Saruman's agents made sudden, permanent appearances not long afterwards. The night of our arrival, Lotho and Saruman came to an agreement as to how things in the Shire would proceed. Rather, Lotho believed there had been matters on which he had dictated terms, but Saruman gave not an inch while at the same time appearing to accommodate his grasping conspirator. I admired him in spite of my hatred. He could bend others to his will even without the use of magic, for his voice was the most formidable weapon in his unearthly arsenal.

Men arrived from a town to the east called Bree, and it was my impression that they had all served as spies in that town during the dark days before the War engulfed the entire eastern continent. All of them would nominally take orders from Lotho, who would in turn march to whatever suited Saruman, the halfling's money debt hanging about him like a burden forever unshed. And as for me? My position changed not a whit. As on the journey here, I fetched and carried.

Lotho introduced Saruman to the town as a welcome visitor who would aid them in enriching the Shire. He spoke vaguely of the need to fortify their livelihoods against hardship sure to come from regions beyond. It was as good a lie as any. It served and was successful, so there was little need to contemplate it.

However, the methods of this fortification puzzled and bewildered these rustic halflings, for they could not understand what mills and forges would accomplish and some sharp ones among them worried aloud that the Shire would be tarnished by such "progress." Much as I knew it pained Saruman to invoke his name, he assuaged these uncertainties by saying that he had discussed the matter with Gandalf, and Gandalf was a man who most certainly always had the interest of the Shire at heart, did he not? Oh yes, came the chorus.

I was not certain that discontent was laid to rest completely, but Gandalf's name clearly commanded attention in these parts and it kept grumbling low. I fancied that Saruman was relieved he would not have to speak so sweetly of his rival again.

Lotho deputed the men to oversee what became known as "alterations," a term that increasingly, laughably, lost all meaning as hills were leveled, pits dug, mills erected and crude huts thrown up to house the influx of hobbits brought in from the outer reaches of the Shire to work on this project that was, of course, in everyone's interests to complete.

Autumn fell on the Shire. We had arrived as the trees began to change color and I marveled at their beauty. The featureless rolling plains of Rohan harbored no such thing and by the time I had fled to Isengard, every living thing had been gleefully destroyed to feed Saruman's underground furnaces. Sentimental fool that I was, I took several leaves and pressed them between the pages of a heavy tome in Lotho's library. Several times I returned to that book and took out the leaves, rubbing the unblemished, silken skin of these natural robes between my fingers and against my cheek. It was the closest thing I had ever found to Éowyn's skin and I intended to cherish it as long as it lasted. I would throw them out as soon as they became thin and dry. I did not want to imagine her skin thus, reminding me of the passage of years that would occur where I would never see her again.

* * *

Autumn's peak was nigh over when the first tree fell. By this time, the men had become an inevitable presence and, with Lotho's clout behind them, they set about their work unmolested, saws sharp and quick. Down they went, one by one, with mighty crashes that rang throughout the Shire. They were quickly disposed of in the converted mill of one Ted Sandyman, another hobbit who showed no qualms about betraying his own kind. The local river, called the Bywater, became a foul trench as Sandyman's mill spewed filth into it.

That nearly always gave me pause. The race of innocents I had first set eyes upon had, in the meantime, revealed some very rotten apples in the basket. As in the world of Men, envy and hatred pushed some to harm themselves if it meant striking a blow against others they despised. Saruman did not have to instill corruption here. It already existed, needing only a poultice to bring the boil to the surface. One prick, and it was running free, a contagion that spread to those most susceptible.

As I carried out my duty of passing along orders and overseeing some of the minor acts of destruction, I had time to ponder these hobbits, more than I deemed healthy or desirable. Seeing the increasing looks of dismay and misery that hollowed their eyes and robust cheeks, my mind burned with one word: Why? Why do you let us do these things to you? I wanted to ask. Why are you so stupid? Why did you not leave when your hearts felt those first doubts? I had no illusions that they would be allowed to flee the Shire. Saruman's strong regiment of Bree roughnecks would have caught and returned all fugitives, but very few hobbits even made the attempt. It was easier to admire those who embraced being despised, such as Lotho and the Sandyman fellow, than feel sympathy for senseless clods who submitted to humiliation willingly.

