Prologue

"A Curious Encounter"

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to..."

These were the words imparted so long ago to the black curly-haired hobbit Frodo, nestled in the crook of a large poplar tree. He was smoking a pipe, ruminating and contemplating the sinister thoughts whirling around in his mind. He was far from at ease; the poor halfling had been, only days ago, subjected to a task far beyond his skill. He had known only so much in his previous life; in his youth, he was merely a rascal and a pest of Buckland, paired with a few of his beloved childhood friends, namely his two troublesome cousins. As he pondered, he remembered his innumerable misadventures into Farmer Maggot's property. He remembered his father and mother fondly; the memories of their deaths by the Brandywine River always brought tears to his eyes. He remembered his adoption by Bilbo Baggins, a well-off elderly hobbit of Bag End. Bilbo raised Frodo through his coming-of-age, teaching him Elvish which the former learned on his journeys.

It seemed as though it were only yesterday that the meager responsibility of Bag End's new master and the perilous responsibility of the One Ring both fell onto his small shoulders, despite they both had occurred more than a decade ago. His uncle had left for an Elf-haven to the East, which to Frodo's knowledge, was called Rivendell by most common-folk. Frodo knew the journey was inevitable; his uncle had grown weary day-by-day for the sixty years during which the Ring was in his possession, and the final call for adventure reached its full height at the day of his 111th birthday.

An old, forgotten friend assigned him the task of taking the power-hungry artifact to Rivendell just a few days ago, years since his last visit, where more powerful, capable hands could decide properly its fate. Less officially, Frodo's companion, a hobbit of wider yet tougher stature and beige-colored hair, was also assigned this mortal undertaking. Samwise Gamgee, a loyal friend unto the end, accompanied Frodo everywhere his master went, never faltering.

Frodo felt he was entering a new life, making a transition from the known and comfortable to the unknown and perilous, and it all overwhelmed him. However, well-wishing thoughts to Uncle Bilbo and affectionate thoughts of Sam tempered with the baneful ones and calmed them, allowing the overwhelmed halfling a breath of fresh air, however temporary.

Something beautiful made those lighter thoughts more permanent. Something within the physical world of Arda. It made him come to life. He sat up from his perch, and looked around him for the source of an unnaturally exquisite song.

"Sam!" Frodo alerted.

"Eh?" Sam turned to his best friend, also studying the intricate sounds.

"Wood-elves!" the former remarked, recognizing the familiar language and grace of tone.

Within seconds, the hobbits were up upon their tough-soled feet, scampering through the brush to find the song's source. They suspected elves, and this was indeed true. A line of white-garmented elvestrekked carefully through the woods, singing their entrancing, melodic tune. The wood-elves' movements seemed to follow their rhythm of song; the movements were tuned into their chorus to maintain perfect harmony. The phenomenon overwhelmed the miniscule halflings looking upon them in awe.

"They're going to the harbor beyond the White Towers," Frodo informed softly and sorrowfully, "To the Gray Havens..."

Sam hung his head sadly. "They're leaving Middle-Earth..."

"Never to return..." Frodo agreed.

"I don't know why," Sam choked after a long pause, "It makes me sad."

"The elves have been fading for a long time," Frodo explained, shutting his eyes as if mourning the death of someone near and dear to his heart, "They long for the call of the West."

"It doesn't bring me much comfort," Sam admitted with a sigh.

The two sat in heavy silence for a few moments until the once beautiful song, now laced with the reminders of Arda's deciding fate, faded into nothingness. This was when Frodo made the decision the two halflings should retire, and Sam readily agreed.

~o~

"Everywhere I lie, there's a dirty gray root sticking into my back," Sam complained, tossing and turning in his makeshift bed. The two were back at their camping spot for the night, and Sam, though tough and resilient, could not understand the sacrifices made in an adventure.

Frodo, eyes still shut, smiled slightly and muttered, "Just shut your eyes, and imagine you're back in your own bed, with a soft mattress and a fluffy feather pillow."

