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Chapter Text

In the ages that have passed before these old gray eyes, I have seen much evil.

When the dragon brought its terror to the lands of Middle Earth, and the beastly Orcs dominated the realm with their cruelty, I thought I knew evil.

But then came the Dark Lord Sauroman and his shadowy minions that enslaved the countryside under the powers of darkness.

We paid a heavy price, but eventually even that crisis had ended, and I thought, for once, that the powers of evil and darkness would no longer strike fear in the hearts of the innocent.

But then the comets came.

Winter solstice in the Shire, a time of festival. I'd been invited to this quaint little land by my good friend Frodo, of whom much has been written regarding the Quest for the Ring, and his close friend, Samwise, of course.

Frodo had invited other friends, too. Elves, dwarves, and Aragorn, a tall man like myself, all one time allies in the ring ordeal.

Why Frodo would return to such a backward, closeminded society after years of sailing and most unhobbitlike adventuring, I cannot guess, except to suggest, perhaps, that he was homesick.

Frodo used to live in the Shire, with his family in Bag End. All hobbits, plump little people with hairy feet.

The Shire: A sleepy little place, looking like how a rabbit warren would if the rodents had saws and hammers and blown glass. They dwelt in the earth, hiding in their elaborately furnished caves, enjoying the best fruits of the land.

At the time of the festival, their homes resembled snowbanks with chimneys, little round windows peering out of the mounds like eyes. Snow covered wreaths hung from their circular doors, the doors themselves clean due to festival traffic. The moon gave everything a pleasant glow.

The town square held the glut of the merriment, most notably the band of musicians, dancers on stage, and town merchants offering up various food and drink.

The presence of our guests proved awkward. It made the townfolk nervous and a little prejudiced, the dwarves insulting about the state of the strength of Hobbit ale, but on the whole peaceful, and those who didn't enjoy the festivities or the town left early.

I, renowned for my fireworks displays, gave the obligatory additional entertainment. In reward for my labors, they gave me a tankardful of the best ale Hobbiton had to offer, and excellent pumpkin cakes, both which I enjoyed thoroughly. Since the Crisis of the Ring had been averted, I thought it reasonable to assume that I at last could afford to relax and take it easy.

My show: Good as can be expected. Among other things, I made knights in the sky fighting Shelob the queen of spiders, a dragon, and a majestic eagle.

When my fantastic performance finished, I sat on the Baggins family's front porch, drinking Hobbit ale and blowing smoke rings from my pipe, gazing at the sky.

The constellations of the swordsman Menelmacar and Wilwarin the butterfly shined brightly in the heavens.

The falling stars came while I studied the Telumendel constellation.

As a wizard, I'm required to know vast volumes about the changes in the stars, the behavior of comets and meteors, but what I saw in the sky that night did not fit into the category of anything I had ever witnessed before.

These shooting stars... too large, their shape a rounded rectangle like the leathern sheath on a dagger.

Frodo leaned over my shoulder. "It's fantastic! I've never seen comets like that in my life!"

His hair, bursting with curls, reminded me, to some annoyance, of a time in my youth when I attempted to create a perm by heating metal rods in a fire.

The boy fidgeted with his hands again, idly running his fingers over the smooth stump that used to be his ring finger. I've told you about that shriveled imp Gollum, haven't I? Well, no matter, he's gone. Not important.

Frodo's bare feet stood in an inch of snow, whereas I had to wear thick woolen socks to keep mine warm, and I still found them lacking. I frowned at them with their absently wiggling toes for a moment, then corrected his ignorant astronomical observation. "They're not comets. They're falling stars. Comets never come down from the sky like that."

A brusque response. I couldn't help it. Something about those meteorites seemed...wrong.

Frodo gave me a brief frown, but due to being used to my rudeness, he brushed it off, remaining cheerful. "Anyway, it's really amazing." He kicked away a puff of snow.

"Yes it is." I sipped my ale. "Aren't your feet cold?"

"No. Are yours?"

I just drank some more. A couple years ago, I stood ankle deep in snow, wearing robes thinner than what I had on now, as I braved blizzards on a mountain pass. Perhaps, despite all the life extending potions and rejuvenation serums, I had begun to feel my age.

"Rosie's got a nice fire going in there. You're welcome to come inside..."

I laughed. "And sit in one of those tiny chairs?"

"You're sitting on one of those tiny chairs."

"It's a stool. And I'd prefer to sit in a place where I don't hit my head every time I go to use the chamber pot."

I raised the tankard. "I think I'll just finish this and go home."

He gave me a nod, walking back inside. I sat with my back against Bag End, staring at the place where the comets, er, falling stars had landed.

He closed the door, of course. To keep out the draft. Everyone else in town did the same, packing up their things, retreating into their little holes. Hobbiton had at last given me the cold shoulder.

When my tankard emptied, and I'd puffed enough tobacco, I half walked, half staggered my way to the tiny stable where they kept my horse, the only place in town where you could walk across a room without knocking your head against a beam.

Paying the stable keeper, I opened the stall, mounted my horse, a beautiful cream colored stallion, and rode right into a beam. In my inebriated state, I forgot you could only walk into the stable without injury.

Somehow, I stayed on my horse long enough to get halfway down a lane before tumbling off into a snowdrift.

I awoke on a bed two feet shorter than my body, with feet propped up on a row of chairs, and short quilts laid across both ends of my body.

I stared at the rounded boards, the green and black walls, the roaring fireplace, the fine wood furniture.

Bag End.

A small frizzy haired blonde woman looked up at me, offering another quilt.

Rosie Cotton the bartender, of course.

Formerly. Now she's Rose Gamgee.

Sam's wife. I always thought he would have had enough of rings after our little adventure.

"No thank you," I moaned. "I was just getting up."

I tried to sit up, but hit my head on an overhanging board.

"Sorry about that, sir. I'll go get Sam."

A few moments later, a fat faced thick limbed male Hobbit stepped in, followed by Frodo, both giving me knowing grins.

Sam grinned. "I see you decided to stay the night! Very good, sir!"

I groaned and rubbed my head.

"You should be careful with Stonehill's ale," said Frodo. "He's been traveling abroad, learning some things from the dwarves."

"And potions from wizards ," I muttered. "Remind me again why the dwarves left?"

He laughed. "I thought you'd sampled dwarven ale."

I threw my legs over the side of the bed. "Not for a very long time."

Rosie came in with a bubbling concoction in a bowl. "Old Bree hangover cure. It's got willow leaves and some other things in it. It's a little bit more effective than the local cure."

I had potions that made a man walk an hour after passing out in a stupor just minutes before, but I decided to accept it, since they went through all the trouble of mixing it for me.

A bitter swill of plant leaves, vinegar and raw eggs. Dreadful stuff. Rosie claimed it had honey in it, but I couldn't even taste it.

When I someone shouted my name, I actually felt relieved, because it gave me an excuse to set the putrid stuff aside.

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" they kept shouting.

"Oh what now!" I grumbled, rising to my feet.

The Shire had a doctor, a healer, but the healer couldn't always cure everything, so they sometimes came to me with their medical problems, wounds, diseases, poisonous snake bites. One time I even delivered a baby. If it's another one of those, I thought, I'm going to be very upset.

And if Andy Roper had trouble urinating again, he'd have to talk to someone else.

Staggering through the tiny boarding house, I hit my head on a beam en route to the main den.

A rail thin Hobbit stood on the rug in front of me, a long faced male with unkempt brown-black hair and dark circles under his dull blue eyes.

Nob Appledore. The town thief. The kind of thief that steals from other Hobbits instead of dragons.

The fact that he hadn't pocketed anything told me this was serious. "Gandalf! It's Grifo Boffin! Something's wrong!"

He turned and ran through the door, leaving me to stumble awkwardly behind, knocking a chandelier to one side as I dodged another head injuring beam.

Outside in the snow, five Hobbits gathered around a makeshift stretcher formed out of cloaks and logs, the plump faces drawn and pale as they stared at the body.

A body in green and brown winter clothing, a pale salmon colored creature wrapped around its face.

I'd never seen such a thing before in my life. A six legged spider-like beast with a long muscular tail which wrapped around the Hobbit's neck like a wild jungle snake.

"He followed the comets to the forest...And upon the ground, we discovered a metal house, filled with the dead bodies of giants and large green eggs. This creature..." Nob shuddered. "It attacked him when he tried picking one of them up."

"By the names of all gods..." I cried, tugging on the tail.

A tan, black haired youth raised a warning hand. Harding Gardner. "I wouldn't, sir. It only wraps itself around tighter."

I dug in my pocket, but then realized my hosts had helpfully set my things on top of a dresser for my repose.

Seeing a knife sticking out of Ferumbras ("Fiver") Took's pocket, I asked to see it.

"Again. I wouldn't. " He pointed to the burns on Erling Greenhand's face. "Its blood burns."

"What devilry is this," I muttered, at a complete loss as to what to do.

Chapter Text

If Gandalf the White could not remove this creature from Grifo's neck, no one could.

I returned to the room I had slept in, hitting my head only once as I filled my pockets with the tools of the wizard's trade. The hangover cure, it seemed, did its job.

I returned to my victim, struggling to formulate an appropriate strategy.

Although I knew it would do no good, I unclasped the hilt of my sword from its sheath on my belt. "Take him inside. It behaves like a serpent, so let's see if the warmth loosens it up."

The suggestion proved unhelpful. The moment we had Grifo laid before the fire, he moaned and spasmed uncontrollably. Still, no one wanted to return to the cold outside. Hard pressed to say whether it truly was the temperature that caused these disturbances.

For the next hour, I prepared various potions, tools and oils in a desperate attempt to save the Hobbit.

I stirred a putrid mixture of myrrh, sulfur and skunk glands, but it only served to fill Bag End with an intolerable odor that caused the windows to be left open until the following winter.

Using a glass vial, I made careful incisions on the creature's body, in hopes of drawing the life out of it, but this only caused the creature to tighten around the victim.

I poured a solution of henbane and ipecac into the place where the victim's mouth remained open.

When the victim began vomiting, both from the nose and mouth, I expected either the creature to be forcefully expelled, or the victim to suffocate, but neither occurred, for reasons unclear to me, even at the time of this writing.

If only I had owned a large machine with which to create automatic paintings of the innards of this patient. So much would have been clarified, so much damage prevented.

The Hobbits gave me hopeful looks, confident that my great power could cure anything.

Brienna, Grifo's wife, had been with us the moment I'd called for henbane. While I brooded upon our dismal situation, she took a damp cloth, wiping the vomit from Grifo's nose and mouth, which seemed to have a calming effect.

A bold and foolhardy one, that woman. But then again, the creature hadn't moved for quite some time.

I asked for a fuller's whitener, applying that to the creature's abdomen, and the substance foamed, causing a reaction in the beast's body like I had injured it.

Since enough damage had been done to the victim's windpipe, I stopped my experiments, rising to my feet.

It seemed that only the gods of Middle Earth could save this Hobbit now.

Raising my staff, I called out to Nienna, lady of the merciful healing tears, Esté, wife or Irmo, healer of hurts of weariness, and Mandos, the ruler of the dead, to not take this Hobbit.

I even dared to summon the aid of all powerful Manwé.

Nienna must have known my plight, for once I began a second incantation in her name, the creature fell away from Grifo's face, sprawling on its back like a spider that got too close to a candle.

It appeared to be dead.

To make sure, I drew my sword and stabbed the thing in the midsection.

Its blood burned a hole in the carpet, but it didn't move. So far so good.

I knelt by the victim's side, checked his airways.

They all appeared to be clear. He lay mercifully unconscious still, his pulse beneath my fingers faint but steady.

His body seemed wholly untouched. Had it been any other animal, he would have been missing a tongue, or part of his face.

What business did it have on Grifo's face? What had been its objective?

I pulled up a stool and just observed my patient, uncertain what to do.

Rosie brought me some tea to stimulate my mind as I continued to brood. Away from my books and my domicile, I was at a disadvantage.

The beast obviously had some sort of instinctual imperative or it would not have clamped down around the Hobbit's windpipe so tenaciously.

For breeding? No, of course not. That would be absurd!

I dismissed the idea twice before I considered experiments I'd made with a telescope in a pond near my boyhood home.

In the murky depths, I'd seen frogs lay eggs in the muddy clay, to be irrigated with nutriment by a passing male.

Could this creature have done such a thing using flesh instead of mud?

Only an assumption. I could not actually see inside the Hobbit's body. Perhaps it had only devoured the internal organs one could not see from Grifo's mouth and nose.