But that is not to say that I didn't feign an understanding smile or a pitying gesture now and then. Whether I actually meant it as I did so, I do not know. Perhaps their despair reflected my own, for I was becoming all too aware of my own entrapment. My plans on the edge of the Shire before our arrival had become mired in impossibility. As Saruman cast his success in solid terms of scouring the Shire down to nothing, like rust off an old sword, I could count no advantage of my own. I began to wonder if I had been a deluded madman that day when I saw myself vanquishing Saruman. Only two had claimed that honor thus far, but I was neither Gandalf nor a walking tree. And neither defeat had proved permanent. If they could not do it, then I certainly would fail as well.

Saruman and I had taken quarters in Bag End. Bag End. . .Baggins. . .Bagshot Row. . . The willful lack of creativity never ceased to astound me. Whoever had imagined these names apparently reveled in their own banality. But I found that a curse of the entire race. The one occasion where I was foolish enough to encourage a hobbit to discuss their family turned into a tortuous history of nearly every hobbit who had ever lived. The names alone were enough to force me to a pint of ale, something I rarely indulged in. Mungo, Bungo, Fungo! Dungo. It was no better in the Brandybuck line, as my helpful little conversationalist illustrated at great length. I did discover that the Brandybuck heir had vanished along with Frodo Baggins and that he was, quite possibly, at Isengard with those infernal trees. Imagine that. I was in the company of the heir of the prestigious Brandybucks and did not know it. A belated honor, but one all the same, I was sure. I said as much and, before the fellow could embark on a long list of tales about Mr. Brandybuck, I departed with fleet foot, ringing ears, and pounding head.

It was no wonder that I took solace in the night, when all had been put to rest at the end of another long day. Invariably I would slink from my cot in one of the pantries and venture softly down the long hallway, passing the dingy and sparse rooms on either side of me. Out through the front door I would go and climb onto the grassy roof. An early frost had killed the tips of the fattest blades and withered the weaker ones, and the beginnings of a pit near the hobbit home was not exactly a peaceful thing to contemplate, but I found it a place not completely lacking in pleasure. My gaze was not focused on things upon the ground anyway. My eyes lifted to the stars and there they remained for hours on end. Sometimes I remained entranced until the stars began to fade from the encroaching dawn. Then I would slip back into Lotho's hole in the ground and take to my cot for the last remaining minutes of the night.

Yes, I was wishing myself away while remaining shackled to my master. There was every possibility that my enslavement would come to a natural end. Saruman was wreaking this destruction out of spite and revenge. When that was completed, when those four hobbits returned and saw his handiwork, what would come afterwards was uncertain. Would four crestfallen hobbits join those that already toiled by the day? Or would Saruman finally fade away, taking with him the joy of a malicious deed well wrought? If the latter was the case, then I would be free to part from him, if I could find the strength to walk a path without someone before me, leading the way. How strange it would be to see my way with my own eyes, rather than having a white robe always hindering my sight. Mayhap that path would even lead back to Edoras, if I could summon the courage to walk it.

* * *

"Worm!"

I flinched at hearing that name on lips other than Saruman's. My disgrace embodied in that name was now a matter of common knowledge, though only a few delighted in actually using the term. Most of the hobbits, however, realized that even a fallen Rohirrim is not without some dignity and welcomes the opportunity to swathe himself in it if he has nothing else to claim as his own.

"Worm!"

I hurried around the corner of the mill, where I had been calculating the amount of timber needed for some more huts, and met Lotho coming around the other side. He looked angry. His face had turned a shade of red and his blemishes a shade darker. His head looked like a tomato with the pox.

I loathed this blustering creature. It had not taken long for me to experience that feeling. His curiosity towards me that day in the study had quickly descended into undisguised contempt and soon a sadistic glee had taken hold where he reveled in ordering me around like the meekest hobbit. I would not take it all, though Lotho's illusory position has the Chief of the Shire -- a pompous little title for a pompous little troll -- required some deference for the benefit of Hobbiton's citizens. No, I despised him because I could see no good end in Lotho's actions. He was mean and he enjoyed being mean. My treachery at Edoras had been for a reason, however selfish. In the end, it had been my hope to win Éowyn and attain, all in an instant, that which I had long dreamt of and have a life worth living. Or so I saw it at the time. But Lotho seemed intent on nothing beyond what Saruman wanted. As time passed, he wanted the Shire destroyed as much as his new master did. In the end, he would have nothing left, only the dubious pride of claiming that he had had a hand in the Shire's destruction. I suspected it had something to do with bad feelings between his family and that of the Ringbearer's, but I really had little interest in discovering what compelled Lotho.

