A/N: There were excerpts from Tolkien, specifically chapters "Three is Company" and "Strider." I will be updating July 7th-hope you all enjoyed the chapter ~ love DC
September 20th 3018
Dôranna rolled his head from side-to-side as he continued his more sedate pace along the East Road with the sun beginning to set behind him. He'd left Bag End this morning at his father's insistence with a trunk of sentimental objects Dôranna had left at Bag End. Dôranna had been prepared to help his father pack up their home and move the hobbit to Crickhollow; but, yesterday, they'd found the Mr. Fox doll stuffed behind a book in Papa's study. From there, Papa and Dôranna had quickly realized numerous beloved items from the blonde's childhood were hidden all over Bag End. Pippin and Folco had made a game of locating any such item while they were helping to pack.
Since most of Bag End had been packed away (save what was sold to the Sacksville-Bagginses) by that morning, Papa had told Dôranna to make for his home and deposit the items—after all, Dôranna could make the journey and be back in time for Papa's birthday. Besides, with Papa not staying in Crickhollow, there was no reason to leave the blonde's favorite books and stuffed animals with Papa—not if he wanted to keep them (who knew what the Enemy might do if they found Papa's forwarding address and discovered it empty!).
Dôranna blinked and paused in his march. He was coming up to the intersection between the Greenway and the East Road which meant he'd missed the wagon path that led to the farm he'd bought this summer.
Groaning, he turned to face North-west and looked for his farm, and there it was. If he had a hand free, he'd have hit his face with his palm. That's what he got for daydreaming. He could just imagine the lecture Halbarad would have given him if the ranger had witnessed Dôranna's lapse in awareness.
Shaking his head, Dôranna shifted the trunk he was carrying and set off back the way he came until he found the wagon path branching from the road and going North. He continued traveling at a slow pace lest his tenants look out the windows of the farmhouse and see him moving abnormally fast.
Brea and Marty Rushlight were a kind couple. They had two children, Fennel (the oldest) and Teddy (a toddler). Brea and Marty both had sunburned faces and sun-bleached hair from working in the fields, but he suspected Brea had more red in her hair than her husband. Little Teddy had quite a bit of auburn in his hair while Fennel had a darker brown hair color, and presumably they got their hair color from their parents.
As Dôranna was reaching the porch of the home, the sun had fully set, which was not ideal. He'll probably be interrupting the Rushlight's dinner or otherwise spook them. Well, as Mr. Fox would say, it can't be helped.
He set down his trunk on the porch and then knocked at the door. He could hear the clattering of cutlery, so he was indeed interrupting dinner.
"Who's there!" Mr. Rushlight yelled from the other side of the door. He sounded scared.
Dôranna grimaced. "Ah, it's me, Dôranna," he called back sheepishly. "I apologize for—" Mr. Rushlight opened the door and stared in disbelief at Dôranna's presence "—not sending word ahead of time, but I hadn't planned on coming and I travel faster than the post to Bree does." The blonde rubbed the back of his head and gave the man a grimace-like smile. "Sorry," he repeated.
Mr. Rushlight blinked twice and then shook his head. "Nonsense, Master Dôranna, you own this land and are kind enough to let us live here." He held the door open and gestured for Dôranna to come in.
"Please, you can just call me Dôranna," he told the man for what had to be the twentieth time since they'd first met. The man just smiled and nodded but they both knew the man wasn't going to change how he addressed the blonde.
"Master Dôranna," Mrs. Rushlight greeted the boy now. She had come over to the door to see what was keeping her husband. "To what do we owe your visit?" she asked.
"Ah," Dôranna began a bit awkwardly, "I was helping my papa move and we found some of my things that I had forgotten. I would like to store them in my room, if possible."
"This is your home, Master Dôranna," the woman stated as she made a beckoning motion for him to come inside. "We merely keep it and tend the land."
Dôranna bit his tongue to keep from saying that they did more than he did to call this place a home. "And I am very thankful for your work," he responded before moving to pick up his trunk; however, Mr. Rushlight was already grabbing it.
"Do you need your horse fed and watered?" Mrs. Rushlight asked while her husband brought the trunk into the house.
"Ah, I don't have a horse," Dôranna replied with another grimace. He entered the home now and smiled at its homey warmth. It was decorated differently than Bag End and yet had a similar feeling to it.
"Oh my!" Mrs. Rushlight exclaimed before ushering Dôranna further into the home and having him sit down. "You must have been traveling for days and without breaks if you're faster than the post!" She then began to fix him a plate of food from what was left of their dinner while Mr. Rushlight took the trunk up to Dôranna's room.
"Oh, um, thank you, but I'm fine—I'm used to traveling far."
Mrs. Rushlight laughed more in surprise than humor and shook her head. "You're like one of those Rangers," she commented with a shake of her head.
"Er, well, I am apprenticing with them," he stated with a blush.
She blinked several times and furrowed her brow. "Truly, Master Dôranna, a nice, cultured boy like yourself and those rangers?"
Dôranna puffed up his chest in indignation. "They are noble men and fight the evils of this world!"
Mrs. Rushlight's eyes widened in shock and worry "Forgive me, Master Dôranna, I-I—"
Dôranna shook his head and waved his hands in front of him. "No, no, you don't have anything to apologize for. I know they look mean and grim, but they've had rough lives and have been met with so much hostility from the people they help that, well I can't help but get defensive."
Mrs. Rushlight just nodded a bit awkwardly. The silence stretched for a while longer and would have become unbearable, but Mr. Rushlight had returned. "Well, Master Dôranna, I've set your trunk in your room," he announced.
"Thank you, Mr. Rushlight," Dôranna replied.
The man waved his hand. "Thanks, aren't necessary."
Before Dôranna could protest or point out that he was imposing on them without warning, Mrs. Rushlight spoke. "Master Dôranna, how long are you thinking of staying? Do you need to meet with your, ah ranger friends?"
"Oh, my papa's birthday is the day after tomorrow," Dôranna stated with a smile, "so I'll be leaving in the morning."
Mr. and Mrs. Rushlight seemed to deflate slightly at that, which made Dôranna furrow his brow. "I mean, I could leave in the evening and still make it in time if there are things I should look into in town or around the farm," he amended. He was a landowner now, so there were probably other duties and things he needed to get sorted, besides, he didn't know how long it would take for his Papa to get to Rivendell and there was no way Dôranna would miss meeting elves.
Mr. and Mrs. Rushlight immediately lightened at the boy's response. "I'm glad to hear that, Master Dôranna. I need to update you on the harvest, and there's business that needs doing in Bree too."
Dôranna smiled and nodded as he listened to the couple explain the things they needed to get in order while he ate. Occasionally he asked questions as well—like what he should do if he needed to be gone for an extended time on ranger business. By the time Dôranna shuffled off to his room on the second floor, he was tired and didn't think he'd be getting back to Bag End until his papa's birthday.
When morning came, Dôranna woke with the rest of the house. The Rushlights were making breakfast just before dawn and would likely be out in the fields within the hour. Dôranna, who was used to waking up at the slightest disturbance, made himself get out of the soft featherbed and head downstairs.
Papa insisted he move the mattress and frame they had custom made for him, so the Sacksville-Bagginses didn't have it (Papa could be petty about things like that). A featherbed was a comfort he had come to associate with Papa and so it tended to make him reluctant to wake. Sure, he could sleep just fine on the hard ground or a stiff cot, but a featherbed was a reminder of home.