I decided, in case my assumption about the eggs proved correct, that another dose of ipecac would be beneficial, so I poured it down his throat, turning him on his side the moment the vomiting commenced.

The moment his stomach emptied and I lay him on his back, he awoke with a start and screamed.

He thrashed like mad, so badly that I required the assistance of several Hobbits to keep him still.

When his thrashing ceased, his chest exploded, drenching I and everyone nearby in a shower of blood.

A tiny white head, not unlike that of a serpent, but without eyes, emerged from the gore, sadly proving my supposition about eggs to be correct.

Before I could properly react, the beast sprang from the ruptured rib cage , uttering threatening things in the Black Speech , scampering away into the hidden recesses of Bag End.

Chapter Text

Although the creature's blood burned a hole in the rug, it had not affected my elven blade. Still, I didn't want to press my luck, so I sprinkled baking soda on it and wiped it with a tattered piece of rug.

Rosie frowned. "That was such a nice rug."

"And Grifo was a nice Hobbit," Nob moaned.

I followed the trail of blood into the depths of Bag End, hitting my head twice as I had been far more focused on tracking down the little beast before it killed again.

"Fastolph Bolger is dead!" someone shouted.

I hurried faster, guarding my head with one hand.

The Hobbit hole had many rooms. I bumped into chairs in the dining room, following the blood to a cellar where a pair of Hobbits, old Gaffer Gamgee and Nibs, Rose's brother, stood staring at the bloody corpse of their grossly overweight friend.

"The snake just launched itself at him, boring right into his belly like it belonged there!" Nibs cried with disgust.

I knelt in front of the body. "Is it still in there?"

Both nodded slowly.

We wrapped the heavy body in a rug, lugging it out to the edge of town, and set it on fire, building a pyre on top of him in hopes of incinerating whatever little beast resided in there.

"We must give him his last rites," said Nibs.

The elderly Gamgee nodded.

I gave him the rite of Mandos.

When the rite ended, we added logs, staring morosely as the flames did their slow work on the poor slob's body.

All of a sudden, the snake burst from Fastolph's stomach.

Again, it spoke in the Black Speech: "Your time on Middle Earth is ended, wizard!"

I replied in the same tongue. "All things must end, including you." I drew my blade within seconds of the head appearing.

The blade caught the beast through the head, producing a spray of smoking acid, which melted the iron gauntlet I wore. I cried out in pain.

I shoved the blade in deeper, gritting my teeth as I wiggled it back and forth, shoving the creature in the flaming coals over and over until it moved no more.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I cleaned and sheathed my sword, applied vinegar and salves to my scalded sword hand.

"It's a shame," Nob said from behind me. "He was the best baker in town."

Indeed, he'd been one that crafted that delicious pumpkin cake I tried. Truly a shame.

"You said that thing had a house."

"Yes sir?"

I spun around to face him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I heard one mentioning there were giant bodies and eggs. In the plural."

"You are not wrong. That is what I told you."

I grabbed Nob by the shoulders, giving him such a wild gaze that I saw the color drain from his face. "Show me. We may already be too late!"

The shooting star had landed miles beyond the great mill, and the Sharkey's Shipping establishment. Our path took us around the haunted Sackville estate, and through a forest clad in winter garb.

Astride Shadowfax my white stallion, and Nob on his sluggish brown plug horse, we took a treacherous slanting trail, which curved around a hillside, then crossed a tall ridge, where, once cresting the top, one could see a sickly sort of forest full of barren trees reaching out at the sky like gnarled witch fingers.

From here, the damage from the shooting stars had become evident, a number of elms bent and fallen over like that Ninepins, that favorite pastime of Bree.

The Lost Forest. Notorious for being the final address of many missing Hobbits, beer kegs, and buried treasures. Its repute had dulled somewhat over the years, as evidenced by the bold Hobbit's expedition there.

Of course, it could have also been due to the addition of new easy to spot landmarks.

The Ninepins reference...not unique to me. As we crossed the ridge, Nob remarked, "See? It looks like someone should get a spare if they throw once more."

I didn't bother to acknowledge this pathetic attempt at humor with a reply.

The lack of foliage made it harder to get lost. A careful eye might even find the legendary Cask of Blanco Stonehill, though I doubt that any vintage from the careless Shire founder would be very much more than vinegar at this point.

We rode onward and inward. I stowed my pointy hat as the branches swung dangerously low. It reminded me of the ancient legend of Daros of Demikos, a man whose long hair got caught in trees just like this one.

That man got drawn and quartered by Orcs, his body parts delivered to kings in all four regions of the world.

Now that's a cheerful thought.

The "house"...not what I expected. Smashed up against a groaning broken tree, the thing reminded me of a boat.

Crafted of an entirely impractical alloy of metal, the rounded front end resembling a prow, its opposite a stern.

A queer little vessel, not quite the size of a frigate, but definitely not a raft.

No deck, no lookout or windows, no apparent place for a captain to stand and steer. A gray rudderless vehicle carved all about with mystical runes, the types of which I had never laid eyes on before. Its door, an impractically wide thing at the bottom, hung open all the way, displaying rows of green eggs the size of barrels, and the slumped form of a dozen giants with faces pale as bleached cloth.

As I dismounted and cautiously approached the thing, the tree above me groaned threateningly.

I touched the hull of this contraption. Warm to the touch, despite the winter clime, and it vibrated beneath my fingers.

Drawing my sword, I edged toward the opening.

The room beyond...gray, unadorned with any sort of decoration save for strange square devices which flickered with multiple colors of cold fire.

The eggs all showed signs of being recently hatched, their upper portions folded open like something had crawled out from under a blanket.

Other than that, the eggs, and the bodies, the chamber proved to be empty, save for piles upon piles of hexagonal barrels of various shapes and sizes, and seamless cylindrical objects resembling drums from the south seas, coated in black ooze.

I checked the pulses of these strange men...all dead.

With great trepidation, I pried open a barrels with my knife. A dead man lay inside, this one smaller, with pink skin.

I quickly closed it, wondering what wickedness had been cast from Manwei's celestial kingdom.

At great risk to my life, I continued my explorations, leaning over these open eggs, staring inside.

The eggs contained a yellow sludge, like a sickly pudding made of old bananas, and a peculiar sort of maggot with legs of a water strider and a tail of a worm swam about inside.

I prepared to satisfy my scientific curiosity, but Nob yelled, "Gandalf! Come take a look at this!"

When I emerged, following Nob's leading, I came across a giant bear with a pink spider creature affixed to its face.

I leaned over to experiment with it, but Nob tugged the sleeve of my robe.

"Gandalf."

I looked up.

What I saw caused me to swear by every god on Middle Earth.

Not just one bear. Three had been felled.

And deer, horses, Orcs and dwarves.

"Gods!" I gasped. "And this isn't the only boat!"

Chapter Text

"Someone's been grasping at my face!" Nob muttered in a false low voice as he stood over the bear. He raised it an octave as he glanced at the other one. "Someone's been grasping at my face!" And then he cackled like mad.

The three bears. Gallows humor. Trying to cope, I suppose.

I ignored him, digging in my robe for tools.

With animals and beasts as my test subject, I could afford to be more liberal in my experimentation. If I lost a beast, it would sadden me, but if I saved it, it would prove to be a great boon that would leave man and nature alike in my debt.

The bear, being the biggest, most obvious subject, I chose for the beginning of my experimentation.

The first order of business: Severing the serpent's tail of this vile thing, a luxury I had not been able to do before in good conscience. With a crude mask made from a few window shards and a gauntlet I borrowed from Frodo, lined with a leather glove, I sawed through it with a dagger.

Frightful business, rescuing a bear. The mighty arms could easily tear a man in half, the claws ripping through flesh like warm butter. This harrowing ferocity I encountered, even as I attempted to save the poor thing's life.

True to form, as I sawed, the little brute around the bear's neck tightened and squeezed the animal's windpipe until it expired, the bear nearly killing me in the process. However, I became the victor. The spider beast quit the carcass at once, fleeing into a thicket.

Without a live body, the serpent creatures had not a suitable womb from which to hatch.

The trouble: The act proved no more practical than allowing the creatures to conduct their ordinary affairs unimpeded.

I speared the one smothering the second bear on the tip of my sword, but the poor victim again suffocated, this time due both to the flood of burning blood and the constriction of the creature's tail. Before dying, the bear tore into my face, leaving a row of bloody claw marks as a parting shot. Thankfully only superficial wounds. Nob worried, but I told him I was all right, continuing my experiments.

"Are you sure that's safe, Gandalf?"

"Perfectly. It's only a dying man's thrashing. Far more hazardous would be the type of foolhardy teasing your friends are wont to do with such careless abandon."

I moved on to the last of the (sigh) Three Bears. The removal of the evil parasite's legs resulted in strangulations similar to my previous two attempts. I narrowly avoided injury this time, but only just.

I got quite practiced at spearing them on my sword as they leapt from the carcass, shielding myself from disgust by making mental comparisons to impaled olives in alcoholic drinks, of which I would have much more rather been imbibing at the moment.

During my visits with the elves in Rivendell and other sites, I'd been acquainted with the concept of pressure points, sensitive regions of the spirit which cause pain and paralysis in the body. I doubted these demonic pests had any spirit, but they still showed signs of experiencing pain. I therefore dabbled with incisions in carefully selected regions to see which caused the beast to expire.

I expected Nob to flee me, or turn away in disgust as I continued these mutilations, but he displayed an unHobbitlike curiosity regarding such things, the likes of which I had not seen in the heroic Frodo, or even Bilbo his father. An ordinary Hobbit shudders and looks away from gruesome sights such as these, but it seemed my wide eyed companion would have written down notes, had he possessed the proper instruments to do so. I saw in Mr. Appledore a great potential to be a medical examiner if he only applied himself.

After killing several more of these parasites, I at last came across a lobe which caused the thing to spasm, though unfortunately not in the way I had wished, like a man would bite off his own tongue upon receiving a blow to the head. If the secret lay in this lobe, it would require the injection of poisons, relaxants, or nerve deadening agents.

The dwarf as dead by the time I reached him, but I had doubts about his survival from the start.

The Orc, well, saw him as a mere beast anyway.

Finished with my rudimentary experiments, I enlisted Nob's aid, and the aid of our horses, to gather the carcasses together.

"Have you found it, Gandalf?" Nob asked eagerly. "Have you discovered a way to remove these horrid Face Graspers?"

Face Graspers.

I frowned.

A culture-less, unsophisticated name for an ugly, unsophisticated foe.

Fitting.

As a sorcerer, I strive to maintain good relationships with the spirits of nature, so it pained me to set fire to so many animals, but it couldn't be helped. My attempts to save them had come to naught, so I had no choice.

I only hoped that the spirits would see as I did, that their children were sick with a malignant blight, a tumor that must be excised and not allowed to spread, or risk infecting the countryside with its corruption.

For this reason I made offerings and spoke apologies to these spirits as I set about dousing the poor infected beasts with fire potions.

Despite how supplies in Hobbiton proved substandard at best, my concoctions withstood the test of the damp and snow, and I soon developed a massive bonfire upon the bodies of the unfortunate bears with piles of icy logs.

As the carcasses boiled in the flames, the serpents emerged from their burning wombs as expected, and I played the game of hunt and stab.

I tried my best to eliminate every one that burst free, but, being only one man, and my companion being neither a hunter nor a swordsman, several of these `Chest Rupturers' (Nob's term, not mine) escaped into the forest, burrowing into gods knows what host.

As I slew the last Rupturer I could find and tossed another carcass onto the bonfire, my ears suddenly pricked at the sound of bells and hoofbeats.

A procession of splendidly caparisoned steeds galloped into the clearing, bearing the intertwined symbols of Arnor and Gondor.

Rolling my eyes, I ignored the finely dressed riders, throwing another sodden log on the fire.

"Gandalf Greyhame!" a man shouted. "His majesty the King Elebar Telcontar requires your assistance!"

"Go away!" I yelled back. "Can't you see I'm busy!"

Then I saw the man himself.

The noble warrior so crucial to the success of the War of the Ring.

Aragorn son of Arathorn.

Fine clothing, worthy of royalty, yet practical enough for a second war. On his head he wore the crown of the two kingdoms.

Long haired and bearded, just like I remembered him. He had kept well groomed over these years. Life had been treating him well, but, to my relief, he had kept in shape and not allowed himself to go to seed.

"Too busy to help an old friend?"

Chapter Text

When my visitor neared, I supplied my trademark sarcasm. "You seem oddly familiar."

He smiled. "As do you. It's been a long time."

"Am I required to bow? Or will a tip of the hat suffice?"

Moot point. My hat, being an impediment to the hard labor I had recently undertaken, had been removed.

