The Return of the Ring

Chapter one – The Discovery

By Elven Victory

Disclaimer – anything you recognize in this story belongs to, of course, J.R.R Tolkien or the corresponding owners and not me. I don't own anything, well, except some of the characters (who were made up by me).

Main characters in this story – The Fellowship of the Ring, Faramir, and some other characters who will be involved during later chapters, such as, Haldir, Elrond, etc, and from Pirates of the Caribbean, Will Turner, Jack Sparrow, and Barbosa.

Author's Note – Yes, yes, I know; it has been put off for a while, yet I never seemed to be happy with the final result of the story. Much has changed in it since the first version, and I would even say that it is less humorous. That, as you may see, is why have taken so long to upload it. I hope you understand.

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Life is a journey. It is a journey between space and time...over the everlasting oceans and the tall mountains, over the paths of evil and of good.

For even though lives do end, the path that is life does not: for it is everlasting.

This is the tale of one thing that was thought to be destroyed, but wasn't: much to the delay and fear to all the races mentioned.

For things we have been done...things that were thought be good for life, but it was not: for it destroyed what hope all races had of a good life.

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Night had fallen on the sea; dark clouds were gathered in the inky, autumn sky, though the few stars that could be seen shone brightly upon the vast amount of water, setting white reflections on the gentle waves as they splashed to and fro.

It was a clear night, at around half past ten, and the silhouette of a white object sailed west into the darkness, rippling the bright, starry images that had been implanted onto the water. Its silvery masts loomed into the sky against the black clouds above, its sails fluttered lightly in the breeze, and its passengers were ignorant to the evil that was drawing closer to their peaceful lives.

As silence grew harder on the Elven Ship, it was suddenly shattered by footsteps on the wooden planks, and if anyone looked closely enough, they could be sure to see two figures, hurrying towards the stern of the vessel. Both shapes were of small size, and both had curly hair that shone in the new light of the silvery moon, which a black cloud had shifted from.

"Three days from the Havens," spoke a hushed voice, and the figure halted at the end of the Ship. It looked as if it was picking up something from the ground, and showing it to its companion. "We may be a little late, but it should still work, if we make haste. Come, Frodo, get the rope ready, and be quick!"

The other figure – Frodo, no doubt – had now taken the rope, and Elven one, no doubt, from his friend and was uncoiling it with great speed, while the speaker seemed to be looking over the edge of the Ship.

"Are you sure we should still go through with this, Bilbo?" asked Frodo, who took glances up to the moon now and then, as if expecting it to suddenly disappear. "Think of what you are leaving behind, probably for good. This is the last chance for you, and me, to live how we have dreamed of living."

But, Bilbo didn't seem to be listening – he still had both arms on the edge of the ship, and he was looking down into the water with a slight smile over his face.

"I long to see it again, my lad. My heart will not allow me to rest until I finally see it once more. Is that rope ready?"

"Yes," replied Frodo, and he gave the uncoiled rope back to Bilbo, who looked upon it for a couple of seconds, in deep thought.

"No, no...I will not regret this," he whispered to himself, and then seemed to let himself go. He made a sudden movement, and flung the line overboard – there was a great splash as it fell into the tranquil water, and the noise seemed to echo around the soundless ocean, and reverberated against the Ship. "And neither will you, my boy!" Bilbo gave a slight chuckle, and smiled.

Frodo felt unsure; was Bilbo's dream of going to the place he spoke of false? Or had he always desired to go there? He had wanted to go to the Undying Lands, and it seemed foolish to leave the chance behind, maybe forever – and on a sudden impulse. It was only when they had first set sail from the Havens that Bilbo actually told Frodo where he wanted to go, and they had spent little more than an hour discussing how they would do it.

"Frodo, my lad! Climb over, and be hasty!" The older hobbit's urgent voice hissed hurriedly, sounding shallow in the night air. He gave Frodo a slight push closer to the edge, and handed him part of the rope. He then leant over and pointed down into the water, which was illuminated by the light of the full moon. "Down there, look!"

The youngest hobbit looked to where his companion was pointing, and drew a sudden breath; there, in the water, being dragged along by the Ship, was a small, wooden rowing boat, that looked hardly large enough for a single hobbit to sit in. The two benches that went across it looked old and worn, with many splinters sticking from it, and the oars were placed rather clumsily on top of these seats. On the outside of the small boat seemed to be a pattern painted of what looked like blood, and the stars above made it shine weakly with a whitish glow.

