My Greatest Adventure

The Prancing Pony

  The Prancing Pony was bustling when we stepped inside. The warmth of the inn clashed with the cold rain still clinging to our cloaks. People were socializing, eating, and telling stories by firelight. We were soaked and shivering, and more than a little out of place among the boisterous crowd of Big Folk.

The innkeeper, a large man with a friendly-enough face, looked down from behind the counter to get a better look at us. "Good evening, little masters—and little mistress," he said kindly. "What brings you to the Prancing Pony? We've got hobbit-sized rooms available."

"We're here to see Gandalf," Frodo said. "Can you let him know we've arrived?"

"What's your name?" the man asked curiously.

"Underhill. My name's Underhill," Frodo replied, trying not to sound nervous.

The innkeeper raised a brow. "Haven't seen Gandalf in six months."

That made our hearts sink a little. Gandalf was known to be unpredictable, but six months? We began to wonder—was he delayed? Or in danger?

Still, there was nothing we could do for now. We were cold, wet, and hungry. So, we sat down to eat. The boys ordered steaming plates of meat and fish, while I tucked into a bowl of soup with roast chicken and fresh bread.

Frodo slipped his arm around me, trying to warm me up. I smiled at him and leaned in to kiss his cheek—only for him to turn his head at just the wrong moment. I kissed him on the lips instead.

My face turned crimson. The boys around us gasped in unison.

"Well, it seems you two are close," Pippin grinned, eyes wide with surprise.

"I knew this would happen!" Sam cheered, clapping Frodo on the back. "I'm happy for you."

"Treat her right, Frodo," Merry said firmly, half-joking but clearly protective.

"Don't worry," Frodo replied, still blushing. He looked into my eyes, smiling softly. "Daisy means everything to me."

"And you mean everything to me," I said, taking his hand. We kissed again, hearts full despite the storm outside.

The sweet moment didn't last.

Pippin spotted the enormous mug Merry had ordered. It was steaming and smelled like chocolate. "What is that? I'm getting one!" he exclaimed, hopping down from the bench and heading to the bar.

The rest of us stayed seated—until we noticed a man in a dark cloak sitting in the shadows at the far end of the room. He was watching us.

"Who's that?" Frodo asked the innkeeper as he passed.

"Him? He's one of them Rangers. Goes by the name Strider."

Frodo stared at the man suspiciously.

Meanwhile, across the room, Pippin had started talking—loudly.

"That's Frodo Baggins!" he announced proudly. "He's my cousin—three times removed, or something like that..."

Merry, Frodo, and I exchanged alarmed looks. He was going to say too much.

Frodo sprang up and rushed toward him to stop him, but in his haste, he tripped over someone's boot. The Ring flew from his pocket and landed squarely on his finger.

He vanished.

Gasps rippled through the inn. I stared in disbelief at the empty space where he had stood.

"What just happened?" I whispered to Merry.

"I don't know. But... I don't think anyone was supposed to see that."

"You'd be right," came a low voice.

Frodo reappeared moments later, face pale and shaken.

Before we could speak, the mysterious man—Strider—rose from his table and crossed the room. He grabbed Frodo firmly.

"You're drawing too much attention to yourself," he growled, then turned and started dragging Frodo toward the stairs.

"That man has Frodo!" Sam shouted, and we all leapt to our feet.

"NO!" I screamed.

We charged up the stairs, brandishing the closest objects we could find—stools, coat racks, anything.

"Let him go!" Sam shouted, pointing a chair leg at Strider like a sword.

Strider turned, unmoved. "You've got stout hearts, hobbits," he said, "but that's not going to keep you alive."

Then, the sound came again.

That terrible, bone-chilling screech.

"They're here," Strider said darkly.

"Who are they?" Frodo asked, his voice barely audible.

"They were once men," Strider explained. "Kings and warriors, given nine rings by Sauron. They surrendered to greed and darkness. Now they are the Nazgûl. The Ringwraiths."

I felt my body tremble. Gandalf had warned me of them—creatures drawn to the Ring, enslaved by its power.

"How do we stop them?" I asked, barely able to breathe.

"We don't," Strider replied. "We run. We stay out of sight."

"BAGGINS!" one of the Nine shrieked into the night.

My blood ran cold.

Within minutes, we were fleeing the inn with only the clothes on our backs, following a Ranger we barely knew, into the dark and stormy night... chased by death itself.