This fic takes place when Frodo enters Mount Doom to destroy the One Ring, at the end of Return of the King.
DISCLAIMER: I happily tell you that J. R. R. Tolkien owns all hobbits and wizards and elves of Middle-earth. I would never dream of creating such a tale as this man has put together for all of us true fantasy-hungry folk. He had a gift and it is in great joy that I learn that we, of this age, are creating a visual performance for those not so incline to open a book and live the adventure first-hand. I hope that this bit of "retelling" lives up to all of your expectations. I hope you find the magic and I hope you keep it!
*Note*: Some quotes are specifically taken from the book.
POSSESSION
A Bearer was all the Ring had needed. It had mattered little whether that creature walked upon shod or unshod feet, just so the mortal could walk was enough for the One. It made no difference had the being been good or evil--in the end all fell. They could all be tempted, every one. Perhaps an evil-souled being was easier to persuade, but the just and good always had a bit more spirit. Though it heard its Master's call, and even yearned for that cold, delicate hand, the One Ring played out its games for as long and as often as it wished.
The Ring had liked Smeagol. The small, twisted-hearted creature had been easy prey at the beginning and an even better host after. Smeagol's "birthday present" had kept Gollum quite pleased over the years, even as the One found strength and power in its depths it had never known. Yet, even as an Orc tires of a victim, so too did the Ring tire of Gollum. It almost mourned the passing of that witty creature, but welcomed the next of his prey quite readily.
Bilbo Baggins found the One in a dark cave on a dark day. He took it on an adventure known to many as 'There and Back Again', and then settled back in the Shire for a quiet life thereafter. It was about then the Ring learned its mistake. Bilbo would often admire the curious and well-crafted bauble, but he'd rarely, if ever, put it on. Smeagol had often adorned the One, perhaps for no other reason than to keep it close, but he had provided it with power. The Ring soon grew weak from lack of use and, even though it whispered delightful and tempting desires, Bilbo never put it on.
Years went by and the One Ring found another who could take the detestable hobbit's place. Frodo came when he was quite young still; taken in by Bilbo in hopes that Frodo could one day own Bag End. The hobbit youth was energetic for a hobbit, even one of his age. He'd often urge tales from his "uncle"—tales of dwarves and elves, dragons and wizards. But what often his questions fell to was that of the One Ring.
"Can't I touch it, Uncle?" he would often ask, his eyes glittering brightly as they fell upon its golden surface. Bilbo would laugh and ruffle his nephew's hair. Always his answer would be: "Perhaps when you're older, Frodo my lad."
It wasn't the hobbit's own curiosity that drew his eyes often to the case upon the mantle. Few hobbits have much curiosity and certainly one young hobbit wouldn't pursue a tiny ring for so many years. But Frodo did, and the Ring made certain of it.
It was during Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday that the One found itself being adorned again. For a brief moment, Bilbo slipped it upon his ring finger in front of all his guests, and vanished. That was the last time that silly old hobbit wore the Ring. Frodo had just acquired the world.
Yet, the One Ring soon learned that Bilbo was not the only one with a strong will. Frodo had an unnaturally strong one as well, and for the next seventeen years did not once slip on the gold band. The One's patients for fun and games was wearing thin and it soon found itself yearning for its Master. That yearning soon turned to a desire and the One took it upon itself to return to its creator's hand. With the last of its strength it sought out a familiar and dependable creature and encompassed that creature with a maddening desire to find and reclaim a once stolen gift.
And then the hobbit set out to destroy the One.
"Retched hobbit," it would hiss to the halfling's conscious. "Horrid hobbit will die a miserable death." The One resisted with all it's strength because it knew its destruction was drawing near.
Frodo did not succumb. Where once a great king fell to its whispers, where a treacherous being lived out a miserable life, the young Baggins kept walking, continued to put one foot in front of the other. But the Ring weighed heavy and was always gleeful to hear Frodo gasp, "Heavy. So heavy."
No matter it's resistance though, the hobbit went on. Whether upon his feet or hands and knees, Frodo came to Mount Doom. The Ring wailed in misery as its end was near. Yet, out of the shadows bound a creature of sorrow and pity. A creature that was filled with rage and desire. The Ring's Savior.
Gollum leapt at an exhausted Frodo, and would have had the ragged hobbit within his claws if it had not been for Samwise. "Quick, Master! I'll deal with him! Go on!" And as Frodo fled, Samwise Gamgee held Gollum back and both hobbit and Ring disappeared into the depths of Mount Doom.
The One was at its last, knew it must do something or truly perish from Middle-earth and all else. With a cry, Frodo fell unconscious upon the ground.
The One Ring brought the still hobbit to the Land of Shadows, where Frodo woke and found he was Nowhere, in a land of Nothingness. All that touched his darks eyes was black and drear and dead.
