The rest of the night passed quietly in the little room with the hobbits shifting in their sleep and Strider unmoving, but completely awake, in his chair. Dawn broke with a pale light and cold wind which woke the hobbits as Strider cracked the shutters open wide. Telling them to hurry, he led them, rubbing eyes and stumbling, back to their own rooms, to show them what had happened whilst they slept. Every piece of fabric had been ripped, wood broken. Watching the hobbits’ reactions, Strider saw that they had underestimated the danger they had been in. Telling them not to move, he turned and headed off down the corridor.

Strider walked quickly, but not quickly enough to attract attention if he happened to meet anybody in the narrow hallways. It was possible that cooks, maids and other workers at the Pony would be about even at this early hour. He headed straight for Butterbur’s own chamber, thinking the whole time that if anything had happened to the innkeeper, then Strider would take pleasure in digging him up with the intent of beheading him.

Yet thoughts of Merry kept intruding; pictures of the little hobbit bursting into the parlour shouting, of him sleeping as Strider ran a finger along his jawbone, kept trying to push to the forefront of the Ranger’s mind. Then, unbidden, a vision of Merry in a woodland glade, barefoot and bare chested, reaching down to undo the buttons of his three quarter length trousers with one hand and beckoning with the other. The leaves were shining and the grass strewn with flowers as the hobbit-

Strider concentrated hard to bring the background of the scene into clearer focus, then forced an image of his betrothed, the elf maiden Arwen, daughter of Elrond, in place of the hobbit. It was much easier, he knew, to ignore something by changing it than by attempting to forget it. It was in a slightly flustered state of mind, therefore, that Strider reached the door to Butterbur’s chamber; knocking swiftly and harshly.

The door creaked open slowly and Butterbur poked his head out, eyes still bleary and hair tucked under a nightcap. He had enough wits about him, though, to tear this off his head as he jogged down the hallway in an attempt to keep up with the Ranger’s long stride, muttering as he did so that nothing had happened all night; he had been awake the entire time and heard nothing. Strider ignored this, leading the way hurriedly back to the hobbits’ rooms.

Once the two had made their way to the room where the Shire folk waited, Mr. Butterbur had no choice but to accept that something untoward had happened that night and that he had missed it. Cursing under his breath, he seemed not to know what to do for the best. Strider, noticing the innkeeper’s obvious panic and confusion, sent him away to have a light breakfast brought to them and to order their ponies to be made ready to leave.

As soon as Mr. Butterbur had left the room Strider turned back to the four hobbits, sitting nervously all together on one bed. Quietly he asked them if they had packed their belongings and were ready to leave. Deliberately avoiding looking at Merry, he directed the question to Frodo, sitting at the opposite end of the bed next to Sam. As the four gave him affirmative answers, Strider began to examine more closely the slashes in the curtains and the smashed window frames.

The blades had been sharp, the hands strong, this much Strider could tell. A faint smoke lingered still about the edges of the cuts, as if the knives had been coated with acid. This gave the Ranger a worry; turning his mind back to old history and legend, he recognised the mark of a weapon forged in Mordor many years before, at the height of the Dark Lord’s power. The tall, lean Man suppressed a sigh; he had hoped these daggers had been lost or unmade in the battle fought on the plains on the very edge of Mordor, three thousand years before when Isildur had cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand and destroyed Sauron’s body.

The slightest touch of these blades, forged in the Morgul Vale in Mordor, would cause corruption of the flesh, sickening and death of the victim if not treated, Strider knew. He also felt that it had suddenly become even more imperative, if that was possible, for them to arrive safely at Rivendell without encountering the black riders.

If the hobbits had thought that things could not get any worse, they then received a rude shock as the fat little innkeeper burst back into the room, looking even more distressed than he had done a few minutes before. Strider, however, was not at all surprised, though still annoyed, when Butterbur burst out that their ponies had been let loose from their stables, along with every other pony and horse in the stable yard at the inn. None of the missing animals could be found anywhere in the village, and it quickly came to light that the few riding ponies in Bree were also stabled at the Prancing Pony; they had also disappeared without a trace. Strider said nothing whilst the hobbits and the round little innkeeper exclaimed, panicking and generally wasting time.

Instead the lonely Man considered all he knew about Shire folk in general, then thought deeply on everything he had surmised about these particular hobbits. Frodo, he had been able to see immediately, was clever, resourceful and fairly fit. Sam would follow Frodo anywhere, especially with his mistrust of Strider. Merry… well, Strider thought, he would do anything in his power to take care of the young hobbit. The three should, with Strider’s aid, be able to survive the journey he was now planning. Pippin would be the problem; he was inexperienced and eager to please, but with no common sense or caution at all.