When Dôranna entered the main area rubbing sleep from his eyes, Mrs. Rushlight startled. "Oh, Master Dôranna, did we wake you?" she asked fretfully.
He waved his hand dismissively and yawned. "I'm used to waking up early or suddenly," he said with sleep garbled words. He slapped his cheeks and shook his head to wake up a bit more. "I'm not as used to sleeping in a comfortable bed though, so I tend to oversleep," he said good naturedly with a bright smile.
"The life of a ranger must be hard indeed," Mr. Rushlight joked before gesturing to the modest fare already set at the table. "Well, come, join us for breakfast, Master Dôranna. Once we've eaten, I'll show you our harvest and efforts at preservation. We can go to the market then and meet with the town bursar."
With the plan settled, Dôranna shadowed the Rushlights through their morning—often occupying the two young children with stories and poems when they started to get underfoot—and then accompanied Mr. Rushlight into town. By mid-day, things were settled through the next year with the bursar (Papa had gained a tidy sum from selling Bag End and didn't suspect he'd need much money given what was to come).
Mr. Rushlight insisted they stop by the Prancing Pony to grab a pint and a late lunch, and who was Dôranna to deny the kind man tending his land and home. Besides, he could still make it back to Hobbiton before his Papa's birthday—he'd just have to take more discreet roads and run most of the way.
The Pony was filled, which seemed odd since it was rather early for people to gather for drinks. There also appeared to be many dangerous and rough looking men. Sure, one of the dúnedain could appear rough and dangerous looking, but they had a different feel to them than the men posted up around the edges of the tavern part of the inn. Dôranna honestly felt like he could feel these men's malicious and greedy intents, but that had to be his imagination. Still, he kept a keen eye out for those folk while he and Mr. Rushlight sat down at a table in the middle of the room.
"Are there usually so many…unsavory kinds passing through Bree?" he asked Mr. Rushlight in a low voice.
The farmer blinked once at the question before answering. "Passing through," he repeated before nodding. "Off and on, yes, but most of these folks haven't been passing through, if you follow my meaning." He then coughed a little awkwardly, "Beggin' my pardon, sir, but aren't most of these folk rangers?" he asked quietly.
Dôranna frowned. "No, the men filling this room appear to be mercenaries, though why they would congregate in Bree I am not sure." He then added with a slight smile, "Besides, a ranger is likely to be more covered in brush and mud than that lot."
Mr. Rushlight gave a surprised laugh before nodding his head. "Yes, yes, I suppose wandering the wilds would leave a mark, eh?"
"Papa laments each time I come home with my dirty cloaks and pants. 'How ever am I to get these brambles out without tearing a hole straight through them!'" he imitated his father.
Mr. Rushlight cocked his head to the side. "It's just you and your father then? No mother?" he asked with a frown before his eyes widened in alarm. "I-I ah, didn't mean any disrespect, Master Dôranna!"
"I'm not offended," Dôranna consoled the man before debating what to tell his tenant. "I was given up by my birth family, and my papa adopted me. See, he had been adopted by a relative after his parents passed, and so I think Papa saw me as a kindred spirit." Mr. Rushlight nodded in sympathetic understanding. Dôranna shrugged now, "As for why my papa never married, well, I don't think he cared to share his life with anyone but family and friends. The relative who had taken my papa in was of a similar sort, you see."
Mr. Rushlight nodded with a smile now. "I understand. Marriage isn't for everyone, though I am glad you two were able to be a family. He sounds like a good man."
"He is," Dôranna agreed with a broad smile. "It's been hard being apart from him and apprenticing with the rangers."
The human gave Dôranna another sympathetic look, but fortunately, Mr. Butterbur came by with drinks and food. "Hello Marty," the man greeted the farmer. "Dob told me ye were wanting lunch, and that you'd come in with the new landlord."
The burly man then turned to smile at Dôranna, "Welcome, sir. I haven't seen ye in the Pony yet," he greeted warmly, but his eyes stayed pinned on the whisker-like markings on Dôranna's cheeks. "My name's Barliman Butterbur, and what be your name, young master?"
Dôranna blinked. He was surprised his name was not all about town, but he supposed Bree-folk were less nosy than Shire-folk—well, busy inn proprietors at least. He was a little perturbed by the man focusing on his birthmarks though. "Ah, my name is Dôranna, son of Konoha," he used the human appellation.
Mr. Butterbur's eyes widened in recognition. "Just a moment, please, young sir," he began hurriedly. "I have a letter I've been meaning to post, but one thing drives out another," he said apologetically. He left their table and then soon came back with an envelope addressed to Dôranna's papa.
"I was told to look for a hobbit traveling under the name Underhill, or to look for a young man matching your description with your name. I do hope I've caused no harm by delaying this letter," he said sincerely as he handed off the envelope.
Dôranna took the letter and quickly put it in between his traveling vest and tunic. "I understand, sir, this appears to be a busy establishment, but who gave you this letter?" he asked.
"Gandalf did, several months past."
Dôranna promptly stood. "I should leave then," he stated. "Mr. Underhill has been eagerly awaiting a letter from Gandalf."
Mr. Butterbur grimaced and opened his mouth as if to apologize again, but Mr. Rushlight began to speak. "Come, Master Dôranna, you needn't leave this instant—leastways, not on an empty stomach," the farmer insisted.
Dôranna bit his lip. His father had been waiting for news from Gandalf and this letter was months old. What if his father was in danger and needed to leave immediately? However, the boy was hungry, and the food would give him more chakra to burn on his run back to the Shire. Reluctantly, he sat back down.
"Thank you, Mr. Butterbur," he said as he retrieved coins from his money pouch. The innkeeper raised his hands and shook his head.
"I fear I've caused some trouble in delaying that letter. I'll not take any payment for my delivery of it or your meal, young master," he said sincerely.
Dôranna nodded and then sighed when the man hurried off to see another patron's request. Mr. Rushlight regarded Dôranna with some concern.
"Is this ranger business then, sir?" the farmer asked.
Dôranna just gave him a wane smile and nodded—he did not have the heart to lie or speak further on the matter. The human just nodded in return, and they began to eat their meal in silence. The beer was probably good, but Dôranna did not care for the taste, and alcohol (in general) did not seem to affect him like it did others.
As the two were finishing their quiet meal, a dark figure entered the establishment. The man was instantly familiar and yet not at all. He wore a dark green cloak caked in mud at the hem and covered in dust from the road. There were signs of brambles and grass stains that only those who travel the wilds tended to have mar their clothes. The man was tall and as grim in appearance as all the other dúnedain Dôranna had met, but he did not recognize this man. Moreover, he wore a precious looking stone upon his breast that indicated a wealth most of the rangers did not bear (or bear openly), and he wore a silver ring with two serpents wreathed with flowers who had emeralds for eyes.
The man's gaze caught Dôranna's and his stormy eyes (yet another similarity between him and the dúnedain) widened in recognition. So, the man knew of Dôranna, but the boy did not know this supposed ranger.
The newcomer greeted Mr. Butterbur, and Dôranna overheard the innkeeper call the man Strider. Likely, this was a colloquial name for the man, and one given to him by the people of Bree. This in turn suggested he was a frequent presence in the town, and yet he had not ventured to see his brethren stationed around the Shire.
Strider ordered a drink and meal from Mr. Butterbur and then moved to sit at a table which would give him a fair vantage point of the rest of the room. Dôranna kept his observations of the man discrete.
