"So, are you going to tell me how you are just letting some old codger kick you out of your own home?"
The two hobbits had been walking for quite some time now, stopping only once for coffee and breakfast(s) at the Green Dragon Café in Bywater. It was about midday when they had reached the threshold of the East Farthing, and Samwise had only just plucked up the courage to demand an explanation of his companion.
"Well... because I have to deliver this MacGuffin to Rivendell," said Frodo lamely. "It's, um, evil. It can't stay in the Shire." He was aware that the quantity of alcohol he had consumed that evening could very well have influenced his decision to leave Bag-End-but he neglected to admit this to Samwise.
"And why couldn't this Gandalf-fellow deliver it?" prompted Sam. "Or Bilbo? I mean, he was heading to Rivendell anyways."
"Bilbo is an addict," explained Frodo. "He wouldn't very well give the Ring to me, never mind handing it over to these Rivendell-folk. And as for Gandalf..." He paused and tapped his chin, trying to recall the wizard's excuse. "Well, admittedly I don't really remember. Something about ‘corruption' and becoming ‘Sauron's right-hand bitch,' I think."
Samwise, however, remained unconvinced. "I dunno, Mr. Frodo. Something about this stinks. I mean, sending two poor hobbits off to strange lands to deliver some... evil muffin or whatever. The thought of it!"
"MacGuffin," corrected Frodo. "It's called a MacGuffin."
"‘MacGuffin' sounds like the thing I had for breakfast," said Sam pointedly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo-I don't mean to push you or anything. I just think that that old wizard ought to be troubling some bigger folk with this quest of his, and leave us hobbits out of it."
Frodo didn't respond. At the present, he was still relatively hungover and immensely tired, and therefore hadn't put much thought into the whole situation. And while he greatly appreciated Master Samwise's input, he was beginning to sound rather like a fretful helicopter-parent.
Neither hobbit spoke to each other for quite sometime after that. They had just reached the Marish (that is, the boggy region of the Shire), when they heard a whizzing noise like that of an automobile.
"Funny that, a car in the Shire," observed Frodo. "Poor fellows must be lost. There's nary a gas station around here."
But the noise persisted, gradually developing into a dull roar. In the distance, Frodo could just make out the outlines of a rather large truck bearing the TookMart® logo. It was in this moment that the heavens opened from above, and somewhere a chorus of short and hairy-footed angels burst into glorious song. Such things tend to happen when Frodo is conveniently struck with a brilliant idea.
"Take heart, Sam," he said, clapping his friend on the back. "It would appear that our hike is over."
Sam squinted at the sky. "What do you mean? I don't see any eagles."
"What? No, not eagles! Why would you even say that?" He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and faced him towards the oncoming vehicle. "Look, it's Merry and Pippin's truck! They must be heading back to Buckland from the party. Let's see if we can flag them down."
And so the two hobbits launched themselves into the road and began to jump and flap their arms hysterically, performing any sort of maneuver to catch the attention of Merry and Pippin. They managed to stop the truck eventually, but not without making perfect fools of themselves and looking somewhat like a pair of jacked-up roosters.
A bewildered Merry poked his head out from the window of the driver's seat. "Hallo!" he called. "Fancy meeting you two out here. Look sharp, Pip-Sam and Frodo need a lift."
"Oh, do they now?" said Pippin, peeping his head next to Merry's. "We've been looking for you all morning, you know. What, are goodbyes no longer in fashion?"
"It's a long story," muttered Frodo as he hauled himself into the vehicle. He raised an eyebrow when he found the other two hobbits stacked on top of one another like weird kinky pancakes, with Merry on the bottom and a pantsless Pippin on the top. But to Frodo's immense relief, the bottom portion of Pippin's body was completely obscured by pixels, courtesy of this fanfiction's rating and the author's very own aversion towards dicks.
"Oh, you'll have to sit on each other," advised the semi-censored Pippin from his place in Merry's lap. "Normally we'd stuff you in the back, but this gives me a good excuse to get on top of-"
"Thank you, Pippin, sir," cut in Sam irritably. "Er, let me go first, Mr. Frodo. You oughtn't have to sit underneath me."
"Back to Hobbiton, then?" came Merry's voice from somewhere beneath Pippin.
"Er, Bree actually," replied Frodo as he awkwardly settled on top of Samwise. "We're supposed to be meeting Gandalf at some inn called ‘The Prancing Pony.' Ever heard of it?"
"Never," said a muffled Merry, shoving his keys back into the ignition. "Thank the Valar for GPS."