He chuckled. "I wonder if it should be I that bows to you, dear friend."

I waved the suggestion away. "The mere thought of being a king chafes me."

"I thought it might."

I returned my hat to my head. "What brings you down to this gods forsaken country backwater? Getting an itch to sample the local flavor?"

"The ale, perhaps?" Nob suggested.

Aragorn sighed. "Alas, I would give my crown to be traveling here under such idle pretenses."

I frowned, stroking my beard. "I suspected you might."

He stared at the swelling bonfire, grimacing at the unpleasant smells of singed fur, Orc, and Dwarven flesh.

"Do you have any incense?" Nob moaned. "This odor is most foul!"

"I imagine you would need a considerable quantity," Aragorn coughed.

I offered him a small vial of myrrh. "Dab some of this around each of your nostrils."

He did so, and immediately set to coughing. "This is horrid!"

I smirked. "Still, `tis better than the smells of burning flesh, is it not?"

He just shook his head.

Aragorn frowned at a dead Orc. "What's all this, then?"

I waved at a blackening grizzly. "The product of some unholy demon from the sky, that's what this is. The gods appear to have loaded boats full of dead bodies and these `face graspers' and thrown them down on Middle Earth like so much refuse."

The king seated himself on a log, shaken by the revelation.

I gave him a grim smile. "I take it Gondor has been struck by something similar."

"Indeed. A boat was found in the Pelennor Fields, housing bodies, just as you described." The man swallowed. "Ben Sharkey and his Orc friend, they brought the eggs in a wagon. The fools!"

I shook my head. "I fail to see why you allowed Orcs to do business in the White City to begin with. Their mere presence should set off warning bells."

"Ah, Gandalf...Much has changed. The moment I opened up the society to a form of democracy, the people began to get strange ideas, like equal rights for Orcs. They have families, you know."

Nob's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "You're mad!"

It made even less sense to me. "You'd think, after such a bloody, violent war, with so much loss of life..."

"They say war is a catharsis, and in its wake, a nation can be brought together in harmonious unity. And even in the most violent of wars, one can find acts of mercy, and, dare I say it, acts of love. Have you heard the story of the widow that took in the wounded Orc general?"

Nob's jaw dropped in surprise. "What about the wounded...?"

"Spare me," I groaned.

"Their children, to put it politely, have an unusual appearance."

Nob suddenly looked sick to his stomach.

"I should say so."

The man winced, offended by my lack of racial sensitivity. "By the by, I would advise against describing Minas Tirith as the White City. It tends to make one extremely unpopular."

I hardly cared what anyone thought of me, so I replied with a disinterested "Ah."

"I have an Orc as an adviser. His name is Skalg."

I found this most foolhardy, but I held my tongue, staring sullenly into the fire.

"Tragic waste of bear meat," Aragorn muttered as he eyed the carcass.

"You're welcome to it. It's good to see that your newfound nobility has not yet left you detached from the cares of the common man.

He gave me a small smile, and we were silent again.

"Gandalf, surely you must know something about how to stop these...`Graspers.'"

Nob shook his head. "We've just spent the last hour prodding them with swords. They appear to have no vulnerabilities."

I frowned, prepared to dispute his claims of involvement in my experiment, but Aragorn responded forthwith. "Did you just say ` we '?"

Nob shrugged.

The young king gave me an incredulous stare. "Has the great wizard at last taken on an apprentice?"

I burst out laughing. "Hardly!"

But then, as I met eyes with Mr. Appledore, I began to wonder.

The question: Would this strange, randomly selected Hobbit be trusted with even a portion of a wizard's incredible power?

The answer, I gave myself: A resounding no.

Not yet. "Our previous Hobbit companions have intentions of settling down. Mr. Appledore here, however, appears to be in need of constructive activity, as were his unfortunate friends."

We again regarded the fire in silence.

"No solutions then," Aragorn muttered.

"None so far. There's a lobe on their front end, but it makes no difference. Our every attempt results in a fatality."

Nob cast me a look that bespoke hurt pride and resentment. "We need to find the chest rupturing serpents that have fled us. Lest they kill again."

I nodded. "The abominations have escaped. Even now they roam the countryside, inflicting death. If only I had a magical device with which to detect motion."

"How many escaped?"

I confess that I didn't know, due to being otherwise occupied.

"Six," Nob supplied.

I clapped my hands. "Nob, you wonderful Hobbit! You are just full of surprises! Pray tell, how did you arrive at that number?"

He shrugged. "I thought if I couldn't do anything else, I might as well make myself useful."

This statement made me raise an eyebrow. "You certainly appear to be doing just that."

I did not expand on this praise. No use giving him a swelled head.

Seeing that it already approached dusk, I jumped to my feet. "I fear we have dallied too long before this blaze. We must hurry and search the woods for signs of these foul creatures. It is likely they have killed while we have been otherwise occupied. Perhaps we can use the bloodshed as a way to track their progress."

Aragorn also rose to his feet. "I enjoy a good hunt. In fact, if you don't mind..."

He blew on a ram's horn. "Skalg! Come forward, dear sir! I have need of your services!"

During our little fireside chat, I had examined the king's party as they tended their horses and talked amongst themselves. Two white men, one man of a dark color, and a tan woman with unusually thick lower eyelids.

Only a cursory examination, for I now discovered there had been a fifth individual in this party: Aburly figure with midnight black skin, horns and a lopsided pig's face.

He appeared in our midst without a sound, clad in a fine dark tunic and leggings, with a crossbow strapped on his back. With the cape, gloves and the elegant boots, he had the appearance of a dandy, though I felt uncertain who should be impressed.

The thing's voice reminded me of a goat choking on gravel. "How can I assist you, O king?"

"Skalg, my good man. There are Face Graspers and chest rupturing snakes loose in these woods. If you can help us locate and destroy all six, we would be most appreciative."

The creature pounded its arms across its muscular chest. "It is an honor to serve you, my Lordship."

Having an Orc in our party proved advantageous. After performing a song of mourning for the fallen kin he spotted in the blaze (to ensure its soul's release from its body), a couple sniffs, a nibble of tree bark and a search of the ground yielded immediate results.

Skalg pointed to a thicket. "The things go here." He pointed to a tree. "And there." He located three other spots.

"The wounded one will be simple to spot unaided." He aimed a claw at some bushes. "My king, you are clever, so I suggest you go after the one which traveled thus."

The Orc directed my Hobbit friend to the tree. "Perhaps you and the wizard can make an attempt on the wounded one, but I do not have much confidence in either of you. I suspect a blind child will do better."

I frowned. "You did not hire him for his manners, did you, Aragorn?"

`His Lordship' shook his head. "Still, one could not ask for a better bodyguard."

Aragorn summoned his aides to search the other areas.

As the sun was rapidly descending, I decided it time to work on my tracking skills. "A blind child." The arrogance of the beast!

As I studied the ground, I thought, have I really gotten that soft? And why had Aragorn not informed his unsavory ally of all the times my tracking abilities were a lifesaving benefit to countless Hobbits, dwarves, elves and humans alike?

I searched a bush, partially destroyed by acid, still fuming over this.

Skalg was just a dumb beast after all.

Perhaps it's best that they don't know. The most dangerous foe is the one you least suspect.

Remembering the place from which the tail-less Face Grasper had leapt, I traced the melted snow and acid damaged twigs through snowy branches, icicle laden bushes, and weeds enclosed in sleeves of ice.

We tracked it through a log and down a slanting hill. Along the way, Nob cursed about stubbing his toe. Apparently tough Hobbit feet weren't always the best thing in the world. When would they ever learn how to wear shoes?

Whilst searching the ground, pondering how such a clumsy Hobbit could possibly succeed as a burglar, he waved a glistening black, hollowed out staff in of my face. "Gandalf! What do you make of this?"

In all my travels, I had never seen such an object: Upper portion was cylindrical and as long as my arm, encased in a square housing, lined with ribs. Below, a pull mechanism, similar to a crossbow.

As an experiment, I peered between a pair of posts atop the cylinder, tugging back on the small handle.

Damned lucky that I had the sense to point the open end of the tube away from my person, and Nob, for the infernal rod let out a tremendous bark, causing a portion of a nearby tree to split in half like a bolt of lightning had struck it.

"Great gods, Gandalf!" Nob cried. "What in the world is that thing?"

I scratched my head, peering in the open end, which now smoked like a discarded pipe. "It appears to be a magically enhanced crossbow."

"Why would someone discard such a thing in the middle of the woods?"

I made no reply as I examined the device, sliding the box attachment back and forth on the crossbow shaft.

I picked up a pair of little golden arrowheads that had fallen out of the device during my experimentation. The device had created a small pile of these things.

Deciding I might need them again, I stuffed them and the others in my pocket, then set about searching along the way we came.

A span behind us, I discovered the body of a man with a shaven head, clad in soft textured green raiment and boots molded from a material I could not easily identify. Around his neck he wore a beaded necklace with a pair of engraved silver talismans hanging from it. His chest had been ruptured.

I would have continued my investigations, but at that particular moment, my eyes beheld a dark man sized shape leaping at my companion from the trees.

He screamed and tumbled out of view.

I jiggled the box attached to the automatic crossbow weapon, then gripped its release lever portion, marching off to the Hobbit's aid.

Chapter Text

Mine eyes had never before observed a beast like the one that held my young friend in its clutches.

At first glance, it appeared to be a dark sort of lion, but with dragon-like plates upon its form, though it more resembled a grotesquely large ant or a beetle than it did a dragon.

No eyes. Steaming saliva dripped from its gaping maw, causing Nob to scream as it burned his face.

Wasting no time, I pointed the strange crossbow at the creature's head and fired.

The beast shrieked as gore exploded from its head, and its poor victim, caught in a shower of caustic blood, responded with screams of his own.

"Turn your head, Hobbit! And rub your burns in snow!" Not the most elegant or effective method, but one had to stay the damage somehow.

I fired another shot, and the creature quit its victim, turning its attentions fully upon me.

"A Elbereth!" I intoned, summoning the powers of that old god. "Githoniel o mendel palan-diriel le nallon si di'nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"

In response, the trees rattled, the icicles shook, and I thought for sure Elbereth Starkindler would descend from the heavens to deliver me.

This did not occur, possibly due to the fact this solemn hymn had been invoked numerous times during the War of the Ring, and the gods needed rest. Else, they had lost patience with the cries of man and other creatures, devoting their energies solely to the elves. Either way, it seemed I had the Fates against me.

I aimed the crossbow again and pulled the trigger, but it refused to bark.

The creature was nigh on my chest before I discovered the magical crossbow had to be coaxed into operation by the movement of the rectangular attachment on the rod piece.

I wounded the monster thrice more before it had me pinned to the snow and soil, whence I lay chanting what I hoped to be my most powerful spell.

I turned my head as I did this, careful to avoid the burning gobs of sputum, and as I chanted, the gods appeared to answer me, my hands glowing, unnatural strength being imbued upon them.

Miraculously, I found myself able to shove the beast aside, despite it weighing as much as a small horse, and heretofore too great a burden for me to lift .

As I arose and searched the ground for my missing portable cannon, I witnessed a rain of arrows penetrating the shiny hide of this great beast, a pair of Aragorn's aides standing ready with nocked bowstrings, the angular faced woman from a distant land, and the pale skinned man with oddly short cropped hair.

The creature anticipated them firing, and lashed out first.

The white man took the brunt of the creature's fury, for he stood nearest. Black claws tore into him like an infuriated mountain lion.

The flat nosed woman with the narrow eyes fired upon the thing, but when she saw that it did little to deter it from slaying her companion, she drew a slender, curved blade, slicing into the beast's body with a quick but stylized motion.

By this time her fallen ally succumbed to his wounds and died, but this did not deter her from seeking revenge.

Alas, upon cutting into it, her non-elvish blade crumbled beneath the beast's caustic fluids, reducing the weapon to a flimsy corroded stick.

I fired more projectiles from the mobile cannon, but the creature, infuriated, made short work of the woman, then redoubled its hostilities upon my person.

As mentioned previously, the weapon had created a small mound of golden arrowheads, which I had pocketed, rather than placing them back in the device from the start. Such an action would require careful examination, of which I hadn't the luxury in this particular circumstance.

It seemed the device required the arrowheads, for, after I had fired a tetrad of bolts, two of which traveling astray, I found the device empty, and no amount of pumping the rectangular box yielded another burst.

The creature roared and leapt, tearing my robes to ribbons as it knocked me painfully to the stony ground.

Chapter Text

Ever since the ordeal with the ring in Morodor, my sleep has been fitful.

