Disclaimer: See previous chapters. *groan* It’s too hot to think of a clever one…

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It was a few minutes before Fredegar Bolger regained his composure enough to realize that another hobbit was standing over him. He had not even felt the door strike his body, although the blow was sufficient enough to possibly leave a bruise. The thump, he had believed, was one of the ominous black figures grabbing him in a brutally crushing grip. He pushed himself up on his elbows, still quaking, tears streaming down his face. This was the house of Jacko Bracegirdle, his wife Alianora, and their two daughters and one son.

“Jacko…” Fredegar whimpered, “Jacko…”

“Fatty Bolger, you stop your blubbering and tell me what on Middle-earth is the matter with you, for pity’s sake!” Jacko said, staring at the slightly younger hobbit as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra head.

Fatty took a few deep, shuddering breaths, willing himself to calm down and stop quivering like a leaf in a gale. This task proved daunting, for an encounter with a Ringwraith, particularly more than one, is no cinch to recover from, particularly at night. “B-b-black R-riders!” Fatty stuttered, squeezing his small, chubby hands into fists. He was still shaken up enough from the ordeal he had just encountered to remember that nobody besides Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and himself would know what he was talking about. Upon mentioning them, Fatty winced as though he had been stabbed and curled up in a ball on the ground once more. He was now very dirty from rolling around on the ground in his hysteria. “They’re here, they will kill us all… oh please help! I haven’t got it!”

A horrible realization suddenly seized Jacko. They were surely being attacked, enemies had invaded the Shire. Something was necessary that hadn’t been since the Fell Winter, according to his deceased father. “I will be right back,” Jacko said, hastily turning to go into the house to tell his wife to take Fatty in and give him a bath and food.

“No! No, don’t leave me!” Fatty wailed, sure the Black Riders would return were he to be left alone, but it was too late, the back of Jacko Bracegirdle had already retreated into his house. Fatty burst into fresh tears, sure this was the end. Jacko and Alianora came back outside to see the hefty-sized hobbit’s head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking as if being jolted by an earthquake in his frenzy.

“Fatty, Fatty, it’s okay, you can come in,” Jacko said gently. It took both him and his wife to help the massive hobbit to his feet. It was difficult to hold him up, for Fredegar’s knees were threatening to buckle underneath him.

With effort, the two adult Bracegirdles managed to bear the hysterical hobbit into their house, setting him down in an armchair. Fatty immediately slumped to the side, resting against the right arm of the chair and still muttering incessant nonsense.

“I shall return shortly,” Jacko stated succinctly, and immediately jogged out of his house, slamming the door behind him. His wife, noting that her husband had neglected to lock the door, immediately clicked it shut behind him before pulling up a hassock to sit near the panic-stricken Bolger.

“Do not worry, Fredegar, we are safe in here,” Alianora crooned, rubbing his back, not sure if she believed her own words. Fatty did not seem a bit consoled.

“Th-they can b-break the d-door…” Fatty stammered with a shudder. “The Shire is not safe as long as we know th-they are still here.” the hobbit finally seemed to be pacified somewhat, as his stutter was lifting. “Where has Jacko g-gone?”

“He’s off to arouse the Horn-call of Buckland,” Alianora answered. Fatty gave a shaky sigh, relieved that at least the other miniature inhabitants of the Shire would at least be alerted to the grave peril they were all possibly in. “Adora, Frederica, Bullo, get yourselves back to bed!” Three small hobbit-children were standing in the doorway connecting the hallway and the sitting room, curiously watching their mother and their distant relative.

“But Mummy, whatever is going on?” Adora, the eldest of the three at ten, queried. Alianora shook her head, repeating the order that the children return to their beds immediately before they were punished. Groaning their disappointment, the hobbit-lasses and lad complied, their small backs retreating from the doorway.

“Aha… there’s the horn now,” Fredegar pointed out shakily, hearing a loud, high-pitched toll rent the night.

“AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE!”

“I don’t presume your children will stay in bed,” Fatty said with a forced laugh. “The horn /is/ telling everyone within earshot to awake. I‘m sure hobbits a league away could hear it by now.” The sturdy hobbit fell silent, evidently listening for more horn-blasts to pierce the night. He placed a finger on his lip, warning Alianora not to speak, and both the hobbits tensely listened. It was no more than a moment or so before answering horn-calls issued in the distance, alerting even more residents of the Shire to the attack. The alarm was spreading. Over at the gates of every Farthing of the Shire, guards tensely kept vigil, three hobbits per gate.

Over in Crickhollow, the Nazgul, too, heard the blasts on the horns of the Brandybucks. “AWAKE! AWAKE!” They were of course unafraid of the little folk, their thoughts were bent on only one thing: discovering the Ring. The four sinister black figures separated, searching every inch of Crickhollow, smashing dishes and overturning furniture. They found neither “Baggins” nor the Ring. Furious, the Black Riders ran from the house, one carrying a cloak he had found: a spare that Frodo had loaned to Fatty. He let fall this cloak on the doorstep, hoping to alarm any that might come to search the area. The Riders mounted their black horses and spurred on the animals like a gust. They were making for the North-Gate, laughingly mockingly at the horns of the Halflings, which amounted to naught more than toys in their eyes.

At the North-gate, the three hobbits on guard duty were watching the road to their exit both into the Shire and the land outside. The Bounders were eating apples brought to them in case they were hungry in the night, and listened for any noise that did not belong. Suddenly, one, the one with the sharpest ears, hissed at the others to stop chewing. He thought he had heard a noise other than that of the Brandybucks’ horns and those in nearby residences voicing their bewilderment. “Werno, Volo… shut it, I’m trying to listen!”

Volo took a defiant bite of his apple to annoy his comrade Polo, but quailed under a furious glare. Werno, who had been watching the lad outside the Shire, turned, for now he and Volo heard the clatter of hooves. They were definitely coming from within the Shire. The three hobbits retrieved their bows, fitted arrows into the bowstring, and went to stand in the road to block the progress of the quickly approaching enemy.

Werno was the hobbit who possessed the keenest eyes, and saw the small silhouettes of the approaching riders fast. They looked to be baleful Big Folk, completely concealed underneath their cloaks. “Halt, halt!” the hobbit yelled. Off in the distance, the Ringwraiths heard and emitted their characteristic bone-chilling screeches. Watching three impudent Halflings standing in the road, the Nazgul spurred on the horses to increase the force of their gallops with intent to ride down the guards hindering their progress, the presumptuous fools.

“What the plague do you think you’re doing?” Polo shouted angrily while his two companions simultaneously commanded the Riders to halt. Naturally, the Black Riders did not halt, but urged on their horses even faster- directly at the hapless guards.

“They’re going to run us ov-!” Volo began to shout with realization of his own end, his voice cut short sickeningly to anyone within earshot as the leading Black Rider drove his horse right over the three guards. The other three Ringwraiths made sure their horses also crushed the three hobbits beneath their hooves. Their path now clear, the Black Riders passed over the northern border, emitting triumphant screeches fit to hill the bone as the broken bodies of the guards lay on the road.