"It's not worth it, Mr. Frodo," Sam continued with hesitation, "I'll never be able to sleep out here."

"Me neither, Sam," Frodo conceded with a sigh, still smiling.

The two were on the verge of sleep, when another disturbance echoed through the night. This time, it was a far cry from the beautiful, seductive song of the elves. It entailed more of a shrill scream. It caused the two hobbits sudden jolts, and acting on instinct, they raced towards the sound of the noise. One would have expected an average hobbit to turn and flee, but with the song of otherworldly courage frozen like runes into the two halflings' hearts, they did the opposite instead. It was an action that defied the myths of the Big-folk.

It took just a few seconds for the hobbits to reach the supposed location of the noise, but there was no creature as they expected, at least not one hiding in plain sight.

"Let's scout the area," Frodo suggested.

Sam only nodded anxiously. They both searched, fighting various thorns and other obstructions as thoroughly as possible. Neither knew how much time had passed before Sam toppled over something. When he gathered himself, he took a closer look, and hidden within a copse of thick brush was the body of a thin, lean woman.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam called urgently, "I found someone!"

"What?" Frodo responded quickly, sprinting to the weary hobbit staring at some brush.

"Look, there's a woman here," Sam explained. He moved the brush apart to prove it.

Both stared down curiously at the fallen damsel. She had long, naturally straight, dark brown hair hopelessly tangled by burrs, twigs, and leaves. It covered her down to her upper back, which ended with torn, rudimentary leather armor and an empty satchel which must have contained the arrows to a bow. But nothing on this body stood out more than the nasty head injury sustained by whatever struck her. The back of her head was heavily bruised from trauma, and scarlet red blood oozed from the wound. It didn't appear fatal to the halflings' small minds, which gave them slight comfort.

Frodo and Sam decisively pulled her from the brush so they could see the poor woman more clearly. Only after they did so were they in the right position to awaken her.

"Is this a good idea?" Sam whispered to his friend.

"Hush, Sam," Frodo chided, "She was hurt. And she doesn't look dangerous."

Sam let his master make the decisions from then on, trusting his friend's judgment however reluctantly.

"My lady?" Frodo gently probed, "Are you alright?"

The woman did not respond; Frodo noted she was still breathing, though shakily, so she was just unconscious. However, the halfling had little knowledge of bodily ailments. As a result, his next few attempts were anything but successful.

"You could try poking her with a stick," Sam proposed anxiously.

"What good will come of that?" Frodo asked in exasperation.

"It's only an idea, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered with chronic shudders.

Once again, Frodo conceded to his friend, and he grabbed a nearby stick to gently poke at the woman's side, uttering the same words he did before.

He didn't know by what miracle allowed the woman to finally wake; at first, her slow, undead-like movements startled them and made them rush backwards away from her. Her dirtied and scarred face showed her confusion and delirium as a result of her being unsconscious. She groaned and as she lifted herself weakly from the ground, she grasped the back of her head where her injury was sustained.

The hobbits waited warily for the woman to respond to their presence. When she turned to face them, she looked more addled than before.

"Hello?" Frodo whispered soothingly, approaching the damsel, "My lady, are you alright?"

"Man ci?" she coughed out her response weakly, as though she were barely clinging to life.

"She speaks Elvish?" Sam asked, his turn to be confused, "What is she saying?"

"I don't know much Elvish, but..." Frodo muttered, trying to remember the lessons Bilbo taught him, "...I think she wants to know who we are."

When Sam didn't say a word, Frodo added, "Mea perian."

"Perian...?" the woman trailed off weakly, continuing to cough.

"Athon," Frodo confirmed, nodding.

"Ask her if she speaks Westron," Sam insisted.

"Wait," Frodo commanded. He turned back to the woman, and asked, "Man in eneth lin?"

Clear to them now she was an elf from her exposed ears and her language, she groaned more and put her hand to her forehead as if trying to think, but nothing came of it.

"U-aniron abgin."

An impatient Sam asked, "What is she saying?"

"She doesn't know her name."