Prologue

An Unexpected Recollection


"Frodo? Frodo, my boy, are you alright?"

Bilbo Baggins gazed at his cousin, the age lines in his face deepening with his concern. Frodo sat next to him, clutching his shoulder. The pain had startled him, gnawing at his flesh with icy teeth. Ever since the Ringwraith had stabbed him with the Morgul blade at Weathertop, the soreness had never completely subsided. In some ways, Frodo felt as if he were still in the clutches of the Nazgul's curse, hanging precariously between worlds. Seeing nothing but darkness, knowing nothing but the call of gold.

Pushing through the shock, Frodo forced his right hand to relax its hold on his shoulder. It slid limply down his arm and came to rest in his lap. He stared at it until he felt Bilbo's stare boring into him. Frodo snapped his head up to meet the old Hobbit's fretfully blue eyes, fixing a faint smile onto his face.

"I'm alright," he said, "Really," but Bilbo raised his eyebrows skeptically.

There was no convincing Mr. Baggins of anything but the truth. He knew exactly what was amiss. Frodo lowered his gaze to the ground, his sigh an admission. The slim trees behind them rustled in a breeze. Their leaves spun and danced while below, Frodo watched their shadowy counterparts play across the Elven stonemasonry. Indeed, such architectural skill as seen in the House of Elrond was unparalleled by any in Middle-Earth. From this particular spot, one could see the hidden sanctuary in its entirety. Hall after gleaming hall displayed a myriad of wonders, each one more splendid than the last. Golden sunlight slanted through glassless windows and soaring arches, splashing onto polished floors, and flitting across vaulted ceilings. The Last Homely House rested, an illusory jewel cradled in the skeletal arms of the Misty Mountains. From the rough granite of the mountains themselves, the Bruinen tumbled like thousands of diamonds, throwing out its misty dappled shawl to fall roaring down the sheer face of the cliff into the valley of Rivendell.

Any other time, Bilbo might have been contemplating the beauty around him whose wonders never ceased and whose splendor eluded his quill. But today his eyes were on Frodo, scrutinizing the young lad he had raised. It seemed years since he had seen him last, on the night he had left his own eleventy-first birthday celebration on a very long holiday. Bilbo searched a face that belonged to a stranger. Frodo was in his early thirties, still very young by Hobbit standards, only just coming into adulthood. Yet the smooth innocent face looked so old and drawn, his clear happy eyes were tired and aged beyond centuries. Bilbo even thought he could see hints of silver in the black hair.

A shadow of anguish fell over the old Hobbit's heart. My poor, poor boy! Bilbo felt despair tugging at the corners of his mouth. What on earth has happened to you? I can't possibly imagine—then, he froze. No. He could imagine. He knew exactly what had befallen this poor wretched soul.

The Ring.

Even as the idea entered his thoughts, Bilbo felt an uncontrollable desire to see it, to possess it, to once more caress its perfect golden curve. He snatched a glance at the chain just visible above the back of Frodo's collar. He felt his hand begin to move of its own accord, reaching toward Frodo's neck. Bilbo pulled it back before the younger Hobbit could see. It shook violently as he dug his fingernails hard into the sweaty palm. He inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting the gleaming vision back into the darkest recesses of his mind. He had suddenly been reminded of the way it made him feel. Beyond the joy of calling it his own, he had lived ever in fear. Fear of losing it, or rather, fear that one day it would decide to leave. For years on end it had controlled his thoughts, but it would NOT control him again, not now. He did not understand what power it possessed, but he had given it up long ago, left it behind before…Bilbo exhaled slowly feeling his shoulders sag.

"I'm so sorry, my boy," he murmured finally. "I should never have left you to fend for yourself—and certainly not with that blasted ring. I should have stayed at Bag End, I—I thought it was the end of my problems when I left my old life behind—but it was the beginning of yours, for I left you behind with it."