"You are in my Master's realm, Bearer of Darkness. This soon will be your own world, once my Master conquers Middle-earth." Frodo looked about him but no one was near.
"Who's there?" he called loudly.
There came an answering hiss, "Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne in the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them in the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."
"The One Ring," Frodo stumbled to his feet.
"Yesss."
"Well, what do you want with me?" he called angrily.
"I, with you?" The One asked in disbelief. "You are Master. I serve."
"I am not your master. If I can be named, it would be Ring-Bearer, not Master." Frodo vainly sought out the voice. "You are a thing of evil and I do not wish to be master of it. Sauron is your Master, not I."
"Sauron is true Master, yesss," the Ring agreed. "But you bear me now. Now all you need do is wield me."
"Never!" Frodo spat.
"Wield me," the One urged.
"No. Gandalf would not--"
"Dead," hissed the One.
Frodo sucked in a painful breath, a horrid memory springing back to life. He swallowed, shoved the thought back. "Galadriel refused--"
"Slain," the One responded.
"No!" Frodo cried in disbelief. "You lie!"
Off to the hobbit's left a scene unfolded before his horrified eyes. The Land of the elves was crawling with Orcs. Lothlorien was decimated. Every tree was felled and home was burned. Elves littered the street as crumbled reminders of a once majestic folk.
"There," hissed the Ring and Frodo saw an Elven woman sprawled upon burnt grass. An Orc arrow was embedded in her left breast. The hobbit sobbed.
"See what they have done? Wield me," coaxed the One in an almost empathetic voice. "All who did not are now slain. Wield me!"
"You threaten me," Frodo whispered, his eyes still locked upon the fallen Elfmaiden.
"I counsel you," the One said.
"Ill counsel!" Frodo accused angrily, once more searching for the Ring. "You are a thing born of blood and butchery. I will not touch you!"
"You will throw me into the Fire of Doom instead?" asked the One.
"Yes."
"You throw away your only hope."
"No. Once you are destroyed then so shall Sauron be destroyed."
The Ring laughed. "I am his creation. My destruction will not fell him, nor weaken him in the least. He created me. He rules me."
The Ring was satisfied to see a flicker of doubt in the hobbit's eyes.
"What will you accomplish by destroying me?" the Ring asked. "You will succeed in nothing but your own world's doom."
Frodo shook his head, as if to rid himself of something unwanted. "No, no. I have to. I must. People are counting on me."
"Like your friend?" the One wondered.
Frodo looked up sharply.
"Yesss," the One replied in dark glee. "Samwise."
"Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo!"
Frodo looked about himself wildly, the cry seeming to come from all directions.
"Sam? Here I am, Sam! Where are you?"
"Master, help me!"
"Sam! Sam, I'm here!"
Frodo looked desperately but everywhere was darkness.
There came a hiss in the dark. "My presciousss. Bad hobbitsesss."
"Smeagol," Frodo whispered in dread.
"Frodo!" the dark cried to him in Samwise's voice.
"Sam!" Frodo turned to find the crumbled form of a very small and broken hobbit. Samwise lay in his own blood. "Oh, Sam!" Frodo raced to his friend's side but watched as Sam faded away even before he could touch him. "Sam!" Frodo cried in broken sobs.
"You wait too long, Master," the Ring hissed. "You will loose them all."
In the distance Frodo heard a terrible scream, like that of a demon, and he turned toward it. What he saw chilled him. A Black Rider, tall and terrible, feeding off a cold dread, stood above a very small and diminutive figure. All at once Frodo cold see the figure quite clearly, could of reached out and grasped his friend if he so chose.
"Merry!" Frodo gasped in horror. His friend's eyes were filled with terror as he watched the Black Rider lift his sword on high and then plunge, all in one swift motion. Blood flew.
"Merry!" Frodo screamed as the light-haired hobbit fell. Tears filled his eyes as he reached for, but could not grasp, Merry. All together, both the slain hobbit and the Black Rider faded into the shadows.
"Take me," the One whispered. "Wield me."
Frodo stared, stricken, at where his cousin had fallen but was no more. "I-I can't." Tears streamed down his face. "I can't use you."
"Massster," the One called threateningly.
"No," he whispered hoarsely. "You lie."
"Cannot lie."
"Then your Master lies!" Frodo yelled angrily. "I will not wield you! I will not touch you! I will destroy you! You and your Master!"
"You doom them," the One hissed. "You doom them all. Look!"
"No!" Frodo cried vehemently. "I will not look at your lies!"
"Look!"
Frodo saw a house rise up before him from the darkness. It was huge and grand, beautifully designed. Or, at least at, it had been at one time. It was on fire now. The wood crackled and popped in thunderous booms, the walls crashing down and exploding in billows of smoke.
