Chapter One Rewrite – Lord of the Rings

And so it came, that on the eve of Bilbo Baggin’s one hundred and eleventh birthday, and his nephew Frodo’s thirty third, that Frodo found himself sitting watching the very same road that his uncle had once travelled out on. About him, the Shire was struck with weather most unbefitting such an auspicious occasion. Most of the older folk agreed that it would clear for the big day tomorrow.

Frodo wasn’t so sure.

Most of the older folk also agreed that there was a change in the air, a cold wind, like when one leaves a door ajar somewhere within ones house. It’s not always so obvious, but its effects can be felt. Frodo stared out over the winding path that headed from the Shire, through rolling fields and comfortable glens. He could feel the cold wind, cutting through even the oilproofed materials of his coat. Even as he sat in the shelter of the same tree had had sat behind, awaiting his now famous uncles return.

So glorious it must have been, to see beyond the Shire. The day dreams passed the time, as thunder rumbled tumultuously on the horizon. Frodo tightened his coat about him, waiting like he had waited then. The weather was pulling more strongly at the branches of the old oak. It spoke softly to Frodo in quiet creaks of protest.

‘Wait for him, my dear Frodo. Wait for him, and you will know him when you see him.’

Thunder rolled again, distant flashes hitting in the storm clouds. Frodo hoped his arrival came sooner rather than later, least he be soaked. The skies felt pregnant with the rain. His approaching thirty third birthday, the age at which a hobbit truly reached adulthood excused him from the preparations. A party held in his honor, as much as his uncles. He knew he could never stand up to the legends and rumors surrounding Bilbo.

Frodo stood up. Gaze cutting through the dim light. What he had at once thought was a traveller on the road had turned out to be one of the tall pines, blowing in the wind. He was more aware this time, but he took a few moments. Waiting. Then he saw it. A lone figure on carriage, wearing a tall hat that close resembled a bent tree.

“Gandalf,” Frodo whispered, reverently. It could be no other.

It felt like an age, but as the man drew closer, Frodo could see the size of him. Tall, like an old fir tree, just as bent and thin. The wind whipped at his grey cloaks, as he sat hunched on the front of the carriage. The horse before him was an equally grey mare, drawing him closer, slow and inevitable. Somehow, even in the gusts, Gandalf’s hat remained fixed. Frodo saw the long, white shock of his beard, a long time before those eyes.

When he drew close enough that he looked up, those eyes, steel grey like the clouds, stared from under his hat. It was then that the skies finally opened up, unable to hold back any longer.

* * *

“Thank you, Frodo,” Gandalf said, excusing the boy. “That will be all.”

Gandalf let himself in, bending low and cautious under the top of the door. Nothing had changed. Everything was as he remembered it. It was as if the entire Shire was immune from the troubles beyond its borders. As close as the ceiling was, the warmth was tighter for it, comforting him against the squall that had chased him most of the way through and pounced on him just before Hobbiton.

“I’ve told you! Just put down extra ropes,” came a call from within. “There’s no need to shift the whole arrangement! Can’t you sort this yourself?”

A short figure came from deeper into the home, and it was truly a home more than any Gandalf had been in. Bilbo’s face was older than he had remembered it, but not nearly as old as it should have been for his age. He cut a curious figure in sharp attire, a yellow waistcoat of silks, rather than the homespun wools of the Shire. He had the look of Man about him. The hobbits face softened when he saw Gandalf’s, and his own too did also.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo exclaimed, drawing closer. “I had thought you would not make it!”

“If that were true, you would have had your nephew sitting through storms on my arrival.” Gandalf put aside his tall staff, shook free the rain from his hat, letting his long and wild hair free. “And that would have been a true shame indeed!”

“He insisted,” replied Bilbo. The hobbit looked harried, a hint of the stress returning to his face. “To be honest, anything to get people out from under foot. Has the sign blown free again? I fear it has. But where are my manners?”

Gandalf followed the hobbit into the sitting room. It was sumptuously appointed with the collected things of a lifetime. Here and there sat reminders of a life that could not have been collected within the limits of a mere hobbits surrounds, but the house at Bag End was everything Gandalf remembered it. Soft couches, easy chairs and books. Collected volumes shared shelf space with curios that even Gandalf had trouble identifying. A hearty fire blazed on the hearth.

