They walked on under a sky that had forgotten blue. For as far as the eye could see a black roof of clouds sagged low, and from its belly sifted ash—fine as flour, hot as embers—falling soft and endless. It was not the rolling green Shire they knew: no sheep dotted the hills, no bright hedgerows waved in wind. The world had gone winter-black, and what piled at their boots was not snow but the warm gray of ruin.
The ash lay warm underfoot and it clung. Each step packed it down; each step piled more around the soles until their boots sank like in powder. The sunless heat pressed down through the cloth of their cloaks; sweat poured in rivers beneath straps and belts. Every pack felt heavier by the hour. Yet they pushed on, grinning through the burn. They had chosen this—burden as training; heat as trial. The strain was proof: each heave of shoulder, each hot breath was evidence that they were growing harder, stronger.
When legs trembled and breaths hit thin, they looked for shelter. A wind-bent tree, a hedgerow clinging to life—any green roof that kept the ash from settling—became an instant haven. Under its branches the air seemed cleaner by a hair; ash that would have lain on shoulders turned instead to the leaves above. There they sank, taking off packs, rubbing at eyes, and panting like fighters between rounds.
Sam went to work without ceremony. The peasant's hands were method and speed; he coaxed a life out of tinder and twigs, set a faithful, low fire, and began to turn lamb and roots into stew. He fussed over the pot in the way of men who have learned to keep others fed so that others may keep fighting.
Pippin hovered with the gusto of a glutton. He stirred, he tasted, he offered vodka as if it were a sacrament, and he built—reluctantly but earnestly—a crude lid of branches and vine to keep the hot ash from pelting the stew. He grinned as he worked, every motion warm with the joy of food and drink.
Merry, hunched with a coin-purse open on his lap, let the stew bubble and his mind count. He counted the coins, checked the purse again, then counted them once more. Copper, silver, gold—he ran numbers like a priest reciting prayers. How many inns? How many markets? What if a guide charged more? He folded the coins into plans and stored those plans behind a face that never smiled.
Frodo sat slightly apart, Dragon Slayer resting across his knees, and watched the dark horizon. He did not think of rustling hedges or of trapping rabbits. The memory of training—the clang of stone on shoulder, the ache of muscle after a day of deliberate pain—was sweet. He did not want to stain his blade on poultry or on a boar dragged by hunters for coin. He wanted a thing immense and worthy: a foe that would split his legend open. He imagined bone snapping under the weight of his sword, the hot iron bite of a dragon's scale, the roar and the last ragged breath. He wanted that first kill to be a story that could be told and retold until his name grew into something taller than the trees.
They ate in their usual order: Pippin first, greedy and loud; Merry distractedly between mouthfuls and sums; Sam ladling quietly for all; Frodo taking little more than a look, tasting victory instead of stew. They rested until the ache in shoulders softened and the stew warmed their guts, then strapped packs to aching backs and rose again.
They walked until the ash grew thicker; they sweated until their shirts stuck to skin. Each step became training—weights for tomorrow's strength. They took pride in the salt on their lips and the color of work in their cheeks. Sweat, here, was currency as honest as any coin: a proof of effort, a testament to grit.
So the first day passed: march, rest beneath the sparse green that dared not die, stew, counting, jokes half told and half swallowed. And when they moved on again their footprints buried themselves under the next soft fall of ash—small indentations in a vast, dark field—and each boy carried the same private promise with him: Frodo for glory, Merry for enough coin, Pippin for the next good bite, Sam for the next supper.
Unseen beneath their boots, the land worked its quiet miracle. The soil drank the poison and spat out the rest; roots pulsed with borrowed light; plants wore their ash like a nuisance shawl and kept on living. The ground itself seemed to breathe, drawing in the blight and letting it go.
By the second day the heat bled away. The air thinned, the ashfall slackened, and then—at last—stopped. Still the boys kept their bandanas up, stubborn against the dust that clung to tongue and teeth. Better to sweat behind cloth than to swallow sickness.
Toward noon they crested a low ridge and stared. There, scattered along the road like stacked crates, were villages of the Big Folk—above ground. Not just churches and mills (those were expected), but houses built in honest layers, two and three stories high, with balconies like wooden eyelids and ladders lashed to walls. The sight felt wrong and wonderful at once. Homes standing bold under the sky, not tucked into hillsides or buried in turf. Even in this dim half-light, the lines of roofs and the silhouettes of wind-vanes looked… impressive.