Certain there would be complaints all round, Strider suggested they walk, and go cross country instead of riding along the Road. It wasn’t really a suggestion; they had no choice but to walk, now. The hobbits tried to appear brave, undaunted by the prospect of the journey, but it was plain to Strider that they were not entirely happy. Frodo asked if there was any chance of buying a pony to help carry some of the baggage, at least. Bob, another worker at the Prancing Pony, was sent out with the instruction to visit every house in the village to see if anyone was willing to sell their pony. As there were very few animals of the type in Bree, Strider had very little hope of being successful.

The five travellers sat waiting for only a few seconds before Merry, after the manner of a typical hobbit in the morning, reminded the innkeeper that they would have time for breakfast whilst they waited to hear news back from Bob. An excellent meal was brought in due course, the food as high a quality as it had been the previous night, when the four hobbits had supped for nearly an hour before venturing into the common room. Eggs, bacon, sausage. Mounds of toasted bread and teacakes dripping with golden butter. Most promising, the four half pints and one full pint of ale from the final cask to have been opened the evening before.

Whilst he sipped the amber liquid, Strider again flicked his gaze towards Merry, his eyes shining. The young hobbit was, as the other three seemed to be, unused to drinking ale at such an early hour in the morning. As Strider watched, Merry’s cheeks began to glow slightly red, reminding Strider of how pale they had been after the events of the night before. Strider took a sausage, cooling now, between his finger and thumb. He lifted it to his lips, allowing his tongue to roll it gently round for just a moment before biting into it.

Strider kept on glancing over at the hobbits as he ate, all the while trying not to make his observations too plain. He noticed they had each eaten at least as much as he had, if not more. With the arrival of the food and drink, they seemed to have settled into a more comfortable, almost homelike mood. They clearly had no idea that Strider was watching them. He sat on the bed nearest the door, the four hobbits opposite. The only time the four seemed to notice his presence was when he reached towards the little table between the two beds to pick up something else to eat; talking amongst themselves they ignored the Ranger.

Just about two hours after breakfast had been finished, by Strider at least, news came back to the little room that there was only one pony to be found in the village whom they might convince its owner to part with. Strider swiftly checked that belongings were still packed, which they weren’t. During the course of the meal the hobbits had inexplicably found it necessary to remove several items from their packs, but had not replaced them afterwards. His own pack lay by the door, tied closed and ready to leave.

Hurrying the hobbits (they had lost about two and a half hours waiting for a pony to be found) Strider grew so exasperated that he nearly started packing their belongings for them. He saw they would need more supplies than they had already gathered, so sent Bob back to the stables with a request for oats for the pony and more food for themselves. Then, checking his sword belt and pulling his cloak on over the top of his shirt and breeches, Strider shouldered his heavy pack with ease; his strong back and shoulders not really feeling the weight the suddenly menacing Man beckoned the hobbits to follow him out to the stable yard.

The pony stood quietly in a stone-walled stable, munching enthusiastically on a fall manger of hay despite the metal bit in his mouth. He was slightly taller than the ponies the hobbits had been riding before, in fact bigger than any they had seen, excepting the black horses the Ringwraiths from Mordor rode. His hair was chestnut, his mane and tail flaxen, his eyes an intelligent brown and his entire body and legs well in proportion. He would have been good to look upon had it not been for the ribs pushing out against his taut coat, which itself lacked a healthy shine, and the way he kept jumping sideways away from Nob, who was trying to tie bags of oats and other supplies to the battered old saddle on his back.

Impatiently Sam stepped forward, instructing Nob to go do whatever task Butterbur would have usually have set him in the morning. He crouched down in the straw, waiting for the pony to become used to his presence. Strider watched with a smile nearly curling the corners of his mouth as the pony flicked an ear towards Sam, then twitched it back forwards, ignoring the hobbit in favour of the hay. Sam stood a little taller, half expecting to have to drop back down again, but as the pony wasn’t disturbed by this, he then took a few slow steps forward.

The pony turned his whole head towards Sam this time, still chewing. As Sam stood motionless, the pony’s tongue flashed out, licking his large lips. Then he went back to eating again, now unconcerned that there was a hobbit sharing his stable. Sam, speaking quietly, made the last step, drawing an apple out of his pocket as he did so. He offered it to the pony, who snatched it, sniffing at Sam’s hand and eventually touching his palm with his whiskers.