“Make yourrself at home, Gandalf,” Bilbo called from the kitchen beyond. “I shall make us some tea. You must be famished after your trip. Was the Brandywine particularly swollen? Which way did you come from?”

Gandalf frowned, glancing about the room. The suspicion was there, still. A feeling. A tiny itch within the pleasant confines of ones home. A window left unlocked when one went out. No doubt any hobbit had ever worried of such a thing, Gandalf thought. He lowered himself onto one of the couches, setting his thoughts aside.

“My trip was well enough, thank you, old friend. I am sorry that I could not come sooner, though.”

“It’s no trouble. Although you might have been useful to ward against my relatives.” There was a bit of a brittle laugh. “I fear they have become worse since I announced my celebration. It’s as if they sense something, Gandalf.”

Gandalf let himself rest back in the couch, finally setting his hat aside. “It is to be expected,” he mused, half to himself. Bilbo came out, a tray laiden with all manner of breads and cheeses. A pot freshly laid, from which emitted the most warm and earthy scents.

“It’s just left overs from breakfast, I hope you don’t mind. Things have been rather frantic lately. Moreso since the party plans have been laid. They fight over the littlest of things.”

Bilbo looked tired. Downtrodden. Gandalf frowned, and felt a sympathy for the hobbit. He took out his pouch, proofed against the rain, and his pipe. Silently, Bilbo set the tray down on a low table and began to pour the strong smelling tea.

“Then you mean to go through with it?” Gandalf asked, cautiously. He watched the hobbit, who seemed more aged even since he had arrived. “All of it.”

“Oh yes. Definitely. Of course,” replied Bilbo. He fussed over the pot and the tea. Finally setting out two cups of the steaming beverage. “All of it.” Bilbo sat back on one of the easy chairs, taking one of the cups up himself. He looked to be carrying a weight, one that Gandalf stay silent in the presence of, knowing that Bilbo would relief himself of it.

“It just hasn’t felt the same,” Bilbo admitted, finally. “Not for many years, Gandalf. I’m tired. More than that. I’m weary. I feel it in my bones. But more than that. I’ve lived here all these years, watching my relatives grow more suspicious. I’ve become somewhat of an outcast, Gandalf. Imagine that! In my dear Hobbiton, where I grew up.

“No. It is time. And I have to go through with it. I have to leave here, Gandalf. Surely you can feel it. It’s best that I just leave here, leave it all to Frodo and hope whatever it is doesn’t pass to him.”

Gandalf began packing his pipe, feeling that same silent itch. Bilbo was right. He did feel it, something within the Shire. But little did Bilbo know that it was more than just that. A trouble that Gandalf had wished he had never visited on the Shire. It wasn’t Bilbo that didn’t belong here.

“I fear I have done you a great injustice my friend,” Gandalf admitted, quietly. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows. Gandalf’s was especially long. “No, hear me out. I should never have visited you all those years ago. There is no place for the world of Man here in the Shire. I have visted it upon you.”

Bilbo shook his head, dismissive. “Surely not, Gandalf. It can’t be. I don’t believe that for a moment. But whatever the reason, it will not change my mind. It is made up. I will be going through with my plan, just as I told you. But I intend to have a little fun, before I go.”

“Oh?” Gandalf asked, letting a wry smile touch his lips. He began to pack his pipe. “And I wonder what that might be …”

“You shall have to wait, Gandalf. Wait like the rest of my family. This will be an occasion long spoken about in the Shire. I assure you that.”

Gandalf just smiled, musing to himself. He tried to shake the feeling of how hard and lean the shadows seemed here, even here. He put his pipe to his lips, and began to light. Tomorrow would be an interesting day indeed.

* * *

“You should be lapping this all up!” exclaimed Pippin. He had stayed close to Frodo’s side since Gandalf’s arrival. The Shire had been abuzz with talk of that, almost more than the party itself. “This is all for you.”

“It’s for Bilbo,” Frodo protested. “I’m not even sure if there will even be a party, at this rate.”

“If Old Rufus says that the weather will hold, I’m sure it will!”

