Despite the strain of the past few days, Fred did not sleep well that night. At dawn he finally rose and sat by a window for awhile, watching as the sun rose. *wiggles finger in ear* I hear a "rose" echo... Eventually he heard behind him a small sound, and looked to see Marjorie standing by the small table, patting down her hair and smoothing her skirt. Absently he thought that Marjorie was very pretty indeed.

"What next?" he murmured aloud.

"What was that?" Marjorie did not sound particularly interested.

Fred stood, and stretched. "Nothing," he replied. "Just -- just fretting."

I actually kind of like this dialogue between them. For once Fred isn't being snappish and internally beating up his sister for her alleged prissiness.

Yes, he acknowledged to himself, he was fretting; and not necessarily about the incident of last night. In my opinion, Fred, you shouldn't be worrying about it at all. Your premonitions about the "dangerous letter" are nothing more than plot convenience and you really shouldn't be having them. They had made it to Erbville, and found it hard enough -- how were they going to survive in the truly wild lands beyond? There were very few towns in the area -- some seven days' travel, at their pace, he estimated -- between Erbville and Egbert's Home for Children. It would be so easy to get lost... and then there they would be, trapped in the middle of a desolate wilderness; without nearly sufficient food or water, he knew.

*hooks thumbs through belt loops* Suck it up.

He made up his mind firmly. Someone had to know these parts well enough. He turned abruptly and headed for the door. "Don't wait breakfast on me," he called over his shoulder to Marjorie, and then hurried out.

He got as far as the doorway of the inn's common-room, and then stopped. How did one go about this kind of thing? Shyly, awkwardly, he slipped in and stood against the wall, looking at the room around him.

It was fairly quiet, being early morning, but there was already at least fifteen people in the room. One in particular caught Fred's eye; perhaps because he was the only one with his feet on a table. And we all know how particular Fred is about propriety. He looked big, Fred thought -- no, not so much big as tall. Tall and lanky and slurping something out of a cup. His black hair was long and shaggy, and a pair of sharp dark eyes raked coolly over everything within range.

Fascinated, Fred began to follow the man's gaze, until he realized that it had stopped -- at him. A long arm stretched out. A long finger beckoned. Fred stared stupidly; then he slowly moved towards the other. His brain tortured him unbelievably during those few yards, but the first words the man spoke cleared this situation.

Despite my best efforts, to this day this scene reminds people of Aragorn at the Prancing Pony in Bree. Which may not perhaps be too surprising, as Andre and Fred were actually Aragorn- and Fred-analogs, and in this draft the fact was thinly disguised at best.

"You haven't been here before." The words were uttered in an accusing half-drawl.

To my exceeding joy, this is apparently the point where I figured out that dialogue is regulated by individual paragraphs for each speaker.

Fred got control over his voice. "No," he replied. "No, I haven't."

"So why are you here?"

Fred tried wildly to collect his disorganized thoughts. For a minute he couldn't think at all; then in relief he remembered. "I came here," he said steadily, "to look for a guide."

"A guide?" There was a gleam in the man's eyes.

"I need a guide to lead myself and three others to Egbert's Home for Children."

The half-closed eyes regarded him carefully. "A guide," the other repeated slowly, "to lead you and three others to Egbert's Home for Children." He smiled -- a cold, calculating smile. "Name's Andre. I can take you there -- for a price."

Andre, obviously, = Falgor.

Here it is, Fred thought. How much would the man -- Andre -- want? His mind went to the small pouch hidden still in his improvised bag. Little enough there... and more supplies were needed yet. Their food was all but gone.

"How much?" he asked in a low voice.

Andre smiled again. He had the advantage, and he knew it. "In Ordenian terms..."

Fred nodded; because of all the trading that Orden did with other countries, its currency was very widely used. "In Ordenian terms, two thira a day."

Fred did some rapid calculations. The inn bill for last night, plus food for -- ten days, one never knew; leaving in the end, perhaps, sixteen thira altogether. He sighed inwardly with relief. Two thira a day was a ridiculous sum, but as long as there were no delays...