Less than ten minutes later the pony was loaded to Strider’s satisfaction, goodbyes were said and the folk of the Prancing Pony had gone back to their business. All five travellers shouldered their packs once more, the hobbits looking to the Man for instructions. Sam took hold of the pony’s reins in his right hand and drew them down over his head ready to lead him out. Strider set out, followed by Frodo, then Merry and Pippin. They disappeared from the three-sided yard, the three hobbits walking faster than they would normally have done.

Sam clicked his tongue and gave a gentle tug on the reins, hoping the pony would walk forwards, then still behave himself outside the stable. He had no experience of ponies apart from the quiet, sturdy beasts sometimes ridden in the Shire, especially not ones this big. It was with some trepidation that he took a slow step but to his delight the pony stepped out beside him without needing further encouragement. He quickened the pace a fraction to catch up the Strider, Frodo, Merry and Pippin, again pleased when the pony broke into a steady trot as Sam began to jog.

Strider heard the hoof beats behind him, heard the pony manage a few steps of trot then drop back to a walk. Those few strides were all the pony was capable of doing for the moment, underfed and ill-treated as he had been. Yet he seemed to be willing to give his all for Sam, who sounded like he couldn’t jog that much further than the pony could trot.

They were now proceeding down the main street of Bree, towards a well-built wooden gate visible in the distance; the morning mist had cleared several hours before. Inquisitive faces poked out of open windows or peered covertly from behind shutters but the small party ignored them all, continuing as if nobody was there. The gate grew closer and the houses thinned out as they walked, hoof beats loud in the empty road but footsteps quiet. One Man only stood in plain sight in front of them.

An ugly Man he was, Strider thought as he looked him in the eye. There was no other way to describe the slightly misshapen face and stooped shoulders, but it was the expression on that face that made it so hideous to look upon. Contempt, mostly, mixed with a little fear and a bit more bitterness. Strider nodded his head in acknowledgement of the sour Man’s presence but said nothing as the Man tried to provoke him with insults.

Sam, instead, was the one who broke first. Recognising the Man as the previous owner of the pony, he dug in his pack for another of his apples and let fly as he walked past. The apple hit the Man square on the head; he went down with a crash. From behind the high hedge the travellers could hear muffled swearing, but ignored it and continued walking.

It became apparent, then, that there were more people about than there had been when they had left the inn. Adults and children, Men and hobbits, all following the five a discreet distance behind, but still in plain view. They could be heard, but no words were distinguishable, even to Strider it was an unintelligible cacophony yet about as quiet as a sound can be before it becomes inaudible. This also they ignored, continuing purposefully on towards the gate, then through it. The crowd, falling behind already, stopped as it reached the gate and realised that the five travellers were already nearly half a mile ahead.

The Road ran due south at this point. The land to either side was green and wet, but there were no trees in sight. At times a house could be seen, or a tilled field as a patch of brown. But not one Man or hobbit came into view as they walked. Birds could be heard, sometimes the rustle of a small animal. Overhead they might catch a glimpse of a crow or little songbird but the mice, rabbits and foxes hid in the lush grass, unseen.

As the Road turned left, rounding the bottom of Bree Hill to run east, Strider turned sharply, looking behind as if he thought they were being followed. In reality, he knew it was unlikely that any Man could have walked behind him for nearly a mile without his knowledge; it was not Men or hobbits of Bree that could cause them trouble now, as they headed into the Wilds.

Dwellings now appeared only on the left side of the road, and very infrequently. Pippin suggested singing to pass the miles, but didn’t speak again for many minutes after he saw the expression on Strider’s face at the idea. The further they were from civilisation, the more likely, Strider considered, the black riders would be to ambush them. They could not risk making a noise that would be heard for miles in the low country they were heading towards, so they spoke only softly from then.

After the Road curved left, it began to run downhill into a wooded area. The firm, dark soil began to get looser and damper underfoot as they walked. Strider and Frodo remained silent whilst Merry and Pippin spoke in whispers and Sam talked in a low tone to the pony. As the trees began to line the edges of the Road Strider kept glancing behind, as if expecting to see black cloaked figures appear from behind a thicket, their naked swords bared and horses charging towards them.

They didn’t, however, stay long on the Road once the trees hid them from view of the village on the hill above. As if cut for their very purpose, a trail led off the Road, barely visible unless a watchful eye knew where to look. Strider held out his arm, halting the hobbits as he stopped. He pushed back a few branches above the barely visible, fairly old tracks on the ground, showing the Shire folk the path and holding the branches out of the way whilst they walked through.

