The common room of the Prancing Pony grew louder as the evening deepened. More folk crowded in—farmers from the surrounding country, a few travelling dwarves with beards as thick as hedgerows, even a company of hobbits from the nearby village of Staddle who sang drinking songs in high, clear voices. The fire crackled and spat, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and the smell of pipe-weed mingled with the savoury aromas from the kitchen.
Holman sat in the alcove, his untouched mug of ale growing warm before him. He could not eat. He could not drink. The weight of the Ring in his pocket seemed to have grown heavier since Gandalf's revelation, pressing against his thigh like a living thing that demanded attention. Across from him, the Wizard sat in grim silence, his grey eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance that only he could see.
The man called Aragorn had not moved from his corner. He sat with his hood still partially drawn, though the firelight occasionally caught the gleam of his eyes as they swept the room with quiet vigilance. Once, his gaze met Holman's, and the hobbit felt a strange sensation—not fear, exactly, but a recognition of sorts, as if this ragged stranger saw something in him that Holman himself did not know was there.
A burst of laughter erupted from the hobbits in the corner, and one of them—a plump fellow with cheeks like ripe apples—clambered onto a bench and began to sing:
"There is an inn, a merry old inn, beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown, the Man in the Moon himself came down,
One night to drink his fill!"
The other hobbits joined in, their voices rising in cheerful discord, and for a moment the shadow that hung over Holman seemed to lift. This was the world he knew—simple, warm, untroubled. The world of good ale and good company, where the greatest worry was whether the harvest would be plentiful or the winter too harsh. How could such a world contain things like Ringwraiths and barrow-wights? How could it contain the Ring?
But it did. The proof sat heavy in his pocket.
Gandalf leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. "Holman, listen to me carefully. We cannot stay here. The Riders will come to Bree. It may be tonight, it may be tomorrow, but they will come. They will question Butterbur, they will search the inn, and if they find us here, nothing I can do will save you."
Holman's throat tightened. "Then what do we do? Where do we go?"
"There is a path," Gandalf said. "Aragorn knows it. He has offered to guide us, to lead us by ways that are hidden from the Enemy's servants. It will not be easy. It will not be safe. But it is our only hope of reaching Rivendell before the Riders catch us."
Holman looked across the room at the hooded man. A Ranger, Gandalf had called him. A wanderer who guarded the borders. He looked hard and dangerous, the kind of man Holman would have crossed the street to avoid in the Shire. But there was something in his eyes, too—a depth, a sadness, a weight of years that spoke of things far beyond a hobbit's understanding.
"Can we trust him?" Holman asked.
Gandalf's lips curved in a faint smile. "I have trusted him with my life many times, in many dark places. He is of the line of the Kings of Men, Holman, though the world has forgotten it. His name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is the heir to the throne of Gondor, though he claims it not. If any man can lead us through the darkness, it is he."
The singing continued, louder now, as more patrons joined in. The hobbits from Staddle had produced a small drum and a set of pipes, and the music filled the common room with a joyful noise that seemed to push back against the gathering night. Holman watched them, these carefree souls who had no idea of the evil that stalked the world beyond their comfortable hills, and felt a pang of loss so sharp it almost made him cry.
He would never be one of them again. Even if he survived this journey—even if he reached Rivendell and somehow, impossibly, found a way to be rid of the Ring—he would never again sit in a cozy inn and sing careless songs without remembering the cold whisper of the Riders, the dead light in the barrow-wight's eyes, the terrible weight in his pocket.
The song ended in a roar of laughter and applause. The plump hobbit who had led it bowed deeply, nearly toppling from his bench, and called for another round. Butterbur himself appeared with a fresh tray of mugs, his round face gleaming with pride at the success of his establishment.
It was then that the door opened.
The sound was not loud—just the creak of old hinges and the rush of cool night air—but every voice in the common room fell silent as if cut off by a knife. Holman looked towards the door, and his blood turned to ice.
Five figures stood in the doorway. They were cloaked and hooded in black, their faces hidden in shadow so deep that it seemed to swallow the light from the fire. They did not move. They did not speak. They simply stood there, and the warmth drained from the room as if a window had been opened onto the frozen wastes of the far north.
No one moved. No one spoke. Even the fire seemed to dim, its cheerful crackle fading to a sullen whisper.
Then one of the figures stepped forward. It moved with a horrible grace, gliding rather than walking, and as it passed under the light of a lantern, Holman saw—or thought he saw—that there was nothing inside the hood. Nothing but darkness deeper than night, and two points of pale, cold light where eyes should have been.
It sniffed. The sound was soft, but in the dead silence of the room, it carried like a thunderclap. It sniffed again, and its head turned slowly, sweeping across the room, past the frozen hobbits, past the trembling farmers, past the dwarves who sat with hands on their axes, until its gaze—if gaze it could be called—fell upon the alcove where Holman and Gandalf sat.
