CHAPTER ONE: Tiny Treasure
He hardly ever left it unattended.
He was always in a position where he would know just exactly where it was at all times- and most times, it was nestled safely in the pocket of his waistcoat. While he slept, it lay on his bedside table, or, on more frantic nights of paranoia, clutched in the palm of his hand.
He liked having it around. It always comforted him to know that it was nearby; his, and his alone, something that belonged to no one else but him, and that, if he had his way, wouldn't belong to anyone else.
There were those moments, however, those rare, few-and-far-between moments when, by some inexplicable twist in the mind, he felt at least somewhat safe leaving it alone and by itself. These were usually the times when he was alone in the house, and there was a very slim chance of anyone coming along and snatching it away. And they were also, most often, times when he was occupied in activities that would make it difficult for it to be very near to him.
Like, for instance, taking a bath.
He emerged happily from the steam-filled bathroom, humming to himself, and wrapped in a towel. He briskly dried, and, tossing the towel aside, began to dress. Undergarments, shirt, pants, waistcoat, and jacket. Ruffling the towel through his hair with one hand, he casually put his other hand into his vest pocket, searching for the item.
It wasn't there.
A panicked look flashed quickly through his grey-blue eyes, but the emotion was quickly tossed aside with a small shake of the head. He must have left it in his other pocket. Yes, that was it.
But it wasn't there, either.
He set the towel down, both hands now searching frantically. They searched the pockets of the jacket and then the waistcoat again, and then patted themselves down the sides of his pants.
Nothing. Nowhere. Gone.
It was gone. . .
*
10 minutes earlier. . .
Frodo Baggins munched on a piece of cheese he had snatched out of the pantry, listening to the muted humming and snatches of song emerging from behind the bathroom door. He had always enjoyed the sounds of music, even when they came from Uncle Bilbo while singing in the tub. Music was something that made him feel happy, and safe in a way, even though his young mind couldn't really comprehend of such a thing.
One other thing he didn't have a real notion about was the death of his parents. He understood that they were "gone", that they had "went away", and wouldn't be coming back for a long, long while. . . But death was something foreign to him, as it is to all children and little hobbits, something so far off, so distant, that it seems inconceivable.
Popping the last bit of cheese into his mouth, he passed by the bathroom door. His Uncle's garments were lying on a wooden chest nearby.
Sauntering over curiously, Frodo picked up a few of his Uncle's clothes. They were big. . . almost as big as he was.
He stepped into the pants, and tried to pull them up. But he almost had to stretch his arms to reach the ends.
Then he snatched the vest.
He pulled it on over his head, or rather, pushed his head into it, and squished up the top so he could get his arms through the holes in the sides. He laughed, and turned around in a circle, letting the vest billow outwards like a dress.
Then he stopped, got his bearings, took a small look around, and then found something new to occupy himself with.
He began searching the pockets.
There was nothing in the first one. Disappointing. Nothing was always boring.
There was something in the other one.
Something was always exciting. Always intriguing.
He pulled it out.
It was a loop of cool metal- gold. It was pretty. The light from the window glinted off of it. Shiny.
As he held it between his fingers, it shrunk. Frodo smiled. He didn't have many things his size- and a small loop of gold that could change sizes was definitely interesting.
He wanted it.
Frodo squirmed out of the vest and tossed it back onto the wooden chest, running off with his new treasure clutched in his fist.
*
Where could it BE?
He had checked the floor by the chest, his bedside table, the kitchen. . . Maybe he had taken it into the bathroom without knowing it.
But apparently not.
Bilbo gritted his teeth behind closed lips. It was silly to act so frantic over such a little trinket. Irrational.
But it was HIS! His one precious possession. How could he have lost it?
His hands fiddled with themselves nervously, as if searching within themselves for the ring. But there was no comfort found, no respite. There was nothing.
He had to find it.
