Author’s Note: My gosh, it has been forever since I uploaded Chapter 1, hasn’t it? I am so sorry about the delay! And I know the book said the attack on Crickhollow happened in the cold hour before dawn, but I figured midnight would work better. Forgive me for altering this minor detail, and a couple of others.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anybody but ANYBODY found in Tolkien’s works.

It was now the evening of September 29th, approximately four or five days after Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin had departed from the Shire to the Valar only knew where. The sudden disappearance of Sam, Merry, and Pippin had arisen in the rumor mill, and it was all Fatty could do to feign that his eldest friend was still residing at the Crickhollow house. Exasperated by the torrent of inquisitive Brandybucks , Fatty had taken to blocking off the windows and barring the door to stave off the relentless torrent of visitors. Whenever somebody knocked, Fredegar hollered through the door that Frodo was resting, sapped with making such a long journey on foot at his age. While the year of fifty was not exactly ancient by hobbit standards, it wasn’t exactly the epitome of youth either. One might consider a hobbit of half a century in summers to be on the young end of middle-aged. When one particularly irritating Brandybuck gave the very unanswerable rejoinder of, “but that queer Baggins looks as if he were barely of age!” Fatty had given a very lame answer about heredity and closed the door in the face of the visitor. Fredegar’s temper was stretched as tight as a drum, and he was only remotely amiable to those whom he knew well.

For example, when his sister Estella had been the one whose voice penetrated the wood, Fredegar had apologized profusely and said that the place was a wreck from his group of friends attempting to set up the place in there. For some reason unidentified to Fredegar, Estella seemed to be more emphatic in inquiring about Merry than Frodo. He had even refused to allow Folco Boffin, another close friend, admission to Crickhollow. Fatty had the impression that Folco was rather irked with Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Sam, and himself. The hobbit felt obliged to explain most of the details of the departure, except the information regarding the One Ring, if Folco would ever hear him out after Frodo’s leaving the Shire was unearthed. Fredegar felt a pang of guilt; Folco was not likely to take very kindly to having been left out of the conspiracy- the Boffin would take the exclusion personally. More likely, Folco would turn on his heels and show off his gift of running fast by taking off without giving Fredegar a chance to explain himself and his motives. Poor Folco; he had been on a run when Merry had approached him, Fatty, about the conspiracy. Besides, Merry had specifically asked Fatty not to breathe a word of Frodo’s predicament to a soul, “not even Folco.” Perhaps Merry had feared that Folco would let the news slip in the throes of a temper; for the Boffin was rather hotheaded, though not malevolent in intentions, except when it came to “getting even” with those that irked him.

Even worse, Fatty felt as though he had been walloped by an acute case of paranoia. He was enveloped with a sensation that something frightening was nigh on occurring, and that he himself was in danger. Even the large dinner did not avail in appeasing the hefty hobbit, and Fatty barely ate three bites of his mushroom and carrot soup. Most of the large quantity food went untouched. It was about eleven o’clock at night, but Fatty felt no desire to trot off to bed. He had that unpleasant sensation of prickling hairs on the back of his neck, as if somebody- or something- were watching him.

In an endeavor to distract himself and to shake off his fear, Fatty took a leaf of parchment and began idly drawing on it with a quill. Out of the tight-knit group of friends, Fredegar Bolger was doubtlessly the best artist of them all. For approximately three-quarters of an hour, Fatty did a life-like impression of each of his friends with the thin quill: tall and fair-skinned Frodo, short and petite little Pippin, robust Sam, the skinny Folco, and all-around average hobbit in appearance, Merry Brandybuck. As he deliberately went over the specifics of his friends in his almost photograph-like sketches, Fatty idly ruffled the hair on one of his feet with the big toe of the other.

The Halfling added the finishing touches to Merry’s bushy eyebrows, and felt he could stand no more of the suspicion-inducing sense, and climbed to the feet. There was a small shuffling noise as the hobbit padded over to the door, and then a creak as he lifted the bar and pulled open the entrance to Crickhollow.