Frodo had opted to stay on the outskirts of it all. There felt something not quite right, underneath all the celebrations. The brew had begun to flow early, and in great abundance. No one had really known when the party was to begin, but Frodo figured that it had started a lot earlier than some had planned. Great kegs had already been broken open, kept close and greedy under the protection of the giant awnings that still pulled and struggled against the weather.

“At least there will be plenty of food,” Pippin said. The hobbit was a few years younger than Frodo, for more eager for the excesses in life, despite maintaining such a thin build. ‘Nothing natural will come of it,’ his parents had said. ‘No hobbit should be truly so thin!’. “And weed for the smoking. All of the fun, but none of the work. Isn’t that a dream?”

Frodo managed a smile, if for no reason other than the enthusiasm of his friend. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am!”

Frodo wondered where Bilbo had got to. He had gone up to the house a number of times during the day, but found the door locked. He had retrieved the sign that had said ‘No admittance, except on party business’, and stuck it back to the green door, but it seemed that since Gandalf had arrived, Bilbo was admitting no one. The mans presence had scared of all but the most die hard of their family.

Until his most legendary uncle made an appearance, he would have the bare the brunt of the well wishes. Frodo grimaced a little under the congratulations of yet another relative. One of the Proudfoots.

“Quick! Let’s get a place at the table, before we lose it!” Pippin remarked, pulling him into the tight press of the tent. “Your uncle is bound to be here soon. I don’t think anyone would miss this for the world.”

“Maybe that’s what he’s counting on,” Frodo reflected. Inside the tent, the heat was incredible, even with the cold, lashing winds. A boozy cheer went up, and Frodo glanced around, looking for his uncle. It took a moment for him to realize that the cheer was for him.

Frodo threaded through the maze of faces. The malty smell was thick in the air, along with the rich tang of sweat, mingled with the earthy spices of cooking. The press was tighter, the singing loud on Frodo’s ears as he stayed close to Pippin. He kept his eyes locked on the rich green of his friends attire. A hint of flamboyance. A style taking after the legendary Bilbo.

‘That’s all they want,’ Frodo reflected. ‘They’re gathering here like hounds. They all have since they heard about this occasion. They all know it.’

The legendary Bilbo was swamped in rumor almost as much as what might really be hidden in that fabulous house on Bag End. All manner of myths surrounded the late night visitors, and the treasures that packed it’s deep tunnels. One rumor Frodo had heard spoke of how the tunnels ran all the way to the edges of the Shire itself.

The more Frodo felt the stare of the gathered, the more he noticed their rosey faces, warm with liquor. The smiles were wide and full enough, but there was a lack of honesty to it. And those eyes. Frodo could see the greed, working out deep in the eyes of his family. Terrible looks that he pretended that he had only imagined.

“He’s here!!”

“Bilbo!” went up another cry. It was one of the Sackville-Bagginses. There had been a brawl earlier about seating arrangements, and that particular family was now seated closest to the main table. “Bilbo’s here!”

Frodo glanced towards the main table, hoping it was true. It was. He caught the smile of his uncle, who was already greeting with a number of hobbits that had suddenly appeared at his side. Frodo pushed his way through the throng, closer still. When he finally reached his uncles side, he found Bilbo’s hand on his shoulder, and a close whisper at his ear.

“Stay close, dear Frodo. The fun’s about to begin!”

By fun, Bilbo had surely meant food, of which there was an abundance that Frodo had never seen before. The celebrations now renewed with the arrival of their host and plates laiden with all manner of meats. Frodo almost became a little shamefully used to being waited on, as food was bought to the main table, and others. He began to forget his worries as he ate, along with the rest of his family.

The beer continued to flow freely, the smell of it and the heat of the food and crowds pressing tightly at Frodo’s temples. He tried to let himself relax, but there was still that pent, nervous expectation in the air. He ate in silence, watched. Bilbo seemed almost as young as him, filled with a cheer and spirit that he hadn’t seen in his uncle for years.

That alone must have been a good thing.

When the third course of desserts had finally been cleared up, the sense of expectation was as rich as the syrupy puddings. Pipes were taken out for the smoking, and flaggons filled anew, in anticipation of the speech that was surely to come. The time was ripe and richly appointed for it.