*
Frodo sat out by the gate of his Uncle's hobbit-hole, gazing at the loop of metal in his tiny palm. He ran a finger around it, circling, feeling how smooth it was. He tilted it this way and that, letting the light of the sun shine off of it.
Pretty.
He wanted to put it on.
The impulse came seemingly out of nowhere, but Frodo didn't question it. Children rarely question their impulses.
He slipped it onto his finger.
The change that took place in the world was terrifying- and amazing. Everything turned grey and black and blue, and a wind seemed to rise up from the ground, flapping Frodo's hair and clothes around him carelessly. There was a sound like the flapping of a thousand wings, and a sudden feeling of being completely lost and alone- like you were invisible.
At first the little hobbit wanted to cry and scream, but another part of him, a different part from somewhere deep inside him, told him to explore this world. It was somewhere new- somewhere exciting. Somewhere scary, in a way- but he didn't want to go back. Not just yet.
He stood up.
He walked halfway across the dirt path that stood by the gate. The ground felt strange under his feet. Like it wasn't real ground.
The wind continued to blow.
Suddenly Frodo heard another sound rise above the wind- the sound of pony's hooves, clopping wildly in the dirt.
He turned to see a pony racing down the dirt path towards him. Someone was in a hurry.
"Stop!" Frodo cried, holding out his hands, but the rider didn't stop. It galloped towards him, coming dangerously close.
Frodo screamed, and dived for cover, landing hard on the grass at the opposite end of the road from his Uncle's house. The pony galloped on.
Frodo watched after the pony for a long while, until the sound of its hooves faded, and the wind and white noise of silence took over again. He had had enough of this world- he wanted to take off the ring.
So he did.
There was a sort of snapping, and the wind and the noise ceased, and Frodo lay gasping at the side of the road.
"Hullo there, Frodo."
The little dark-haired hobbit looked up. Standing over him were his cousins, Peregrin and Meriadoc, and his friend, Samwise. They were all looking down at him, quite inquisitively. Their parents, meanwhile, had already vanished inside Bilbo's home, having arrived for dinner.
"How'd you do that?" asked Peregrin. The youngest of the four hobbits, Pippin was small and unassuming, but was certainly the quickest to open his mouth.
"Do what?" Frodo asked.
"Didn't you just come here out of nowhere?" Pippin asked.
"Why are you lying on the ground?" asked Samwise.
Frodo hesitated. He couldn't explain in the slightest what had just happened- and, as such, was at a loss for words. So he decided to start with what he knew.
"I. . ." he stammered, and got to his feet, "I found this in my uncle's pocket." He showed them the ring.
"What is it?" asked Merry.
"It's a ring," said Frodo excitedly, "And it changes sizes."
"It what?" Pippin asked.
"It gets smaller when you touch it," said Frodo, "Watch." And he held out his hand and gave it to Meriadoc.
But nothing happened.
"Nothing's happening," said Meriadoc, twiddling with the ring. It felt nice holding it- it was so small, and smooth. But heavy.
"Well, it happened before," Frodo said, running a hand through his hair. Somehow he suddenly didn't like the thought of Merry holding the ring. He snatched it away from his cousin, "Give it here. Maybe it'll do it again." He held his hand with his palm upward, the ring in the center.
The four little hobbits arranged themselves in a circle, keeping their eyes on the ring in Frodo's hand.
Little Pippin looked at the ring. He tilted his head to one side. His nose wrinkled. Still nothing was happening. This was boring.
The ring did look nice, though. Shiny. Pretty.
"Mine!" he exclaimed, and his tiny hand grabbed it from Frodo's.
"Hey!" Frodo exclaimed.
"Give it back!" said Merry.
Pippin shook his head, and backed away from the others, his hand grasped tightly around the trinket. "It's mine!" he insisted.
"I found it!" Frodo insisted.
"Give it here!" Merry exclaimed, holding out his hand.
"NO," said Frodo, grabbing Meriadoc's wrist, "He's not going to give it to YOU. It's MINE."