As the pony stepped off the Road, Strider let the branches fall back sharply, dislodging a few leaves that fell to the ground, hopefully to cover their tracks, should anybody be following. Still, he didn’t trust to that one simple trick to fool all watching eyes; for the next few hours he led a winding path through the Chetwood, sometimes turning onto a side trail, sometimes not, but always being careful not to head too much in one direction.

As he stepped carefully to avoid breaking leaves or twigs underfoot, Strider’s mind turned back again to the previous night. The soft cracking and popping of logs in the fireplace, the warmth as he had tended the blaze. The flood of heat as he had lowered himself down next to the young hobbit, watching the gentle rise and fall of Merry’s chest as the little one had slept. He found his eyes flicking towards the young hobbit once again as they walked in the dappled shade. Finding himself unable to stop this happening, Strider increased his pace to come past the rest of the party to lead once more.

Even back at the front of the small group and unable to see the object of his distraction, though, did not make things any easier for the Ranger, who could hear every word that the hobbits said. Merry was still whispering to Pippin, Sam had quietened as the pony settled and became more comfortable with the situation. Strider concentrated hard on trying to find a roundabout route that would confuse pursuers, trying to push the voices to a distant corner of his mind whilst listening for any other sounds, of which there were still none other than the natural fall of water, calls of birds, sometimes a breath of wind in treetops or the occasional small animal rustling through the leaves.

They walked continuously in the shade under the leaves until midday passed, then for a short while longer. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon they reached a glade where light shone more brightly through the break in the canopy above. A cracked, dry old log lay part buried in the undergrowth, branches poking up along about one half of its length. The remainder of the trunk was bare, worn smooth by near constant wind and frequent rain.

Strider halted, one look at the hobbits causing them to stop with thankful sighs of relief. They had been walking now for four or five hours without a break and had not eaten for several hours longer; an excessive amount of time for a hobbit to survive between meals or snacks. By the time Strider had swung one leg over the log, the four were seated upon it, legs dangling several inches above the floor. All five travellers dug into their packs, searching for food of any kind. Cheese they had, and meat, but Strider refused to let the hobbits eat them, saying they would feel the benefits more at the end of a hard day’s march.

As he spoke, Aragorn watched the hobbits’ faces for a reaction, trying to discern just how much further they would be able to travel before nightfall, if indeed the little people could walk at his pace for several more hours. Frodo alone showed no outward signs of distress; the three younger hobbits complained loudly until he allowed them an apple each and half a loaf of fresh bread to share between all five.

Sam distributed apples as Strider tore chunks off the loaf, feeding the first of the fruits to the pony standing quietly at his side. The animal crunched quickly, finishing his portion before Sam had thrown the last apple to Strider. The Ranger then walked along the line of hobbits, passing each a piece of bread, which they each took with the hand not holding their apple. Merry’s little fingers brushed Strider’s long, scarred ones as he gave the hobbit the bread, causing a rippling shock of heat to pass through the Ranger’s tall body.

Moving quickly on, Strider reached out to give Sam his share of the bread, only to see that his left hand was still holding the reins dangling from the pony’s bit. Sam quickly rested the apple on his thigh so he could take the bread. The pony, seeing the unattended apple, picked it up swiftly with his large lips, swallowing it in one bite almost before Sam had realised that the fruit was no longer where he had put it.

The sturdy hobbit jumped as if to snatch the apple back, considering giving the pony a gentle slap for his misbehaviour. But this was not one of the shaggy little rock steady ponies found in the Shire; he was nearly a horse and had grown scared of ill treatment after having been subjected to it for the previous few years. But more importantly, Sam had already began to care for the animal who had placed his trust in a stranger.

Instead of reprimanding the pony, Sam ran the hand holding the reins down the furry neck, laughing as he gave a gentle scratch to the skin beneath. The pony nuzzled at the hand holding the bread, making Sam pull it quickly back out of the way. Strider turned away as the three other hobbits chuckled, determinedly not looking at Merry as the little one’s cheeks flushed with his laughter.

Swearing to himself that he would never again allow the hobbits to stop to eat, only for an evening meal followed by sleep, Strider settled down again on the log. He didn’t look at the hobbits as he ate, concentrating instead on the colour and texture of Arwen’s dark, silky hair and creamy soft, pale skin. He quickly found this did not help; it only exaggerated the quickening of his pulse and the tingly feeling spreading throughout his body.

Only one thought was left to help Strider control his emotions. His shoulders dropped noticeably and a shadow seemed to cloak his eyes as he placed the image of Arwen on a ship sailing away into a sunset, never to return. The knowledge that this was to be the likely fate of their relationship had a sobering effect on his passion; it was with less vigour that he forced the last of the bread down his throat and slung his pack back onto his back.