They passed carts snubbed against hitching posts, ash brushed from doorsteps, white chalk sigils sketched over lintels—charms against bad air. A few lanterns burned with that same clean Albion glow, and where they burned the ash turned docile, falling straight to the ground.
At the edge of West Hill they found it: a squat, sturdy inn with a proud signboard swinging on iron hooks—Lili's Little Lantern Inn of West Hill. Frodo froze, a smile breaking through the bandana before he could stop it. "Grandmother's," he breathed.
The door alone had a swagger. Its handle was a lion's head of beaten brass, jaws clenched around a ring darkened by a thousand pulls. Beside the jamb, just as the name promised, a single small lantern burned with a steady, clear flame. It wasn't bright, not really—but it felt bright, the kind that pushed back more than shadow.
Pippin whistled. "Looks cozy."
"Looks expensive," Merry murmured, already fingering the purse.
Sam tipped his cap, eyeing the lantern like a craftsman admiring a fine tool. "Light like that'll keep a kitchen honest."
Frodo reached for the ring in the lion's mouth. The metal was warm. He pulled, and the door swung inward on oiled hinges to spill a ribbon of hearth-smell—bread, broth, woodsmoke—into the street.
For a heartbeat the road, the ash, the black sky—all of it—felt far away.
Pulling on the lion-headed handle, they stepped inside and found themselves in a surprisingly fine establishment. For an inn in a small roadside village, it was almost lavish. Two full floors rose above them, lanterns burning bright, their glow soft against polished wood. To one side a private VIP couch section sat roped off, while round tables filled the rest of the room, some gathered near a long table at the center, others tucked close to the welcoming blaze of a fireplace.
A small stage stood opposite the hearth, and upon it a fair woman sang to the slow strum of her lute. Her voice was light, sweet, and calming, the kind that seemed to smooth the very air. From above came the creak of footsteps and the sight of doors lining the second-floor gallery, each one leading to a private room for the night's rest.
But more than the furniture, it was the warmth of the place that struck them—the immediate welcome. As if the inn had been expecting them, two beautiful women appeared at once, smiling with radiant charm. Their dresses were finely cut, hugging toned waists, dipping low enough to show their generous bosoms. Albion, it seemed, was not lacking in beauty.
Not a word needed to be said. With gestures and soft laughter the women led them to an open table and pressed menus into their hands. Frodo scanned the list, eyes widening: there was everything one could want—simple salads, an Albanese breakfast, pancakes stacked in butter, fish and chips crisp from the pan, pastries, cakes, mugs of beer, tall glasses of milk. Even the promise of a private room with a soft bed, a proper shower, and, wonder of wonders, a flushing toilet.
Some items made him frown—cakes priced higher than in the Shire, no coconuts anywhere—but the spread was still dazzling. Around them sat men and women of the Big Folk, tall and broad, their fair skin lit by firelight. Blonds, browns, and bright blue eyes turned toward the Halflings with curious interest. These people, too, had clearly kept to their training; the land bred them sturdy and handsome.
Still, mission first. They ordered fish and chips all around, with apple juice to wash it down, and booked a room for four.
When they saw it, they laughed—the chamber was vast to their eyes, with single beds that looked fit for kings. For folk their size, it was like sleeping in palaces.
The ash, the road, the sweat—all of it was forgotten for a time in the glow of firelight, the scent of fried fish, and the rare comfort of walls that shut out the dark.
After long, steaming showers and fresh clothes—washed and folded by the inn's beautiful waitresses—three of the boys drifted to bed with grins plastered across their faces. Only Merry frowned into the dark, clutching the coin purse like a mother cradling her child. Each silver and copper spent at the inn was a dagger in his heart.
Morning came. They ate a modest breakfast, strapped on gear still warm from drying by the fire, and set off once more toward Bree.
Outside, the ash rain had ceased. Whether by the land's hidden magic or simply the storm passing, none could say. Still the black clouds lingered, pressing heavy on the sky, and the sun was nowhere to be found. The air grew colder by the day. Cloaks came up, scarves and bandanas stayed in place. Faces were hidden, and the world's beauties—those full-bosomed gifts of Albion—were veiled away.
"What a curse," Pippin muttered darkly. "A land without tits is hardly worth the walking."
Sam coughed and stirred the morning stew. "Eat, you greedy sod. Breasts don't fill your belly."