"I'm not giving it to EITHER of you," Pippin teased, dancing around in a little circle, "It's MINE now, 'cause I got it."
Frodo and Merry rushed at him.
Someone watching this scene from a distance would think of how endearing they were, these little rascals tussling in the dirt. But a close observer would be surprised by the sudden ferocity of the little hobbits' dispute, which was just far enough over the normal level of play-fights to make one worry. Which was exactly what it was doing to Samwise, who somehow had felt little desire to posses the ring. He did, however, want to stop his friends from fighting. So he, too, rushed into the fray.
The tiny ball of frantically scrabbling bodies rolled around for a few minutes, until it ended in a sudden cry of pain. Tangled in a scrap with others all larger than him, Pippin had decided to take more desperate measures, sinking his tiny teeth into the first object they could find- Sam's left hand.
The spell of the ring was temporarily broken with Sam's cry. All four children stopped dead in the dust, and Sam cradled his hand, two tears blubbering down his cheeks.
"Sam?" asked Frodo.
"He bit me," Sam whimpered.
"Who has the ring?" asked Merry. He, Frodo, and Pippin all looked at each other.
"I don't care who has it, I don't care," Sam said, sitting up painfully, "Why'd you bite me?"
"Everybody open your hands," said Merry. He held out his empty palms. Frodo went nest, offering his bare hands.
Sam followed. He held nothing.
Frodo and Merry looked accusingly at their younger cousin. Pippin, for his part, set an indignant look on his face, and held out his hands.
They were empty.
Sam sniffled.
"What'd you do with it?" Merry accused Pip.
"I didn't do anything," said the younger hobbit.
"Everybody empty your pockets," said Frodo.
But they never got the chance. At that moment, Merry's mother opened the door and called out across the road, "Frodo! Merry! Pippin! Sam! Time to come in, boys!"
For a second time, the spell was broken. Frodo and Merry helped Sam to his feet, and they and Pippin walked back across the dirt road towards the door.
He hardly ever left it unattended.
He was always in a position where he would know just exactly where it was at all times- and most times, it was nestled safely in the pocket of his waistcoat. While he slept, it lay on his bedside table, or, on more frantic nights of paranoia, clutched in the palm of his hand.
He liked having it around. It always comforted him to know that it was nearby; his, and his alone, something that belonged to no one else but him, and that, if he had his way, wouldn't belong to anyone else.
There were those moments, however, those rare, few-and-far-between moments when, by some inexplicable twist in the mind, he felt at least somewhat safe leaving it alone and by itself. These were usually the times when he was alone in the house, and there was a very slim chance of anyone coming along and snatching it away. And they were also, most often, times when he was occupied in activities that would make it difficult for it to be very near to him.
Like, for instance, taking a bath.
He emerged happily from the steam-filled bathroom, humming to himself, and wrapped in a towel. He briskly dried, and, tossing the towel aside, began to dress. Undergarments, shirt, pants, waistcoat, and jacket. Ruffling the towel through his hair with one hand, he casually put his other hand into his vest pocket, searching for the item.
It wasn't there.
A panicked look flashed quickly through his grey-blue eyes, but the emotion was quickly tossed aside with a small shake of the head. He must have left it in his other pocket. Yes, that was it.
But it wasn't there, either.
He set the towel down, both hands now searching frantically. They searched the pockets of the jacket and then the waistcoat again, and then patted themselves down the sides of his pants.
Nothing. Nowhere. Gone.
It was gone. . .
*
10 minutes earlier. . .
Frodo Baggins munched on a piece of cheese he had snatched out of the pantry, listening to the muted humming and snatches of song emerging from behind the bathroom door. He had always enjoyed the sounds of music, even when they came from Uncle Bilbo while singing in the tub. Music was something that made him feel happy, and safe in a way, even though his young mind couldn't really comprehend of such a thing.