He raised his head and answered firmly, "Done."

He didn't even TRY to bargain. Don't tell me he can't. In The War's original version I wrote a scene with him at the horse sale haggling like an expert. If he knows two thira is a ridiculous sum (and it honestly is) then why for pity's sake doesn't he attempt to drag it down? I daresay even Marjorie would have tried to coax the price a little lower, and she (in this version at least) knows next to nothing about such matters.

~

It was late afternoon of the fourth day. Fred put one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the doubts that wormed their way effortlessly into his thoughts. Shouldn't we be trying to make a straighter course? one part of him insisted.

Hey, hey, just curious over here, I thought you didn't know the area well enough to lead them through it? If you can tell Andre isn't making a straight course, why don't you take over the guide stuff?

Trust Andre, said the other part. The guide knows best, he knows what he's doing... I sincerely doubt that. He was tired of shouldering the responsibility alone; glad to let someone else take over, at least in part. But -- always the but -- he didn't want to trust Andre. Whaddya know. I don't either. That makes two of us, so maybe you should cave to the gut instinct and DITCH HIM!

He hated the scornful glances that Andre was always giving him, he hated the way in which Andre always camped, aloof from the rest of them; and most of all he hated the sly smile which hovered continually on Andre's face when he collected his pay in the evenings. No, he didn't trust Andre -- but what was he to do? Go up to the man and say, "Sorry, I'm not hiring you any further," Yes, Fred, that's exactly what you should do. and either be completely disregarded, or lose the only hope they had of getting to Egbert's Home for Children... BUT APPARENTLY YOU KNOW THE LATITUDE AND LONGITUDE SO WELL THAT YOU CAN TELL YOU ARE MAKING A CROOKED COURSE! Yes, the only hope. That settled it. He had to get them to Egbert's Home for Children if it killed him. Egbert's Home for Children... the name was beginning to haunt his dreams. And killing my fingers to type. Actually this was a subtle allusion to my growing annoyance to having to write the name so often. If I could have found a suitable way to abbreviate it, I would have...

A worse blast of wind than usual jolted Fred back to the present reality. That was the thing, he had discovered about these lands. There was less snow than in Keelover, ugh that name but what the weather lacked in prcipitation, it made up for in the winds. He always felt chilled to the bone now, and knew the others probably did too, but they had all got so used to it that they practically forgot the fact.

"Stop lagging behind," came Andre's impassive voice from up ahead. "That means all of you. Do you want me to just leave you here? -- I thought not."

The day dragged on to the end -- all the same. The scenery changed no more than the weather did. The next day, and the next too, were as drearily same as the others had been. Fred counted his steps, counted sheep, counted the number of times he had to put his hands inside his shirt to warm them -- in short, did every fool thing concievable to keep from thinking. But as the seventh day drew to its close, the worry began to gnaw at him again; and he knew he could no longer lie to himself.

I. Am. So. Fed. Up. with this. He knows, he knows, he KNOWS Andre is leading them astray! He LITERALLY KNOWS IT! AND YET HE IS APPARENTLY INCAPABLE OF LEADING THEM HIMSELF, AND HE GETS ALL 'waaaaa help me' 'i wish i could do something about this' 'oh no what will happen when i run out of money'

Nor was he waiting until the eighth day was over and there was still no sign of their destination. As Sandy and Marjorie prepared the camp, he approached their guide purposefully.

"You have something to say to me?" Andre demanded in a detached manner.

Why was it so hard to talk to him? Andre had a way of making things seem so -- unimportant. Well, this was important and he was not going to be deterred from it. He met Andre's stare unflinchingly. "I want you to tell me exactly where we are."

Andre did not answer immediately. First he unfolded his legs and set them on the ground; then he put his hands behind his head and leaned back on them. My favourite parts of this chapter are the descriptions of Andre. I actually lifted many of them almost verbatim from these pages to transfer to Falgor later, and this was one of them. "So the stripling now considers himself a fellow guide," he drawled at last.

