After seeing the Hobbits asleep in the wood, the fox followed the trail down toward Pincup. The scent of the night was deep as if all the trees were holding their breath. The fox had known something like this before when he had ventured into the old forest and deep into its maze of ancient roots. There the sunlight had vanished and fear took over him. Somehow he had made his way back the banks of the Brandywine River following the sound of water or laughter and a flash of yellow that sparked in the darkness. Faces of gnarled creatures had grinned at him as he escaped the old forest. He would never go back.

Now he was on a new quest. He was shackled to a pact his forefathers had made with the powers that stirred in dark places and looked south for their nourishment. The pact was embedded in his fur and his paws; it was obvious in each step he took. Tonight the pact called him further into the west than he had ever gone before.

Earlier in the day he had skirted the border of Farmer Maggot’s holding. The nut brown Hobbit had been tending his crops, thankfully without Grip and Fang his guard dogs. Maggot had seen the fox and a shouted out, “Be off with you, you varmint.” The fox slipped away, he understood that Maggot had his feet deep in the earth and was a wise power that many Hobbits could not see. The Shire was a curious place and the Fox wondered why the Hobbits did not recognise the immense power that grew out of the earth, perhaps they did but cared less.

Eventually the fox found his way to the edge of Pincup. Here and there, a few lights could be seen from the row of smial houses but there was no sign of any wayfarers in the night. The fox slipped through the shadows, a ripple of rust in the aging night. He soon left behind the sleepy hamlet and was running across the pasturelands leading west. Spots of moonlight chased him as the great silver eye of the world peeped out of wispy clouds high above.

At daybreak the fox stopped running. He found a small copse to crawl into and was soon fast asleep. In his dreams he saw a golden harvest and plunder enough to last all winter. His dreams soon faded.

“Good morning Sir Fox,” a voice said.

The fox woke up and sniffed the air, deadness was there. His hearing seemed to be pinched as if he was deep inside a seashell. A chill fell over his face even though the sun was high in the sky. He gulped, afraid of the bargain he head to make.

Sitting within the copse before a small fire was a sliver haired man. His locks were ragged as if the air around him was scarred, his face was pockmarked and his eyes were yellow but not as warm as buttercups. A puddle soaked cloak was wrapped across his shoulders. The fox cowered before the visitor, as he had done each time they had met.

“You made very good time,” the man said.

“Yes,” said the fox, he could feel a chill thread pull him forward when the man spoke. He dug his paws in to stop the fear.

“Well now, perhaps we can have an agreeable chat.” The man pulled a wizened pipe from within the mystery of his cloak. He lit the bowl using a small twig that had fallen from the fire. “Come closer to the fire, you will be warmer.”

“Fire is not my friend,” said the fox, “It is only the friend of man.”

“True enough,” said the man. He sucked on the pipe and then released a serpent of smoke from his mouth, a serpent that could not mask the chill of his breath. “Well now Sir Fox perhaps we can begin.”

The fox padded slowly away from the fire, he sniffed the air, and there were no more strangers to come. “Speak your words.”

The man put the pipe down, “Of course, I can grant your freedom if you do but one little task, a mere trifle of a request. A little fancy, nothing more than that.”

“You speak in riddles,” said the fox, “Speak like a man.”

The man coughed, “Of course. I need you steal something for me. Food from yonder house”.

“You could do that.”

“No, I could not. This requires some extra special guile, such as yours Sir Fox. And after that I grant you a free and worthy life. Before the end of all things I want to taste food once more. You and I have journeyed long together and I am weary of the road.”

“Is that all” asked the fox.

“Yes,” the man sucked once more on his pipe. There was still no warmth as he choked out snakes of smoke.

“Very well, I will do this thing.” The fox ran off toward the distant farmhouse. It was not unusual for Hobbits to build houses out in the wild, but why this one was special he could not tell. A smell of bacon and eggs dragged him forward and soon he was outside the house. He stopped beneath an open window. Inside the house, a burly Hobbit was engaged in his first breakfast, a huge teapot steamed over the fire and the smell of mushrooms soon joined the day.

The fox slipped past the window to the back porch. A leg of bacon had been placed on the window ledge to cool. The sweet scent of crackling tickled his nose. Making sure he was alone, the fox sprang into action and scrambled up to the window ledge. He grabbed the leg with his jaw and bounded away. Behind him the shouts of a furious Hobbit filled the place where the leg had been.

Returning to the copse, the fox could see the fire had gone out. The man was sitting even more miserably than before. His cloak was looking more misshapen than before, as if it was trying to blend into the earth. Wind shook free his hair and the grey strands fluttered like the flags of the great houses, displaying the scars on his face and the chewed shape of his ears. A single teardrop fell across the face of the man.

The fox placed the leg down before the dying fire.

“Thank you, Sir Fox”, said the man.

“Grant me my freedom,” The fox noticed that the air had warmed slightly. He was in no mood to stay here. “Please now, grant me my freedom.”

“Yes, good Sir Fox, I release you from the bonds your family forged all those years ago. Be no longer a thief in our service.”

The fox sniffed the ground, there was a sense of blood there and soon he could feel the earth tremble slightly. The man reached out to the pie and then withdrew his hand. “This is the last time we shall meet, Sir Fox.”

“What will you do?” The fox was no longer afraid.

The man sighed. “I will wait for my master. What will happen here I cannot say?” He looked west, “I cannot cross the Blue Mountains. I cannot go where my heart desires. I cannot be anymore a man. One day he will come here and forge the wheels and cogs that will make this land black and foul, not green and good.”

“Be free of him,” The fox said, “Leave this place.”

“Ah, Sir Fox, to be free is to be wild. You are such a creature. I am a servant and must keep watch here.”

The fox saw that there were no more tears on the face of the man. His eyes had become hard like brass and the chill was returning. The glimpse of a shadow watching the Shire had returned. The nameless sentinel that had once been proud and haughty resumed his grim task of preparing for the day when the black heart of a wizard finally beat in the north.

Silently the fox trotted away from the copse. He did not look back. He would not come to the Shire again. His business here was finished. Before him was the path to the White Downs. It would be good to see what lay beyond those hills.