One other thing he didn't have a real notion about was the death of his parents. He understood that they were "gone", that they had "went away", and wouldn't be coming back for a long, long while. . . But death was something foreign to him, as it is to all children and little hobbits, something so far off, so distant, that it seems inconceivable.
Popping the last bit of cheese into his mouth, he passed by the bathroom door. His Uncle's garments were lying on a wooden chest nearby.
Sauntering over curiously, Frodo picked up a few of his Uncle's clothes. They were big. . . almost as big as he was.
He stepped into the pants, and tried to pull them up. But he almost had to stretch his arms to reach the ends.
Then he snatched the vest.
He pulled it on over his head, or rather, pushed his head into it, and squished up the top so he could get his arms through the holes in the sides. He laughed, and turned around in a circle, letting the vest billow outwards like a dress.
Then he stopped, got his bearings, took a small look around, and then found something new to occupy himself with.
He began searching the pockets.
There was nothing in the first one. Disappointing. Nothing was always boring.
There was something in the other one.
Something was always exciting. Always intriguing.
He pulled it out.
It was a loop of cool metal- gold. It was pretty. The light from the window glinted off of it. Shiny.
As he held it between his fingers, it shrunk. Frodo smiled. He didn't have many things his size- and a small loop of gold that could change sizes was definitely interesting.
He wanted it.
Frodo squirmed out of the vest and tossed it back onto the wooden chest, running off with his new treasure clutched in his fist.
*
Where could it BE?
He had checked the floor by the chest, his bedside table, the kitchen. . . Maybe he had taken it into the bathroom without knowing it.
But apparently not.
Bilbo gritted his teeth behind closed lips. It was silly to act so frantic over such a little trinket. Irrational.
But it was HIS! His one precious possession. How could he have lost it?
His hands fiddled with themselves nervously, as if searching within themselves for the ring. But there was no comfort found, no respite. There was nothing.
He had to find it.
*
Frodo sat out by the gate of his Uncle's hobbit-hole, gazing at the loop of metal in his tiny palm. He ran a finger around it, circling, feeling how smooth it was. He tilted it this way and that, letting the light of the sun shine off of it.
Pretty.
He wanted to put it on.
The impulse came seemingly out of nowhere, but Frodo didn't question it. Children rarely question their impulses.
He slipped it onto his finger.
The change that took place in the world was terrifying- and amazing. Everything turned grey and black and blue, and a wind seemed to rise up from the ground, flapping Frodo's hair and clothes around him carelessly. There was a sound like the flapping of a thousand wings, and a sudden feeling of being completely lost and alone- like you were invisible.
At first the little hobbit wanted to cry and scream, but another part of him, a different part from somewhere deep inside him, told him to explore this world. It was somewhere new- somewhere exciting. Somewhere scary, in a way- but he didn't want to go back. Not just yet.
He stood up.
He walked halfway across the dirt path that stood by the gate. The ground felt strange under his feet. Like it wasn't real ground.
The wind continued to blow.
Suddenly Frodo heard another sound rise above the wind- the sound of pony's hooves, clopping wildly in the dirt.
He turned to see a pony racing down the dirt path towards him. Someone was in a hurry.
"Stop!" Frodo cried, holding out his hands, but the rider didn't stop. It galloped towards him, coming dangerously close.
Frodo screamed, and dived for cover, landing hard on the grass at the opposite end of the road from his Uncle's house. The pony galloped on.
Frodo watched after the pony for a long while, until the sound of its hooves faded, and the wind and white noise of silence took over again. He had had enough of this world- he wanted to take off the ring.
So he did.
There was a sort of snapping, and the wind and the noise ceased, and Frodo lay gasping at the side of the road.
"Hullo there, Frodo."
The little dark-haired hobbit looked up. Standing over him were his cousins, Peregrin and Meriadoc, and his friend, Samwise. They were all looking down at him, quite inquisitively. Their parents, meanwhile, had already vanished inside Bilbo's home, having arrived for dinner.
