I took off with Minas, galloping, heading east toward the Brandywine and Buckland, which even though was Merry's home was the farthest I could get from Hobbiton. I knew that if I continued on the eastern road, I'd pass by Bucklebury and the Old Forest, the Barrow-Downs and eventually make my way to Bree and then Weathertop.
When I got to the river though, I reined Minas in. He reared and stamped his furry hooves, tossing his thick pony's mane. He kept sidestepping, anxious because I was anxious. I stared at the slow-moving thick, gray water, pondering where I could go. The Old Forest was a dark gray blur beyond the river, and I had no intention of crossing it into the extended hobbit-inhabited areas of Buckland, where Frodo was from.
Really, I had no pack—no food or clothes. I had nothing I could use, yet the only thing I wanted to do was to take off and never look back, despite pining for the Shire the entire length of the journey to destroy the One Ring.
But I was also thinking of the fact that hobbits couldn't swim.
Long ago, Frodo's father, Drogo, and his wife drowned in a boating accident. Sometimes I wondered if Gollum had something to do with it, or some other sorcery associated with the One. Either way, I shivered anytime I got near water. I made a mental note to somehow find someone to teach me not to be afraid—I needed to conquer the fear. Thinking of this calmed the fire that had risen in me when I fought with Merry and Pippin. They were my only true companions and I drove them away.
Miserably, I turned away from the river, heading for home, my eyes on the rolling hills and farmlands and pubs so unknown to the outside world.
I missed Frodo. He would have understood my qualms and would have been fair to each side of the argument.
I turned back to the river as I trotted on Minas' back, posting with each stride and taking in the memories of the saddle and bridle and pony, which came from Minas Tirith, and memories of myself defending the city, dubbing the pony its name…
There.
I had to rein Minas in a second time, adding to the pony's agitation, but as I gazed across the Shire, I realized that Frodo and I had one thing in common: there was no going back for either of us. Whether for good or for bad, I had to leave. I could not compromise.
There was, however, a future for me, and that was by bringing good luck upon myself and traveling the finally free realms of Middle Earth myself. I could take a long journey to Minas Tirith, and take up apprenticeship there. Perhaps I could become a captain of the guard, and serve King Elessar, and practice swordsmanship in peace. I could wear the black and silver colors of the Citadel, free from Denethor and free to do as I pleased. I could live in a place where I would be justly honored and known, and spend my days studying the scripts of old—the scholarly libraries where King Isildur himself recorded his time with the One.
Whooping, I pushed Minas into a gallop, unsure of whether I was headed home to Bag End for supper or if I was going to take a few more laps around the Shire's outskirts, but one thing was certain—the Shire was too small for me now.
Instead of riding straight back to Hobbiton by the main road, I trotted the Southwestern roads toward the Marish and the Green Hill country that lay between the Brandywine and Tuckborough, where the Took clan lived. I passed by the small forest called the Woody End, skirting along the northern edge, taking note of the hobbits who glanced up and did not know me. Crossing over the Green Hills, I paused to gaze left over my shoulder, where the South Farthing expanded in fields and rolling hills flanked by distant small mountains. If I were to continue south, I'd have found myself crossing the Brandywine where it snaked like a backwards C beneath the South Farthing, and could choose to continue a westerly route to the sea or to cross Greyflood if I chose to head in a Southeastern direction.
I pictured the trek in my mind and followed with a finger, closing my eyes for a moment and opening them again to the vast expanse of wood and plains before me. If I were to follow more east than south, I would end up at the Misty Mountains—between Moria's gate and Dunland, which flanked the western border of the Misty Mountains, and come across the Old South Road—nicknamed Greenway by those in Bree, for it met up with Bree in the North and was seldom used anymore. The road had become overgrown and green.
Thinking of the Greenway sorrowed me. I hastened to imagine the men of old using such a great roadway, following it after a morning's brew in the very old city of Bree. Traveling with the One Ring required more immediate worries than appreciating history and legend, particularly the foundations of Bree-land, the oldest colony of men in all of Middle Earth. From Bree, two Fallohides set out and founded the Shire.
The Shire-folk were ignorant of such things. They did not care for the adventures of men and elves. The only hobbits that I knew could communicate in Elvish were Frodo and Bilbo, but only because they took an interest in learning that tongue, and not because it was taught to them.
I continued staring off. If I met up with the Greenway, I could follow it south to the Gap of Rohan, which was the plain between the end of the Misty Mountain chain and the White Mountains. The two chains of mountains formed a little L, and the crevasse held the plains of Rohan, and to the South, Gondor. Fangorn forest was in the north. Isengard, and the black spike of Orthanc, resided at the end of the Misty Mountains above the Gap.
I thought for a moment, yearning for Minas Tirith, but I realized I had never been to the North. Sometime, when Rosie was out, I would have to search through Bilbo's library and find maps of what lay in the north.
I closed my eyes.
Of course, I could always head south to Minas Tirith and ask Elessar.
Or, I could also head south to Minas Tirith and head north toward Mirkwood, following the eastern track of the Anduin in order to avoid the Dead Marshes, Emyn Muil and what once was the Black Gate. I could pass by Loríen—now faded and deserted, if it existed at all—and pass by the lands I had not seen in many years. I could visit the wood near Amon Hen where Boromir had fallen.
So many possibilities.
But instead of hopeful, I felt sorrowed. I felt a weight settle on my shoulders as the humid dark dusk settled over the Shire, not unlike the day that we had run from Black Riders near Maggot's farm.
I turned Minas completely around to head north, to Hobbiton, to home.