Frodo only scowled into the horizon, imagining blood and dragon fire. Merry sighed and counted coins, lips moving faster than his feet.
So they traveled, four more days through towns and roads where only the inns gave warmth and light. And then, cresting the last of the rolling hills, they saw it: Bree.
A modest port-town, but proud all the same. Its wooden wall encircled the streets, sturdy and simple, and beyond it the roofs shone green against the gray sky. A wide river ran along the town's side, flowing toward the sea like a silver ribbon.
From a distance, Bree looked almost painted: neat cobblestone road leading inward, stone foundations rising to timbered upper floors, and shingles painted the color of spring leaves. The boys paused, impressed, taking in the sight.
"This is Westfield's work," Frodo said, pointing.
The Dukedom's hand was obvious. Their banner was green, marked with a mighty apple tree at its heart—roots spread wide, branches heavy with fruit, and little birds perched in the canopy. Their coat of arms was split clean down the middle: one half green, the other blue, tree and birds proudly astride both.
It was, in part, a rivalry with the Dukedom of Lionheart, whose proud colors were deep blue and gold. Westfield had chosen green deliberately, to mark itself apart, and painted its roofs, banners, and even doorframes with the hue. And from this hilltop, the town of Bree looked like an emerald jewel set into the gray earth.
"Green roofs, blue coats, bird banners, apple trees…" Merry muttered. "All lovely. All expensive."
Sam wiped his nose and chuckled. "At least it'll be warm inside."
Frodo only tightened the straps on Dragon Slayer. His eyes were not on the roofs or the banners, but the gate below. Bree was a port, and ports meant ships. And ships meant East.
Even before they reached the open wooden gates, they spotted a guard in light mail and a green tabard—everything in Westfield seemed painted green, even the men. He watched the four approach and cocked an eyebrow. A cloth covered the lower half of his face, but suspicion carried well enough in his voice.
"Oi—kids? Hold there. What's your business in Bree? Can't you see the sun's gone and the land's wearing a fine layer of poison? You shouldn't be out here adventuring on your own. Where are your parents?"
Frodo bristled—kids?—and drew breath to snap back, but Sam stepped forward first.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir. We're not children. We're Halflings, see?"
He tugged his hood down and turned his head to show a slightly pointed ear—leathery, rough, and small. Among Halflings, those ears helped shed grit and stray pebbles, the way thatched roofs shed rain.
The guard leaned closer, squinting. It was subtle, but it was there. He straightened at once.
"Ah. My mistake, lads. Never met a Halfling before. Welcome to Bree all the same. We're all one under the Holy Light—make yourselves at home." He lowered his voice. "Mind yourselves, though. Two strangers have been pokin' around town, asking odd questions. Don't let 'em rope you into whatever mad errand they're on."
Frodo shouldered past Sam with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about us, big man. We're not as small as we look."
He turned to the others. "Come on—inside."
Merry, Pippin, and Sam nodded, falling in behind as they passed under the gate and into Bree.
The guard watched them go, brow furrowed above his mask. "Not as small as they look… what in Light's name does that mean?"
The streets of Bree bustled in the half-light. Tall women swept the cobbles, skirts brushing the ash into neat piles, while men sloshed buckets of water to rinse the soot away. Children hid indoors, peeking out from behind shutters as the four cloaked Halflings marched past. The town was still shaking itself clean after the great ashfall, but life had already begun to return to its rhythm.
At one corner, men heaved barrels of fish into Lili's Little Lantern Inn of Bree, the smell of salt and scales thick in the air. Across the square, another inn squatted: the old Prancing Pony, doors shut, windows boarded, its sign hanging loose. It looked abandoned, little more than storage now for the Lantern Inn. With only one choice, the boys followed the fish-haulers inside.
The interior was bright and bustling, a fine establishment with three full floors. The lower floor roared with laughter, mugs clattering, and music strumming somewhere beyond the crowd. The upper two floors held the rooms, their balconies lined with lanterns glowing green-gold. Big men and women filled the space, children among them—children still taller than the Halflings.
At the door a young red-haired girl, a Lycan by her sharp eyes and wolfish grin, greeted them warmly. She led the four through the crowded hall to the bar, as every table was already full. Music rang in the background, and the air was thick with cheer, firelight, and the smell of frying fish.
Frodo clambered onto a high stool with a grunt, the wood groaning dangerously beneath his weight. Wincing at the creak, he yanked his massive pack off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The impact landed like a hammerblow, BANG, rattling mugs on nearby tables and turning heads across the room.