The blood rushed to Fred's face; but what use would it be to say anything to that? "Are we going to reach Egbert's Home for Children tomorrow? Are we anywhere near Egbert's Home for Children? Tell me -- answer me -- please!"

"We may get there tomorrow -- and we may not," was the maddeningly calm answer. "If we all grow wings or find an express train in the middle of nowhere -- I suppose we might. Now why do you ask?" He gave Fred a long, searching glance. "Could it possibly be that you've run out of money?"

"Not -- yet." It was a struggle to keep his voice steady.

"Not -- yet," Andre repeated mockingly. "Don't tell me you're going to be a baby about this. Why the worst thing that could happen would be for me to simply walk out on you."

"Will you?"

"I'll think about it. Ask me tomorrow when you're not so wrought up." With that Andre shut his eyes, showing a definite intention of ignoring any further questions.

Shaking with tears or anger, he knew not which, Fred turned away.

Just let me say that this could have been handled so much better.

~

They prepared to continue their travels at dawn. Everything was going on as usual; it seemed ordinary to the point of mockery. Fred had told the other three nothing of their present situation. It would have been no use -- what could they do about it? -- and besides, he didn't want to have to tell them... not yet. When the time came, what would he say to them? Would Andre really leave them? Yes, Fred knew perfectly well he would. But was he going to?

I'm going to date this as the first of Fred's impossibly annoying, circuitous silent monologues of inner turmoil. These could have been done well, but they dragged too long, mashed the idea in your face, and he just got irritatingly morbid.

There's two ways to write a Fred. One way succeeds in making you sympathize with his uncertainty, fears and struggles. The other lays out the uncertainty and fears in such a way that the same Fred seems like a spineless wimp. I still scratch my head over how I managed to finally get it right, but everybody loves Fred now...

Such thoughts as these occupied his mind through the day; then, as the sun set beyond the clouds that covered the sky, he raised his head wearily and scanned the horizon, the rolling hills all around him. Not one tiled roof glimmered in the last light of day, not one lone trail of smoke marred the cold, clear air.

Someone was beside him. Fred turned, and saw Andre's lanky figure sillouhetted against the sky. The man held out his hand; Fred stared down at it for a long moment. At last he slipped his pack down from his shoulder and with a quick, sharp gesture jerked out the pouch. He emptied its contents into Andre's waiting palm, whirled, and rushed away. He just wanted to be alone... for a long time...

When he at last approached the campfire, Andre was nowhere to be seen. He inquired -- Sandy was the one who answered.

"Up the hill a little ways, in his precious camp of his precious self."

Did he need to delay? Fred thought bitterly. Did he have to prolong what he was going to do anyway? He kicked at the ashes of the fire and sat down.

In my attempts to make Fred not seem like a colourless wimp, I made him get "moody".

Sandy looked at him keenly. "What's bothering you?" she demanded bluntly.

Fred gazed unseeingly into the fire. "Who said anything's bothering me?" he muttered. Theory: Fred said this entirely to get Sandy to probe him further, because he wanted to talk about his troubles without seeming to want to talk about his troubles.

Sandy snorted. "Don't play innocent with me. You've barely touched your food today; you don't talk to anyone -- you merely look preoccupied and mournful; and I couldn't sleep last night for you tossing and turning not two feet away."

Fred glanced up; he looked more concerned than should have been necessary. "Sandy, I'm so sorry... if only I'd known it was keeping you awake..."

Sandy wore an expression of utter disgust. "I'm trying to convince you that you're the person who you need to be worried about. I seem to be having no success."

Fred looked like he desperately wanted to say something; several times he opened his mouth, only to shut it again with an expression of despair. *sardonic voice* And what is barring you from talking about it to Sandy? His head dropped in his hand. "Nothing's wrong with me, Sandy. Just go get some sleep."