"Yes?" I asked, inclining my head slightly.

"Bill Ferny says you promised him and his men a dozen hobbits to work down at Sackville. There's too much work for the ones already down there. Bill and the rest are ready to go and they want their workers."

"Sackville?" I heard myself saying. "You must have a number of good relations down there to work your lands. Ah, I forgot. You have shut many away for their disloyalty." I paused. "Even your dear mother."

"I had nothing to do with that," he spat.

"Still, you have let her rot away." I spoke carelessly, as though pointing out a sad, irrefutable fact. Lobelia was a foul-tempered harridan -- I had been on the receiving end of one of her umbrella attacks -- but perhaps I was clinging to foolish notions about my own mother and how I had always treated her with care until her dying day. Lobelia was over one hundred years old, or so I had heard, and the threat she posed was nonexistent. Yet Lotho had allowed her to be marched off to the Lockholes in Michel Delving after she assaulted some men intent on tampering with Bag End.

"Just get those workers ready and tell Ferny to get the work down there done quick. There isn't much to do." Without another word, he turned and left, so certain I would scurry around to carry out his command.

And so I did, but I did not scurry.

* * *

That night, I felt the need to sit under the stars more acutely than I had ever known. Before I went to bed, I had finally thrown away the last leaf hidden in the unused book. Sleep was stubborn and would not come to me. No matter how tightly I closed my eyes and willed myself to think of countless things, only one image would conjure itself. I could only see the brilliant yellow hue of those newly-fallen leaves, vibrant as the sun in Éowyn's hair, and soft as the skin of her cheek fresh from her washing bowl on a crisp morning in early winter.

I tossed and turned, fighting my coarse blanket and the spectres that would not leave me be. For long minutes I lay on my back and stared up into the darkness before throwing my blanket to the floor and snatching up my cloak in frustration.

The night chill met my face as I opened the front door. Yule was a matter of a month and a couple days away, yet I could already feel the bite in the air. I did not know what to expect of a Shire winter. If I was still here throughout the season, with luck it would not be too harsh. So far, my furred cloak had provided ample protection against these cold nights.

I rounded the end of the hobbit hole and pulled myself up the slope onto the roof. A slight frost had already fallen and my hands numbed pleasurably as they grasped the icy grass. Once on the roof, I huffed slightly at the thudding pain in my fingers and buried my hands in the folds of my robes. I looked up at the sky and smiled at the sight above me. The tiny furnaces of Hobbiton could not match Isengard's in smoke that blotted out the stars. On a clear night, it seemed like the fragments of a million smashed jewels were strewn about the sky. Worthless, but still beautiful.

I sat down in my usual stargazing spot and, after several minutes of rapturous concentration, my neck began to cramp and I lay down to watch in greater comfort. With one hand on my chest, I held the other out before me like a quill, connecting the stars, making any shape I pleased. When I tired, I folded my arms behind my head and continued to stare at everything and nothing.

A strange sound met my ears. It sounded like fabric ripping, or something being torn. I turned my head left and right, straining my ears to try to discern what it was. A stray scent filled my nostrils and I lifted my head in genuine puzzlement. It smelled like cut grass.

I rose to my knees and looked around, but though my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I was still unable to see anything. I was about to return to my prone position when I heard the ripping sound again, but this time it was accompanied by a strangled whine and a sniff. Again I smelled cut grass.

Curiosity thoroughly roused, I stood up and walked slowly around the roof, peering at the blackness around me. When my foot nudged something, a cry went up that infected me with alarm as well. I jumped backward, then just as quickly lunged forward to grab the unseen person in an effort to stifle their cries, or at least reassure them that there was nothing to fear.

"Hush!" I hissed, hands flying in the dark, hoping to find purchase. My fingers found clothing and they clamped onto it, holding fast. "Hush! You'll wake Saruman and that Lotho, too!"

"Worm!" It was an exclamation mixed with surprise and anger.

Lotho? I smelled the cut grass more than ever and I bent down towards the source. My hand swept the ground and came away covered with pieces of grass. "What are you doing?" I demanded. "There are easier ways to remove sod."

"I'll do what I like when I like," came the sharp response. A small arm flailed through the air and struck my stomach. "Now let me go."