Before Frodo could say or do anything, however, the other hobbit gave him another push, and he felt himself having to grip the rope firmly to save his immediate fall overboard. He climbed down the line carefully, and the rough fragments of the rope that were visible seemed to be cutting into his hand, burning it as he made his way down.

It didn't take very long for the hobbit to reach the boat; the end of the rope was actually floating in the water, so Frodo had to jump from a height of about two feet to get into the craft. He pulled the rest of the rope into the boat with him, so that Bilbo wouldn't have any difficulty in climbing down.

"Are you ready, Frodo?" asked Bilbo, and the young hobbit had just enough time to give his answer of 'yes' before he felt the rope being grasped firmly, and his companion could then be seen climbing down. He took less time than Frodo, and was able to get into the small boat without any trouble. The line above was pulled hard, and it came hurtling down at them, landing at their feet. Bilbo smiled, and took the two oars hastily.

"We will take it in turns to row, Frodo," he said softly, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "For now, you have a rest while I take my turn. My rowing may be faster than yours, and we have no time to lose in getting away."

Frodo sat down at the edge of the boat obediently, though did not close his eyes. As he felt the boat begin to move gracefully through the silent water, in the opposite direction to what the Ship had been going to, he asked the one thing he had wanted to ask since Bilbo had first brought up the subject of escaping the Ship.

"Where exactly did you say we were going?"

There was silence for a moment; Bilbo was standing up as he rowed with the oars, and seemed to be sniffing the night air, the moon shining behind him. Frodo was then suddenly aware of how old he looked, and how worn his face had grown in the short years that the ring had been gone from his grasp.

"It seems long ago that my path brought me to this place," he began quietly, not looking at Frodo. "It seems so long ago that I am not sure whether it was just in my head, or in my dreams, or for genuine. Maybe it was in my mind, as an image, yet not existent, or maybe I was taken there long ago – but, the one thing I am trying to say, Frodo, is this: I shall never rest until I see this place for real, and I mean to see it exactly how I saw it. Do you understand my need?" He fell silent, and Frodo then felt a sudden thought strike him as he took in his relative's words – 'Maybe it was in my mind, as an image, yet not existent'. He remembered what the Hobbiton folk used to say about Bilbo long ago...that he was going mad. It was an awful thought, but what if it was true? What if Bilbo had finally gone, and was now going to row Frodo all over the seas, forever more, but without a trace of hope for this place they were expecting to go to?

"Uncle, how long do you propose it should take to find it?"

"It will take as long as it should. Do you understand, Frodo?"

"Yes..." the young hobbit said at last, though he really felt, all of a sudden, alone – he had seen Bilbo change over the past few days, but had put it down to the fact that he wanted to leave Middle-Earth, and was happy to see new lands. Now, the Ringbearer had left his life behind, originally for the better, but now – now what was going to become of him?

He looked over the rower's shoulder, and saw the shape of the White Ship sailing away into the darkness. The passengers on board were probably drinking wine, and laughing merrily, without a thought for the two stranded hobbits sailing towards the unknown. To Frodo, the vessel seemed far away now, and he felt sadness inside of him as he thought of the lavish lifestyle that he had just left behind – the home in the Undying Lands, with the Elves. But, alas – he would now have to forget it, and row in the boat with his cousin for the rest of their lives, until they both starved, or died from thirst.

But, there was still hope. They were now heading in the direction of the Grey Havens – it would take three days to reach it, maybe a little more, yet it would offer a place of docking for the boat. Perhaps Frodo could encourage Bilbo to stop there, and then give him something to help him? Maybe they could even go back to the Shire, for now, there was no hope in going to the Undying Lands. There, at least Bilbo would be safe from this madness.

"I did not bring food or water, Bilbo," said Frodo quietly, as he turned his gaze to the other hobbit, who looked far away and distant. "Have you any? We should want something to eat and drink when daybreak comes, I imagine."

Again, it took a stretched time for the old hobbit to answer, though he did so eventually, with a strange glint in his eyes:

"We may have, or we may not. Stand on your feet, Frodo, and search for some, before it is forgotten."

