Roads Go Ever Ever On:

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.

Part One: The Little Folk

Prologue: Hand-Me-Down Fate

"Don't adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story."

—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings.

The warm summer air blew across Alan's careworn face, whipping his thin, grey hair over his balding head. Standing on his back porch, he watched the iron-colored clouds rolling into the township. The wind was becoming noticeably cooler each time it passed his face, heavy with the scent of summer rain. Thunder rumbled dully far in the distance, and he couldn't help the feeling of anxiety that bubbled into his chest from his gut. Lightning lit up the horizon, just above the houses in the west.

Alan took a swig from his cool glass of whiskey and soda and flicked ash from his cigarette. He supposed gardening was fine and well in the spring, but caring for a summer vegetable patch was hot, thirsty work.

The coming storm would frighten his grandchildren, which he did not want to deal with after a long day in the heat. Clearing his throat, he took a drag from his cigarette. Lightning lit up the clouds once more, and the anxiety worsened as the thunder followed. Finding himself hoping against hope that his grandchildren would be picked up soon, he let out a puff of blue smoke.

He was not afraid of storms as a rule; he hadn't been since he was a young boy living in the heart of Tornado Alley. But as he had grown and raised his family, what storms nearly always brought was enough to send his stomach reeling and his heart pounding.

Watching his cloud of haze drift in the cooling air, Alan heard a buzzing in his ears. Swatting at the air, he looked around for the source, hoping for a bee or a biting fly, agitated by the storm's tension. Upon seeing nothing, Alan felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and the buzzing cut off with a little zap followed by a pop of energy. The old man's shoulders visibly drooped, having become all too familiar with the sound and what it meant: what storms brought him. The anxiety hardened into a ball of fear, rising into his throat until he felt like he needed to be sick.

He supposed he knew it was coming with all the tossing and turning he had done during the night. Anxiousness had plagued him all day; he had even shouted at his young grandchildren when they played in their small garden corner. A corner of nothing but dirt and a few scattered and beaten peonies his granddaughter had planted, claiming they would be lush cacti when they grew up. The corners of his mouth pricked into a smile but then fell as the wind rushed past him. The seven-year-old was about to be the topic of conversation once more.

Taking another drag from his cigarette, he snubbed it out on the porch railing, leaving a blackened ash mark on the wood. Letting the smoke out, he flicked the butt into the grass, expecting the doorbell to sound at any second; he counted to five before he heard the dreaded ding-ding-ding-dong. Alan sighed, swilling the rest of his liquid courage, and stepped inside the back door. His head buzzed momentarily from the last of the stiff drink as he set his glass on the kitchen counter.

He could hear the muffled speaking of familiar voices in the next room. His wife stiffly offered seats; in comparison, the duet of 'thank you' was amicable. Steeling himself for the coming conversation, Alan emerged from the kitchen, a fake smile plastered on his face. He knew his, and his wife's, lack of sincerity was already well-received.

He noted that his wife, a short woman of dark-colored hair, had snatched a book from the table, (another torrid romance), as she sent Alan an icy look. He stood rigidly as his wife passed him, going straight to the kitchen sink, the air she stirred threatening gooseflesh.

Alan focused on the two visitors, wondering what arguments the two had come up with since April. The first his eyes settled on was an older man with a lengthy grey beard, just long enough to tuck into his belt, while the one to his right was clean-shaven, with a young face and age-old eyes. He looked like a young man, just approaching his mid-thirties, but Alan knew this pointed-eared fellow to be thousands of years past that age. What made Alan all the more annoyed by the second man was that he could not help but find him beautiful—in an otherworldly sense. It was a beauty he knew that had come from the gift of immortality of the Elves, something he had come to envy.

The two were clad in long boulder grey and royal blue robes, respectively, appearing very lordly and making Alan feel small. He had always wished the two would at least try to appear as they belonged and not that they just came from River-Dale, or wherever it was when they met.

"Hello, Gandalf, Elrond," Alan said politely yet gruffly. The two men offered a polite greeting before taking the chairs Vicki had offered. He was pleased that the two men had no luggage; they would not be staying. This time.

"I am sorry for Vicki," Alan took his seat. "She still feels guilty." Truth be told, he wasn't sure he had quite forgiven her yet. I warned her, my mother warned her, Gandalf and Elrond warned her. What had she been thinking?

The two gave him curt nods as they adjusted in the wooden chairs. "How did your mother react to the news?" Gandalf asked, balancing his wooden staff against his shoulder.