For a long, terrible moment, the Rider looked at them. Holman felt the Ring stir in his pocket, felt it pulse with a dreadful eagerness, felt his own hand begin to creep towards it as if drawn by a will not his own. He wanted to put it on. He wanted to vanish, to escape, to hide from those cold, searching eyes. He knew, with a certainty that went deeper than thought, that if he put on the Ring, the Rider would see him. It would see him clearly, more clearly than anything in the physical world, and it would come for him, and there would be no escape.
"No," Gandalf whispered, and his voice was like a rock in a stormy sea. "Do not move. Do not breathe. Do not think of it."
The Rider took another step into the room. Behind it, the other four figures remained in the doorway, silent and terrible as statues carved from night itself. The common folk of Bree pressed back against the walls, their faces white with terror. The plump hobbit who had been singing now sat frozen on his bench, his mug forgotten in his hand, his eyes wide as saucers.
Then Aragorn moved.
He rose from his corner in a single fluid motion, and as he stood, he threw back his hood. The firelight fell upon his face, revealing features that were stern and fair, with eyes that held the light of stars. In his hand, suddenly, was a sword—not drawn, but somehow simply there, its blade gleaming with a pale fire of its own.
"You are not welcome here," he said, and his voice was low and clear, carrying to every corner of the silent room. "This house is under the protection of the Rangers. Begone, or feel the bite of steel that has tasted the blood of your kind before."
The lead Rider hissed. It was not a sound that should have come from any living throat—a thing of pure malice, of ancient hatred, of hunger that could never be satisfied. It raised a hand, and Holman saw that the hand was not a hand at all, but something grey and withered, with fingers too long and too thin, ending in nails that gleamed like knives in the dim light.
For a long moment, Rider and Ranger faced each other across the crowded room. The fire guttered and flared. A child somewhere began to cry, a thin, frightened sound quickly stifled by its mother. Holman could feel the Ring burning against his leg, demanding, pleading, promising power and safety if only he would put it on.
Then the Rider lowered its hand. It turned, slowly, and without another sound, it glided back through the door. The other four figures followed, one by one, and the door swung shut behind them with a soft click that was somehow more terrible than any slam.
For a count of ten, no one moved. Then the room erupted. Men shouted, women screamed, children wailed. The dwarves were on their feet, axes gleaming, shouting challenges in their deep, rumbling voices. The hobbits from Staddle huddled together like frightened children, their drum and pipes forgotten on the floor.
Butterbur appeared at the alcove, his face as white as his apron. "In the name of all that's good, what were those things? I've kept this inn for forty years and never seen the like! Gandalf, you old rascal, you've brought trouble to my door, I know it!"
"Peace, Master Butterbur," Gandalf said, rising. "Those were the servants of the Enemy, and they seek what this hobbit carries. We must leave, and leave now, before they gather their courage and return. Is there a back way out of this inn?"
Butterbur nodded, his jowls quivering. "Through the kitchen, down the passage, out into the yard. But Gandalf—"
"No time for questions. Aragorn!" The Ranger was already at their side, his sword now sheathed but his hand still resting on its hilt. "Can you get us to the Road?"
"The Road is watched," Aragorn said quietly. "They will have set watchers on every path leading east. But I know another way—through the Midgewater Marshes, up into the hills. It will be hard going, and slow, but it may buy us time."
"Do it."
They moved. Holman found himself half-carried through the kitchen, past astonished cooks and scullery maids, down a narrow stone passage, and out into a small yard piled high with barrels and empty crates. The night air was cold and sharp, and the stars shone overhead with a brilliance that seemed almost cruel in its indifference to the terror below.
Aragorn led them through the yard, over a low wall, and into a lane that ran behind the inns and houses of Bree. They moved quickly, silently, keeping to the shadows. Behind them, they could hear the rising clamour from the Prancing Pony—shouts, running feet, the slam of doors. But no pursuit came.
Soon they had left the village behind and were moving across open country. The land rose and fell in gentle swells, dotted with sleeping sheep and the occasional lonely farmhouse. The stars wheeled slowly overhead, and the only sounds were the rustle of wind through grass and the soft pad of their own feet.
They walked through the night without stopping. Holman's legs ached, his feet blistered, his lungs burned, but he did not complain. He could not complain. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that hooded figure, those points of cold light, that grey and withered hand. He heard the hiss, felt the Ring's desperate hunger, knew with terrible certainty that the Riders would not stop. Would never stop. Would follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary.
As the first grey light of dawn began to seep into the eastern sky, they came to the edge of a great marsh. Reeds stood tall and brown in the still water, and mist hung low over the ground, thick and white and utterly still. The air smelled of decay and stagnant water, and clouds of tiny insects rose to greet them.
"The Midgewater Marshes," Aragorn said. "Few folk come here willingly. The Riders will not expect us to take this path. But it will not be pleasant."