You would have thought destroying the ring in the fires of Mount Doom and knowing it was over would be enough.

I saw Gollum die.

Mr. Smeagol.

He was a Hobbit once.

Just like me.

The Ring has left a hole in my life, like the gap that left behind when a rotten tooth is removed.

While we no longer become Ringwraiths, empty shells of our former selves serving the Dark Lord, we still blindly follow our own selfish greed. It's just the same.

A phantom ring tempts me in my sleep.

I dream I find myself caught in an Orc hunting party, then awake in my bed with an imaginary ring poised over the stump of my finger.

When I touch the stump, I see shrouded figures of Black Riders standing over the bed with swords.

On this night, however, they put their swords away.

Instead, they place a Face Grasper over my mouth. Its foul serpent offspring explodes from my chest.

I sat up, gasping and sweating in terror.

The nightmare isn't over.

In the darkness of my rabbit's burrow of a room, a bony white shape crouched on my dresser. Clad only in a loincloth, balding on top, the barest of wisps stubbornly clinging to the otherwise hairless skull.

"Nastee Hobbitsses, wicked, filthy Hobbitsses. It sends poor Smeagol down into the fires, he does!" He jumped silently to the floor, hovering over my bed in a threatening manner, claw-like fingers stretching for my throat. "Preciouss, we ends its now!"

The creature's personality changed. "No! We mustn't! Preciouss makess Smeagol jumpses into the hot firess, must get rids of Preciousss. Only way...Previouss makes Smeagol blind..."

He snapped again. "Wicked Hobbitseess! It cares nothingss for poor Smeagol. Why should Smeagol care for dirty Hobbitses, who makeses his burning noosess!"

I got out of bed, staring at the figure in disbelief. "You're dead! I watched you die!"

"See that! It watches poor Smeagol die. It dids not tries to helps Smeagol."

"You bit off my finger! You jumped!"

The pale figure composed himself. "Smeagol does not care what dirty Hobbitsess thinks of Smeagol. Smeagol knows things, doesn't he, Preciouss? Smeagol is wantings to helpses, he helpses nice Hobbitses! Smeagol not wanting the Queen —"

His other personality let out a loud phlegmy hiss. "You will not tell dirty Hobbitses about the Queen! Smeagol should let wicked Hobbitses get eaten! Yess, Preciousss, long live the Queen!" Gollum giggled like mad.

Smeagol slapped himself. "Shut up!"

He focused on me again. "Hobbitses all in danger, yes they are, Preciouss. Need to send filthy thief Bagginses to the beacon, we do. It calls the Sky Men, it does. Hunters...yess...and chests of weaponss...Hobbitses must be armed."

I gaped at him. "Beacon? Hunters?"

Before I could get an explanation, Rosie barged in with a bright lamp, eyes still squinting from her interrupted sleep. "Who are you talking to in here?"

I stared at my dresser. My visitor was gone.

A ghost.

"No one," I stammered.

"You still dreaming of that miserable business with the ring?"

I nodded.

"You need a woman. Whatever happened to that young one you met across the sea?"

For a year, I had sailed the ocean with the seafaring elves. We traveled the ocean, and I encountered a tall brown skinned race that lived in crude little dwellings constructed of animal skins. Barbaric as Orcs, but one of the females had taken a liking to me.

The nicest of creatures, but her tribe... The lifestyle was hard and difficult, and they had such primitive ideas about how the world worked. That, and other tribes attacked them all the time. I could only take so much of that. "She wasn't my type."

"And what is your type?"

I had no answer to that...Though, if I were truly honest with myself, I'd probably say she stood right in front of me (Not something you'd want to confess to your best friend's wife).

"We'll have to see what we can do about this problem, won't we? I'm sure there's a nice Hobbit for you around the corner...Or possibly an elf?"

I blushed. She must have noticed how I gazed at elvish women during my send-off at the seaport. The sheer dresses, the long legs..."Possibly."

She smiled. "I'll fix you some of my specialty sleeping draught."

As she turned to leave, I briefly wondered if something more than mere concern brought her to my room, and out of my best friend's arms.

I shook my head. Surely no good would come from such thoughts.

I tried lying down again, shutting my eyes.

My eyes flew open when I felt a chill on my stomach.

The pale figure squatted on my blankets, glaring at me with impatience. "Wake, wake!" he practically screamed. "It is a lazy slothful Hobbitses, it is! It actses like Queen restses while it shutses its eyes!"

"What do you want, Smeagol!" I shouted in annoyance. "You're dead! Why won't you leave me alone!"

He just shook his head. "Dirty lazy Hobbitses! Preciouss should let Queen kill every one of them!"

Rosie set a steaming cup on the end table. "I knew it! You're seeing ghosts!"

"What do you know about it?" I groaned.

"Did Sam ever tell you what I do in my spare time?"

I stared at her. "What do you do in your spare time."

"Ever been to a seance?"

Chapter Text

Sam never informed me that Rosie was a spiritualist. Apparently it served as a profitable side business.

In seconds, she had everyone spiritually minded in Bag End seated around a table in darkness illuminated by feeble candles, holding hands as they stared at bones strewn across a rune board.

A glass Seeing Orb stood ready, reminding me of the wicked Pilantir. Rosie assured me it was merely blown glass, a simple window through which to see the spirits.

Sam looked at me with a mixture of fatigue and annoyance.

I gave him an apologetic shrug, silently communicating, `It was your wife's idea.'

He sighed, giving Rosie a sideways glance, his face then saying, `This had better be good,' and maybe, `I'm starting to have second thoughts about this marriage, but I'm going to go along with this, just this once.'

"Spirits of this place," Rosie intoned. "We come to you with a request. We request communication with the spirit that haunts Frodo Baggins, the spirit of Gollum, Smeagol Trahald!"

The table and doors on the nearby sideboard rattled, the framed glass and dishes clattering loudly, as if an earthquake were passing through the burrow.

All the candles blew out, leaving us with only the dim light of the fireplace and the faint illumination of stars reflecting off snow.

Rosie suddenly tensed up. Her previously closed eyes snapped open.

"Precious!" she screamed, grabbing the glass orb.

Cousin Falco ducked just seconds before it shattered against the wall behind his head.

Sam's wife leapt up on the table, sniffing the air. "What is this place!"

Her head whipped around. "Aargh! It is a dirty Hobbitses hole!"

She sniffed her clothing, letting out an animal cry of disgust. "It is foul! Horrible Hobbitses with their nasty scents!"

She then knelt in front of me. "It summonses Smeagol from his rest! Why he does it! Smeagol tells it what it needs! Why must poor Smeagol be slaves again!"

I stood up. "You're the one that haunted me! Why won't you leave me alone!"

She let out a low growl. "The Great One...he assks Smeagol, he does! He makeses Smeagol work! Unfinished businesses, he say..."

Rose got down on all fours. "It burns!" She tore at her clothing. "It harms Smeagol's skin!"

I feigned disinterest in her exposed flesh as she she ripped off her shirt and blouse.

"Rose," Sam cried when she worked on unfastening her bra. "That's quite enough. This was all jolly fun, but now it has to stop!"

Falco, seeming to sense that the ceremony had ended, set about lighting lamps to bring stronger illumination into the room.

Rosie spun, hissing at him like a wild beast. "Silence, filthy Hobbit! How does Hobbitses likes it being tied with evil rope that burns it? Maybe Smeagol shows it!"

Sam had a look on his face like he were okay with that, as long as they had a safe word and she didn't pretend she was Gollum.

Rose looked down at her chest and giggled. "Boobies!" For a few moments, she played with them.

She ripped off her dress and tugged her bloomers off.

"Rose," I blurted. "I mean, Gollum , could we please get back to the point of all this?"

She fixed me with a cold glare. "What does it mean!"

Blushing, I focused my eyes away from her underclothing. "You woke me in the middle of the night. You ramble about hunters and a beacon, then you won't let me get back to sleep. I want answers!"

She sat on the table. "Smeagol tell it everything it needses to knows. It should figure it out on its owns, it should!"

She glanced back and forth, then peered in her bra again. "We never had these before! How strange they look!"

I cleared my throat. "The information wasn't enough, Gollum. I have no idea where we're supposed to go, or what we have to do."

Rosie let out Gollum's trademark phlegmy hissing sound. "Stupid foolish Hobbitses! Smeagol can't even rest in his grave without it asking stupid questions!"

She pounced, knocking my chair to the floor, with me in it.

Sitting half naked on my chest, she wrapped her hands around my windpipe, attempting to choke me to death. I found it kind of sexy. "Stupid Hobbitses! It cannots even takes care of itself without Smeagol! It does not deserve to live!"

Her hands felt soft around my neck. Gollum's new body lacked his original strength. I smiled despite the discomfort, causing Rose to shriek in outrage. "Why is it smiling! Smeagol tries to kill it!"

I said nothing, afraid to explain anything with Sam present.

"Hobbitses loses its mind!"

"This is coming from a being who lives in a cave, eats raw fish, and talks to itself."

She hissed at me angrily.

For reasons I didn't understand, she got in closer and pressed her nose to my neck, inhaling deeply. Out of the corner of my eye, in the dim light, Sam clenched his fists.

Rose jerked back, if startled by something. "What is Smeagol doing!"

"No! This cannot be!" She beat her head with her fists. "Smeagol does not love it! Smeagol does not love anyone but Smeagol!"

The other personality said, "Smeagol deceives himself. Smeagol always love Hobbitses! It does! Even before it has boobies!"

By now, Sam's face had turned beet red. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to slap her, or kill me.

"No!" she screamed, pulling her hair. "It isn't true!"

"Smeagol was lonely," she replied to herself in a low gutteral tone. "Smeagol watches Hobbitses bathing, he does! He looks! He watchess!"

"No!"

Sam marched up to me, the `I'm going to kill you' expression even more evident on his face. "Did you put her up to this?" he nearly said through his teeth.

I suppressed a chuckle. "What? No! I don't know what in Hel this is!"

He frowned like he didn't believe me.

"Yes, Smeagol, it's true! Smeagol say `I wants to kills the Hobbitses when he really means kiss, he does! Smeagol was afraid!"

I grimaced in mild disgust. Did Gollum really think about these things when he was alive?

Still, she inhabited a rather attractive body now...

Rose slapped herself hard. "No! You speak lies! Smeagol not listen anymore!"

She climbed off my chest, crunching across the broken glass. "Come, stupid Hobbitses! Let us find the beacon so Smeagol can rest!"

Rosie burst through the doors of Bag End, running into the cold night in nothing but her underwear.

Chapter Text

The fell beast hissed as its claws dug into my shoulders, its full weight pressing me into the hardened earth.

Arms pinned by my sides, immobilized under the creature's crushing weight. The temporary strength spell I cast previously had drained my body of its soundness and stamina, so I dared not risk it again. I would have to resort to a summoning spell of a simpler order. "Help!"

"Gandalf!" Nob cried, causing the creature to turn its elongated head slightly. "Someone help him!"

And then, "Where is your boom stick?"

My boom stick? I thought. From whence did this Hobbit gain such a quaint vocabulary? Was it merely a product of a mind which had lain idle for far too long?

One thing for certain: If this midget were foolhardy enough to tinker with the device in question, it seemed likely he would succeed in accidentally blasting that idle mind to pieces. "Never mind that, Hobbit! Don't meddle in sorcery you don't understand! Just go get help!"

"Yes sir!" The Hobbit broke into a run, bursting through a snowy thicket.

My attacker appeared to give Nob a sidelong glance, then opened its jaws, revealing a glistening fanged inner mouth, its saliva scalding my flesh as it splattered my cheeks. Excruciating pain, but I had borne magical items and chemicals which produced equal amounts of suffering, possibly more, not to mention the pain of my wartime injuries, so I did not scream, but only renewed my efforts to dislodge this beast from my person.

I closed my eyes and turned my head just seconds before a caustic droplet could cause my vision irreparable damage.

"Help!" I called. "Someone!"

In answer to my plea, a massive ax sliced off the front end of the creature's skull like a loaf of soft bread.

The beast, of course, collapsed upon me, and I found myself reliving childhood horse riding traumas until a pair of gnarled hands shoved the thing away.

"Puny weakling," the Orc laughed.

The beastly figure raised a leathern skin, dumping a clumpy cream colored liquid all over my face. "Here."

I sputtered in disgust. "What—"

"Milk. To counteract the effects of the acid."

I am not unaccustomed to the taste of milk, nor its thick texture, even when it spoils. This milk, however... not of a type I familiarized myself with . I almost gagged.

I spat out the wretched substance and sat up. "What manner of milk is this? Goat's milk?"