The bearded bartender scowled, slamming a rag down on the counter. "Oi! Watch yourself, lad! Or are you just trying to make a bloody scene? If so, do it on the stage, not at my bar."
Frodo's jaw tightened. His pride burned hotter than the stares around him. He leaned forward, glaring up at the man, and spat his reply.
"Shut it, old man. Just pour me and my boys some cold beers—we're thirsty."
Then, with a sharp inhale, Frodo puffed out his chest and raised his voice so the whole inn could hear.
"And show some respect! For here sits the future King of the Fucking Halflings! My name is Frodo Baggins, and you better remember it—because we are on an Epic Adventure to become Legendary Motherfuckers!"
He slapped the counter, grinning like a madman. "So pour the beers, my dude. Respect me. Peace."
Silence fell—hard and total. Frodo smirked. Clearly these big folk weren't used to such gangster talk. Fair enough; it was a family dialect—his and his father's.
In the corner, two hooded men broke first. They burst into laughter, heads thrown back. The shorter one, broad as a barrel with a long blond beard, wheezed between guffaws.
"Hah! I can't—gods! Bartender—give the boy some milk on me! Best laugh I've had in years!"
His taller companion, golden-haired and smug, clapped him on the shoulder. "Milk indeed! Look at 'em—what are they, four miniature knights off to rescue a pocket-sized princess? Bwahaha!"
Heat flashed through the room. The inn caught their laughter and multiplied it. Chairs scraped, mugs rattled. Pippin's eyes went red; Merry's jaw knotted; Sam's hand slid to the rim of his shield.
Frodo had heard this tone before—back in the Shire. He wasn't having it now.
He jabbed a black-armored finger toward the corner. "Oi—fuck off, mate. You think I'm a joke? Come say it to my face, you long-shanked muppet. I'll tear your beard off and mop the floor with it. Better yet—let's settle it proper. Arm-wrestling. Both of you. Winner drinks the loser's coin till darkness takes him."
"Yeah! Fuck yeah, Frodo—honour and glory!" the lads roared.
Sam leaned close, palm heavy on Frodo's shoulder. "Let me break the short one, yeah? You take the tall gawk."
Frodo nodded once. Done.
The bearded short man blinked, surprised, then grabbed a fresh mug and upended it in three gulps. Foam slicked his whiskers. "A donkey walks into a—ah, forget it. Come on then, kids. Come to me. I'm too drunk to walk anywhere worth going."
The tall one drained his ale more neatly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sneered. "I haven't a sister, but I can still spank a brat. Let's play."
Benches scraped back. A path opened like a wound. They crowded to the long table at the room's center. Tankards thudded aside; elbows hit oak.
On the left: Frodo Baggins—Berserk mail creaking, Dragon Slayer's hilt peeking over one shoulder—squaring up against the golden giant.
On the right: Samwise—leather-bound, steady as a millstone—facing the squat bearded brawler whose grin said I do this for sport.
Sam stared across the table at his opponent. The man's beard was a golden curtain, long and thick, spilling all the way to his stomach. His hair was spiked like a lion's mane, his frame wide and muscled, his blue eyes cold and steady.
Sam didn't blink. He wasn't just a gardener, not just Frodo's helper. He was a gym rat, forged in sweat and stubbornness. He spat on the floor, narrowed his eyes, and sneered.
"Oi, beardy. What's with the mane? You want people to mistake you for some hairy woman?"
The bearded man smirked, slow and calm.
"My beard is my life. My honour. My pride. Same as these muscles. Which, by the way, are better than yours, short stuff."
Sam's teeth clenched. Better than his body? Insult unforgivable. Then an idea flickered—he smirked back.
"Whatever, tough guy. At least I'm not a virgin anymore. Now bring it on."
The bearded man froze, baffled. "What the fuck are you even talking about?" Still, he set his arm on the table. Challenge was challenge.
Sam climbed onto his chair to even the height, planting his right arm firmly on the oak. The bearded man lowered his own, hand so massive it swallowed Sam's fingers whole. From the side, Pippin whispered to Merry:
"Shit. This is like a lowercase v fighting an uppercase V."
Merry just nodded grimly. They were not comparable.
At the same time, Frodo and the tall golden-haired man locked hands. Fewer words there, but no less sting. Frodo grinned.
"Just so you know, I usually only let girls touch me."