"The House of Elrond," Frodo whispered in dread. Suddenly, his eyes widened as a horrifying thought entered his sorrow-ravaged mind. Jumping forward, he ran for the House.
"BILBO!" he screamed. "BILBO!"
But just as everything else had vanished so too did the House of Elrond, its fires licking at the shadows a moment more.
The Land of Shadows was silent. Nothing could be heard but the sobs of a small hobbit whose burden was dragging him to death.
"You shall be killed with grief, Master," the One said quietly, a hint of sorrow in its voice. "Take me, and I may be able to save him. He is not dead! Not yet! Master, please. Take me!"
"Bilbo," Frodo sobbed into his hands.
"Massster . . . ."
Frodo heard a soft clink. Glancing up, he saw the golden Ring lying upon the dark ground. It glinted brightly though there was no light to be reflected from.
Massster . . . .
Frodo crawled forward and grasped the Ring in his callused hand.
Wield me . . . .
"Bilbo," he whispered and then, "I will."
Frodo blinked and found he was in the caverns of Mount Doom, sprawled upon its hard floors. Stumbling to his feet, Frodo ran until he found a cleft overlooking the Fire of Doom. Molten lava rolled far below, as though it were an over-gorged slug. Frodo stared at its horrid beauty, the light searing the back of his eyes.
He grasped the Ring from around his neck and pulled the chain loose. He clutched the Ring tightly.
Wield me . . . .
The fires of Elrond's House leapt up into his consciousness. Frodo stiffened, held the One Ring high.
"Master!"
Samwise! Frodo wanted to cry out to Sam, for his friend lived! He was not dead, as the Ring had foretold! He wanted to turn and see his Sam but his limbs would not move and suddenly he talked, though it was not he who spoke. Indeed, the voice was clearer and much stronger than his own. It was his voice but it was not his words.
"I have come," he said. "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"
Frodo slipped the One Ring upon his finger and vanished.
He entered the world of the wraiths, his conscious cry echoing Sam's own. He shivered as he felt a horrible fear encompass him and knew the Dark Lord sought him and had found him. He had fallen prey to the One and now all of Middle-earth would pay. They would all pay for his mistake.
You lie! he screamed to the One, though all he received was a horrible mocking laugh.
"Preciousss!"
This time Frodo did turn, for the Ring allowed the movement and was seemingly as confused as the hobbit. Gollum charged the halfling, tackling him to the ground. Even as he fought the enraged creature, Frodo wondered how he had been spotted with the Ring upon his finger.
"My preciousss! My Preciousss!"
And it occurred to him that perhaps the Ring wanted Smeagol, just as Smeagol wanted his precious. Good riddance, was his first thought but then an odd desire to not give the One up blossomed. Smeagol mustn't get the One Ring! The One Ring must be destroyed!
To his horror, he began to cease his struggle against Gollum. The Ring was stopping the fight, going to give itself freely over.
"NO!" Frodo cried savagely, the word bursting forth from his own lips. He surprised himself as much as Gollum, for the creature hissed and backed away. Taking this advantage and mentally fighting the Ring's hold, Frodo struck Gollum in the stomach. The creature shrieked and jumped upon the sprawled hobbit.
"My Precious, my Precious, my precious!" Gollum hissed, grappling for a hold on the hobbit, his thin hands darting for the Ring as it glinted in the Fire of Doom. Grasping Frodo's finger, he brought it to his mouth and, hobbit struggling, crunched down.
Frodo screamed in pain and fell away, rolling to the Fire's edge. Smeagol held the ring high and danced in glee. His trophy blazed brilliantly in the Fire of Doom and any onlooker--had there been any besides the cowering Samwise and pain-dazed Frodo--all would see a small hobbit finger still grasped within the Ring's hold.
Gollum jumped from webbed-foot to webbed -foot, laughing and smiling a very un-Gollum-like smile. He jumped and skipped and never saw the Cracks of Doom loom up behind him. His foot slipped and suddenly he fell into nothingness.
Screaming, Gollum hurtled into the Fire of Doom, the One Ring still grasped within his hand. His cry was echoed by a faint wail--one that seemed to have no source, except perhaps a tiny, seemingly harmless golden ring.
Frodo watched Smeagol disappear into the Fire, turning away at the last to swallow a bit of bile within his throat. He clutched at his hand painfully, blood flowing down his nine remaining fingers. Tears flowed down his face--not of pain, but for what was finished and for what was . . . and of what could have been.
"Forgive me," he whispered so quietly that not even the dazed Samwise heard him. "Forgive me."
THE END
If anyone knows how to include accent signs (or whatever they're called) can you let me know. I have an upcoming fic and its essential I use them. Thanks!