"No," Skalg chuckled. "It is from my wife."

I spat more heavily, wiping my face with handfuls of snow and the sleeves of my robe.

He only grinned. "Orc custom. It makes us grow strong."

I felt truly convinced that I would vomit soon.

He must have noticed my nausea, for he then added, "If you have truly been with a woman, the thought will not be foreign to you."

"It has never appealed to me to (ahem) relive my childhood in this fashion." I shot him a sour look. " Or yours , for that matter."

This only made Skalg laugh.

I stared at him, at a loss as to what to say.

Although indebted to this `Skalg', the Orc insulted me, and inflicted me with the wretched fruit of his wife's mammaries, the revolting experience I can compare only to the laborious process of canning troll mucus.

If the rumors were to be believed, Orc wives were the most loathsome creatures on Middle Earth, warty, covered in weeping sores, with hideously deformed shapeless bodies.

However, as the burning sensation subsided from my face the moment he doused me, I supposed I had some gratefulness in order.

Rising to my feet, I cleared my throat, looked the Orc straight in the eye. "Well. It seems that your king has chosen his bodyguards wisely."

The Orc gave me a nod, responding with a bear-like "Hmm."

And then another puzzling thought occurred to me. "How did you know what would counteract the burning of this beast's saliva? Are you also an alchemist?"

Before he could answer, Aragorn pushed the foliage aside with a noisy rustle, the Hobbit following close behind. "Only three of the Face Graspers remain..."

He swore softly as he discovered the corpses of his guards.

I watched as he knelt before the man, shaking his head. "May you feast with the Great Lords in the Timeless Halls for this sacrifice."

He moved to the female, gently touching her cheek. "Sayaka..."

He kissed her hands and folded them across her chest.

To the best of my knowledge, the man was married. To a half elven queen. His gesture seemed to hint at the deceased being a concubine of sorts.

I broached the subject as tactfully as I could manage. "You two were close, I take it?"

Aragorn sounded indignant. "I am close to all my guards. These are not mere mercenaries. They are my friends, brothers and sisters in arms."

"How is Arwen these days?"

He sighed a weary sigh. "Not well. She fell deathly ill from a disease for which we had no known cure. Twice I have sought the elves' assistance, but they were, alas, unable to affect a cure. Knowing you to be a mysterious and busy man, I did not presume upon your assistance. Instead, I called my subjects, offering money for the cure, and to my surprise, my friend and ally Sayaka, already among the royal guard, proved to be a wealth of medical knowledge. The herbs and potions she supplied Arwen alleviated her pain and restored her vitality. For a time, at least."

His expression darkened. "When her health again was on the decline, I sent summons for you, but you were not to be found."

I swallowed. Although not immune to guilt, not the first time a friend had made claims of abandonment. "I was otherwise occupied."

"You're a wizard, Gandalf," Nob said. "Isn't there some way you can, I don't know, create a little box that can turn letters into air, and transmit them across the country? You know, so king Aragorn will always be able to contact you?"

I looked at him like he were crazy. "From whence do you get these absurd notions?"

He just shrugged.

"Even if this preposterous idea could actually be executed, I'd have to carry a blasted box around with me everywhere! What would be the point of that? What if I don't..."

A glance at Aragorn told me it would be better not to imply that I hadn't wanted to talk to him in his time of need.

Instead, I covered with, "It's ridiculous."

"What if there's a fire?"

"Are you suggesting the entire bucket brigade would also need one of these devices?"

He gave me a look that said `Why not?'

I shook my head. Before he could delve into further ridiculous fancies, such as possibly sending instant messages to taverns about food delivery, I deflected the conversation by focusing on Aragorn. "You were telling me of Arwen."

He nodded. "When her condition worsened, I sent out another messenger, but then these accursed `demons' descended from the sky."

"So... she is still alive?"

"Yes. But only just. That was part of the reason why I came this way. As soon as we eliminate your Face Graspers here, we must return to Minas Tirith with haste. We do not have much time. Already I fear we have lost her."

He stood over the bodies, turning his back to me as he wept.

"Your highness," Skalg said. "Should I place these bodies n the pyre with the bald priest?"

Aragorn gave him a dismissive wave. "Do what you see fit."

My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Wait! What bald priest?"

A deafening explosion, and a storm of deadly flying arrowheads answered me.

Chapter Text

I knew not what magic had been hidden upon the bald priest's person, but it killed two of our horses and sent the others whinnying and galloping away into the forest.

A great number of the flying arrowheads hit trees, with the exception of Ranchard, a burly muscular member of Aragorn's guard, who received a punctured lung in the exchange.

As we struggled ineffectually to repair the man's wounds, we had to quit the scene in a hurry as an enormous tree toppled from its damaged base.

Ten other trees likewise toppled backwards, the result of a magical explosion the likes of which no mortal on the face of the realm had ever before witnessed. We barely escaped with our lives.

"The Shire shall have no worries about firewood this month," Nob remarked.

I only grimaced and checked our victim.

From what I could surmise by torch light, the golden arrow's tip had pierced one side of his lung and buried itself in the other. Bone fragments had doubtless caused greater damage to the interior. Unlikely this man would ever be able to breathe normally again, if he even lived past the span of a few hours. The wound could easily become infected, resulting in gangrene, pneumonia or something equally horrendous.

Aragorn stared in worriment. "What can we do, Gandalf?"

I shook my head. "Not sure. To remove the arrowhead, we would need to cut open his lung, and I fear it would involve breaking his rib cage, increasing his risk of infection."

"But he could also become infected from the wound he has now."

Our poor victim coughed up blood, I believed due to the damaging of blood valves that normally sent blood away from the mouth, or the good lung inhaling blood from the damaged one instead of air.

"His lung is collapsing!" Nob exclaimed. "Isn't it, Gandalf?"

I glanced at him with annoyance. "And what do you know about it?"

He swallowed. "Not much, really. Except my father was an undertaker. Remember when Isengar Took got shot with an arrow while picking up loose ones in a practice field?"

I shook my head.

"Well, Dad took a look around. Just to see if that's really what killed him. It was. I remembered it because a couple years later, we had another archery victim, also shot in the lung, but the real cause was poisoning. It didn't look the same."

"Fascinating," I groaned. "You have a wonderful bedside manner, Hobbit."

"You think if we can hollow out a sharpened stick and shove it in the damaged lung, he'll be able to breathe?"

I furrowed my brow. "Where would we put it?"

He scowled at the victim. "If only we had a soft flexible pipe to shove down his throat and aerate the lungs."

"Can we hollow out a stick and place it in the puncture hole?" Aragorn asked. "To drain the blood?"

I suspected clotting partly the culprit of the man's flooded lungs, the wound, when open, actually serving to decrease the congestion. "Suppose it couldn't hurt."

We used an awl to hollow out a twig of soft but sturdy wood, and coated it with ale for lubrication. To create a siphon, I sucked on it a few times until the blood came gushing out.

Skalg, in the meantime, though limping from his own arrow wound, announced that he had eliminated two of the Chest Rupturers.

Nob glanced around with discomfort. "Wait. Something's not adding up. What about the last Face Grasper?"

Skalg only shrugged. "I found their trails and killed them all. There is nothing that escaped my vigilant eye. Maybe you count wrong." He muttered something else in the Black Speech.

Frowning, I hoped the Orc to be right.

Two splendidly caparisoned dead horses, one so badly maimed that we had to slaughter it, and one we found in the woods with a wounded foot.

Although we had the latter bandaged and cleaned, it clearly would have a permanent limp.

The only relatively useful horse: Nob's old mare, who just happened to have the dumb luck of grazing behind a cluster of wide trees a sizable distance away from the blast area.

My horse may have also lived, but it fled to the hills.

Aragorn placed a hand on the human victim's shoulder. "We should get this man proper medical aid. Or bring some to him."

Nob shook his head. "It would be more expedient to go there. The closest help is in the Shire, and our healer is very old."

"I fear he will not make the trip."

"He could just as easily die here, waiting for Molasses to arrive."

I stroked my beard. "Regardless, it is unwise to move the victim. Even a buckboard would be hazardous for a man in this predicament. A horse, I should think, would be fatal to him."

The cautious whiffle of my steed decided the matter for me.

I stood up. "I shall find this Molasses and bring him here myself."

"You can't leave this man," Aragorn pleaded. "I should be the one seeking the healer. Surely you know some magic that would, in the meantime, work to this man's favor?"

I sighed. "But we only have my horse and an old nag, and I doubt Shadowfax will respond to you."

The king grinned. "You forget how I spend a great deal of my time. We'll just see how wily this steed of yours truly is."

The two got along surprisingly well. After Shadowfax whinnied and backed off in trepidation for a moment or two, he produced a carrot and an apple from one of the saddlebags, petting and consoling my horse into submission.

In no time at all, he sat on her back, pulling Nob up behind him.

The two galloped off, leaving me to stare silently at the Orc and the dying bodyguard.

I prayed to Nienna, summoning her healing tears, but when I glanced into the smoke rising from the bonfire, I witnessed the vision of a woman shaking her head no. "What have I done, Nienna?. Do you no longer lay your healing tears upon mortals in need?"

No answer.

"Perhaps your god needs to be fed," said Skalg.

I supposed an offering of some sort to be in order, especially since her healing brought so much good in times past. But what would be adequate to regain her favor?

Nienna didn't provide an answer. I attempted some other potions and incantations.

I only succeeded in relieving the man's pain. He died an hour before Aragorn and the Hobbit returned with their gnarled old healer.

Although arguably an affront to a man who died from fire, we cremated Ranchard, burning him alongside his companions. After giving them their last rites, we dismissed the healer, setting off in the direction of Minas Tirith.

Before we went, with hatchet and shovel from one of the packs, we cleared the ground around the pyre to prevent a forest fire. We hoped the snow would deflect any stray sparks.

We debated whether or not to camp around this bonfire until dawn, but in between the unfragrant smell and the unpleasant memories, and the pressing matter of the king's castle, none of us felt in the mood to stop and rest. We traveled down the road, armed with torches to light the way.

Only three of us now. Nobody felt like talking.

Regaining my steed, I rode alongside Aragorn's mount, the slow, broken mare which he rode with such royal grace that one could almost imagine it to be from one of his stables.

The Orc, though, too impatient for such comforts, led our party on foot, Stoically ignoring his wounded foot.

Mr. Appledore, perhaps a bit disrespectfully, rode the same saddle as the king, but the mare was originally his possession, more or less, and the boy looked fatigued.

The Orc, precise in his tracking, never lost the trail, but our constant stumbling, the foot injury, and the extinguishing of our torches led him to declare it time to encamp.

None of us slept very well that night. In addition to the grim memories, we had to sleep on the hard, cold ground, in weather conditions that caused us to shiver, even before a fire. We wasted no time getting up.

We breakfasted at dawn, a meal of cooked gamey rabbits with little meat on their bones, then set off down a dirt road with growing sureness as visibility increased.

That's when we witnessed the naked female Hobbit wandering the fields.

Skalg sighted it first, roaring with laughter.

When I got a good look at her, my mouth fell open in shock. "Good gods! It's Rose Cotton!"

"Rose Gamgee," Nob corrected.

He ogled her for a second, then grimaced. "What in the name of Hel is she doing?"

Blood caked the female's face and hands as her mouth tore into a raw, uncooked rabbit.

Skalg gave an indifferent shrug. "She is eating. I believe this style of cuisine you would refer to as `rare.' My mother used to cook in this fashion."

"That's not cooking!" said Nob. "That's bloody raw!"

Skalg didn't reply.

"Poor Rosie Gamgee!" Nob rubbed his face to rid himself of the visual. "No good husband sending her out...to eat raw rabbits in the cold!"

He climbed off the horse, glancing up at Aragorn. "Could I have your cloak, please?"

Aragorn had a good heart, a sign of his benevolent rulership. He gave his cloak at once.

Rosie Gamgee, however, had other ideas.

"It burns!" she cried as the fabric touched her skin. "It hurts Smeagol, it does!"

I trembled, nearly falling off my horse.

Smeagol, that evil little Hobbit! The pale one that stood as the very symbol of the corrupting influence of the One Ring, and she spoke as him! Even though the ring had been destroyed!

Dismounting, I marched up to the small woman, becoming pale and cold as I regarded her. "Rose Gamgee! Are you all right?"

Sam's curly haired wife gave an evil grin as she looked up at me. "Never better, White Wizard. Other than nasty Hobbitses awakening Smeagol. Smeagol likes his body. Nice shape it has. Nice...boobies."

Demonic possession. A thing not unfamiliar to my occupation.

