This story is very old-almost a decade since I typed the first words. I was basically a kid at the time. It blows my mind to think I had so much time and energy to spend, but I was quite literally obsessed with Lord of the Rings and writing, equally. This story is still the longest I've ever completed, and the most ambitious endeavor I've ever undertaken. Even though I've grown and changed as a writer, none of my stories has so satisfied me since.
Then, for some reason, I took it all down. Maybe I was embarrassed to be a nerd. Maybe I was trying to move away from fanfic-clearly, I've been unsuccessful.
Anyway, here it is again.
Ch 1.
Date: 1430 SR and diverges from that point. The reader ought not expect most of the future events documented by J.R.R. Tolkien.
Retirement agreed with Frodo Baggins. After the death of his Uncle Bilbo, Frodo had returned to The Shire and to his home, Bag End, in Hobbiton, which Samwise Gamgee had graciously returned to him. He devoted his time in The Shire to reading tales and histories, as he had in his youth. However, the education had lost some of its luster, for Frodo felt there was very little left for him to learn, and very few stories that did not repeat themselves...
The day was like most in The Shire: sunny, bright, and perfumed with flowers and leaf. Frodo sat beneath a tall tree, reading a story he had found among the remnant of his uncle's personal library, and smoking his pipe. He murmured the words softly to himself, lest he lose his page. However, he had presently become aware that his spoken words were forming a some sort of pattern, with an emphasis on every third or forth syllable.
Footsteps. A rustle ran through the fallen autumn leaves.
Frodo looked up from his book and forward, and then behind the tree as he realized that was where the noises were coming. A good book often caused him to lose track of his surroundings. A few yards off was a young hobbit, about half Frodo's age. He was lean, too lean, and with an unruly mass of golden curls. His face was handsome, if rather fair for a male, and his skin was very red, obviously from sun. He walked with tired feet, as if lifting them were a great chore. His clothing was slightly oversized, and he carried a bulging leather pack on his shoulders.
Most notably, however, there was a large and heavy sword slung low on the boy's hip. The sheath was ornate, decorated with uncountable red and green gems. The handle appeared to be made of gold. Frodo pondered what sort of hobbit this boy was to be the owner of such a fine, although most certainly decorative, weapon.
The boy passed Frodo and stopped a meter further to look down the hill to the town in the distance. Pointing to it, he turned. "Is that Hobbiton?" his voice was a little higher than Frodo expected. Frodo wondered if the boy was younger than he appeared. He didn't sound to be a day over twenty.
Frodo closed his book and balanced it on his knees. "Of course it is."
"I wish to stay at an inn. Does it cost much?"
"It depends upon on who you know," Frodo said with a laugh. "And where you are from." He gestured with his eyes to the sword on the boy's hip. "But I would think you might barter, or haggle for a good price."
The boy's hand moved to the hilt of the sword, wrapping his fingers around it one at a time.
"You carry an interesting weapon."
The boy's grip tightened.
"May I see it? It's quite beautiful."
The boy's eyes, which were round and the color of moss, blinked slowly. He unclipped the weapon for his belt and approached slowly. Frodo reached out and took the sword and sheath from him. He held it gently with both hands, as if it was a delicate infant. The boy knelt down across from Frodo, watching him with a cautious glare.
"It's was given to me by my father."
Frodo pulled the sword from it's sheath. The blade was thick, carved with a very detailed battle scene. The location was like no place he had ever seen. There was a great stretch of flat ground, with an enormous hill in the center and an ocean crashing violently on a jagged coast.
"My greatest of grandfathers was a warrior."
Frodo squinted at the carving, looking for anything he could recognize, but the time in history was foreign to him. This interested him more than anything else, even the boy himself. "What's your name?" he asked as he covered the sword and returned it.
"Wilibald Gainwink."
Frodo asked Wilibald where he was from.
"Much farther that you've ever traveled, I'm sure," he said smugly and clipped the sword back on his leather belt.
"Oh, you shouldn't be so sure of that," said Frodo said with a smile.
The boy hummed a low, and unimpressed note.
"My name's Frodo Baggins."
The color of Wilibald's sunburned cheeks began to drain. "F-Frodo Baggins?"
"You've heard of me?" He finished with a smug smile, which became him nonetheless.
The boy began to sputter and choke. "Are-are the stories true?" He clutched his chest and leaned forward, his green eyes frozen on the older hobbit.
"That would depend on what you've heard. If you're referring to The Ring and Mount Doom, then yes, the basis for them is true." Frodo then lifted his hand and showed the boy the stub of his missing finger. "Although I fear that some may have turned me into an epic hero and embellished the details of my feats beyond what I deserve."
Wilibald gaped at Frodo. The color had yet to return to his face and he blinked wildly. "Mr. Baggins, you don't know the honor I have in coming upon you. For years the story of your adventure has circled in my kingdom. Most say that it is just a myth and that none of it could possibly have ever happened, but I've always believed. You've been my hero my whole life!"
Frodo laughed with amusement. He stood and brushed the leaves that clung to his pants and shirt. "Well, why don't you join me for tea and we can try to separate fact from fiction, all right?"
Wilibald jumped to his feet, his eyes stuck on Frodo with intense admiration. They walked down the hill and began on the road to Hobbiton.