Alan wiped his hands on his jeans and cleared his throat, unused to the feeling of intimidation. He was a big, barrel-chested man and could intimidate a room full of young twenty-somethings just by walking in; however, sitting in a room with two magical beings thousands of years older than himself was entirely different. Both were skilled with weapons Alan had never considered using in his lifetime, which scared him to his core. Alan counted his blessings that he had always been on good terms with them if many of their past meetings had been rough.

"I hate to say this, but fortunately, she does not understand. Her Alzheimer's has gotten much worse; she didn't even know who Cheryl was at her own wedding."

"Our condolences," Elrond offered, nodding respectfully. Alan sized the ethereal fellow up, unsure if he could understand this disease and if he genuinely meant it. His mother had never been on the best terms with either man, and he doubted Elves were affected by aging diseases.

"Thank you." Alan shifted in his seat. Hearing his wife clanking glasses in the kitchen, he wished for another cigarette.

"And how are your grandchildren?" Gandalf asked, nodding to the room across from them.

Alan looked over his shoulder into the living room. Three forms were lying on the floor, covered with a thin, blue blanket they shared. His granddaughter, the one lying furthest away, was curled in on herself with little more than the corner of the blanket. "They're doing alright."

"What about your granddaughter?" Elrond asked. "Has she had any nightmares since she was marked?"

"Not that I've heard," Alan replied, looking hard at the table, his eyes catching the bundle of succulents he had placed in the center last evening. He forced himself to finish his thought, reluctant to slander his son. "But her father is very hard on her."

Gandalf's wizened eyes looked into the living room again and then at Alan. "Your children do not take this threat seriously," he said.

Alan cleared his throat. "They do not, no."

"And almost all of them have children now, do they not?" the Wizard went on, his voice hardening. Gandalf leaned across the table to glare at him, wizened eyes accusing him of the recklessness in which his children were living.

Alan narrowed his eyes at the Wizard. "They have never encountered him," he said in a dark voice. "They have never read any of the books! And their spouses who have, think of this as nothing more than a bullshit story."

The two men winced at the word, but Gandalf continued. "Sauron is not the only one your family will have to fear; if Tabitha is not under proper protection, she will be—"

"Gandalf!" Elrond reproached.

Gandalf leaned back in his chair and looked out the adjacent window, his eyes clouded with fury. Alan had read the books of Middle-earth several times before, though he had found them hard to get through. He knew Gandalf was a kind soul, he still found it insulting to insinuate that he had allowed it to happen.

Gandalf, having taken a few deep breaths, looked at Alan again. Both sized each other up with knotted eyebrows. "She would be better protected in Rivendell."

Alan closed his eyes and shook his head. Having heard the argument at the last meeting, two weeks of the same circling discussions had brought storm upon storm. The unsettled weather had caused some destruction, including taking the roof off his eldest son's trailer and forcing the family to move to a small house, not to mention the intense flooding of his own basement.

Though, he supposed, he had never been to the Elven haven, it was a beautiful place of safety from the descriptions he had read. He assumed his granddaughter would be contented living among Elves. "I have brought it up to Joel like you have Gandalf. He will not hear of it. He still believes this all to be a cosmic joke or misunderstanding."

The tension in the room grew as a rumble of thunder sounded, echoing around the house. The dark clouds had overtaken most of the township, darkening the natural light from the windows. Why is there always some sort of storm when these two show up? He thought vaguely, half wanting to voice his question, the fear of a flooded basement creeping into the back of his mind.

"We will accept her father's decision," Elrond said, causing Gandalf to turn abruptly and glare at the Elf-lord, mouth agape. Alan himself found that his mouth had fallen open at the unexpected agreement. Elrond held up a hand to the Wizard. "Though, whether you or your son like it, protective measures will be implemented."

"I-I... w-what kind of protective measures?" Alan stammered after a moment.

"A spell will be put in place so that Tabitha will forget meeting us, and we will keep ourselves distant from your family after this day to keep Sauron at bay."

"How effective would this...spell be?"

Gandalf, having softened again, looked at Alan in seriousness. "There can be no way of knowing; to ask would break the spell."

"What do you mean there can be no way of knowing?"

"She could have a powerful will," Gandalf answered. "She could remember bits and pieces. And if she were to remember anything at all, let us hope she deems it a dream and forgets about it."

"Would her father know?"

"If she has any night terrors, she will suddenly stop having them. Leastways, she should stop."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"As long as there is no other meddling with her mind."

"With her... mind?"

"Yes, it will not matter who casts them; these spells will have to change things within her, which is very dangerous." At Gandalf's words, Alan felt his chest swell with fear again. "It would be much better than The Deceiver finding your family."

Alan jerked his head in a nod of understanding before sighing and rubbing the nape of his neck. "You aren't giving me any choice in the matter," he muttered.