"The ring is gone, Smeagol! Its influence is at an end. You have no place in this world any longer!"

"Oh but I do! I do!" Her tone lowered, as if imparting a dirty secret. "Precious was destroyed, but there are other rings . The weaker rings that Precious ruled, yess... "

"No!" I cried in horror.

She grinned. "Yesss...other Preciousess..."

The smile dropped. "But that is not why Smeagol returns. It is the beasties...the demonses from the skies!"

Rose pinched her breasts. "Smeagol did not want this body. Great Ones tell Smeagol to warn Hobbiteses. Frodo. " She uttered that last word like one would do when describing a fine wine. And then she looked embarrassed. "But then it does a wicked thing! It seances poor Smeagol."

She squeezed her breasts together, as if to make them appear more full. A sight more comical to me than attractive, though I, upon one rare occasion, have been smitten with a Hobbit female in the past.

"Your warning is a little late."

"Maybe so...maybe not..."

"Where is your husband?"

Rose hissed like I'd burned her. "The fat one! It is disgusting!" She rubbed her eyes, smearing blood on the lids. "Why must Smeagol have such a husband! Why cannot it have someone likes Smeagol, like Fr —"

She smacked herself on the face. "Shut up!"

"We need to go," Aragorn said.

I nodded. "I'm afraid this one has gone mad."

Skalg grinned eagerly. "May I tie it up with rope and throw it over the horse?"

"Rose hissed. "Wicked Orc! It leaves Smeagol alone before I slits its throat!"

Rosie ran off into the woods.

It disturbed me to leave the female Hobbit to shiver and possibly die from frostbite in the wild, but we had more pressing concerns at the moment, beside the insane wives of old friends. The people at Minas Tirith were in mortal peril, and the needs of the many outweighed that of one foolish little woman, who may very well die from her own careless hand.

We continued on, assuming that the husband and (ahem) his soon to be ex friend would come take care of the rest.

We traveled roughly a mile with relatively no event. The sun rose higher, but brought with it only snowflakes to add to the dreadful frost.

"Gandalf!" a faint voice called behind me.

I stopped the horse and looked back to find a pair of figures with armfuls of clothes and blankets running to us. Upon becoming close enough for conversation, they gasped and panted, exhausted from the effort.

Sam and Frodo.

I gave a wry smirk. "Gentlemen, have we changed our minds about being through with adventures?"

"Oh no sir!" Sam gasped. "No more for me, thank you. We've already got our hands full!"

He frowned at my ugly companion. "Since when do you make friends of Orcs?"

I shrugged. "Since he saved my life last night."

The Orc smiled proudly, making a contented gurgling sound.

Sam just shook his head.

Frodo gasped for air. "Have you seen Rose?"

"My wife?" Sam added.

Chuckling a little, I pointed off into the woods. "That woman is most peculiar. I'd say between the two of you, someone needs to take better care of her and keep her indoors before she eats all the rabbits in the Shire!"

They looked at each other in shock. "Rabbits?"

"Bloody and rare," Skalg said. "Just the way mom liked them."

"Bloody!"

They ran off in search of the woman.

"You do know a cure for that malady, do you not?" Aragorn asked me.

"`Tis complicated. And we have not time. She'll live."

"Yes, but it's cold."

"We offered. Forget not your own wife."

He nodded.

We rode on.

We arrived at a clearing at the end of the path, wherein our nudist stood, bare back turned to us as she stared into the sky.

She seemed to know of our approach, for when we got close, she pointed excitedly into the air, not bothering to turn around. "Look! It's coming!"

"What." I frowned. "Is coming?"

She turned around and grinned at me, giving me that `I have a secret' giggle. "You'll see soon enough!"

And then we all saw it. I wish we hadn't:

A big dark beast the size of several buildings put together, and it had wings.

At first, I thought it to be a dragon, but it had an insect's body structure, glistening black like an ant with a shell instead of scales.

"Dragon!" Nob cried as it flew closer.

I scowled. "I don't think so."

Aragorn dismounted his horse, drawing his sword. "Gods! The rumors are true!"

"Rumors? What rumors?"

"They say there were other falling stars, a month before the one we witnessed two nights before, and they fell upon the lands of Morodor."

The color drained from Nob's face. "It's like a Face Grasper grasped the face of a dragon!"

Aragorn's fist trembled as he clutched his sword. "Impossible! There haven't been any dragons on Middle Earth since the defeat of Smaug!"

"There haven't been any dragons that you know of ," I corrected.

Before I could adequately prepare myself, the beast roared and swooped down, slaughtering the very horse I sat upon.

Chapter Text

The beast ripped mighty Shadowfax into bloody shreds, throwing me painfully into a ditch. Twas fortunate the mare had not crushed me in the fall.

When the beast swooped down to carry my horse away, the Orc took swings at it with a sword. He only got hurled into a tree for his trouble.

King Strider drew his sword, jamming the point in between the creature's plates. The beast roared and struck back, and would have slain him had Skalg not struck the beast from behind with an enormous rock.

Enraged, the creature shrieked and took to the air, not in retreat, but in preparation for its next assault.

Whilst it rose skyward for another go, the ranger king drew his bow and fired upon the creature, but the arrow glanced off with little effect, and his Orc bodyguard could do little better with his thrown ax.

The naked Hobbit vanished, perhaps to some hidden area of the forest.

"Is there any way you can reload the boomstick?" Nob whispered to me. The clever rascal had snuck up on me without the use of magic rings.

"It is in the saddle pack. Which currently resides beneath my mount. If you feel so inclined to lift an entire horse to get it, I will gladly allow you to experiment with this `boomstick' to your heart's content."

Nob frowned. "It does us no good now."

"No."

Aragorn remained standing, bow drawn in defiance of the flying beast. "Wizard?"

I did not get up. "Yes?"

He ducked as the beast swooped down to attack him. "Did you happen to find anything useful from the body of the bald priest? Any items which can explode?"

I poked my head out from behind the log, offering a handful of golden arrows. "I cannot say whether this will pierce the creature's armored hide. They did little to aid me when I fired them from my magically enhanced crossbow."

Aragorn fitted a pair of arrows with the golden tips, nocking one back.

A mild success. The arrow struck true to its target, the tough wooden shaft shattering whatever magical vial those arrowheads contain. The resulting tiny explosion merely annoyed the creature, as if a mosquito had bitten it.

Strider fired another, with similarly unimpressive results. "We should run."

I jumped to my feet. "Yes. But I suggest you abandon your steed. I doubt you will manage much haste from it."

The creature swooped again, and Nob's horse proved my words false. Although doing none of us any favors, in its hurry to escape its demise, the mare galloped faster than any horse I had ever beheld.

I and Aragorn quickly dove into the brush on the side of the road, surrounding ourselves with plant cover, putting distance between us and the creature the best we could as we scaled a hill.

Ducking behind a mass of snow covered weeds and sticks, we halted to observe what the beast would do to the carcass of my mount.

As we paused there, my ears detected a soft rumbling sound, like a wagon wheel rolling on blankets.

I looked down. A sled approached at terrific speed, drawn by a team of rabbits, squirrels, and other tiny rodents. "Radagast! What in blazes is he doing here?"

I hurried down the hill to meet him, Strider and the Orc following shortly behind.

My old friend Radagast.

Small, bearded, dressed in rags and skins and a hat with flaps on the sides. His eyes didn't meet, and he didn't bathe, or comb, or otherwise care for his personal appearance. Being a mad wilderness hermit, such things never crossed his mind. Or nose.

The very definition of insanity, but it didn't matter much when giant creatures swooped down and attacked you.

"Hello, my dear friend!" I cried as I approached. "What brings you out here?"

Radagast replied in sounds like his animals. "Fuhfuh fuh fuhuh huh fuh fuh."

I frowned. "Still the avid conversationalist, I see."

The flaps of Radagast's hat raised like rabbit ears. "Fuh fufuh fuh fuhfuhuhufuh." He chewed the sounds through a pair of central incisors like a rabbit.

"Listen, Radagast. You need to quit this area at once! It's not safe!"

Radagast's eyes rolled around in their sockets like marbles. "Bouncika fwow fumahumafoofow."

I shook my head in response. I'd spent far too long with the man, so I could understand much of his incoherent mumblings. "We were just there. What we really need to do is get to Minas Tirith."

Radagast made sounds like a chattering squirrel, pointing to his flimsy wooden chariot.

"No. I really don't think so."

He nodded emphatically, pointing to the sled again.

"You're asking two men, a Hobbit and an Orc to ride this unstable little contraption."

Radagast looked offended, chattering at me like a squirrel. His hat flaps raised again.

Without a word, the Hobbit stepped on.

Sometimes the hermit can speak coherent English, but its a rarity. "See? It's okay!" He gestured for me to board.

I still shook my head no.

Aragorn, the good humored king that he is, suppressed a laugh and stepped behind Nob, the Orc climbing onboard as a matter of duty.

The driver grinned. "Danke."

With an embarrassed groan, I joined them.

The sled proved to be remarkably fast, defying the laws of motion. In seconds, we flew past the creature, tearing across miles of snowy flatland.

"How did you find us?"

Our driver uttered a string of syllables that sounded mostly like noises a ferret would make.

The explosion. Of course. I imagined everyone in the entire realm had heard it. "Twas an accident. Our barbaric companion threw something very dangerous on the fire."

Skalg let out a low indignant growl.

"That isn't to say he is without merit." I glanced back, watching the black beast rising into the air with the remains of Shadowfax in its clutches. As much as I resented her loss, we needed the distraction.

In no time, we plowed through the fields surrounding the center of Aragorn's kingdom, the Pelennor Fields, where the Witch King of Angmar had once been destroyed, and there, in the distance, stood that twisting swirl of white stone, Minas Tirith, Minas Arnor, the White City.

A citadel with curving walls, surrounding a large three hundred foot tall edifice, the tower of Elthelion.

A few moments later we skidded up to the Great Gate, staring at the slanting streets of the lowest level of the citadel through a company of guards and a mithril portcullis.

"I wonder if we shall meet Peregrin here," Nob muttered. "They say he has taken to serving guard."

Aragorn rapped a fist on a metal slat, shouting to the armored guards beyond. "Open up in the name of the king!"

Instead of obeying, the guard turned his back to my friend, barking out names and orders.

A metallic creaking sound.

I looked up just in time to see an armored figure tilting a giant cauldron of boiling oil over the parapet. "Your highness!"

Chapter Text

We all leapt back on Radagast's chariot, retreating from the gate as gallons of scalding liquid rained down from above.

Aragorn extended a hand to me. "Hand me those golden arrowheads. I have an idea."

I gave him one, and he fitted shafts with them, firing a shot at the man with the boiling oil. The arrow struck true, and not only that, pierced the man's armor.

He toppled over backwards, leaving the oil to spill aimlessly upon the drawbridge.

Radagast pointed to the parapets, muttering like an ermine. I nodded in response.

Moments later, a company of archers appeared atop the wall, drawing back their bowstrings. We were already gone.

Minas Tirith is built along the side of a mountain, a facet we fully intended to exploit in order to avoid attack.

Although we faced a vast castle and surrounding citadel, extending several miles across, our chariot with its surprisingly strong woodland creatures at the fore soon brought us away from the sights of bowmen.

The sled continued further along, passing behind the mountain.

Radagast asked if we had an idea about what to do next, or if we had no need of his services. I directed this inquiry to the king.

Aragorn pointed to the mountain face. "We must find the thieves entrance, the hidden gateway that connects cavern to the inner citadel."

I frowned at the immense mounds of granite, the near insurmountable rugged shelves and boulders. "Have you any thoughts on where to commence this endeavor?"

Aragorn shook his head. "None."

We climbed the boulders, ascending and descending over the hills and ridges with such frequency that I began to wonder if I had become a mountain goat. Well, I reflected, an old mountain goat.

My smelly, mumbling companion proved to be surprisingly spry for his age, keeping pace with the ranger at a faster pace than I could manage. Of course, I hadn't been trying very hard. I didn't see the point.

When all hope had been lost, and even the young Hobbit began to tire, Striderd pause before a patch of dirt, drawing a diagram with one of his arrows. "How foolish of me, to not know the lay of one's own castle!"

He sketched out the citadel, tracing the edges, the structures, the passages and tunnels, pointed to a square at the rear wall. "I believe this to be the site of a disused cistern. I do not doubt an occasional smuggler has made use of it, despite the royal orders to block the passage. The passage of the right sort of coin could unblock any barrier. The only question is whether the passage that connects to it can be found directly from where the cistern is located, or if its exit lay in a winding cavern coming out elsewhere. I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

I groaned as I followed him over another ridge.