“My friends!” Bilbo remarked, and a hush fell about the tent, leaving for the moment just the sounds of the storm brewing outside. He paused a moment longer, adding it like an afterthought, “Family.

“I see a lot of my family here today. Boffins and Sackville-Bagginses. Proudfoots –”

“ProudFEET!” came a cry, deeper into the gathered. A laugh rippled across the gathered, one well lubricated by beer.

“Proudfoots,” repeated Bilbo, with a smile. He glanced down at Frodo for the moment, before continuing. “I shant keep you with long speeches. I have three things to announce today, and so with that I will keep things short.”

There was a general murmur of encouragement at that. Frodo could feel the sense in the air, but then, maybe it was the weather, that rumbled again outside the tents. The winds too seemed to drop, like the lands were holding their breath for Bilbo’s words. Frodo watched his uncle, his hand dipped into the pocket of his waistcoat, looking every part the elder statesman he spoke like.

“Firstly, and this is not so much an announcement as an acknowledgement, that of my own one hundred and eleventh birthday, but moreso of Frodo’s thirty third. Truly a coming of age of my nephew, one of whom I have never been prouder of.”

Frodo felt the flush of acknowledgement, uncomfortable with the attention as a few scattered cheers went through the gathered. Bilbo waited them out, but they were short lived, as the attention stayed on the hobbit.

“Second, I would like to take this opportunity to announce Frodo as my sole heir and benefactor of my will. I will be passing all my worldly belongings to him, and to him alone.”

With this, there was something of a collective, choaked gasp, and Frodo stared up at his uncle sharply. He tried to find the words to protest, but the murmurs of disbelief and general ill in the air was swelling sharply. Bilbo refused to look at him, just staring at the gathered revelers with a grim and aged look.

“Thirdly. Thirdly!”

The quiet returned, although it was an entirely different sort. Frodo saw the sharp and angry looking faces in the crowd, felt his stomach tense against the food of the feast. He looked to his uncle, and saw that same grim look.

“I know half as much of you as I should like, and I like half as much of you as you should deserve,” Bilbo remarked, his hard tone carrying across the tent. “One hundred and eleven years is too long a time to spend amongst your company, and the last twenty has shown me that even another ten would be too much to bear.

“My third announcement is this. It is over. I am leaving, and I won’t be returning. GOOD BYE.”

With that, Bilbo simply vanished. A hideous moan passed through the crowd, although Frodo found in his shock wondering if it was something entirely different. There was a sharp bile in the air, like the beer turned stale, as the gathered hobbits shouted and broke into talk at the sudden disappearance.

Frodo just stared at the place where his uncle had stood. Something of it didn’t seem real at all, but the proof of it was there. Bilbo was gone.

* * *

Gandalf was smoking in the living room when he heard the door bang closed. He had felt something in the very core of his being, one that he had not felt for the longest of times. Something told him that it was only a matter of time before Bilbo arrived. The fire had gutted quickly, with the wind from outside, and then it was still again.

“Finally free!”

Gandalf looked up, hearing Bilbo’s voice before the hobbit stepped into the lounge. He still felt that churned sensation in his stomach, frowning as he watched Bilbo head lightly within. Bilbo almost looked younger and more playful, a weight gone from his shoulders.

“It’s done, Gandalf,” he exclaimed. No sooner than he was in the lounge that he headed through to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with the pack that he had prepared earlier. “I’ve told them all what I think of them. Now I’m finally free!”

“That’s good.”

“This is going to be the start of something truly wonderful,” Bilbo said. He was filled with life and ready to begin, Gandalf noticed. Gandalf puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “It’s a pity that you won’t be coming with me Gandalf. It will be like old times.”

“You have everything in order then?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Bilbo, bothered by the question. He pulled an envelope out of his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the mantlepiece. “My last will, and testiment. Oh, that surprised the family no end! Imagine their faces, Gandalf, you couldn’t! When I told them that Frodo would be getting it all. Nothing for any of them, the toads.”

“And the rest?”

Bilbo glanced towards Gandalf, looking bewildered. “Rest?”

“The ring, Bilbo. As we agreed.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Bilbo dug about in his pocket and pulled it out, a simple gold ring. They both looked at it, for all the innocence that it was. “I was thinking about that. I don’t se why I can’t keep hold of it. It’s probably safer with me anyway, rather than here. No doubt one of the Sackville-Bagginses will get hold of it. Hah! It will hardly be safe then, will it –”

“Bilbo. As we agree.”