Unsurprisingly, driving to Bree cut down the trip time significantly-a feat which gave even the Eagles a run for their money. The only drawback was the stereo, which seemed incapable of emitting any musical artist who wasn't Tom Bombadil.
Bombadil himself was something of a local favorite, though to the hobbits he seemed little more than an unintelligible lyricist and talentless banjo player. But since he was the only musician that was broadcasted in the regions of the Marish and the Old Forest, the poor hobbits simply had to cope with the unpalatable Bombadil Bluegrass.
"I swear, Mr. Frodo-if I hear one more ‘hey dol' or ‘merry dol," I'm going to throw myself out the window," muttered Sam. "Doesn't this asshole have anything else to sing about?"
"Relax, Sam," said a now fully-clothed Pippin. "We're almost out of both the proverbial and literal woods."
"And then we'll be in Breeland?" asked Frodo hopefully.
"Er, no. We've still got the Barrow-downs to cross."
"But aren't there zombies in the Barrow-downs?"
Pippin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I can't rightly remember. Say Merry, do we still have those peashooters in the back?"
"Peashooters aren't going to off a zombie!" cried Sam, aghast.
Pippin shrugged. "Then we'd better not run into any zombies, I guess."
They were nearing the thresholds of the Old Forest now, the clusters of trees gradually thinning out into a series of bleak and stone-studded moors. Then, for some inexplicable reason, the radio began to crackle and pop with static, and the voice of Tom Bombadil was promptly replaced by the theme of Michael Myers.
"Well, I never thought I'd miss the sound of Bluegrass so much," sighed Sam.
The truck full of hobbits doggedly plodded on through the downs. Merry, despite being completely submerged in Pippin's trousers, was an expert navigator; every time a stray tombstone or mausoleum appeared, he would swerve the vehicle away just in time. Now and again a throng of bats and unholy spirits would assail the windows, but they were no match for the combined powers of windshield wipers and inertia. They managed to escape the Barrow-downs largely unscathed, with just a few bat carcasses and human finger bones dangling from the bumper. The Michael Myers tune had ceased as well, signifying their arrival in Breeland.
"And we didn't even have to bust out the peashooters," said Pippin, grinning smugly.
"I'll bust out your peashooter, soon as we get to that inn," crowed Merry.
"Oh, you bad hobbit!"
From his place on top of Sam, Frodo shuddered with discomfort. If only Gandalf had never given him the MacGuffin! Then perhaps he would be home in bed, giving no thought to Bombadil, Barrow-downs, or Merry and Pippin's atrocious sex-banter.
"In one mile, turn left onto Fatty Lumpkin Lane. The destination will be on your right," came the cool voice of the GPS.
"About time, too," said Merry, directing the truck along the cobble streets of Bree. "You know, it's a bit funny-I never realized how small our truck is."
This was true: the old TookMart® truck was designed specifically for hobbits, which made for an odd look when driving alongside standard-proportioned vehicles.
"That reminds me," piped up Sam from underneath Frodo. "I've been meaning to ask you guys: If there aren't any gas stations in the Shire, then how is this thing powered?"
Pippin (and probably Merry) grinned. "Love," they replied in unison, twining their fingers together. Sam groaned and rolled his eyes.
"You have arrived," announced the GPS. And so they had: Before them stood the seediest looking tavern they had ever laid eyes on, which isn't saying a whole lot because hobbit taverns generally look like they belong in "Better Homes and Gardens" magazines. Here, a bright yellow light filtered through the cracks of the wood-planked walls, and on the roof sat a chimney that belched a column of smoke into the evening sky. The hobbits exchanged dubious glances with one another, then hastily parked the truck and trudged towards the inn.
"Pip and I figure that we'll stay the night here at the Pony," said Merry as they pushed through the doorway. "And then it's back to Buckland for us in the morning. When you see him, make sure to give old Gandalf our regards."
"Well, suppose Mr. Gandalf hasn't gotten here yet," put in Samwise. "I mean, I don't think he had counted on us driving to Bree. What do we do then?"
"We wait for him, obviously," said Frodo. "Look, let's just get checked in for now. I figured we might not meet him straight away, so I packed some emergency romcoms and popcorn just in case."
This seemed to cheer Sam up a little-and good thing too, because Gandalf's precise whereabouts were unknown, just as they had expected.
Merry and Pippin had gone ahead to their room, presumably to engage in certain acts of Wanton Debauchery. In the meantime, Frodo and Sam remained in the tavern sipping draughts of mead and discussing what was to happen next.
"So... soon's we meet Mr. Gandalf, we'll set out for Rivendell?"
