The Lord of the Rings
Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past (Extended)
The morning after Bilbo's disappearance was unlike any other in the history of Hobbiton. The sun rose over the Hill, casting its golden light over Bag End, but the master of the house was gone. For the next few weeks, Frodo Baggins was kept busy dealing with the fallout. Hobbits from all over the Shire arrived, some out of genuine concern, but most out of a greedy desire to see what "freebies" Bilbo had left behind.
There were legal battles with the Sackville-Bagginses, who were convinced that Bilbo hadn't disappeared at all but had hidden himself in the cellar to mock them. Through it all, Frodo felt a strange sense of detachment. He was now the master of Bag End, but the house felt too large, too quiet, and too full of shadows.
Gandalf stayed for a few days, his presence a comfort but also a source of mystery. "Keep it secret, Frodo," the wizard had warned him before departing on a long journey of his own. "Do not use it. It is a dangerous thing."
For seventeen years, the Ring stayed in a velvet-lined box in a locked drawer. Frodo grew older in years, reaching his fiftieth birthday, yet to the eyes of his neighbors, he remained as youthful as the day he came of age. The rumors of "Baggins longevity" continued, but Frodo ignored them. He spent his time walking the meadows, talking to travelers, and waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for, until the shadow finally arrived.
The Return of the Wizard
It was a late spring evening when Gandalf returned. He did not come with fireworks or songs this time. He looked as though he had ridden through a thousand miles of dust and despair. His hat was battered, his cloak was torn, and his eyes were sunken with a knowledge that seemed to weigh more than the world itself.
After a silent dinner, Gandalf sat by the hearth, the firelight reflecting in his deep, thoughtful eyes.
"Frodo," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I have been traveling far and wide, searching for the truth of a thing that has haunted me since Bilbo's party. I have visited the archives of Minas Tirith and searched the dark corners of the wild. It is time we spoke of the Ring."
Frodo felt a cold shiver. He went to the drawer, took out the gold band, and handed it to the wizard. It felt heavier than it used to.
"Look at it," Gandalf whispered. "It is a simple thing, is it not? No jewels. No carvings. Just a plain band of gold. But gold can be a mask for something far more ancient."
Without warning, Gandalf leaned forward and snatched the Ring, throwing it directly into the hottest part of the fire.
Frodo let out a cry of horror. "Gandalf! What are you doing? It's Bilbo's treasure!"
"Wait," Gandalf commanded, his voice echoing with an authority that made the room grow dim.
For several minutes, they watched the gold sit in the glowing coals. Any other metal would have melted or at least glowed red-hot, but the Ring remained cool and bright, unaffected by the flames. Gandalf used a pair of tongs to retrieve it and dropped it into Frodo's palm.
"It is quite cool," Gandalf said. "Take it."
Frodo gasped. The metal was indeed cold to the touch. But as he turned it over, his eyes widened. In the fading heat, lines of fire had appeared—delicate, flowing letters that looked like Elvish script but felt jagged and cruel.
"There are markings," Frodo breathed. "I cannot read them."
"No," said Gandalf. "Few can. The language is that of Mordor, which I will not utter here. In the Common Tongue, it says: One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them."
The Great History of Evil
Gandalf leaned back, his pipe unlit, as he began to weave a tale of terror. He spoke of the Second Age, a time when the world was young but already plagued by shadow. He spoke of Sauron, the lieutenant of the first Great Enemy, who had disguised himself as a fair teacher to trick the Elven-smiths.
"Sauron taught them to forge the Rings of Power," Gandalf explained. "Three for the Elves, Seven for the Dwarves, and Nine for Mortal Men. But in secret, in the fires of Mount Doom, he forged this—the One Ring. He poured his own cruelty, his malice, and his very soul into it. With it, he could perceive the thoughts of all who wore the others. He could bend their wills to his own."
Frodo listened, paralyzed. The Shire, with its green hills and peaceful gardens, felt like a fragile dream that was about to shatter.
"Sauron was defeated once," Gandalf continued. "A great alliance of Elves and Men marched upon Mordor. Isildur, the son of the King, cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. But instead of destroying it in the fire where it was made, he kept it. The Ring betrayed him. It slipped from his finger while he was fleeing Orcs in the Great River, and he was pierced by arrows. The Ring sank into the mud and was lost for two thousand years."
The Creature Gollum
"How did Bilbo find it, then?" Frodo asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"It was found by a creature named Smeagol," Gandalf said, his face twisting in pity. "He was once like a hobbit, living by the river. But the Ring's pull was too strong. He murdered his friend to get it. He was cast out by his people and fled into the dark roots of the Misty Mountains. For five hundred years, the Ring 'stretched' his life, turning him into a miserable, gurgling thing we now call Gollum. He hated the light, and he lived only for his 'Precious.'"
Gandalf sighed deeply. "The Ring has a will of its own, Frodo. It realized that Sauron was stirring again. It wanted to be found. It left Gollum, intending to find a new master, perhaps an Orc. But then, something happened that the Ring did not expect. It was picked up by a Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins."
The Choice of the Hobbit
"So it was a mistake?" Frodo asked.
"No," said Gandalf firmly. "I believe Bilbo was meant to find it. And you were meant to have it. That is a comforting thought, in a way. But the Enemy is moving. He has captured Gollum and tortured the truth out of him. He knows that his Ring has been found, and he knows the name 'Baggins' and the place called 'Shire'."
Frodo looked at the Ring with newfound loathing. "I wish this had not happened in my time," he cried.
"So do all who live to see such times," Gandalf said kindly. "But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. Sauron's power is growing. His Orcs are multiplying. His Black Riders are searching. If he gets this Ring, he will cover all the lands in a second darkness."
Frodo stood up, pacing the small room. "I must destroy it! We must throw it in the fire!"
"This fire is but a candle flame," Gandalf said. "Even the hammers of the Dwarves could not dent this gold. There is only one place where it can be unmade: the Cracks of Doom, in the heart of Mordor itself."
Frodo looked out the window at the peaceful stars. He loved the Shire—the smell of the earth, the taste of beer at the Green Dragon, the safety of his home. But he knew that if he stayed, the Shire would burn.
"I am not a hero, Gandalf," Frodo said, tears stinging his eyes. "But I cannot let the Enemy have it. I will leave. I will take the Ring away."
The Gardener in the Grass
Suddenly, Gandalf stood up and went to the window with the speed of a pouncing cat. He reached out and hauled a small, shaking figure through the casement by the ears.
"Lor' bless me, Mr. Gandalf, sir!" cried Samwise Gamgee. "Don't hurt me! I was just... trimming the grass under the window!"
"At this time of night?" Gandalf roared. "What did you hear?"
"I heard about the Ring, and the Dark Lord, and Elves!" Sam cried, his eyes wide. "And oh, sir, I want to see Elves! Please don't turn me into anything unnatural!"
Gandalf looked at Sam's honest, terrified face and laughed. The tension in the room broke. "I won't turn you into a toad, Samwise. But since you've heard so much, you must pay the price. You will go with Mr. Frodo. If he is to go on a journey, he will need a friend."
Sam's face transformed from terror to pure joy. "Me, sir? Go see Elves and mountains? Oh, thank you, sir!"
And so, in the quiet heart of Bag End, the Fellowship began not with kings or warriors, but with two hobbits and a wizard, planning a journey into the mouth of hell to save the world they loved.