"You're stubborn," snapped Sandy. "Just plain stubborn." She got up and stalked away, calling over her shoulder, "I suppose you think I want to see my brother pining away from some unknown cause?"

He sat in front of the fire until finally his eyes drooped shut of their own accord.

When he awoke, it was because Sandy was shaking him. The fire was long dead; the sky had lightened; his body was numb with cold.

"I guess it's no concern of mine if you wanted to sleep out here and freeze to death," said Sandy rather sarcastically, "but I think you should know that I can't find Andre anywhere."

Fred's shoulders slumped. "No surprise," he answered dully.

Sandy faced him squarely (I'm getting some adverb overusage here), hands on her hips. "So that's it, is it? I might have guessed it was something to do with him. So, now what are we going to do?"

Fred straightened slowly. His mouth tightened with determination, and he drew out the map. "I am going to do everything in my power to get us to our destination. If it cripples me -- if it kills me."

I'm totally swooning with adoration over here.

By which I mean that I'm about as moved by his speech as by the foot of snow sitting out my window on April 6th.

Sandy glared at him. "We."

He looked blankly at her. (Like, "What, you want to survive too?")

"We," repeated Sandy with visible irritation. "You seem to think you are capable of doing all the work. I want some fun, too."

Some fun? He glared back at her -- then he shrugged. "What are you expecting to do?"

"I dunno." Sandy appeared unconcerned. "First things first, the other two need to know what's going on; I can tell them that." Without waiting for argument she ran off.

Fred's eyes turned to the sky; they searched it for even the most minute sign of where the sun might be. If they did not know that, how were they to have any sense of direction? But the pitiless heaviness showed only the ceaseless, uniform pallor. He scoured the area around him anxiously. That hill looked higher than the others...

Panting, he eventually scaled it, stood, and stared desperately in all directions. At first he passed over the odd, scarcely visible dark thread on the horizon. Then, as his eyes roved over it a second time -- they stopped. He strained his vision; his mind gave a wild leap of hope. Could those possibly be-- yes, they must be! He glanced from the dark line to the map, and back again. What other than the mountains could make such a continuous, unbroken strip? He studied the map once again. The northern range was too far away, and anything farther south than the River Felicity was out of the question. That left the mountains to the east: the Cascades they were called. A resolute light began to burn in his eyes.

All right, please just cut out the HEROICS.

He spent perhaps ten more minutes on the hill top, bent over the piece of paper which was now their only guide. When he returned, everyone else was waiting for him(I keep forgetting that Powhatan is still there); he looked around them, and then pointed what he knew now was southeast. "We go straight that way," he announced quietly, but with certitude.

Fred. My son. You could have done this a long time ago. And you would be safely on your way to EHFC with lots of money left.

So they began the last stage of the journey to Egbert's Home for Children. They had a hope now-- frail though it might be. And he would not let it go... he would not.

Throughout the rest of the day, he continued to feel new firmness in himself: They could make it... they would... And then, as he sat in front of the fire that evening, Sandy tapped him on the shoulder.

"Say, Fred, do you realize that we've got barely any food left?" she hissed.

The world seemed to spin in front of him for long moments. Through the tumult inside him he heard his own voice, strangely calm. "No, I'd completely forgotten."

"I thought so. In fact, I think you forgot that food existed. Here, eat what we've got for supper."

"I'm not hungry."

"Fine, be that way. You won't let anyone be nice to you. I don't know why I even try. Goodness knows it's not fun when no-one appreciates it." Sandy flounced off in a fine temper.

They had to find more food. That was clear enough. But how? What was there to find? He had never seen any wildlife to speak of-- and they had no weapons. mice? He shuddered. He had had enough of rodents for one lifetime. IT DOESN'T MATTER! IF IT'S FOOD YOU EAT IT! As for vegetation, the whole are around them was covered only in scrubby, dry grass-- where it was not hard, bare ground. No wonder he had never seen animals: there was nothing for them to eat.