"Well, it is getting quite late in the day," Mr. Rushlight commented. Indeed, sunset was within the hour. "Do you suppose you'll stay one more night, sir? A young man, even one well-traveled such as yourself should not travel at night. These are queer and dangerous times."
Dôranna chewed on his bottom lip. "My papa's birthday is tomorrow, and I have that letter to deliver." He felt safe traveling at night within the Shire, but Bree was a few hours walk from Buckland, and Dôranna couldn't sprint the distance unless he wanted to draw undo attention.
Mr. Rushlight gave Dôranna a small smile. "Well, if you change your mind, Master Dôranna, we will be at your service." The farmer stood up then and left the tavern.
As soon as Mr. Rushlight had stood, Strider stood as well. The man then casually sat across from Dôranna—the blonde had suspected the presumed ranger would try to speak with him, which was why he had not left yet. "Dôranna, son of Konoha?" the man asked.
"Yes, but I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, for I do not know who you are," Dôranna replied as smoothly as he could. He felt tired and anxious. He desperately wanted to leave and be on his way to Bag End.
"I am a friend of Mithrandir," the presumed ranger replied in Sindarin.
"So is Mr. Butterbur, apparently," Dôranna retorted in Westron.
This drew a chuckle from the curious human as he pulled out a pipe. "Halbarad has mentioned your quick wit, though it is usually in lamentation."
Dôranna raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Oh, and how do you know Halbarad?"
"He is my second and leads my men when I cannot," the man answered as he began packing his pipe.
"If you are indeed the leader of the dúnedain, then you should not mind answering a question to verify your identity," Dôranna stated evenly in elvish. He knew not to ask for the man's name for he'd undoubtedly reply that he was called Strider or some such by the Bree-folk. Afterall, even the rangers when among their own company did not say their leader's name freely. Dôranna supposed the man was hunted by their enemies or something, so he would follow the examples of his mentors.
The man across from the blonde gestured for Dôranna to proceed; the man also struck some flint and lit his pipe. Dôranna scrunched up his nose at the tobacco smoke but proceeded with his test. "If you are indeed the man you claim you are, who was the quarry you hunted at the request of Mithrandir and where did you finally catch this creature." Dôranna continued to use elvish to deter eavesdroppers.
"There have been many a quarry I've hunted at Gandalf's request, but you speak of Gollum and the Dead Marshes," the man replied quickly and quietly before taking a drag from his pipe. "Now, young ranger," the man began in Sindarin after exhaling a cloud of smoke, "the last I had heard, you were patrolling the southern border of the Shire. What has happened?"
"As Halbarad knows, I left my patrols to assist my father in packing his home and moving to his new one," Dôranna answered in the same language. "I was also planning to celebrate his birthday with him before returning to my patrols. However, in packing up our home, we discovered I had left sentimental items I would need to store at my new home."
Aragorn nodded slowly and regarded Dôranna thoughtfully as he continued to smoke.
"Mithrandir holds you in high regard, young one, and my men have regaled me with tales of your miraculous feats," he continued in elvish. "I would think they exaggerate, but my men are not prone to hyperbole," he paused and seemed to frown now. "I struggle to reconcile the young boy I see before me with all I have heard of you."
"I suppose I could say the same of you—you appear an ordinary man," the boy retorted a bit sourly. This drew another chuckle from the man.
"But you knew I was not, even before knowing who I was," Aragorn commented knowingly.
"I had my suspicions," the blonde replied with a shrug.
"Yet I know what you are capable of and still cannot imagine it," the leader of the dúnedain stated with a shake of his head.
"That is not my fault," Dôranna countered. He was beginning to feel put out by this skepticism.
Aragorn blinked as if startled and then his expression softened. He gave the blonde a sad sort of smile. "You misunderstand me, young one," he murmured. "I say this because I fear Mithrandir and my men have forgotten that you are still a child."
Dôranna felt a surge of indignation and he knew his cheeks were likely growing red in his anger. "I may be young, but I am capable," he replied back. This seemed to make Aragorn smile even more sadly, perhaps pityingly?
Before the blonde could work himself up into a full-blown sulk, the ranger elaborated, "What do you know of the Enemy and his minions?"
Dôranna furrowed his brow. "The Shadow in the East?" he asked slowly still in Sindarin. The words felt wrong on his tongue and could feel a chill suddenly pervade the air. The boy was reminded yet again of how much power resided within words. He shuddered as he felt a maliciousness sing through the air.
"Yes, but more specifically, those He sends out to do his evil?"
"I know of how orcs came to be—the enslaved and tortured elves," Dôranna said cautiously—the words in elvish felt wrong—almost as wrong as his memory of Gilvegil's lesson on Orcs and Goblins had felt.
"Do you know any other languages?" the blonde asked with a touch of desperation. "These matters should not be spoken of at night or in Sindarin." And it was practically night now; the shadows cast by the setting sun were long, while the fiery glow on the horizon was like a bloody, blazing eye.
"I know Rohirric. I believe Radanir has been teaching you, yes?"
"Grayhame taught me more," Dôranna replied in Rohirric. This amused Aragorn for he gave a startled but hearty laugh.
"I see he has," the man replied in kind before he sobered and regarded Dôranna with a frown again. "You have not taken a life, have you—and before you protest, animals do not count. You have not taken the life of a living, thinking, speaking creature, have you?" he asked seriously.
Dôranna looked down at the grain of the table and shook his head.
"Orcs and goblins, while monstrous, are still living beings," Aragorn stated firmly. "While they are corrupt and evil, they still have dreams. It is no easy thing to take a life, even one as wretched as that of our enemies. Worse, there will be men in the service of the Shadow. Whether they have been manipulated or believe in their hearts He is right, we will never know."
Dôranna swallowed thickly and felt his stomach twisting. "I will do whatever I can to protect my father."
"And that is noble of you, young one, but it will take its toll. I fear your mentors have not considered this," Aragorn commented softly and with regret.
Dôranna began to trace his finger along a knot in the wood of the table. He wasn't sure how to respond or what to really think. He supposed, in the abstract, he had known learning to fight would mean he'd have to use these skills. And yes, he knew the rangers had fought various evils over the lands, but the orcs, and goblins of his mentors' stories had always seemed distant. Now, as the blonde spoke with Aragorn, his enemies seemed even more real and less black and white.
As the boy thought and the man smoked, Nob came up with a plate of food and a tankard of ale. "H-here you go, Mr. Strider," the young hobbit said as he placed the food at the table. He then scampered off.
"Do you mind if I eat?" Aragorn asked. It seemed his pipe was down to embers, so he emptied it into an ashtray set at the table.
The boy shook his head. "No, go ahead. I should be leaving anyways if I hope to make it home in time for Papa's birthday."
"You should not travel at night. It is not safe," the ranger warned.
"I've been traveling the wilds in the dark many a time, sir," the boy retorted. He wasn't sure how to address the leader of the dúnedain, so he went with a differential sir.
"And from what my men have told me, the worst you've encountered has been barrow-wights in the daytime."
"I won't cut through the Downs," Dôranna replied waspishly; he wasn't an idiot, he didn't need such a warning.
"It is not wights I worry you'll encounter in the dark," Aragorn countered evenly. The man did seem genuinely concerned, but the blonde couldn't think of what else he might encounter in the dark that would pose such a danger. The ranger seemed to understand where the boy's confusion was coming from.
"I fear the Shadow's most fearsome minions have been unleashed," Aragorn stated in Rohirric. At the blonde's uncomprehending expression, the man elaborated. "Long ago, the Enemy made rings of power, nine of which He gave to men. These men succumbed to the evil influence of these rings and are now wraiths within His service."