I loosened my fingers and he tore away from me before I had fully let go. My arm was yanked forward and I lashed out myself, but only landed a glancing blow on his shoulder as he passed. "Rotten halfling!" I snarled. "You and your kind have been a bane to all that have the misfortune to cross your path!" As I spoke it, I believed it utterly. "You hobbits could give lessons in deceit to the worst of Men."

"None could match yours, Worm."

"No worse than yours, Pimple." I felt immense satisfaction finally speaking his own disgraceful name to his face.

"Don't call me that!" Lotho shot back. "Don't call me that." That last command had sounded feeble, then came the same sniffling I had heard before.

"Why not?" I pressed, enjoying myself. "If I am nothing but a slithering creature, then you can at least own up to being nothing but a blotchy toad."

I was unprepared for the shock of a sturdy hobbit ramming into my midsection. I doubled over and fell to the ground, pinning him beneath me. Hard little fists struck my arms, my sides, my chest and my head. I convulsed at every blow, but could not summon the strength to fling myself off from him. Every time I felt I could do it, another well-aimed blow crippled me again. He was growling and sobbing words that I could barely understand in this dizzying outburst.

I managed to curl an arm underneath my chest and felt the softness of his throat beneath it. I pressed forward slightly, not enough to harm him, but he began to gasp, then croak, in panic as he found it harder to breathe.

With my other arm, I pushed myself off and rolled to the side, gasping as well. Soon I could hear his tears once more. I groaned, rolled onto my side, and struggled to my feet with shaking limbs. I had only staggered a few steps when he wailed, "Why didn't you kill me?" I stopped, but said nothing. "Why didn't you kill me?" he went on. "Please. . ." His words faded into a morass of whining tears.

Silently, I retraced my steps and fell to my knees beside him. I held out my hands and discovered he had curled onto his side. I shook him. "Come, Baggins. Tears will not help."

"Then what will?" he mewled. "What will stop all this?"

I looked up and surveyed all around me. Though it was still dark, I could see the land as it appeared in the height of day. Saruman had been in the Shire not yet a month and, in that time, hundreds of years had been stripped away, showing the bones of the earth as the gods had placed them. I bent my head. "It is too late for that," I whispered.

"It can't be."

I patted his shoulder and let my hand run along his shoulder and up to his hair. Blades of grass he had ripped from the ground were now tangled in his unruly and dirty mop. The poor creature had been venting his frustrations on that which he no longer wanted to destroy. I ruffled his hair free of some of the grass and grasped him by his shoulders, turning him around onto his back. It was then I realized that he was in simple clothes with nothing to guard against the cold. "Come, you will freeze. I will take you inside." I felt his forehead and a cheek with the back of my hand. His skin was icy to the touch, made even more frigid by the copious tears he had shed.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want to go back. He can have whatever he wants. I just want to leave."

"Impossible," I said. "Ferny or one of his men would drag you back and throw you in the Lockholes. You would rot beside your mother."

At this mention of Lobelia, Lotho's tears started afresh. I sat down and pulled him against me, wrapping my heavy cloak around us. If I had been told that I would be comforting the same pimply toad that had taken such visible delight in tormenting and insulting me, I would have laughed. But whoever that nasty hobbit had been, I no longer saw him. And I asked the question that had long burned within me.

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated after a long pause. "I don't know. For reasons that I can't even remember."

"Hatred?"

He jostled me to run an arm across his nose. "Yes."

"Fear?"

Another pause. Then a nod.

"Want?"

Another nod. "Always that."

And it was then that I knew Lotho Sackville-Baggins as well as I did myself.

We remained there for the rest of the night. I pointed out most of the stars and constellations I knew and he nodded wordlessly at each one. When sleep claimed him, I did not move. His head resting lightly against my chest and his little body folded up and encircled within my arms, I felt a peace different from that which I had enjoyed during my solitary nights.

Long had I dreamed of sitting beneath these same stars, a willing fair maiden of Rohan clasped firmly against me. I still yearned for it. I could not foresee a day when I would ever stop dreaming of Éowyn. But she was not here. She would never be with me, and I realized that moments such as this with her would never be blissful, the reason being that she was unable to understand me. Perhaps it was natural for darkness to seek out light, but such contrasts do nothing but strive to surmount the other. My reasoning and mind, the manner in which it worked and the things that had driven me to act as I had, were foreign to her. She could not fathom selfish acts, sacrificing many for one. For her, the opposite was rational and admirable. But this little hobbit understood.

And so we sat in the darkness together.