Frodo remained silent for a while, unable to deny the truth Bilbo spoke. Over the rushing water and the sighing wind, he could hear the distant voices of Merry and Pippin, no doubt getting into some kind of mischief. He envisioned Sam hiding in a bush, admiring the grace of a female Elf as she went about her daily chores. At this, Frodo couldn't help smiling. A thought had suddenly struck him.

"You grew old, Bilbo," he said, turning to look at him. "Years have taxed your strength. It was time to move on, entrust that old life of yours to someone younger and with infinitely more patience for the neighbors. Besides, if you hadn't left Bag End behind, we would both still be there and not together here in this beautiful place."

Bilbo smiled and shook his wizened head with a sigh.

"I can hardly imagine why you would want to be anywhere near me! Trouble follows me wherever I go, and it always seems to find me, no matter where I hide, even in the least likely of places. My own home, for instance. That's where the most perilous trouble found me. Oh dear, what a nasty surprise that was, having thirteen Dwarves appear out of nowhere asking me to be their Burglar! But it was also my greatest adventure." A light touched his eyes. "I have often thought about the peculiarity of it all. The sheer odds of those Dwarves showing up at my door are quite staggering. What a strange work of fate it was, indeed."

"Yes. Fate, and a little shove from Gandalf, no doubt," said Frodo. They both laughed. Bilbo began to flip through the aged pages of the big red leather book he seemed to take with him everywhere. He stopped when he found a remarkably accurate rendering of the Wizard with his crooked nose and mischievously pensive eyes.

"Ah, my dear old friend," he said, looking fondly down at the drawing, "If anyone attracts trouble more than I, it is Gandalf the Grey." He leafed through the pages covered with scribbles and drawings, the memories of his adventures with Thorin Oakenshield and his Dwarf Company on their quest to the Lonely Mountain. It was almost complete. He came to where the writings stopped and held his feather quill poised over the blank page. Then, quite absentmindedly, he began scratching into the yellowed surface, watching as black lines appeared under his practiced strokes. "I only wish he had not brought his troubles to me. Of all the Hobbit holes! Why couldn't he have knocked on the Sackville-Bagginses' door? Goodness knows they deserve it more," he grumbled.

Frodo smiled, genuinely this time.

"Surely you do not wish this fate upon anyone else, Bilbo?"

"Oh, of course not, my boy, just thinking aloud as it were. Though, I would like to have seen your old aunt Lobelia clinging for dear life onto an eagle's back, or exchanging pleasantries with a fire-breathing dragon, or wrestling to the death with a tree from the Old Forest." He chortled to himself at the thought.

Frodo frowned. "The Old Forest? When did you ever go that far south? I thought you cut straight eastward from Hobbiton and stayed north of Bree-Land?"

The laughter in Bilbo's eyes faded. The smile slowly slipped from his face.

"So did I," he said, his voice soft and distant. He sat thinking, the quill in his hand still moving across the page. For a while the only sound was the scratching of its tip against the paper, but the old Hobbit was hardly paying any attention. Frodo watched him uneasily. Maybe he had just made a mistake. Perhaps it was simply his old mind, going with age.

Then again, perhaps not.

Bilbo looked down at the book open in his lap and Frodo did the same. Together, they stared at the page as it fluttered in the wind.

On the paper was the rough outline of an enormous ship, which had not been there a few moments before. It was a majestic vessel with soaring masts and billowing sails. The name "Evrenos" was etched into one side in bold confident black. A massive dragon carved into the prow seemed to snarl out from the page as the craft glided over a swell of churning clouds.

"Bilbo." Frodo's voice was hushed to a near whisper. "What is that?"

The old Hobbit stared at the sketch that seemed to have leapt of its own accord out of his subconscious and drawn itself onto the page. Then he slowly lifted his eyes and peered unseeing into the distance, past the marble railing, out into the glittering vale, lost in a forgotten memory that had suddenly surfaced. Finally, he took a deep breath and blinked, but did not meet the lad's eyes.