"What is so terrible about them?" Dôranna asked.
"They live in the world of wraiths, and only take form when cloaked in a special arraignment made by their master. Even when they pass within the world of the Unseen, we mortals can feel their unsettling presence like a chill on the wind."
Dôranna could picture it well enough and shuddered at the description, but Aragorn pressed on. "They cannot be slain, not by arrows and not by any common weapon made today—great magic must be woven into the metal which pierces them for it must severe them from the Unseen. Moreover, their leader has been known to sunder stone and heart with his will alone.
"Worse, the very air they breathe is poisonous and has sent many a mortal into a deep, unending sleep. And should one be struck by their morgul-blades; they may become a wraith in their service."
"Is there no way to stop them?" Dôranna asked quietly. He felt suddenly very small and scared.
"If their arraignments are gone, they will be forced back to the Unseen. They also have difficulty seeing in light, but their noses are keen."
"So light or fire, would be the best option should I come across one?" Dôranna asked.
"I sincerely hope you never do, but yes, that would be your best defense," Aragorn agreed.
Dôranna chewed at his bottom lip and began to fidget in his seat. "I still have to leave. If those wraiths are out there, then my father must leave immediately," he stated in Rohirric after a long moment of worrying.
"It is far too dangerous to travel at night, young one," Aragorn insisted. His concern was clear, but Dôranna shook his head.
"I'm sure I can run faster than them, and Grayhame has been teaching me light and fire magics," the boy replied.
"You will not be dissuaded, will you?" Aragorn asked with a wistful sort of smile in Westron.
Dôranna shook his head. "No, I won't. I have to warn my papa if these terrors are truly after him."
The ranger sighed. "I understand, Dôranna. I will not hold you any longer, but I do ask that you check in with my men after seeing your father."
The boy shook his head. "Not if those things are after him. I'm sorry, sir, but I have to protect my father."
"And do you suppose your father will allow you to accompany him? How do you suppose he would feel if you were put into danger because of what pursues him?" Aragorn reasoned. The boy wanted to protest the ranger's words, but the man was right and knew it. Aragorn shook his head. "No, Dôranna, if you want to protect your father, it would be best you did so with my men. They can help protect you while you all protect your father from a distance."
Dôranna exhaled loudly and resigned himself. "Very well," he relented. He then ducked his head. "Thank you for your insight, sir."
"You may call me Strider, if you like," Aragorn offered the alias.
"I'll consider it," the boy replied a little cheekily, though he felt inexplicably drained after their conversation.
With one last exhale, Dôranna stood up and nodded again to Aragorn. "I will leave you to your meal. Farewell, Strider," he said.
"Safe travels, young one," Aragorn returned the goodbye, and then Dôranna was leaving the Pony. He had a long night of running ahead of him, but at least now he could go full tilt without drawing attention to himself.
…
Frodo and his helpers woke relatively early Thursday morning; of course, Frodo had not slept well. Yesterday, he had spent much of the day looking out the window or wandering out to the path that led to Bag End in the hope of seeing Gandalf or Dôranna. When supper had passed without Dôranna joining them, Frodo was beside himself with anxiety. He kept wondering if something had happened to his son on the boy's way to Bree. As a result, Frodo had tossed and turned all night and was convinced his son was in danger.
Frodo could barely drink his tea, let alone eat the breakfast Fredegar had made. He was nearly prepared to leave Bag End in search of his son when the door opened. It had been locked, but Dôranna had the spare key—which the boy would need to give to Frodo so he could pass it onto Lobelia.
Frodo shot up from his seat and raced to the front door. Indeed, there was his son looking travelworn and like he had slept in a bush. "Dôranna!" he greeted his son with a relieved cry. "I was so worried when you hadn't returned in time for dinner!"
"I'm sorry I worried you, Papa," the boy replied sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head. "I had business to see to in Bree and then I met the leader of the dúnedain. We talked past sunset and then I traveled up until Bywater before making camp—I didn't want to startle you all by coming here in the middle of the night."
Frodo tutted as he shook his head. "You are always welcome to come home, even if it is the middle of the night! You shouldn't have had to camp in the wilderness when you were so close to home!" He admonished the boy. "Unless," Frodo added with a furrowed brow, "you were too tired to make the last bit of the journey."
"No," Dôranna replied with a shake of his head, "I wasn't too tired—I mean I was sleepy, but I could have made it. I just didn't want to scare you all."
"I would have much preferred such a scare than to have worried about you all night," Frodo chided his son as he ushered the boy to the dining table. Their guests were gawking at them.
"Sorry, but did you say Bywater is close?" Folco asked in disbelief. "It's nearly a two hours' walk!"
Merry shook his head in a resigned sort of way. "You're already forgetting that Dôranna here had made it to Bree and back in two days," his cousin said. "And apparently he had done business there for one of those days, which meant it took him less time to travel all that distance."
The other hobbits gawked at Dôranna who gave a sheepish smile. Frodo just shook his head fondly at his boy and then pushed him into a seat. "Well, you likely burned through plenty of energy making that run."
"Run!" Fredegar exclaimed. "You ran that distance?!"
Dôranna gave a sheepish laugh now. "Surprise?" the boy said an octave higher than his normal speaking voice. Pippin was exclaiming that he had thought Dôranna had an especially quick horse until just now. This would likely lead to further speculations from the younger hobbits and would derail breakfast.
"My son is capable of astounding things, yes, yes," Frodo cut in dismissively as he began to pile eggs and sausages on his son's plate. "You need to recover your energy," he told his boy. "Did you even have supper last night?" He began tutting again and decided he ought to start making an early second breakfast.
The blonde boy had already shoveled quite a bit of food into his mouth but froze guiltily. Of course his boy hadn't had supper. Frodo shook his head. "I understand you were in a hurry, but honestly, Dôranna, you need to take better care of yourself," he chided the boy and then headed toward the kitchen.
"I'm sorry, Papa. I just—Aragorn scared me is all and I had this letter for you from Gandalf and—"
Frodo spun back on his heel and hurried back to his son. "Gandalf wrote a letter for me?" he asked before shaking his head and frowning further. "And who is this Aragorn person to scare you!?"
Dôranna blinked several times. "He's the leader of the Dúnedain, Papa. Didn't Gandalf mention they had gone hunting in the Dead Marshes?" the boy reminded him pointedly.
Frodo frowned. "Well, I don't like that he scared you—that's not very good of a leader to do," he said.
Dôranna was trying to smother a smile, but he still responded. "I think you'd appreciate why he had scared me—he was worried for me and thought his men and Gandalf did not take into consideration my age and inexperience."
Frodo's brow creased slightly in concern. He was glad at least someone who knew of his son's miraculous abilities at least considered him a child still, but he still didn't like that this ranger had scared his boy. Rubbing his forehead, Frodo exhaled. There was nothing to be done about it now, so he shook his head. "You said you had a letter from Gandalf. Did you see him? Is that why he hasn't come?"
Dôranna sobered and frowned. He reached into his vest and withdrew a letter which was addressed to Frodo. "I don't know, but he had left this with the proprietor of the Prancing Pony some months back, apparently."
"Months!?" Frodo repeated as he quickly took the letter from his son. "Why on earth wasn't it sent?"
"Mr. Butterbur is very busy. As he said, 'one thing drives out the last,' and I'm sure he only remembered to give that to me because it was relatively slow when I came in with Mr. Rushlight for dinner."