Gandalf looked down at Holman, and for the first time since the inn, his expression softened. "How do you fare, little hobbit?"
Holman wanted to say that he was tired, that he was frightened, that he wanted nothing more than to be back in his cozy smial in Fen Heath with his pipe and his garden and his comfortable chair. But instead he looked up at the Wizard and said, "I can go on. I have to, don't I?"
"Yes," Gandalf said gently. "You have to. The Ring has chosen you, Holman Greenholm, for reasons that may be hidden even from the Wise. But you are not alone. You have me, and you have Aragorn, and before this journey is done, you may have others. The darkness is gathering, but so too is the light. Now, let us go. We have far to go, and the day will not wait."
They entered the marsh, and the mist closed behind them like a door.
The days that followed blurred together in Holman's memory. They walked through the marshes, where the ground squelched beneath their feet and the reeds rose higher than his head. They climbed into the hills, where the wind bit sharp and cold and the only shelter was the lee of great grey boulders. They slept in snatches, never more than an hour or two, always listening, always watching, always aware that somewhere behind them—or ahead, or to either side—the Riders were searching.
Aragorn proved to be a guide beyond price. He knew every path, every stream, every hidden valley. He could read the land as Holman read the sky, finding water where there seemed to be none, shelter where the bare hills offered no comfort. He spoke little, but when he did, his words were always worth hearing. And at night, when they huddled together for warmth, he would sometimes sing—songs in a language Holman did not know, songs that spoke of ancient days and mighty deeds, of Elves and Men and the long defeat of the forces of light against the gathering dark.
On the fifth day, they came to Weathertop.
It rose before them like a great tooth thrust from the earth, its slopes bare and windswept, its summit crowned with the broken remains of ancient walls. As they climbed, Holman could feel the weight of ages pressing down upon him. This was a place where great events had occurred, where kings had stood and armies had marched and the fate of nations had been decided.
At the summit, Aragorn pointed to the east. "Look."
Holman looked. Far away, across miles of empty land, he saw a line of mountains, their peaks white with snow, their slopes dark with forest. And beyond them, though he could not see it, he knew there was something else. Something terrible. Something that called to the Ring even now, a voice that whispered in the back of his mind, promising and threatening all at once.
"Mordor," Gandalf said quietly. "The land of the Shadow. That is where the Ring was made, and that is where it wishes to return."
Holman stared at the distant mountains for a long time. Then he turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer. "How much further to Rivendell?"
"Many days," Aragorn answered. "And the Riders are close. I have seen signs—footprints in the dew, the carcass of a deer slain by something that does not eat. They are circling us, trying to cut us off from the Last Homely House."
That night, they built no fire. They huddled in the lee of a fallen stone, listening to the wind howl across the heights, and Holman dreamed of dark figures on black horses, riding, always riding, drawing ever closer.
He woke to Aragorn's hand over his mouth and the Ranger's whisper in his ear: "They are here."
Holman's heart stopped. He lay perfectly still, not daring to breathe, and listened. At first he heard nothing but the wind. Then, faintly, terribly, he heard it—the sound of hoofbeats, slow and measured, coming up the slope of Weathertop.
Gandalf was already on his feet, his staff glowing with a faint, pale light. Aragorn had his sword drawn, and his eyes burned with a fire that had nothing to do with the coming dawn. They stood back to back, the Wizard and the Ranger, facing the darkness that crept towards them.
The hoofbeats stopped. For a long, dreadful moment, there was silence. Then a voice spoke, and it was not a voice that should ever have been heard by living ears. It was cold and thin and wet, like the sound of water dripping in a deep cavern, and it said:
"Give us the Halfling. Give us the Ring. Give us what is ours, and you may live."
Gandalf raised his staff, and the light blazed forth like a star. "You shall not have him! Begone, foul servants of the Dark Lord! Return to your Master and tell him that his servants failed! The Ring is not for him, not now, not ever!"
The Riders laughed. It was the most terrible sound Holman had ever heard—a sound of pure malice, of ancient evil, of despair made manifest. The light from Gandalf's staff flickered and dimmed, as if the darkness itself was pressing against it, trying to snuff it out.
Then they came.
Five figures, cloaked in black, swords of pale fire in their hands, riding horses that were not horses but things of shadow and nightmare. They charged up the slope, and the night itself seemed to scream.
Aragorn met them. His blade flashed in the dim light, and the first Rider reeled back, its sword shattering against his steel. Gandalf's staff blazed with renewed fury, and two more fell back, shielding their eyes from the light. But two pressed on, and one of them leaned from its saddle, reaching for Holman with that grey, withered hand.
Holman screamed. The hand touched his shoulder, and cold such as he had never imagined flooded through him—cold that was not just of the body but of the spirit, cold that whispered of death and endless night and the extinguishing of all hope. He felt himself falling, falling into darkness, and the last thing he saw before consciousness fled was a star, bright and clear, rising in the east.