"My dear Frodo, all that I have told you about my adventures, it is the truth, but not the complete truth. There is a piece to the puzzle, a faded memory—and I now fear I may have to rummage rather deep within to find it—which I have long delayed pulling from the depths of my mind. Perhaps it is because it is a painful memory, or perhaps it could be dangerous. Perhaps it is because it is much safer buried in this musty old attic of mine." Bilbo said this with a small chuckle, but his face quickly sobered and his eyes grew distant again. He continued as if in a trance. "An old friend once told me that some things are better left undisturbed. Some things are better left forgotten…"

Here, his eyes refocused and he seemed to become aware of Frodo looking at him. "And so I thought," he continued, turning at last to face his kinsman, "until now, with dark things moving in the world, and even darker things waking up. Perhaps it is now that we can learn from the past. Perhaps my memory may serve as more than a tale to tell around the fire…"

"Bilbo, what are you talking about?" Of course, Frodo knew very well what "darker things" Bilbo was talking about. Even as he thought of it, he felt the chain around his neck grow heavy, as if he were carrying a mountain on it instead of a little ring. Things were most certainly waking up, but Frodo saw no sense in burdening the old Hobbit's mind any further. He had decided after the Council of Elrond that the Ring's true nature would be something Bilbo never knew. The more he forgot the better.

Mr. Baggins frowned distractedly and then sighed. "My memories hold many things, but most of these have already come to light." He ran a hand over the ship he had drawn. "Ah, perhaps it is not important. Perhaps one day I will tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Nothing imperative, my boy. Nothing too vital. Now, I think we'd better hurry if we're to make it to supper in time," said Bilbo, fixing a smile on his face. It was Frodo's turn to look askance at his companion. But then he smiled too, not wanting to upset the old Hobbit.

They rose from their seats and hastened to the dining pavilion. The setting sun bathed Rivendell in an amber haze as all gathered together for the evening meal. There was much eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and general merriment. Afterward followed the traditional musical exhibition, but tonight, Bilbo did not stand up to sing one of his songs, as had become customary. Instead, he sat quite detached from the rest, barely listening as Elven melodies filled the air with enchantment and magic. After the songs had concluded and they had all wished one other a restful night, the old Hobbit rushed away to his rooms as fast as his ancient feet would carry him. Frodo watched him go, wondering what in Middle-Earth he was up to.


In his quarters, Bilbo lit the single candle that rested on his desk, placed his red book there, and opened it to the page with the Evrenos. Then he hesitated, and without quite knowing why, he ripped out the drawing and closed the book. He put it away and flipped the loose paper over onto the side still free of ink. This will do better, he thought. He stared at it. And stared still longer. In the trembling candlelight, the shadows flickered across the blank void, and it seemed to cry out in a yearning to be filled with letters and shapes. And Bilbo yielded. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to write.


Frodo wandered leisurely back to his own rooms, his mind reeling with concern for the Hobbit that had raised him. He was torn between genuine worry for the state of Bilbo's mind and the thought that maybe he, Frodo, was just overreacting. Perhaps it is now that we can learn from the past… He sighed and allowed himself a slight smile. One day, he supposed, he would know what the little old Hobbit was all in a fuss about. As it happens, Frodo never did find out, and it wasn't until many years after his passing into the Undying Lands at the end of the Third Age that his most trusted friend Samwise Gamgee found the lost pages of Bilbo's story that are here recounted in A Forgotten Chapter, by Bilbo Baggins.


Hey again! Don't mind me, I'm just going back through and adding some commentary at the end of each chapter (which this also isn't really one) to clarify and what not. Carry on!

In case you were wondering, this is the point in the Fellowship of the Ring a little while after Frodo reaches Rivendell with Arwen, and before the nine in the fellowship depart for Mordor. The Lord of the Rings story is only just beginning. I will be writing in more prologues such as this one to relate the Hobbit story back to the Lord of the Rings.

Just an aside, the whole idea behind this fanfic is to weave another storyline into the Hobbit, a whole other character, who you will meet soon enough. I wanted to make it such that when you watch the movies, it feels as if the character is there, just out of frame.