The full significance of the words hit him like a rock. Nothing-- nothing? No. Not after they had got so far. He wanted it to be a dream. But he knew all too well that it was no dream, that he must do something. What was there to do? And then the idea came, in a flash. It was so unexpected that he nearly fell backwards; instead he merely sat as if he had been turned to stone.

Everything would depend on 1. precisely how much food they had and 2. how fast he could travel. But it was their only chance now. He went over and over it until the very details were burned into his memory; then he got to his feet and stretched his stiff limbs. He had to start now. "Sandy!" he called softly. Was she still awake?

Hold up the action here... lemme say that I don't know what these "details" are. It's an ex-treme-ly simple plan.

"What now? Is that you, Fred?"

"Yes. Sandy, come over here... Look here. This is the only way that we are going to live, and I mean the only way, so please don't argue. I'm going to make for the Egbert place as fast as I possibly can. You, Marjorie, and Powhatan will stay right here. I don't care how bored you get. When I get there..." he would not allow himself to say if, "...when I get there, I'll find help, and we'll come straight back here and get the rest of you. Sandy--" he could see her mouth tightening into obstinate lines-- "Sandy, my mind is made up. Nothing is going to change it. Please, Sandy. Let me do this."

"Let you do it?" grumbled Sandy. "You're doing it whether I let you or not, so why bother. Just go. If prissy Marjorie has hysterics when she hears about this, just remember it's all your fault."

Ha, ha. Marjorie with hysterics. I think Fred is more likely to be having them right now.

Fred wanted to hug her, to kiss her -- to show his affection somehow. But she would have hated it. He only whispered, "I love you, Sandy."

Sandy attempted to look bored. "That's nothing new," she muttered. But Fred caught a brief tremble of her lower lip before she sucked it in stubbornly. She shoved him a small bundle of food and dashed off to her pile of blankets.

I so did not spend enough time developing Sandy's character. She basically turned into Fred's soundboard and that was it.

Fred gazed after her... then he turned his head away and began to run.

*epic music* *Verity snores*

He ran for hours, it seemed, until he could run no more. Then he walked, then ran again, then walked again-- until the blackness of the night dimmed to grey and he could go no further without a rest. He sank to the ground and ate a little. He did not want to get up, not ever again... he wanted only to lie here and sleep...

But he dragged himself to his feet, and walked on. All through that long day he walked, sometimes driving himself into a half-stumbling run, sometimes waking from a half-doze to find himself toppling forward onto the stony ground. As dusk closed in, his mind willed his body to press harder. Time was running out. He had to go faster. And yet he could not. Even when his eyes were open, things were becoming hazier, less real. Was it lack of food, or lack of rest, or both? Soon, he knew, he would fall down-- and never get up again...

Does he... does he have a really weak constitution...? Is he getting over an illness...? What do you mean, lack of food? Sandy gave him some, and they weren't even running low until tonight. Has he been secretly starving himself? Apparently, walking every day does him no harm, but walking + the occasional sprint is... life-threatening?

Suffice it to say, he should be tired by the end of the day, but he should NOT BE HAVING A PHYSICAL BREAKDOWN.

Lights were dancing in front of his vision; he even thought he was hearing voices... slowly he pitched forward. In a daze, he heard the voices coming closer.

"What the--! Who on earth?"

"Poor kid... looks like he ain't had a decent meal in weeks." Apparently he has been starving himself.

"Some kid-- he's at least twenty... probably just another one of your shiftless young folk..." Shiftless, spineless, whiney, morbid... all words to describe Fred Thorn.

"Sandy..." Fred managed to gasp.

"Say, he's awake after all. What's he saying-- something about the sand?"

"Marjorie... Powhatan... back -- way I came... no more food... hurry-- hurry..." Then the blackness closed in completely.

*collapses* There you are, Chapter 4... typos, plot holes, movie stills and all. Many thanks to -peaces-, who typed up much of this for me.