Bilbo paused, going silent. Holding the ring in his palm. Gandalf felt a chill in the air, that carried despite the warmth of the fire. “Well, it’s mine, though. Isn’t it.”

“It’s not yours Bilbo. You merely came across it, and it will pass like it passed from that poor wretch Gollum.”

“But it chose me,” Bilbo insisted, quickly angry. His mood quickly gutted up like the fire under the wind when he had opened the door. “Didn’t it. And why shouldn’t it? Who more deserving. After all, it is my precious, my –”

“BILBO BAGGINS,” Gandalf thundered, rising from his seat. His form took height and power, sending the hobbit scrambling backwards, all but tripping over his pack. “Do not toy with me! Even now you sound like Gollum, do you not see it?”

“You mean to take it!” said Bilbo, finding a sudden, desperate courage. “Take it then! Take it, Gandalf!”

“Do not offer it to me, Bilbo, merely surrender it! Surrender it’s hold on you, now that it claws deep into your soul at this last minute!”

Bilbo shrunk, defeated. He stared at the ring for the longest of moments. His voice was powerless and meek when he finally spoke, “Of course. You’re right, Gandalf. I don’t know … I don’t know what came over me …”

“There is something more to the ring, more than I suspected, Bilbo. It is more dangerous than I suspected.” Gandalf found something itching again at his mind. A thought, a fleeting feeling. Something that would require study and investigation. Maybe Bilbo had been right, maybe he hadn’t visited the evils of the World of Man on the Shire. Maybe it had come in an entirely different form.

“I should like to see mountains,” Bilbo said, finally. He drew his pack up to his shoulder, glancing towards the fire. “Elves. Like before. One last adventure, Gandalf. That’s all that I feel I have left in me. I guess this is is.”

“Indeed.”

“But I will see you again?”

“Of course, Bilbo,” Gandalf remarked, softly. He was still partly lost in his thoughts. Bilbo was already heading towards the door. “The ring, Bilbo.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Bilbo stopped, right at the brink. He fumbled nervously in the pocket of his waistcoat, bringing it out. “Here it is. How did it get there?”

Gandalf stared down at Bilbo, wondering if he needed to draw on the same power again, to force the ring from Bilbo. He watched as Bilbo stared down at the simple gold band, sitting there on his palm. The hobbit turned his hand, and slowly, relucantly, the ring slipped from his gasp.

It hit the ground with more weight than it aught to.

“Goodbye,” Bilbo whispered, finally. Gandalf nodded, although he was not sure if he was farewelling himself or the ring. Bilbo drew a long breath, already starting to look his age, but surely a trick of the shadows. And then he was gone.

Gandalf sat again, as the door closed. He thought that he heard Bilbo singing as he headed down the path of Bag End, but the sound of it was lost to the storm. Gandalf stared at the ring, silent and solitary there on the floor, and thought.

An hour passed like a moment. Gandalf looked up with a start when he realized Frodo was standing at the doorway, looking down at the same ring.

“Bilbo’s ring. What is it doing there?”

Frodo reached down to take it, and Gandalf felt a powerful urge to stop him. But then it was done. The young hobbit looked at it, holding it up to the light like some curio. Gandalf thought on whether he had made yet another mistake. His pipe was long cold and dead, it’s flame gone out.

“Hide it,” Gandalf said, none too kind. “Put it in the darkest and deepest of cupboards, and speak to no one of it. Do not even think of it, Frodo.”

“Of course, Gandalf, but –”

“Do not question me on this, boy. Merely do it, and carry my instruction to the word. Do it now.”

Gandalf rose, and felt the panic in the air, the movement as he shifted to get his things. Realization dawned on him, and he saw Frodo move to put the ring away in a cupboard near the fireplace. It was a deep cupboard, like a warren, going back far. But was it far enough? Gandalf grabbed up his hat, seeing Frodo’s frightened expression.

“Say nothing of it. Do nothing. Merely carry on your life as if you had never seen it. That, and await my return, and hope that I am wrong, boy. Wrong, or surely the entire Middle Earth will be lost!”