comfortable chair.

It had been annoying when they'd discovered that the small shepherd people, whose villages Fëanor's men had burned to the ground and made the mountain run red with their blood, had not had the Silmaril after all. Annoying enough for Fëanor to execute the seer who had directed him there in the first place. He'd almost done it to her daughter as well, before the young hag had had a vision right in front of hm, proclaiming that the Silmaril lurked in the home of the beloved of the Dwarven King. The only beloved thing to a dwarf of the modern age was itself, or it's jewels. And while Fëanor was certain that there were many dwarves in Middle-Earth, the only ones he knew of that lived in this land, dwelt within the plains of the Red Mountain. After all, there was little chance that the Blue thief had managed to spirit his treasure to the west, surely Fëanor would have sensed it.

So, like an obedient fool, Fëanor had followed the suspect seer's advice…and surprise, surprise, after a year long siege, which ended with Fëanor slicing the Four Red Kings – as they bizarrely called themselves – heads from their necks, Fëanor still lacked a single Silmaril.

Some of his more seasoned soldiers pulled the sobbing girl seer forward and threw her before Fëanor, where she landed like a dog on her hands and knees.

'So, many dead dwarves…so many dead dwarves…got myself a nice collection of heads…but no Silmaril. My dear girl, can you possibly explain why your vision failed? Or is lying to your Lord and King, just something that runs in your family's blood?
'No, no my Lord,' weeps the girl. 'I swear, my vision was true – but I am unlearned in my natural craft, it takes a well-skilled seer to interpret the things she sees accurately and my mother never taught me…'

But she never did get to finish that sentence, for Fëanor had already given the nod to his executioner.

'Now,' said the Lord of the Mountains both Yellow and Red, as he looked out on the cowed and broken former lords of this holdfast. 'Look up at me, no, on second thought look up at them,' he said as he gestured upwards to the four heads that hung above Fëanor's uncomfortable throne. 'You've seen what happens to those that lie to me, and those that would defy me…so please do neither, I have a headache.'

Before his feet the blood-soaked wretches cringed.

'Now, tell me oh Dwarves of my new mountain…where are my Silmarils!'

This last part he bellowed so loud that one of the heads above his throne dropped from its hook and rolled across the floor until it met the dead body of the girl, and the broken Dwarves began to weep.

This only made Fëanor's headache worse.