Weary of this game, I seated myself on a boulder and let the others do all the walking. Despite all my adventures in which I patiently endured mile upon mile of brisk marching, I don't pursue the activity for mere enjoyment. Not at my age.

After passing some time idly studying the mountain's rocky features from this vantage point, my keep powers of perception detected an unusual looking fissure adjacent to a large boulder. Upon a whim, I clambered up the grade to peer at it more closely, and stumbled upon an opening in the wall. I called the others over.

At first, the small cavern appeared to be a dead end, but it seemed oddly dry and tidy for something seldom touched by man. Still, I could find no point of entry. The passage appeared to come to an abrupt stop before a rock wall.

I sat upon a rock, frowning at the wall and its suspiciously smooth edges. Experimental pushes and tugs accomplished nothing, despite appearances. An enigma.

Radagast made us a torch, illuminating our ingress.

Nob, who had been wandering around outside in search of clues, returned to the cave bearing a dusty glass jar. "Look, Gandalf! Moonshine!"

I examined the container carefully. Whatever the container held, it appeared to be fresh, and only partially consumed. The amber color indicated that some sort of ale, not moonshine as he supposed. "Was this outside the cave?"

"Yes sir."

I set it down, knitting my brows in thought.

Aragorn knelt on the floor across from me. "Queer place, isn't it?" He stroked his beard, peering at the walls and floor.

He cleared a small mound of dust from the flat granite, uncovering something long and rope-like. "A most peculiar cord!"

When he lifted it to show me, the rock wall slowly turned sideways with an unpleasant grinding sound.

Aragorn grinned. "The devious scoundrels! I shall patronize their illegal establishments and buy considerable quantities of whatever it is they sell!"

Nob sampled the contents of his jar, immediately breaking into a coughing fit. "I would strongly reconsider, your highness! `Tis most foul!"

The Orc snatched the jar out of his hands, sniffed it, then declared, "`Tis urine."

Aragorn chuckled. "Rather an impulsive sort, isn't he?"

"And lacking a sense of smell," Skalg said.

I suppressed a laugh. "I think his nostrils are still full of myrrh."

Skalg snorted. "As is his head, it seems!"

On the other side of the wall, the cave continued, but since the smugglers apparently did not expect sheriffs or guards to pass through this way, they'd covered the walls with barrels and discarded glass jars.

A few torches hung on crude sconces, but it seemed a long time had passed since the last smuggler had set foot in the place, perhaps days. We used Radagast's torch to relight a few, cautiously making our way into the interior.

Music sounded up ahead, but I couldn't make out the words. Something about "Jaded ewes", I believe. The singer seemed very earnest about it.

The path forked, one end dropping into a deep chasm.

We turned the other way, and found ourselves staring down a long narrow tunnel choked with rows of massive slimy eggs, like the ones aboard the metal ship, some sealed and unopened, others apparently hatched.

The eggs exuded a foul smelling fog, which hung about the ground, obscuring our visibility of anything beneath, the stale air reeking of decay, urine, and something chemical. It seemed none had disturbed its stillness until our arrival. None save that elusive musician, whom we could now hear with greater clarity.

The voice and manner of style had altered significantly, but I could not imagine more than a handful of musicians being present in this cramped chamber with such a pathetically small or nonexistent audience.

Unless, of course, they sang to the eggs. What mad cult or religious order would occupy themselves with that sort of abandonment of reason?

"New paper taxes appear by the shore," they sang, if I recall the words correctly. "Waiting to take you away. Step in the cab with your head in the clouds and you're gone..." Apparently something to do with the magic of riding a horse drawn carriage. It made not one ounce of sense, but I found it captivating, to say the least.

"Losing in the skies with diamonds..."

The professionalism of their musical stylings...it betrayed a great wealth, and study. The amplification...unnaturally clear at such a great distance. The things one misses whilst being a hermit.

"Do you know anything of these minstrels?" I whispered to Aragorn.

"I can't confess that I do. Marvelous, though, is it not?"

"They say sirens dwell in the depths," Nob said. "And they lure the weak minded into their lair with beautiful song. If you believe in that sort of thing."

"I've never heard of a male siren before."

"Perhaps they can change their voices."

"Perhaps."

"Dare we get closer to these minstrels?" Aragorn asked. "And see whether or not it is a siren?"

Nob shook his head. "`Tis exactly what curiosity a siren would use to entrap you, your highness."

"Tsk, tsk, Hobbit. An enlightened fellow such as yourself falling for such superstitions!"

"You may laugh, but there is a kernel of truth to every superstition."

"I suppose you may be correct in that ."

The minstrel changed his voice again.

"In the middle of the earth, in the land of the Shire,

There's a brave little Hobbit whom we all admire.

With his long wooden pipe, fuzzy wooly toes,

Lives in a Hobbit hole and everybody knows him,

Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins,

Only three feet tall...

Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins,

Greatest little Hobbit of them all..."

I rubbed my face with annoyance. "That braggart Hobbit and his self aggrandizing tales. He's corrupted even the bards with his nonsense!"

Nob snapped his fingers. "`Tis kind of catchy."

Aragorn drew his sword. "Enough of this standing around. I must see my wife. If I must needs slay this bard siren to get to her, I will."

I pointed to the rows of eggs. "I fear that is the least of our worries."

"I did not ascend to the throne by being timid." He marched around a pair of ruptured eggs.

Chaos ensued.

The moment his boots passed the intact eggs, the fleshy tip of the green abomination burst open, a salmon colored spider beast launching itself in the air, vile pink legs reaching for Aragorn's face like gnarled witch fingers.

When he raised his sword to impale it, a dozen more eggs burst open, all seeking the flesh of the victim.

"I require assistance!"

Chapter Text

"Abra, Abracadabra, I'm going to reach out and grab you..." the minstrels now sang. I came to the sudden realization that they did not have our best interests at heart.

"Do you hear that, Hobbit? Your assumption was correct! These foul sirens, these minstrels, they're mocking us!"

Strider expertly impaled the first face grasper that launched itself at him, but a second whipped its tail around his neck, crawling towards his mouth. He severed the tail from his person, but this resulted in howls of anguish as the acidic substance burned his flesh.

Radagast, in the meantime, attempted to use his power over animal life to send the beasts away, but, being not of this world, they failed to obey him.

Lacking weapons, he resorted to throwing glass jars.

"Every time you call my name, I heat up like a burning flame..." Maddening, that invisible minstre.

I drew my sword and marched past an egg, impaling the nearest beast that came my way.

The creatures became too numerous. I was forced to make a hasty retreat.

The king could not prepare for the next attack. The beast shot itself at him with a spring-like motion of its tail, and I thought for certain he would be no more.

Thwip.

The creature shrieked as it fell to the ground with an arrow through its body.

Thinking it to be Skalg, I whirled around to look.

I found myself staring at a pale figure with pointed ears.

An elf. Somehow he had crept into our midst without any of us even noticing.

In the course of seconds, his arrows felled half a dozen of the creatures. Though it required twice as many as one would need to fell a common animal, the speed still impressed me, comparable to the mechanized crossbow I'd been using. "Legolas!"

The elf gave me a curt nod, tossing me a ring.

I sucked in my breath with alarm. "What is this!"

"Steady thyself. `Tis not the One Ring. It is the Colma Ettelea , the ring of strangeness. Its power enhances —"

I had been examining the ring as he spoke. Not unfamiliar. "I'm a wizard. Spare me your explanations." I slid the ring on my finger, pointing my staff at the hundreds of Face Graspers swarming on the ground.

Throughout my long and difficult quest for the ring, I have studied the lore concerning this artifact. I understood its temperamental sensitivity. Ergo, I chose the most basic of magical incantations, the simple fire summoning spell used to start campfires.

The conflagration erupting from the end of my staff would have inspired jealousy in a dragon. If Aragorn had not leapt aside at a crucial moment, I'm certain he would have resembled a roast hare in armor.

The eggs went up like candles, the beasts shriveling blackened like spiders on a blazing yule log.

For fear of Aragorn's safety, I had not allowed flame to sweep the entire chamber, which unfortunately meant that half the creatures escaped.

I shouted for him to move aside, but by then the spell had drained my constitution so much that I had dropped to my knees,leaning on my staff for support.

I gave the elf a weak smile. "Oh, and thank you."

Smirking, Legolas stepped around me, nocking an arrow.

Near fainting with exhaustion, I watched as king and aide wounded the remaining brutes, the elf's re-purposed arrows descending with such precision that the impaled the hostile creatures mere fractions of an inch from their limbs.

The minstrels now crooned about something called a "Cisco Kid," with a disarmingly cheerful sound.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I began to see visions...

Surrounded by Ring Wraiths, ones that only I could see, all kneeling in fealty before me.

Instead of being alarmed, I arrogantly supposed it only right for them to be doing so.

It's not the One Ring, I told myself. I can break free from its power any time that I wish.

A woman's voice spoke to me. "You have eluded me a long time, wizard, but your fears were ungrounded. A ring is a mere tool, only as good or as evil as the one who wields it. Do you doubt your self control so much as to deprive yourself of the very instruments you need to effect the greater good?"

"No," I whispered, both as a protest against those words and an agreement.

"This ring can do great things. Far greater than anything you know in the lore."

"No!" I ripped the ring away from my finger.

"It is not the one ring. Your will is greater than this pitiful Elvish ring. You can master it. You are The Great Wizard."

"Yes," I found myself saying. "It is a weaker ring..." I slid it back on my finger.

A Face Grasper crawled along the ground nearby, rearing up for a launch against my person.

Nob pointed. "Gandalf!"

I nodded dismissively.

"Stretch out your hand," the voice said.

"You can't tell me what to do."

"Fine," Nob groaned. "Let it wrap itself around your face. See if I care!"

"As you say," said the voice. "It is the weaker ring. No one is forcing you. But if you but stretch out your hand, you shall see the full extent of your power. Your foes in this cave shall all perish."

"It is I who am in control." I spread my hand in the direction of the creature. "The ring is weak."

A powerful force seized my arm.

The beast before me froze in its tracks, then shook as if in the throes of a violent earthquake.

I balled my hand into a fist, and the creature exploded in a spray of burning slime.

The triumphant cheering around me indicated that I had killed more than one, perhaps the entire army.

"What did you do!" Nob cried with excitement. "That was amazing!"

And that's when a giant red eye, surrounded by flame, appeared before me. "You fought me for so long, and why? Because of fear. Fear of what you didn't understand. Of what you can become."

"No! I destroyed you!"

"You can never destroy me. You destroy my puppets, I move on, and nothing changes."

Nob shook me. "Gandalf? Are you all right?"

I waved him away, not even looking at him.

"Your power weakens," I said to the eye.

"Does it?"

I had no answer for that.

"One egg remains from all these. Go there and see still more application of your power."

I rose to my feet, and found I could walk without the aid of my staff. I held it alongside my body like one would hold a broom.

Somehow I knew exactly where this egg was. I approached it, spreading my hand. A mouth opened on the top of the embryo.

A creature slowly crawled forth.

In gradual motions, I squeezed my fingers to my palm, and to my shock and horror found the thing mirroring my motions like a ghastly marionette.

"The power is yours, Gandalf. I grant you immense power, enough to bring peace to Middle Earth for a millenia..."

"Yes. A reign of peace!"

I only contemplated this for a moment before a pair of pale hands struck me in the head with my own staff. I collapsed on the floor.

I awoke in strange surroundings. A dark place, the area smelling of feed that had spent too long in a boot, boiled cabbage, and chemicals.

I lay in a peculiar sort of castle, decorated all about with sculptured bones and a type of advanced machinery unknown to anyone in the realm, with the exception of the dead priests in the skyboats.

My flesh tingled. I looked down and saw that my naked body had been immersed in a pit of entrails. I should have been disgusted, but the sensation felt oddly pleasant.

"Gandalf," a woman's voice said. Not the same one from the ring, for I noticed I wore no ring now, and saw no glowing eye.

"Gandalf."

A melodious, enticing voice. It caused my body to stir in ways I seldom knew.

In the dim light, a female figure approached the pit, clad in nothing, or next to nothing. My eyes admired her shapely legs. "It has been a long time since you have known the pleasures of a woman, wizard. Has it not?"

I swallowed, thinking only about her beauty, her shapely figure, her ample bosom...

She dropped down on her stomach, staring down at me, a finely featured elf with long curls of blonde hair that fell at her shoulders in gorgeous locks, long pointed ears, and solid black eyes.

"You have gone so long without a companion. A lone wolf, isolated from all."