The tall man smirked.
"Don't worry, King Frodo—I'm only into princesses."
Frodo blinked, stunned. King Frodo. Someone had actually said it. His chest swelled—was this destiny? Was this man his fourth knight of legend?
The red-haired waitress hopped up onto the table, skirts swishing, voice cutting through the din.
"All right, challengers! On my count! One… two…"
Frodo stripped off his black gauntlet, slamming it on the table with a clang. His bare hand vanished in the grip of the tall man's palm, swallowed whole like a child's in a bear's paw.
"Three!"
The Inn erupted as the battles began.
Every eye widened—Halfling arms bulged. Veins crawled like ropes, muscles knotted, and in that moment they didn't look like children at all. They looked like children possessed—children on unholy strength, eyes wild, jaws locked.
The tall blond and Frodo froze in instant stalemate, forearms trembling in equal measure. Sweat beaded, dripped, hissed on the oak table like hot iron. Teeth gritted. Wood creaked. The air grew thick with the roar of onlookers.
On the other side, the stocky, bearded man only smirked.
"Hah… impressive. I acknowledge it—you are a Halfling of power."
Then his arm swelled further, shirt seams straining. His bicep, round as a melon, loomed larger than Sam's head. The muscles quivered with raw force, and slowly, deliberately, he began to press Sam's hand down.
Sam roared, head tilting back, spittle flying.
"Arghhh—fucking DONKEYS!"
The crowd howled at the curse, and then gasped—because Sam's skin was changing. His forearm darkened, hardening, roughening, veins knotting into stone. His knuckles cracked like rock breaking. The bearded man's grin faltered.
With a grinding creak, Sam's arm stopped falling.
The match was no longer a contest of farmer versus warrior. It was stone against flesh, rage against pride, Halfling against giant.
The table shuddered beneath them.
On the other side of the table, Frodo was having a much easier time. The tall man was strong, yes, but Frodo could feel the balance tipping. With a grin, he reached deep into his chest, into the burning red core beside his heart, and drew on its fire.
There was a sharp crack and then a bang—the tall man's forearm bent the wrong way, snapping clean in two as it slammed against the wood of the table.
The Inn gasped as one.
Frodo leapt to his feet and roared, "Fuck yeah, I'm the King!"
The tall man shrieked, clutching his mangled arm. "Ahhh fuck! That hurts, shit!"
At the same time came another bang—Sam's knuckles slammed flat against the oak. He had lost. He hung his head, jaw tight, teeth grinding with shame.
Merry and Pippin winced. Their friend had fought well, but the crowd barely noticed. Most eyes were still fixed in shock on the tall man's broken arm, unable to look away from the grotesque angle.
Sam stared at his hands, bitterness boiling. But then the bearded man—his opponent—placed a hand on his shoulder. His voice was steady, kind.
"Don't fret, kid. You gave me a real match. Be proud of that. And forget the bet—it was just a bit of fun."
Before Sam could answer, gasps of awe swept the room. A warm light had bloomed around the tall man's ruined arm. Bones cracked back into place. Flesh knitted. The limb straightened as though nothing had ever happened.
Frodo blinked, jaw dropping.
"What? How the fuck did you do that? Are you some kind of wizard?"
The man shook out his arm, flexed his fingers, and smirked.
"No wizard. I'm just a bastard of the Twelfth Prince, of the royal line. I carry the white Light of Healing in me. Broken bones, cuts, bruises—small things mend themselves."
Pippin nearly fell off his stool. "Wait, what? So you're family then? Frodo's Gandalf's boy—but who the hell are you?"
The tall man turned, really looked at Frodo, and his face shifted.
"Oh. I'm Aragon. And this here—" he gestured to the bearded stocky man still grinning beside him "—is Gimli. My Dwarven brother-in-arms. Likely the only dwarf in Albion, come to think of it. Nice to meet you, cousin Frodo. We are cousins, right?"
For once, Frodo was struck dumb.
Gimli broke the silence by slamming his fist on the table, shaking mugs and hearts alike.
"Hahaa! Family reunions! My favorite! Drinks for all! Tonight, all of Albion shall drink on my gold hoard!"
The Inn erupted in cheers.
And so it was that Frodo gained not one, but two Legendary Knights: Gimli, the axe-swinging, monster-slaying dwarf; and Aragon, the sword-and-shield knight who bore the Core of Healing and a master's knowledge of herbs.
The party of four had become a party of six.