"We will need to speak to Tabitha before that," Elrond said. "We have to know if she has had any dreams of Sauron. If she has, I am afraid we will have to take her."

Alan pulled a face. He was not comfortable with their taking the child, especially without her parents' consent. It was illegal. He knew it, they knew it, but they all knew it would be for the best. He opened his mouth to say something, but, as if on cue, there came a little girl's voice.

"Grandpa?" the little girl came running up to her grandfather with bleary blue eyes and long brown hair. The men across from them recognized her from the previous meeting, and the Wizard looked at her fondly. She held the same looks as Alan's mother, Lucile, just as all the women in the family did, a rounded face with freckles and long brown hair tousled with sleep. Her little face was still smudged from playing in the garden. His wife had neglected to wash her up, though undoubtedly had washed her brother and cousin. "I had a dream about monsters."

"Well, I guess that answers that," Alan said, patting her shoulder. The child leaned her chin on the table, looking at the men with groggy eyes. "Tabi, can you say 'hi' to Gandalf and Elrond?"

The child yawned and waved at the two. She rubbed her eyes as the phone rang, startling the two visitors. Alan allowed himself a small victory. Though he could not understand the difference between an Orc and a Uruk, he knew many things that these hardened warriors didn't.

"What happened in the dream, little one?" Elrond asked gently after the phone had been answered.

"Well, there were a lot of scary things with gross faces and icky green skin," she said, playing with the hem of her purple dress. "And a guy wearing pointy stuff...amor...armmur..."

"Armor?" Gandalf supplied.

"Armor," the little girl repeated, staring at the table with narrowed eyes. Alan smiled and patted the child's shoulder as she stored the word in her sharp memory. The child nodded, then looked up at the two men again. "Then there was—"

Tabi was interrupted by her grandmother stepping into the dining room, looking perhaps more annoyed than before. "Alan, the school is on the phone. D.J. got in trouble again," she said.

"How does he keep getting into trouble in summer school? It's only three hours," Alan sighed, looking at his wife.

"I don't know, but Rhonda can't go talk to the school now, so they're asking for you." Alan grunted and got up from his chair. He looked at his young granddaughter, who was eyeing him innocently. "Behave yourself, Tabi."

"I always do," she replied, giving her grandfather a gap-toothed grin.

Alan looked at her in disbelief before shaking his head and taking the phone from his wife.

"Is your cousin usually in trouble?" Gandalf asked as the little girl climbed into the chair and leaned against the table.

"Yeah, but that's 'cause he's a dork," she replied, watching the clouds through the window. Her friendly face fell to a nervous look as thunder echoed outside.

"You don't get in trouble at school, do you?" the Wizard asked, smiling fondly at the girl.

Tabi giggled despite the thunder. "Well, not on purpose," she answered, the small cactus in the center of the table catching her eye.

The two chuckled. "May we ask you some questions, Tabi?" Elrond asked.

"Okay," she nodded, reaching out a small hand to gently poke the thorns with a finger. She looked thoughtful as her taps slowly traveled along the succulent.

"These are very important, so can you be truthful?"

She hesitated as if thinking of all the things she could be in trouble for. She looked over her shoulder to where her grandfather had gone and pulled her hand away from the plant. "If I won't get in trouble for anything I did," she replied, a serious look coming over her small face.

Gandalf smiled, getting a distinct impression of a young Brandybuck he knew in the Shire. "You shan't, my dear; now, do you have these bad dreams at night?" he asked.

The little girl's friendly demeanor fell again, and she looked nervous. She glanced towards the kitchen and pushed her hair out of her face. The child seemed to understand the importance of the questions. "Yeah, but sometimes they aren't bad dreams," she said in the loud whisper of a child trying to be sneaky.

Gandalf and Elrond exchanged looks, but the Wizard gave her a reassuring smile. "Can you tell me about them?"

"There are monsters in my closet, but no one believes me," she answered. "Dad says I'm too old to think about that, but I've seen them." Here, the little girl pointed to her arm. "One of them grabbed me." A yellow bruise was on her arm in the shape of a hand. "It disappeared after I woke up, though."

"What do the monsters do?" Gandalf asked, trying his best not to look too concerned for fear of scaring the child.

"They tell me that they're going to take me away from my family and that I'll never see them again," she said, lowering her voice again. "Anytime they grab at me, though, they are gone real quick."

"Did you tell your parents?" he asked.

She nodded and shrugged. "But my dad just says, 'shut up and go back to bed.'" Then, as an aside to herself, "I don't know why he is so mean to me."