"Well, Frodo, you ought to read the letter," Pippin chimed in—he and the other hobbits had been quiet as the father and son had their back and forth.
"Yes, I will. Please excuse me a moment," Frodo said to his guests before moving off toward his barren study—most of his books, maps, and furniture had already been sent down the river with other large furniture not sold to the Sacksville-Bagginses.
Frodo broke the seal on the letter and recognized Gandalf's strong but graceful script.
THE PRANCING PONY, BREE. Midyear's Day, Shire Year 1418.
Goodness, that was indeed dated months ago! He hoped the news within was not too pressing. He still had to go through purchasing details with Lobelia and no doubt the old croon would have some itemized list of everything she had bought in Bag End.
Dear Frodo,
Bad news has reached me here. I must go off at once. You had better leave Bag End soon, and get out of the Shire before the end of July at the latest.
Here Frodo paused and cursed under his breath. He had wasted so much time fretting over how to disappear quietly and waiting on Gandalf's return. Now, surely, danger would be at their door. Though concern ate at Frodo at the same time he cursed the delay in receiving this message. Surely Gandalf should have come by Bag End in the intervening months unless something had happened to him—oh what a terrible thought! It was better to keep reading than think of what must have befallen the wizard for him not to have returned.
I will return as soon as I can; and I will follow you, if I find that you are gone. Leave a message for me here, if you pass through Bree. You can trust the landlord (Butterbur). You may meet a friend of mine on the Road: a Man, lean, dark, tall, by some called Strider. He knows our business and will help you. Make for Rivendell. There I hope we may meet again. If I do not come, Elrond will advise you.
Yours in haste
GANDALF
The wizard signed his name with the elvish rune for G and then enclosed with the letter were three postscripts that had been hastily written and signed with the same rune.
PS. Do NOT use It again, not for any reason whatever! Do not travel by night!
PPS. Make sure that it is the real Strider. There are many strange men on the roads. His true name is Aragorn.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
PPPS. I hope Butterbur sends this promptly. A worthy man, but his memory is like a lumber-room: thing wanted always buried. If he forgets, I shall roast him.
Farewell.
Frodo was shaking and pale when he finished reading and then rereading the letter. He swallowed thickly and felt nauseous. This Butterbur had made a mess of things. If Frodo had gotten this letter when he should have, he might already be in Rivendell.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. There was nothing to be done now though, and if he should rush his guests out on his Birthday and make haste for Crickhollow, then surely his secrets would be revealed, and his hopes of a quiet disappearance would be dashed. He had a scheduled meeting with Lobelia tomorrow so it would do no good to leave before then—in fact, it might draw further attention to his departure.
It was decided then; he would leave after he finished going through the paperwork with Lobelia, and not a moment later. Hopefully the eager woman would arrive earlier than their scheduled appointment so he might be on the road even sooner.
He was a bit curious, though, as to why he must not travel at night. Perhaps Dôranna might have an idea, but he'd need to save the conversation for when they were alone. Frodo knew his friends were curious about his move and he did not want to draw their attention further to the circumstances of it all.
And so, his birthday proceeded on. There were a few things to pack yet, and Frodo made sure to set aside time in the afternoon to wander the gardens with his son while the younger hobbits helped sort through various possessions in Bag End.
Frodo and his son walked along the line of stonecrop before the hobbit decided to head down toward the copse he had originally found Dôranna in. The boy did not comment about the change in direction or when they left the Hill. Once they were within the small, wooded area between the heather and sage, the boy regarded him.
"What did Mithrandir write, Papa," he asked in elvish—it was smart since Frodo's friends all knew (to varying degrees) the boy's dream-language and most hobbits did not know Sindarin. This would ensure they were not overheard.
"He wrote that I should leave by the end of July at the latest," Frodo replied in distress. He shook his head and ran a hand through his curly hair. "He also told me to seek out help from a man named Strider—the leader of dúnedain you mentioned." He had to codeswitch from elvish lest the name become nonsensical.
"Yeah, they call him that in Bree," the boy commented with a shrug. "Did Mithrandir say anything else?"
"Yes, that I should not use the Ring and I must not travel at night; though I can't fathom why I should not—travel at night, I mean. Wouldn't the cover of night keep unwanted attention from me?" He was partly wondering this aloud, but he did hope his son might know something.
If the way Dôranna paled was any indication, his son likely did know why Gandalf would caution Frodo from traveling at night. "Son?" Frodo questioned quietly.
Dôranna closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. "Strider told me of these…wraiths. He did not give them names but described them as such. They are the Enemy's greatest servants and were once men He tricked."
"The nine humans given Rings of Power," Frodo murmured.
"Yes. They travel the world of the Unseen unless cloaked and…" the boy trailed off. He was pale and shaking. "Oh Papa! It's awful!" he cried, and soon Frodo found his son kneeling in front of him and tucking his head beneath Frodo's chin. Frodo held onto his son tightly and swayed with him in his arms as the boy cried.
"Their very breath is poison, Papa! And they can make those they injure into wraiths within their service!"
Frodo shuddered along with his son as the boy continued to cry. "They can smell well—I bet they can smell blood or the Ring or some such! And-and they can see very well at night. Oh Papa, I fear if they are out of-of you-know-where, then they are seeking their master's ring."
"I understand, Dôranna, I understand," he murmured as he tried to soothe his boy. If these wraiths were outside of Mordor, then they were outside of it to hunt for the Ring. They would know where to find him too, and that meant Dôranna would be in danger. "We'll have an early birthday meal, and then I want you to stay with the rangers. They'll keep you safe, won't they?" He hoped they could.
Dôranna looked up at his father with tear-filled eyes. "Th-that's what Strider said. I should stay with the dúnedain because they'd protect me. But-but Papa, if they're after you—"
"No," Frodo interrupted his son firmly. "You're my child, Dôranna. Your safety matters much more to me than my own. I will not argue with you on this."
Frodo pressed the boy's head back to his chest and rested his cheek atop his head. The hobbit rocked from side-to-side with his son crying softly in his arms. Eventually, the boy's tears subsided but he did not pull away from his father.
"I love you, Papa," he murmured.
"I love you too, Dôranna," Frodo replied.
"I'm sorry I brought such awful news to you on your birthday," the boy muttered sullenly.
"Forewarned is to be forearmed," Frodo responded. "I'm glad you told me and that you delivered that letter."
"I should have visited Bree proper sooner," the boy complained.
Frodo shook his head. "It cannot be helped," he retorted in his son's dream-language. The boy gave a sad laugh but finally pulled away from him.
"Alright. Let's go have your birthday…lunch?" the boy asked as he gauged the progress of the sun in the sky.
"Yes, a birthday lunch," Frodo agreed before pulling his son to his feet and then walking back to Bag End with the boy. "I'll make your favorites so we might have a proper farewell meal," he said in elvish.
The boy frowned. "Papa?" Dôranna questioned him.
"I don't know when I will see you again, if ever," Frodo replied quietly. His son's expression crumbled with grief.
"Don't say that, Father," he replied in elvish. "I'll see you again. We'll celebrate your next birthday together!"
Frodo felt tears beginning to gather in his eyes, consequently matching his son. "Of course we will," he replied, though he did not believe it to be true. "Come now, we can't be crying in front of the others—they'll suspect something," Frodo said in elvish while wiping at the gathered moisture from his son's face. He then did the same to his own face before heading back into Bagg End where he greeted his friends with a joyous smile. Dôranna did his best to bring cheer as well, but it was clear the boy was upset. Regardless, the father and son would do their best to enjoy their last meal together.