Without a word, the Ranger started off in yet another new direction. Sam gave him a deeply mistrustful glance before clicking his tongue at the pony to follow. Strider saw the look as he paused to check that all four hobbits were following, darkening his mood even further. He was doubtful, now, of the Man he had become over the course of many hard years. It was hard, he knew, to like an uncommunicative, often dirty Man who never stayed long in one place, yet the description fit him perfectly.

Strider felt the mud sticking to his boots now more than ever, understanding that it was partially his travel stained and weather worn appearance that did not endear him to others. Worse than that, he felt as he trudged along the shadowy path, was his inability to accept his lineage as heir to one who had not been able to deny the Ring it’s power. The kingdom of Gondor could be his, Strider knew, if only he could accept and proclaim his heritage. But he was loath to do this, to admit the weakness in his blood.

In a sullen, brooding silence, the tortured Man led the small party swiftly through the many paths of the Chetwood, his skills sufficient even when distracted by self-doubt. The Sun moved lower in the sky, lengthening the shadows until the shade under the canopy was complete. The entire day they had seen no other living creature except the occasional bird but this did not decrease Strider’s feeling of need for watchfulness. Still he did not talk, but surveyed the woodland surrounding them with a searching, insistent gaze as he considered his life.

Travelling in the company of four hobbits, already fast friends, made Strider realise what he had been missing out on as he had wandered the Wilds alone. Companionship he had long shunned, but it was beginning to become clear to him that a solitary life was far less satisfying than the feeling of friendship between the Shire folk.

It distressed Strider, now, that he had not earned the full trust of his four followers. He knew they believed him to be the Man he claimed to be, the Man Gandalf had written to Frodo about, but he felt this not to be enough. For them to trust him for his own sake, he now considered, would be a comfort to him in his loneliness. The time for stalking silently in private shadows, the troubled Man felt, would soon be over.

As it became too dark to see tree roots beneath their feet, Strider called a halt; the first words he had spoken since refusing the hobbits the meat and cheese several hours previously. Hugely thankful, the Shire folk dropped to the floor, Merry and Pippin beginning to chatter to each other as they pulled food and water flasks out of their packs. Strider flung himself onto a carpet of leaves and pulled his cloak tight about his body, wanting to catch a few hours sleep whilst the hobbits ate. He planned to take the first watch, but knew that after having sat awake all the night before, he would not be as alert as he felt he needed to be.

Sleep came quickly, despite the worries and doubt. Strider’s exhaustion was not complete, nor as total as it had felt on occasion during his long life. Dreams disturbed his slumber, but did not wake him as he turned back and forth amid the mix of golds, browns and green. He tossed about for several hours whilst the hobbits ate and talked quietly amongst themselves before waking as the Shire folk’s chatter died down. For several more minutes he lay with his eyes closed, listening to the voices but not heeding the words.

As the tired Man sat up, rustling a few leaves, the hobbits fell silent. He suspected they had been discussing the wisdom of travelling with a stranger twice their size, especially one whom they had been warned against. He did not doubt the sense of doing this; in their place he knew he would have done the same, but it still upset him somewhat that he did not appear a Man to be trusted.

The hobbits wished each other goodnight, but only Frodo acknowledged Strider. The three younger Shire folk turned their backs to him as they lay themselves down, causing him enough discomfort to make him ignore Frodo’s words. Strider drew his knees into his chest to retain his body heat as he sat, staring out into the blackness in an attempt to see more than a few feet in front of his face in the pale, dim moonlight.

The hobbits’ skin was bathed a shade of silver as the moon moved momentarily into a gap between the flowing canopies of two large trees high above their heads. Not for long could Strider stay upset at Merry as he watched the tips of the little one’s ears shine out against the darkness of his tangled hair. Strider was grateful as the moon continued on her journey, hiding once again behind leaves. The stars now gave the only light and Strider now sensed mainly by hearing, knowing his vision would not be reliable in such conditions.

The breathing and heartbeats of the sleeping Shire folk sounded loud to the Ranger’s keen ears in the calm quiet of the night. The pony browsed on the undergrowth incessantly, chewing and snapping plant stems. Letting his mind wash over these sounds, he concentrated instead on the background noise, hoping not to hear a distant crack of a twig or hoof beat. Praying that the black cloaked horsemen were still on the Road, he nevertheless was uncertain that they or their spies would not be somewhere nearby. Strider sat immobile, listening, until the night was half over before casting himself back onto the welcoming, if cold, ground. Within minutes his breathing had slowed to sleep, untroubled by dreams now his tiredness was that bit more pronounced.