Gandalf and Elrond exchanged looks again, this time darker. Though the poor child was still hurt, she had grown accustomed to the treatment. This pulled at Gandalf's heart. "Come here, little one," Gandalf said, nodding to her. The child looked up at the strange old man and slowly got off the chair.

She walked over to him shyly, standing no taller than a hobbit. Her blue eyes looked teary, and the Wizard felt his heart wrench. Gandalf put a hand in a pocket deep in his grey robes and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in paper. He opened the gift and held it out to the little girl.

Her eyes grew wide with wonder. "Ooh, pretty," she said.

In Gandalf's hand, hanging off a delicate silver chain, was a crystal of gentle purple. The stone had come from Erebor as a favor from Dáin Ironfoot. Inside was a rare purple poppy that the dwarf had cleverly worked into the crystal.

Gandalf could feel Elrond's curious eyes watching. The crystal Gandalf explicitly requested for the girl in front of him; the colors and the poppy had significant alchemist meanings. He placed the necklace over the girl's head and touched her brown hair. "This, Tabitha, is a little gift for you," he said, letting a finite amount of magic course from his wrinkled fingers into the girl's head. "This will help keep you safe from those monsters. Promise me you will always wear this."

The little girl looked up at Gandalf, and he could see the deep understanding, the core memory taking hold that he had placed. One that would not dissipate even if another user's magic should enter her lifeforce.

"I promise," she said.

Gandalf smiled, and the little girl tucked the necklace into her dress. Gandalf met the Elf Lord's eye, but the doorbell rang a second time before they could say anything more. Tabitha looked towards the door, and her eyes widened. The child's grandmother came back into the dining room with a scowl, as the child grabbed a bunch of Gandalf's robes and hid her face in the grey fabric. Elrond's shoulders stiffened as he heard the muffled conversation, and the Wizard watched the doorway as the two newcomers entered the room, a hand on the child's shoulder.

The first man was like Gandalf, though he had long white hair and a long beard of the same hue. He was dressed in white robes and held a black staff. He was someone they both knew and suddenly felt very suspicious of. He had tried to dissuade them from coming to warn Alan, yet here he was. The second man they did not know, and was dressed in brown, tattered clothing. He had dark hair, a dark mustache, and mean little eyes. He was a man of Dunlending descent.

Tabi tugged on Gandalf's robes. "He's a monster in my closet," she whispered, pointing to the man dressed in white.

The afternoon sun could not pierce the winter sky's clouded fortress; the thick, heavy clouds threatened to dump more snow onto the bleak landscape. A maroon car went along the country road, passed the dark, bare trees lining the street.

Alan drove his young granddaughter home from school, unnerved by the threatening storm. He had not felt anxiety like this in seven years. He adjusted the heat in his car, placing a hand on the vent as the old unit struggled to keep the cabin warm. The fresh snow on the country road made the drive treacherous, but his granddaughter was sick, and the high speeds of the bypass would have made her nauseous. He glanced over at his fourteen-year-old grandchild.

Tabi had fallen asleep against the opposite door before leaving the high school parking lot. Her few scattered freckles were a stark difference on her pale face.

Alan shook his head and fervently reminded himself that this year's flu was rough, and he tended to overreact. Shivering into his flannel coat, he shifted the air vents towards the girl to help keep her warm.

His eyes had only been away briefly, but it was enough.

As he looked back up, a man stood in the road directly in the car's path. Alan yelped and slammed on the brakes, skidding on black ice. The red Buick seemed to fly through the man as if caught in a gust of wind. Before Tabitha could become conscious enough to scream, the car slammed into a snowbank and flipped onto its side, rolling down a steep incline. The vehicle broke through a barbed-wire fence, windows cracked, and steel bent harshly.

The car landed on its top in a field, just feet away from a small creek used to water cattle. Something struck Alan in the face, sending a rush of pain through his nose and knocking his glasses askew. Alan twitched his nose as the pain dulled into a sharp feeling of the need to sneeze. Looking by his head, he could barely make out his glasses case.

As his world stopped spinning, Alan looked at his granddaughter; her school bag lay by her head, cocked at an alarming angle. Her eyes were closed, her face lax; he could not tell if she was breathing. A cut on her cheek ran into her hairline from her nose, and fresh, blood dripped onto the upholstery of the ceiling.

Desperate to get to his grandchild, Alan undid his seat belt, grunting as he fell against the roof. His glasses fell from his face and came to rest by the rear-view mirror with a loud clatter. Tabitha did not stir.

Before he could work on shoving the car door open, his window shattered inward. Closing his eyes, he felt sharp, shallow cuts form across his face. He heard the familiar sound of fresh snow crunching underfoot, and he glanced at his granddaughter again, feeling that this was not help.