Never breaking eye contact, she climbed over the edge of the pit, crawling down the wall head first. "Day by day, the loneliness eats at you."

She crawled down. "You watch the Hobbits and the townfolk at Minas Tirith going about their love festivals, watch them fall passionately for each other, and you think about what you cannot have."

She descended into the entrails.

"You think about what you once had. And then you think..."

Her hands slid across the points of her ears, and her face became immediately recognizable. Too recognizable. "Of the unattainable, the queen of the Elves herself."

Twas true. I trembled, helpless in the face of the one temptation I had no resistance against.

"Or maybe..." She waded closer, through the mound of guts, and her appearance suddenly altered, her hair turning a brilliant fiery red, shortening in length, as desirable as the first hairstyle. "You just long for someone like her."

I swallowed, thinking this too good to be true, but not wanting to disturb the illusion. "What do you want?" I both longed for and dreaded the answer.

She reached into the entrails that covered me, sliding her hands across my nakedness. "What do you think I want?"

The woman kissed me.

I didn't understand the situation, or what I was doing in this place, but I had ceased to care. Or bodies touched, pressing close together as we caressed each other.

"It has been a long time."

The woman responded by purring and rubbing her head against my neck.

As our bodies connected, partaking in the pleasurable motions associated with the first stages of the intimate act, I suddenly noticed something amiss.

The woman's flesh no longer felt soft and supple, but rather rigid like a suit of armor.

Worse, the head cradled in the dip of my neck was not red haired at all, but bald and black, and it had no eyes.

Horrified, I pushed it back, and found myself staring back at one of those insect-like lion beasts I'd encountered in the forest. I screamed.

"What is it, wizard?" the thing said in the woman's voice. "Don't like what you see?"

I stared speechlessly at the creature, simultaneously disgusted and frightened beyond all rational thought.

"Alone..." It stroked my cheek with a claw. "All alone. All those years without a single female for companionship..."

It kissed me again.

I kissed it back.

Chapter Text

I awoke to the sound of chickens and a bucket of icy water being dumped on my head.

I sputtered as I attempted to get my bearings, all the while oddly wishing to resume my unusual romantic encounter.

Sometimes having a nightmare is preferable to awakening to crushing disappointment.

Although technically both, upon awakening, the full weight of my loneliness struck me like a blow.

A pale elven face frowned down at me.

Male.

Cruel irony.

I sat up, staring at my surroundings in confusion.

I had been placed in a pile of straw, surrounded by chicken cages, on the edge of a cobbled street. Across from me, a tavern called the Seven Stars.

Here and there, lay the bloody corpses, signs of more beasts causing ruin.

"What happened?" I groaned.

Legola smirked. "You hit your head."

"No," I corrected. "You hit my head."

He sighed. "It had to be done. One thing I have learned from the conflict over the master ring is how men behave when it is in their possession."

"`Tis not the same."

"`Tis close."

He drew a chain bearing the Colma Ettelea from within his tunic, waving it in front of me.

I blindly reached for it, attempting to tear it off his neck. "Mine! Give me back my precious ring!"

I covered my mouth in horror at what I had just said.

With a grim smile, the elf put the ring away.

"Perhaps you should keep that," I murmured. "Just for safekeeping ."

He nodded, and I knew, with deep resentment, that he would never give it back.

"Gandalf!" the Hobbit cried as he leaned over me. "Guess what! I found the minstrels!"

He held aloft a little square jewel resembling the section of a woman's necklace, a box with grating covering its front. "`Twas next to a dead priest."

He pushed something on the jewel, and the minstrels burst into song: "Celebrate good times, come on..."

"I think the beings from the sky have developed a way of capturing sound. I can't pretend to understand it, but I do think it operates in a way similar to clockwork music boxes, where a perforated drum turns pins within the machine to make successive sounds. What do you think?"

I took the jewel from his hand, studying the inscription on the side. "MP3."

"I couldn't read those strange looking runes. Is that really what it says?"

I nodded. "Magical Player Three, perhaps."

"Three times the Minstrel Power of its predecessor? Or is it Mithril Power Three?"

The device provided no further clues. It only sang, "We're going to have a good time tonight, a celebration..."

I dusted myself off and stood up. I would likely suffer a cold from the dampness and chill wind, but the sharp sting made me alert and aware of my surroundings.

King Aragorn stood a fair distance ahead, busily making purchases from a couple bold vendors in an otherwise desolate marketplace. Flowers and oranges, by the looks of it.

Radagast, being unfamiliar with how to behave in polite society, not-so-stealthily pilfered fruit from a display, munching an apple as he stuffed a pair of plumbs into the pockets of his tattered robe. Sticky juice splattered his long beard. The king muttered and pointing to him, handing a bald tattooed man some gold coins.

A bar wench came out a nearby door, and my embarrassment turned to mortification, as my hermit friend's first response was to squeeze the woman's immodestly clothed bosom like produce from a melon stand.

The woman of course slapped him. Aragorn and his aide just shook their heads and laughed.

I grabbed the clueless fellow, hurrying him away from there.

The structure of Minas Tirith resembled a giant swirling pastry. I'm unsure as to how the kings arrived at this architectural decision, but one had to walk in circles just to get to the royal palace. Odd and impractical. Tactically advantageous, perhaps, but not practical.

Nob thought it a good strategy for the architecture of a gambling establishment he'd been dreaming up.

It took us a few hours to reach our destination, through paved streets scattered with corpses, both human and demon, the people apparently too afraid to do burials.

Aragorn's home: A tall white castle at the center of this confounded maze. Its main gate, though barred at night, ordinarily remained open to the public, for the pillared outer areas were occupied with administrators, officials that supervised the minor courts and made decisions based on surveys and polls.

The creatures had made short work of them all. The man, dwarves, Orcs and elves lay sprawled in pools of their own blood, bodies torn asunder and half consumed.

Amidst these: More of the eggs, though all either smashed inward by weapons, burned, or otherwise unburdened of their contents days ago.

Aragorn, upon seeing the carnage, increased the pace of his march, shoving through a pair of massive doubled doors, doors now only guarded by the remains of armored soldiers.

The man hurried through his own throne room, its red carpet and stone flooring fouled by blood and gruesome carcasses, darting through an arcade to a once well guarded staircase leading to the queen's private quarters.

The woman certainly enjoyed luxurious accommodations. Fine wooden four poster bed with swollen silk comforters and pillows, gigantic wooden wardrobes and chests, and a great fireplace, though rather cold at the moment. A private bath lay through an open doorway. The large windows had been bolted tightly shut and sealed with something to keep out the cold.

The queen herself lay with her mouth hanging open, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A most beautiful, delicately featured elf, worthy of envy had she not been so ill.

Actually, I should say, had she not been so dead.

She made no moves, her skin cold. I felt no sign of life when I touched her neck.

Aragorn knelt beside her and wept. "I tried to save you! I brought Gandalf here! We were going to help you!"

He lifted the queen's dead body, clutching her tightly as he wept on her shoulder.

He let her go, rising to his feet. Wiped his eyes as he looked at me. "It tried so hard, Gandalf. If it wasn't for those accursed creatures , I really think we could have saved her."

"You did all you could."

"There is a sexually contracted disease among the elves," Legolas said. "None of our potions and spells seem to affect it. I'm afraid it may have killed your wife."

Aragorn gave him a cold glare. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing. I just recognized the symptoms."

Aragorn's shoulders sagged as he stared forlornly at the corpse.

"Some say this is the reason for the age old prohibition against elves getting romantically involved with humans."

Aragorn raised his head, eyes fixing on the elf with a look of pure hatred. "Get out of my sight."

Legolas, startled, failed to grasp the meaning of the man's words.

The king stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. "Out!" he screamed.

Skalg growled at him menacingly.

The elf, flustered, staggered backwards out the door, more out of courtesy than fear of the man.

"Your highness," Skalg said. "Please excuse my momentary absence. I must relieve myself."

Aragorn gave him a dismissive wave. The Orc stepped into the lady's bathroom, shutting the door.

"He certainly is a well behaved Orc," I remarked.

"Indeed."

He sighed, stroking his dead wife's hair. "Arwen..."

Without a sound, a massive black shape descended from the ceiling, looming over the king like a shadow.

A star demon, its body the size of two men put together.

"Your highness!"

Too late. If only Skalg had been present.

In one deft movement, its claws ripped Strider in half. The man screamed as blood sprayed on the silken bed, the purple curtains, sprinkling his dead wife's face.

"We should get out of here," Nob hissed, I couldn't help staring at the creature with an odd sense of longing, wondering if my dream had any substance.

I hated the creature. It had murdered my close friend and ally, and he hadn't even been allowed the chance to fight back.

But that glistening black head, eyeless and dripping slime...it evoked a response in my body I couldn't explain.

I stood frozen, staring at it as it hissed, appearing to stare back.

In a flash, the thing noiselessly crossed the bed, and it stood before me, making an odd purring sound as it tilted its head in a quizzical manner.

Perhaps I was suicidal. Perhaps that was the explanation.

Both Nob and Radagast tried to get me to go, even tugging the sleeves of my robe to attempt it by force, but I yanked my arm out of their grip, remaining where I was, gazing at the beast.

It moved its head closer, nuzzling against my neck.

With a small smile, I ran my hand across the creature's shiny head, caressing it.

"Gandalf! What are you doing!" Nob yelled. "Have you gone insane!"

"I think perhaps I have."

My two friends took this as their cue to leave.

The creature raised its head, pressing its lips to mine.

Chapter Text

I don't know which part disturbed me more, the thing that just killed Aragorn kissing Gandalf, or how he seemed to enjoy it.

How it failed to burn his face, this I did not understand either.

"It is the Colma Ettelea." Legolas drew his sword. "It is known to drive men and elves alike into the depths of madness. The fool must have thought the destruction of the One Ring would weaken its power."

"Surely there's some way to..." I grimaced in disgust the unnatural activity developed into uncontrollable passion.

Legolas' grip tightened on his sword. "This cannot end well. Of this I am sure."

"Please tell me there is something you can do."

With one overhead swing of the Mithril blade, he sliced the creature's head in twain, scalding green blood spraying in all directions.

"What in the name of all gods!" Gandalf shrieked. "What have you done, you diabolical bastard elf!"

Legolas scoffed. "You are not yourself."

"And who are you to make that diagnosis! Depriving a lonely old man the first love of his life that has come his way for centuries!"

Legolas's mouth fell open in shock. "You need help."

"Oh! Now you wish to help! And who are you to bestow this favor? Granted, you elves live a long time, but I'll have you know, I have decades on you! I was learning my first spell when you were still clinging to your mother's breast! Help me indeed! I should help you take a nap with the end of my staff, you young maggot!"

"Gandalf," I protested. "You should not shun the advice of the young." Remembering that elves frequently lived to ages of more than a hundred, I quickly added, " -Ish. I have heard many tales of cynical aged folk renewing themselves—"

"I should clobber you as well. But fat lot of codswallop. Idle talk of housemaids, the whole lot of it."

"You see, that's exactly the problem..."

Gandalf hit me in the head with his staff.

"Skalg!" Legolas called in the direction of the queen's bathroom.

No answer.

He turned to face me. "Go check on the Orc. I fear things are not going well."

"Are you referring to his digestion, or something more serious?"

The elf grimaced. "Just check on him, please."

"Oh all right."

Dizzy, disoriented, and smarting from a lump on my head, I marched to the door, ignoring the sound of crashing and thrashing and expensive articles shattering behind me.

I rubbed my head. At least the creature was gone.

The Orc's body lay in a bloody pool in the bathtub. He had been eviscerated.

My bare feet waded through pools of blood tainted water, several barrels of the queen's scented bath water having been smashed open in battle. Cold, somewhat sticky bath tiles.

My eyes scanned everywhere they could, up above and down below, fearing the return of the cruel assassin.

The fireplace smoldered from all the water. The only reason why this flood hadn't poured into the royal chambers: The floor was built more than a foot below the bedroom's.

The chamber had a single window, strategically positioned behind the queen's thunder mug, and the chill wind cut through like a knife. Already ice crystals formed.

I glanced back at the doorway. "Skalg is... indisposed !"

"Tell him to get off the thunder mug and help us!" came the reply.

"Legolas! He's passed on!"

More banging and crashing sounds. "Why didn't you say that before?"

I groaned. "I'm coming out!"

"Hold on! Not yet!"

The wizard let out the most unmanliest scream I'd ever heard him make.

"There! You can come out now."

I would have obliged, but just at that moment, something made a low gurgling over my shoulder.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a dark shape looming.

The water steams as globs of boiling slime dropped around my hairy feet.

"Uh, Legolas?"