…
Dôranna made it to the Sarn Ford at the southern border of the Shire by nightfall. The rangers had made a camp within sight of the Ford but were patrolling the bridge in pairs. Langlas and Radanir were on patrol when he arrived and startled quite badly—in fact, Radanir had let loose an arrow at the blonde boy.
It was only due to the chakra still pumping through his limbs that the boy was able to dodge the arrow. "Radanir! You nearly hit me!" Dôranna exclaimed.
"I should have hit you—what were you thinking coming upon us like that!?" the man demanded with a shake of his head.
Their conversation drew the attention of others, and soon four more rangers were coming from the break which hid their camp. Saeradan was leading them; although he was shaking his head, he still smiled. "Of course, the young one startled you," he exclaimed. "He moves like the wind."
Calenglad stifled a yawn next to the bald man and shook his head as if to wake himself. Langlas scowled at the tired man. "Aren't you supposed to be on watch, Calenglad?" he asked pointedly.
"Blame Tirrandir, he was telling that story of the Wildmen again—I was nearly bored to tears," Calenglad retorted with a gesture to the man behind him.
The quiet ranger whose story had been teased frowned and muttered, "I thought you enjoyed that story."
"The story itself isn't the problem, but your storytelling," Radanir commented with a wry smile. "I'm sure Dôranna can give you a few pointers," the man said as he clapped the blonde boy on the shoulder.
Gilvegil, who was bringing up the rear, smiled slightly. "Ah, Dôranna's back then?" the oldest ranger asked as he squinted over to the dark bridge. "Well, come, join us by the fire. We still have some food prepared, and, knowing a growing boy such as yourself, you'll need it."
Dôranna laughed slightly and moved closer to the four rangers that had come from camp. Radanir even pushed the boy slightly towards the group. "We'll be changing watch within the hour and can catch up then," he commented.
Dôranna moved through the break and found the camp. There were a few bedrolls scattered around the area, though no tents. Likely the rangers wanted to move quickly should something happen. Dôranna noted Branínaith and Prestadír were sleeping while Halbarad was tending to the low kept fire. The second-in-command was watching their small group as they returned.
"Where are Galasebdir, Corunir, and Baradír?" Dôranna asked. They were the only rangers missing from what he could tell.
"They're scouting to the south," Halbarad answered. "Come, sit, what news have you from the Shire?"
Dôranna sat near the dim fire and smiled at its warmth. He was then handed a bowl of lukewarm stew by Gilvegil who sat down gingerly—the old man's bones always ached when the seasons changed.
"There's not much news to share," Dôranna confessed. "As I told you, I was helping my papa with his move. I won't share more about it than that, though I did discover I had left a few personal effects scattered around the hole, and Papa insisted I take them to my new home."
"The farm you bought in Bree?" Saeradan asked with his brow furrowed. "When did you make the trip?"
"The twentieth," Dôranna replied with a shrug. He began to eat the slightly cold stew—it had congealed unpleasantly but it tasted good enough.
Halbarad blinked twice while the other conscious rangers stared at the boy. "Did you come straight from Bree?" the second-in-command asked.
"No, I visited Papa for his birthday—got to Hobbiton this morning," the boy explained between mouthfuls before pausing. "It is still the twenty-second, yes?" he asked.
Gilvegil nodded slowly as if the old man felt faint. Tirrandir was giving Dôranna an appraising look, while Saeradan shook his head wonderingly. Even Calenglad was regarding the blonde as if he was a mystery. Though surely his mentors knew Dôranna could travel quickly. They must have known this.
"You've traveled quite a lot these last two days," Halbarad commented after a moment. "It is a wonder you're awake."
"Oh," Dôranna responded dumbly. They thought he had been traveling nonstop. "I've rested each night, and I completed some errands in Bree yesterday. I even met Strider. He warned me that there might be…servants of the Enemy," the blonde said slowly—he still did not have a name for the wraiths.
Each of the conscious men startled slightly. "You met our Chieftain?" Gilvegil asked. "How is the lad?"
Saeradan and Calenglad both stifled their amusement at hearing their chieftain called a lad, but then, everyone (save elf-kind and dwarves) was considered young by the old ranger. Afterall, Gilvegil was well into his hundreds, perhaps even older than Bilbo! Dôranna had never thought to ask the old ranger his age.
"He seems well given these dark times," Dôranna responded. "Gandalf has asked him to assist my Papa, and so Strider waits for him in Bree since Papa will likely pass through there."
Halbarad relaxed slightly. "I am glad to hear this," he stated before straightening to attention. "Did Strider have any news for us or tasks?"
Dôranna shook his head. "No, but he cautioned me of what the Enemy is capable of."
"Which enemy is this now?" Calenglad asked. "You mentioned servants of the Enemy."
"I know not their name or titles and would not wish to use them even if I did know it," Dôranna explained slowly. "I know they only travel in the land of the Seen when cloaked in a special arraignment made by their master."
Saeradan's expression closed off while Calenglad paled and Gilvegil shuddered. Tirrandir moved to the edge of the camp and began to look out at the dark horizon as if speaking of these entities might summon them. Halbarad regarded Dôranna grimly and nodded his head slowly. "They are called Ringwraiths, Nazgûl" he stated quietly. A shudder passed through each of the men, and Dôranna curled slightly in on himself.
"Their leader was once the Witch King of Angmar," Gilvegil whispered.
"So, they have long been your enemies," Dôranna murmured. A chill seemed to creep up his spine, so the boy rubbed his arms to generate warmth.
"Yes, but the knowledge of our ancestors and their means of fighting his kind of evil have been lost to the ages," Halbarad stated.
"Have you suspected they are after my papa too?" the boy asked as he stared into the dim fire. Dôranna saw Halbarad nod out of his periphery.
"Then that is why you risk a fire even now," the boy reasoned, and again he received affirmative responses.
Saeradan broke the tense atmosphere as the (comparatively) gregarious man tended to do. "Come now, you should rest after all your travels."
The boy nodded reluctantly and handed his emptied bowl back to Gilvegil who set it in a bucket to be cleaned later. Dôranna was then ushered to a bedroll that had been laid upon the ground for him. He did not protest when the bald ranger practically tucked him in. It had been a long and emotionally draining day, yet his mind would not quiet.
Dôranna did not know how much time passed while he was trying to fall asleep but, eventually, he did begin to nod off to the soft crackle of the campfire and deep murmurs of the rangers on watch. However, something startled him to wakefulness—a vibration in the earth and a rumble in the distance. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared out into the darkness surrounding the camp.
The rangers on watch stilled and were quiet as they regarded Dôranna, but the boy paid them no mind. Instead, he strained his ears and sight out into the darkness and…there. He scrambled out of the bedroll and put on the boots he'd taken off.
"Wake everyone," he ordered those by the fire. He grabbed his quiver and slotted an arrow into the string.
"What is it?" Langlas asked—he and Radanir must have come back from their patrol and switched with some of the others.
"Hooves," the blonde responded, "racing towards us. There are many, more than I can rightly discern." He crept out of the fire light and waited for his eyes to adjust.
Calenglad made a confused noise at being woken, and Tirrandir grumbled quietly, but soon the entire camp was up and creeping into the shadows around the road which led to the Ford. Halbarad moved to the bridge spanning the Ford where he spoke to Gilvegil and Saeradan (who had asked what was the matter).