Cuts had formed across her face from the flying shards, and many glass crystals stuck in her thick hair. The footsteps came nearer, and Alan looked back towards the sound, unable to bring himself to yell for help. A pale, barefoot came into his field of vision. He looked hard at the strange sight, unconsciously cocking his head to the side. The foot was perfect in every way; manicured, perfectly arched, and well-formed, leaving light but perfect imprints in the snow.

Suddenly, a blonde head of hair appeared next to his. Before he had time to register who this person was, he was quickly dragged through the window.

"Hello Alan," came a sneer. The old man's head swam momentarily from the rush of movement, his body aching from the wreck. Bruises would form over his weathered skin before sunset.

As his vision cleared, Alan saw that he was face to face with a man who looked to be no more than twenty-five. He had a head full of gentle blonde curls that cascaded down his shoulders and back. Naked shoulders, Alan realized. The man held a robust, handsome jawline that curved harshly into his golden curls. He was well-built; lines of muscles bulged as he held the seventy-year-old aloft in one hand.

Alan swallowed hard as a nasty burning sensation started at his throat beneath the clothes where the man held him, the man who stalked his nightmares just by mere mentions. And now he stood before him, gripping his flannel coat in one hand, wearing nothing more than a pair of black trousers in twenty-degree weather. The man's biceps bulged with the incredible strength he had to hold Alan aloft, but he never seemed to tire of the strain, if he felt any.

"Y-You," he hissed through chattering teeth.

"Me," the man replied in a silky voice dripping with malice. "Where are your precious Elf-Lord and Istar now?"

Before Alan could answer, he was thrown through the air, landing hard against something on the ground. Alan let out a strangled yelp and momentarily blacked out. His head was swimming. We must have broken through a fence, he thought vaguely. His back was arched painfully against something hard, but his rushing heart was pumping too much adrenaline through him to tell what it was.

Then he remembered the man. As if lifting a great weight, Alan raised his head and looked toward the man again. "What do you want?" he asked weakly, glaring at the man, who watched him lazily.

"An end to your pathetic line," he replied. "That wretched girl, however, will make a pleasing sacrifice to my master. Surely her blood will be enough to bring him from the Void; the marring of this world will be glorious."

Hate and a desire to protect his grandchild quickly filled his veins. "She has done nothing to you!" Alan snarled, but he was suddenly racked with hacking coughs from the harshness of his words. He spat blood onto the fresh snow. Doing a double-take, he stared at the crimson-colored snow, wondering what could have caused internal bleeding.

There came an evil-sounding laugh from the man, drawing his eyes. "Not yet. However, I do not plan to let her try. I will kill her slowly, painfully."

"Over my dead body," Alan snapped.

Dark laughter filled the man's eyes. "I have already arranged that, Alan," he said, gesturing to his chest.

Alan looked down to see a metal post jutting through his torso. His body was racked with excruciating pain as he saw the spike, dark with his blood. Whimpering as he placed a hand around his wound, shuddering at the warmth of his own blood. Alan's vision began to swim, the adrenaline dying off to fill him with shock. He swore he could see steam trails rising from the wound's warmth into the frigid air.

"She yet lives," came the man's voice. Alan forced his eyes up, looking towards the sound. "Her breath is shallow, and her life pulse is weak. Ugh, and she reeks of disease. I need a pure sacrifice. Pity. My lord, will have to wait."

Alan blinked hard, trying to stay conscious, as a dark haze began to fill his vision. If only Tabi could wake up. He squinted his old eyes to see the man hauling his granddaughter from the wrecked car. He had her beneath her arms, quickly pulling her from the heap of wreckage. Her head lolled back towards the man's chest, who looked disgusted as he touched her.

As the man came closer with his granddaughter, he saw her book bag caught around her foot, a pink blob dragging through the whiteness of the snow.

The half-naked man held the girl aloft in one hand, a snarl coming across his face as if he was holding a rank, dead animal. He tossed the overstuffed book bag onto the frozen creek bed with ease. The bag landed hard, with a warning crack.

"Stay away from her," Alan yelled. Or thought he yelled, even thinking it was taking too much effort.

The man made no move to have heard him; he simply ripped off her coat, sending the large black buttons flying into the snow. He tossed it onto the frozen creek with her school bag and dropped her into the snow as if she were no more than a used piece of paper.

"As you die, you can watch her slowly freeze to death," the man said, walking back up the snowy slope without a second glance.

"If only that white-haired fellow had not opposed her going to Rivendell," Alan muttered as the spark of thought dimmed in his mind, then went out.