"That's the plan," said Frodo, raising a tankard to his lips.
Sam sighed. "I've got to be honest, Mr. Frodo-I don't entirely understand this whole Macguffin-thing. How is it evil, exactly? Does something bad happen if you put it on?"
Frodo opened his mouth as if to answer, and then paused. "I don't actually know," he admitted. "I thought I'd ask Gandalf as soon as he'd gotten here. Up to this point, I've kind of just been passively doing his will."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Frodo, I hope you don't me saying, but I really think you ought to be more assertive. You can't just let that wizard walk all over you."
Sam, as per usual, was absolutely right. But something had come over Frodo just then, causing him to clench his teeth and abandon his placidity. "I know what I have to do, Sam," he snapped very suddenly. "You don't understand. The Macguffin was entrusted to me. It's my task, mine, my own!"
This, however, did very little to ruffle Sam. "You don't even know what it does," he said pointedly.
While they quarreled, the two hobbits were steadily gaining the attentions of the other inn-goers. They thought it amusing to see the little folk bicker back and forth, just as a parent might with one wayward teen.
Among the onlookers was another, a cloaked figure whose face was concealed by hood and shadow. But the hobbits had not yet taken notice of their observer, nor of any of the Pony's guests at any rate. Yet this particular fellow had taken an apparent interest in the hobbits, and continued to evaluate their dealings.
"Oh, sod this," growled Frodo, getting to his feet. "Have it your own way. You can sit here and speculate about this Ambiguously Evil Ring-I'm gonna go back to the room and watch She's All That. Of course, you're welcome to join me when you're done being a preachy, self-important git."
This of course would have been an incredibly effective and dramatic exit, had Master Frodo not tripped over the table leg upon leaving. But this happens to be a mishap of necessity, because the plot needs a quick and convenient way for Frodo to fall and unintentionally catch the Ring with his finger.
It was in this very moment that Frodo vanished from sight, prompting a collective stage-gasp from everyone in the tavern. Sam had of course seen this all before (refer back to Bilbo's disappearance in Chapter Two if need be), and his first instinct was to go and collect his invisible master. But the cloaked fellow beat him to it.
As soon as Frodo had loosed the Ring from his finger, a gruff pair of hands seized him by the shoulders and yanked him out of the tavern. "You draw far too much attention to yourself, Frodo Baggins," hissed the hooded figure. And without another word, he was marched down the main hallway like a disobedient child and thrust into a room that must have been neglected by the housekeepers. Granules of dust could be seen floating about in the orange candlelight, and in every nook and cranny was a silver-spun cobweb. A series of squeaks and scuttling noises suggested the presence of either mice or rats. In short, this place violated just about every health code known to man.
Frodo, however, was much too afraid to point all this out to his abductor, and had instead settled for cowering on the floor. After a period of silence, the figure finally said, "Er, you're supposed to say ‘Who are you, and what do you want?'"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh come on," huffed the figure. "I've been practicing what I was gonna say to you all night long, so can you maybe just humor me and say the damned line?"
"Um, okay, I guess," said Frodo. "Uh, ‘who are you and what do you want?'"
"A little more caution from you. That is no trinket you carry," recited the figure with gusto.
"I don't know what you're talking about," spluttered Frodo.
"Indeed." The figure then proceeded to extinguish the candles, an action which really only served to maximize dramatic effect. "I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely, that is a rare gift." With that, the figure cast the hood from its head with unreasonable epicness, and behold! Before Frodo stood not a man, but a scraggly, rough-and-tumble elvish lass.
"My name is Arwen," said the elf. "But I'm afraid that's all I can offer in terms of formalities. You see, your little punk-ass is being hunted, and we need to get you out of here."
"Hunted?" croaked Frodo.
"Yes, hunted," said Arwen. "What you did back there wasn't exactly what I'd call discreet. You-"
"Oi!" interrupted a familiar voice. The door was thrown open, and silhouetted against the light of the hallway was one extremely vehement Samwise. "You let him go, or you and me are gonna have a good old-fashioned brawl," he spat at Arwen.
"Good to meet you too," sniffed Arwen.
"Uh, it's all right, Sam," stuttered Frodo. "At least, I think so, anyways."
"Not remotely," countered Arwen. "We need to get you out of here. You carry the One Macguffin, Frodo Baggins, and they are coming for it. You can know longer wait for a wizard."
"Wizard? Do you know Gandalf?"
"That's a story for another time," said Arwen. "Wake your friends. We'll need to leave Bree as quickly as possible. Hurry!"