Soon, the hooves could be heard clearly in the distance: Tlot-tlot! tlot-tlot! They echoed like a rolling wave of thunder in the night. Closer they drew and closer. Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot. Louder and clearer. There were one, two, four, six, nine—yes, nine!—horses barreling toward the Sarn Ford.
And with the thunderous hooves in this still autumn night came an overwhelming sense of dread. Dôranna could feel the malicious intent bearing down on them. The pure malice in the air was choking. Dôranna gasped and shuddered. The barrow-wights were nothing compared to this!
"W-wraiths!" he cried through his terror. "They're coming!" he warned the dúnedain around him. Someone might have asked how he knew but he was frozen in his fear as the waves of malice washed over him. Dôranna's legs gave under him, and he began clawing at his throat as if there was something choking him. He coughed and sputtered and tried to breathe.
There was a flurry of movement, and light flashed around him, though he could focus on nothing but the unsettling malice.
Panic later, Brat! Mr. Fox growled in his head. Those rangers need you—your damn Papa needs you!
Dôranna gasped and felt the air rush into his lungs properly this time. His eyes had indeed adjusted to the darkness, and now he saw that his mentors were facing off with the nine Ringwraiths. Several of the rangers had made torches out of branches and bits of blanket. They brandished the flaming branches like swords and were attempting to drive the wraiths back from the Ford.
The Ringwraiths were mounted but their horses refused to draw near the fire, just as they shied away from the flames. Their cries and shrieks into the night were terrible. They stole the breath from Dôranna, and he could feel how each shriek struck against his will. There was a terrible sort of magic in their cries and the aura around these darkly cloaked figures was awful.
Dôranna found himself shaking where he stood, although he could stand now. He wondered why he was so shaken by these wraiths, why their malice affected him so strongly. Surely this wasn't the poison they breathed affecting him already?!
It's me, Brat. I can feel malice—I'm tuned into it, Mr. Fox growled in his head. How could Dôranna hear Mr. Fox outside of his mind—er, while he was conscious. He somehow could feel Mr. Fox's frustration and exasperation. I'm trying to work with you, Brat, so we can both survive this mess. I couldn't leave you frozen in a panic.
That did not explain what was happening to Dôranna, and he felt a bit like he was losing his mind. Mr. Fox growled in annoyance.
If you don't snap out of this, I'll take over, Mr. Fox threatened, though Dôranna had no idea how the giant fox would be able to—Dôranna's hand began to burn. He looked down and saw the flesh burning away from his hand as an energy tired to form around it but evaporated when it met the air because chakra did not exist in this world outside of his body.
The flesh of Dôranna's hand knitted back together rapidly and the pain melted away. He felt his blood and chakra pumping through him; moreover, he felt more energized than he had ever been before. Whatever Mr. Fox was trying to do was not really succeeding, though it made the boy feel powerful. Oh, and apparently his fingernails had lengthened and sharpened like claws.
Of course, as Dôranna felt this surge of power within him, so too did these Ringwraiths. Three of the nine shifted their focus from the rangers blocking the Ford onto the blonde boy who stood along the bank of the river.
As Dôranna looked at the wraiths, he realized there were shadows wafting off their cloaked forms and a dim light came from their gauntleted hands—those must be their Rings of Power, he thought. He wondered if he could truly see them beneath their long hoods; if whatever state he was in allowed Dôranna to see even partially into the Unseen. He had done this before (he realized) when he returned to the Shire in April and met Gandalf at the door. For that brief moment, while chakra was still pumping through every part of him, Dôranna had seen something otherwise hidden on Gandalf's hand—a Ring of Power, perhaps one of the Three even though the wizard was not an elf.
Focus, brat! Mr. Fox warned as one of the three wraiths facing him charged with their horse. The poor creature looked tortured and half-crazed. Dôranna dove and rolled to the side. He overshot his dive—he was not used to having this much chakra pulsing through him—but this worked to his advantage. Fortunately, his arrows stayed in the quiver too due to the leather thong he'd wrapped around the shafts.
Dôranna grabbed a rock from the ground and thought of the words of "light" Gandalf had taught him. He quietly ran through a half-dozen before one caught his intent and then the rock shone like a star within his hand. He threw it in the middle of the three mounted wraiths. They shrieked at the bright light filling their space, and their horses reared back.
Dôranna saw where he had dropped his bow and now darted for it. One of the wraiths shrieked—the will-crushing sound nearly drove the boy to his knees—but he resisted the influence of the cry through sheer stubbornness. He grabbed the bow and flipped backwards, away from the careless downward swing of the nearest wraith. He slotted the forgotten arrow back into the string and drew it back.
"Severe the ties which bind it," he chanted in his dream language. Cutting winds began to channel around the arrowhead as he aimed. The boy then felt malice from behind him and knew he need to move, so he let loose the arrow at the wraith in front of him while diving to the side away from the malice (once the bowstring as no longer drawn back, he slotted his arm through it until the bow hung from his shoulder). He landed in a crouch on all fours—the pose felt more natural for some reason—and then bounded several paces further away while still on his hands and feet.
He spun around and saw that, indeed, a fourth wraith had come after him. The boy found several rocks scattered across the ground now and picked them up with a clawed hand. He whispered the light spell and threw them at the wraiths. The lit rocks scattered like ball bearings or caltrops across the dark ground and shone brightly. Dôranna was sure that if any creature was flying above them, the rocks would look like a constellation—where the rocks were pinpoints of light in an otherwise dark night.
The wraiths and their mounts shied away from the light—one wraith was even thrown off its mount as the horse suddenly veered away from one of the rocks in its path. However, Dôranna did not allow himself to revel in this success. Instead, he remained crouched and poised to move. He slid the bow from around his shoulder and into his hands as he withdrew an arrow from his quiver.
He had not tried to manipulate fire outside of the pragmatic spells Gandalf had been trying to teach him. So Dôranna tried this now while the four wraiths attempted to navigate the way toward him without nearing the scattered lights. He ran through the words for fire he'd been taught but none fit.
Rage, anger, it burns, Mr. Fox suggested from somewhere within Dôranna's mind. The boy blinked once and then tried the giant fox's suggestion. The arrowhead lit, and Dôranna sent it flying toward the closet wraith. It dodged, but only just, and in the process fell from its mount as the horse nearly hobbled itself.
Dôranna quickly fitted another arrow into the string and drew back. The arrows need to go faster, and surely his wind could do so. "Like a comet, swift and fast / fire burning from the past," he muttered the couplet as his chakra transformed and raced down to the end of the arrow. He felt the wind shift and blow against his back and saw how flames began circling the arrowhead.
Dôranna let loose the arrow, and it drove through the air faster than any of his arrows had in the past. The circling flame around the end of the arrow began to expand and (for a moment) the arrow genuinely looked like a comet streaking across the night sky. It struck the dismounted wraith who had been approaching him. It shrieked fiercely and flew back several paces; its black robes had caught fire.
However, while Dôranna had been casting spells and distracted with the enemy in front of him, the two mounted wraiths had begun to move in a pincer and were soon charging from his flanks. Dôranna shoved his bow up his arm and darted forward on all fours. With two bounds, he was nearly at the burning wraith (which shrieked terribly and flailed); however, the first dismounted wraith had reclaimed control of its horse and now charged for Dôranna. Moreover, the two wraiths that had tried to pincer him had righted their horses and were coming around to attack him.
The burning wraith, despite its flailing, must have realized the position Dôranna was in, for it raised its sword high as if to strike him. What do I do? What do I do? Dôranna thought to Mr. Fox in a blind panic. The wraiths were closing in on him.
