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Bree. The answers would be in Bree. They had to be. Underhill dismounted
the pony and approached the gate. The gatekeeper let him in without question.
Was it just Underhill's imagination that a flicker of recognition crossed the
man's face? Riding along the main street, he came to an inn. A sign bearing
a picture of a white pony reared up on its hind legs swung above the door. The
image burned in his brain. He had seen it before. He had been
here before. Why couldn't he remember?
Underhill rode past the inn, continuing down the street until a dark ally opened
up to his left. He ducked into it and tied the pony to a rail. He crept down
the shadowy ally until he arrived at the back of the inn. Somewhere inside was
a clue as to his identity, he was sure of it. He slipped through the back door
of the inn. Where had he learned to move like this? To use ambient noise to
camouflage his approach? He froze as he heard voices coming from the front desk.
Peering around the corner, he saw a tall man in a black cloak confronting the
obese innkeeper. The innkeeper was shaking in fear as the man in black stepped
towards him. The man's voice was thin and shrill and menacing.
"Where is Baggins?"
Baggins. He heard the name and the echoes erupted into cracks of deafening
thunder. And with each crack, pain jolted him, bolts searing one after another
through his head, his mind and body recoiling under the onslaught of the name.
Baggins. Baggins. The mists were there again. The darkness, the wind, the explosions.
Arda, Baggins, Cirth, Dagor. ...Baggins, Dagor. Dagor, Baggins.
Baggins is for Bilbo. Dagor is for Baggins.