The road was devoid of any living creature, yet Fatty was not appeased; in contrast, his senses sharpened even more, and he thought he heard a galloping noise in the far-off distance. Who would be out riding at this hour? Fatty knitted his eyebrows together into a frown, his forehead wrinkling with bafflement, before deciding that he was once again hallucinating phantom-noises. Why was he being such a coward tonight? Fatty had always been one who scared easily, to the amusement of the tricky duo Merry and Pippin. They had done everything from pummeling with apples from two opposite sides of the street concealed by the leaves of two tall fir trees to pretending to be burglars breaking into his hole at night. It was not pure cowardice, for Fatty had been known to stand up for himself and others in the past. It was just that he did not like surprises very much. Fatty Bolger was very detail-oriented, and did not like any new developments to make themselves known out of the Blue.

Fatty lingered at the entrance to the house momentarily without his keen hobbit eyes discerning anything abnormal; just mist swirling in the gloomy night. Along with the midst there seemed to be an obdurate menace lingering, refusing to depart and leave him in peace. Suddenly a breeze came up, causing the gate to swing slowly open and shut with a groaning noise. Fatty had not fastened the gate properly. He licked one of his thick fingers and held it up slightly. Suddenly, a realization hit him with the force of a thunderclap; the wind was blowing towards the house and yet causing the gate, which swung outward, to open. It was almost as if some unseen force were opening and shutting on its own accord. Frodo? Fatty thought instinctively, only for a moment. Frodo had left the Shire for a reason; there was no way he would return just to try and scare his jumpy friend. Suddenly, a large shadow, which seemed remarkably like a silhouette of one of the Big People, passed under the tree. Stomach flip-flopping, Fatty inhaled an involuntary gasp. Terror gripping him with an iron hard, Fatty recoiled trembling in the doorway fleetingly before he regained his senses and shut the door with a snap, replacing the bar. He made for the front window and opened up the corner of the board just enough for one small brown eye to peep through the crack.

As the dark deepened with unnatural rapidity, midnight struck. Suddenly, a couple of black shadows seemed to creep up the garden. Petrified, Fatty attempted to swallow but found his mouth had gone dry. Suddenly, a realization washed over him like a tidal wave of subfreezing water. Black riders! The very creatures Pippin, Frodo, and Sam had referred to, paling slightly merely speaking of them! Adrenaline suddenly surged through the hobbit as yet another revelation struck him: he would have to fly or perish. Wasting no more time with thought, Fatty sprinted towards the back door, almost crashing smack into it with his newfound speed. He yanked up the bar and made the door smash open so fast he actually cracked the wood to Crickhollow with the force of wood slamming against wood. Apathetic to the structural damage, Fatty hurtled through the rear garden, making for the fields. Off in the distance, he heard a cracking noise. It sounded as if the door had been broken down. Suddenly realizing his stupidity in leaving the back door wide open, Fatty increased his running speed in the race to reach the house in closest proximity. It was over a mile away, Fatty realized with frustration. Would he be able to run all this way? Him, an overweight, short-legged, idle hobbit? He was no Folco, who just had the natural runner’s physique and ability- long legs in proportion to the torso, good endurance, and a significant lack of bulk even by the standards of races not so gifted in girth as Hobbits. And all the time, Fredegar was panting, “It’s not me, I have nothing, I don’t have it!”

When he reached the nearest house, that of a rather large group that was entirely immediate family, he collapsed on the doorstep, utterly spent. Yet he had enough energy reserved for yelling and crying. Tears running down his face, Fatty pounded against the bottom of the door with a small fist as he lay there, sobbing “No, no, no! It’s not me, it’s not me, I don’t have it! I haven‘t got it, leave me alone, go away, I don‘t have it, no, no, NO!”

The entire family residing in the house was awakened with a start by the cries of what seemed to be a hobbit gone loopy outside. The head of the family opened the door, accidentally hitting a prone figure lying on the doorstep. This huddled ball of hobbit gave a terrified cry and rolled off the step. “It’s not me! No, no! I haven’t got it, go away!” The owner of the house frowned. Had this hobbit gone mad?