"How'd you do that?" asked Peregrin. The youngest of the four hobbits, Pippin was small and unassuming, but was certainly the quickest to open his mouth.
"Do what?" Frodo asked.
"Didn't you just come here out of nowhere?" Pippin asked.
"Why are you lying on the ground?" asked Samwise.
Frodo hesitated. He couldn't explain in the slightest what had just happened- and, as such, was at a loss for words. So he decided to start with what he knew.
"I. . ." he stammered, and got to his feet, "I found this in my uncle's pocket." He showed them the ring.
"What is it?" asked Merry.
"It's a ring," said Frodo excitedly, "And it changes sizes."
"It what?" Pippin asked.
"It gets smaller when you touch it," said Frodo, "Watch." And he held out his hand and gave it to Meriadoc.
But nothing happened.
"Nothing's happening," said Meriadoc, twiddling with the ring. It felt nice holding it- it was so small, and smooth. But heavy.
"Well, it happened before," Frodo said, running a hand through his hair. Somehow he suddenly didn't like the thought of Merry holding the ring. He snatched it away from his cousin, "Give it here. Maybe it'll do it again." He held his hand with his palm upward, the ring in the center.
The four little hobbits arranged themselves in a circle, keeping their eyes on the ring in Frodo's hand.
Little Pippin looked at the ring. He tilted his head to one side. His nose wrinkled. Still nothing was happening. This was boring.
The ring did look nice, though. Shiny. Pretty.
"Mine!" he exclaimed, and his tiny hand grabbed it from Frodo's.
"Hey!" Frodo exclaimed.
"Give it back!" said Merry.
Pippin shook his head, and backed away from the others, his hand grasped tightly around the trinket. "It's mine!" he insisted.
"I found it!" Frodo insisted.
"Give it here!" Merry exclaimed, holding out his hand.
"NO," said Frodo, grabbing Meriadoc's wrist, "He's not going to give it to YOU. It's MINE."
"I'm not giving it to EITHER of you," Pippin teased, dancing around in a little circle, "It's MINE now, 'cause I got it."
Frodo and Merry rushed at him.
Someone watching this scene from a distance would think of how endearing they were, these little rascals tussling in the dirt. But a close observer would be surprised by the sudden ferocity of the little hobbits' dispute, which was just far enough over the normal level of play-fights to make one worry. Which was exactly what it was doing to Samwise, who somehow had felt little desire to posses the ring. He did, however, want to stop his friends from fighting. So he, too, rushed into the fray.
The tiny ball of frantically scrabbling bodies rolled around for a few minutes, until it ended in a sudden cry of pain. Tangled in a scrap with others all larger than him, Pippin had decided to take more desperate measures, sinking his tiny teeth into the first object they could find- Sam's left hand.
The spell of the ring was temporarily broken with Sam's cry. All four children stopped dead in the dust, and Sam cradled his hand, two tears blubbering down his cheeks.
"Sam?" asked Frodo.
"He bit me," Sam whimpered.
"Who has the ring?" asked Merry. He, Frodo, and Pippin all looked at each other.
"I don't care who has it, I don't care," Sam said, sitting up painfully, "Why'd you bite me?"
"Everybody open your hands," said Merry. He held out his empty palms. Frodo went nest, offering his bare hands.
Sam followed. He held nothing.
Frodo and Merry looked accusingly at their younger cousin. Pippin, for his part, set an indignant look on his face, and held out his hands.
They were empty.
Sam sniffled.
"What'd you do with it?" Merry accused Pip.
"I didn't do anything," said the younger hobbit.
"Everybody empty your pockets," said Frodo.
But they never got the chance. At that moment, Merry's mother opened the door and called out across the road, "Frodo! Merry! Pippin! Sam! Time to come in, boys!"
For a second time, the spell was broken. Frodo and Merry helped Sam to his feet, and they and Pippin walked back across the dirt road towards the door.