Jump, flip over the dismounted one and join your rangers, Mr. Fox growled.
The burning wraith swung down with his sword. Dôranna dodged to the side, but if he didn't move, he'd have another wraith swinging a weapon at him. So, Dôranna, stepped onto the burning wraith's gauntleted hand and the hilt of the blade (both still pointed down from missing him) before using chakra to jump over its burning form. The blonde's heart was pounding louder than the horses cantering after him, but he pushed himself to race over to the rangers.
The five wraiths who had been harrying the dúnedain were still being held at bay by torches and swords. Gilvegil's starburst hilted sword seemed to gleam as it clashed with one of the wraiths—the elvish make of the blade came through as it seemingly reflected moonlight (or perhaps Dôranna's light spells). The old ranger and Halbarad were the only ones fighting wraiths one-on-one, but it was clear both dúnedain were on the defensive. Halbarad was largely hiding behind his tower shield but would occasionally manage to bash the wraith back after a strike was deflected by his shield.
Branínaith and Prestadír were working against a wraith on the far side of the bridge. Branínaith's spear tip was lit—the ranger must have coated the metal end with resin and fat in preparation for a confrontation—and with it managed to keep just out of the wraith's weapon's reach while Prestadír shot arrows at it. Of course, without flame on the arrowheads, it seemed ineffective. Though perhaps Prestadír hoped to pin down the wraith or somehow ruin its robe enough to return it to the Unseen?
Langlas was wielding two make-shift torches as he spun like top around one wraith while Tirrandir kept the wraith's attention on him. The quiet ranger was blocking blow after blow with his heater shield, but Dôranna could practically hear the wood of the shield splintering and could only image the strength of such blows.
Galenglad and Saeradan were harrying the last wraith at the bridge by constantly flanking it. One attacked with a torch while the other distracted before retreating. Their teamwork was impressive and had created a type of dance between them and their shrieking wraith; however, without Dôranna distracting the other four wraiths, he knew his mentors would be overwhelmed soon. Afterall, the rangers were only just keeping the five wraiths at bay, and would be overwhelmed if more joined them.
He needed to keep the four at bay somehow. If only he could create a wall of light or fire! Try, Mr. Fox growled. Dôranna licked his lips as he frantically looked around the Ford and realized belatedly that his canine teeth had lengthened and sharpened. He had no time to question that and instead noted the campfire nearby. He darted back toward it and grabbed his sword. What words did he use? What did he say to make such a spell!?
He stuck his sword into the embers. The four wraiths he had been distracting were all mounted again and quickly charging. "Scatter, grow, defend," he ran through the words desperately and, in his minds eye, he envisioned scattered coals connecting together to create a wall of fire. He then scattered the campfire and was glad to see the embers and sparks followed the arch of his sword. But the embers were quickly cooling.
"Rage of a dragon waking / heat of its fiery breath / Rise like a wave breaking / and block this undeath," the poem came to him in a growl as he poured energy into those dying embers and imagined them rising and burning brilliantly, and they did. A wall for curling roiling flame erupted from those dying embers but it only covered a portion of the space between the wraiths and Ford. He'd need to complete the arch and block of the passable waters.
Dôranna could feel his chakra still tied to the wall and he believed he could still manipulate the wall—he could make it extend. He gripped the sword more tightly and stuck it back into the fire. He could feel the energy of the campfire connected to him and the wall of flame. He shifted and used the magic within the campfire as he scattered more embers with his sword to finish the arch. Before the embers even landed, they began connecting to the rest of wall and soon the Sarn Ford was ensconced within a ten-foot-tall wall of fire.
Dôranna's knees buckled under him, and he had to stab the sword into the campfire to hold himself up. He was breathing heavily, and his heart pounded in his own ears. He kept focus on the energy and connection between the campfire, himself, and the wall of fire keeping the four wraiths from the rest of their kind.
Keep conscious brat, keep focused, Mr. Fox growled in his mind, though the giant foxes' words seemed labored. Dôranna noted there were flames starting to lick around his body—no, not flames, Mr. Fox's energy. His sleeves caught fire and the skin of his hands (his arms and hands being all of his body within his immediate sight) was burning away to reveal muscle before the skin regrew. Blood would bubble along his hands before evaporating and his skin regrowing. Every muscle was screaming, his chakra pathways burned worse than his skin.
Breathe, sustain, focus, Mr. Fox instructed with labored breaths of his own. Dôranna tried to follow Mr. Fox's words, but his arms were shaking from holding himself upright with his sword, and the sword itself was starting to glow red the longer it remained in the fire. Soon it would likely begin bending under his weight as the metal softened.
He could hear nothing over the sound of his own heart pumping and his labored breaths. Perhaps there were clangs of sword clashes or the thunk of metal hitting wood, but it was lost to the blonde. There might have even been shouts, but all Dôranna could focus on was the thrum of magic, his breathing, and the pain. He didn't know how much time passed, but his sword did begin to buckle under his weight and the height of the fire. And then, Dôranna found the embers of the fire rushing to meet him as his vision grew dark at the edges.
…
The morning of the twenty-third was a flurry of activity as Merry and Fredegar packed up the remaining items on the wagon. Frodo did his best to keep his worry from showing, but he frequently found himself with his hand in his pocket and fingering the Ring which had put his family, friends, and beloved Shire in such danger. Folco hugged Frodo after Merry and Fredegar were off and told them to travel safely before he left for his house. Frodo distractedly said he would as he continued to pace the hall of Bag End while he waited for the Sacksville-Bagginses. Merry, Pippin, and Fredegar all shared a look that Frodo missed but then the two on the wagon were off to "warm his house" in advance of his arrival.
Before receiving the letter from Gandalf, Frodo had intended to walk his way to Buckleberry Ferry, but now… No, it was too late to change plans lest he make his friends more suspicious of him, besides, he would not be able to find ponies for them to travel by at this point. He'd have needed to rent or buy them further in advance.
Thankfully, Lobelia and her son Lotho were early and had come around before noon. "Finally, ours!" she exclaimed as Frodo handed her the keys.
"Yes, yes, yours," he agreed distractedly and began to pick up his bags. Pippin looked surprised from where he stood near the door—Sam hadn't even come down from his hole yet, though at least the young hobbit knew that they were heading out after lunch.
The wretched old hobbit narrowed her eyes. "I won't be swindled, we're making sure everything I paid for is here," she said.
Frodo pressed his lips into a firm line to keep from snapping at the croon. "Fine. But you'll see all you've bought is there and I left the good wine as a housewarming gift." Really, he had been planning to drain all the wine before the wretched old woman moved in.
He tried to rush through the tour and confirmation of purchase, but the croon would not have it. By the time they were done, Sam had come down, and Frodo was anxious to leave.
"What about lunch?" Pippin asked as Frodo began to set off down the road from the Bag End without sparing the Sacksville-Bagginses a second look (who were still crowing about their purchase of Bag End).
"I'm eager to be on our way, we've been delayed long enough," he said simply and continued on the path Bilbo had taken decades ago (not that Frodo knew such).
His younger cousin complained a for a moment longer but then Sam gave him a sandwich he had prepared for a snack while traveling. In all honesty, the thought of eating made Frodo feel ill as they began walking swiftly along the roads of the Hobbiton. Before long, Frodo would encourage them to leave the road and cut across fields as he felt more and more anxious that these servants of the Great Evil were behind him. But at last, the three of them were off toward Crickhollow.