Frodo felt even more confused, and alone - though he did stand up from the small plank of wood he had been sitting on, and immediately tripped on something below him.

Bilbo laughed quietly.

"Look!" he whispered, in a mysterious tone. Then he averted his gaze back up to the sky above, still rowing the boat. Frodo looked down, and saw that he had tripped on some sort of hump on the base of the boat, which seemed to be a kind of trap door. Bending down, he pulled it open, and it revealed a small compartment in the boat – maybe twenty five centimetres in length and fourteen in depth – with a water bag in it, and some lembas bread. It was queer how it could fit in such a space. But still, Frodo wondered if it would last three days back to the Havens. The sea seemed to make you feel hungrier and thirstier than you would usually.

"Would there be enough cause to have water now?" asked the young hobbit, as he had a sudden thirst to drink some water out of the water bag.

"Why not?" Bilbo asked in a whisper. His companion then brought out the water skin, opened it, and took a large draught from it. It tasted sweet and cool on his tongue, almost like river-water from the cold mountains on a hot summer's day. The older hobbit laughed merrily at seeing this, and spoke something quick and humorous in a different language to himself. Frodo felt encouraged by it, and took yet another mouthful of the sweet water, though it no longer tasted sweet – now, it seemed bitter, and warm, like still water from a humid, hot cave.

The older hobbit laughed harder, and spoke in a quick, hushed voice:

"Sweet and warm water, from great heights to low – yet if there is no water, where are you to go?" Frodo felt a dizziness come over him. The stars were now spinning around him, and the horizon in front suddenly grew close and long: the Undying Lands were abruptly in view, with Middle-Earth, mountains and all, behind, yet they seemed still far off, like something in a dream. The sea between the two worlds seemed within a short walking distance – it looked as if one was watching it from above. The moon was suddenly very bright, and close, to Frodo, and it seemed to be drawing closer...yes, it must have been coming closer, like a comet crashing into the earth at full speed, yet no matter how close it drew, it did not touch the sea...

The last thing Frodo remembered was his heart in his mouth, feeling his head crash against the side of the boat, and the amused laughter of Bilbo Baggins.

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When Frodo awoke, all he could see for a minute was dark clouds overhead, though they were not grey or white – they were dark red, like the colour of blood, and there seemed to be the outline of a face in it, the great, staring eyes looking straight at him.

The young hobbit closed his eyes again, and opened them, expecting to see the same sight again – but he didn't: instead, the sky above was overcast, though the clouds were white. He felt weak at the limbs, and his skin seemed cold and soaked with water. What had happened?

It didn't feel as if he was still moving in the graceful sway of the boat; there seemed to a rock of some kind sticking into his back, and a pain like stabbing he could feel in the back of his neck. Then, there was a sound of flowing, or rather rushing, water nearby, like a fast moving river...and was that the noise of a waterfall?

Frodo tried to move over, yet as soon as he thought about it, he seemed to collapse further into the ground. At last, gathering all his strength, and with a sudden force from his frail limbs, he was able to turn his entire body over, with difficulty. There he lay, now gasping for breath, on the cold, muddy riverbank that he had been pushed onto.

He did not know how long he lay there for; his memory felt lost, and he only had a slight inkling of the sky growing dark, and then light again. As time grew, it seemed to happen more often, and the dark hours of night were, to him, only a shadow in the back of his mind that he could not distinguish. Then, when the midday sun came, it warmed his chilled bones with the little warmth it had left, and brought life to him, and he began to remember what had happened, even though his head was still filled with confusion. Even though his limbs felt less chilled as time wore on, he was aware of feeling weaker, and one morning when he awoke he could just see Death lying next to him, ready to take the hobbit when he was unwary. Frodo felt a great darkness over him then, and shut his eyes with great haste in anxiety.

He did not know how long he had closed his eyes for, though he knew it seemed like a great time. No sun seemed to come to warm his limbs, though he could still see Death through his closed eyelids, approaching him every day.

Then, as Frodo was losing all hope of ever waking, he suddenly felt warmth spread through him, and he could see a picture in the back of his mind of the Shire during a sweet, perfect summer, when the green leaves on the trees swayed gracefully, and the hobbits were laughing joyfully – he felt a warmth in his heart, and it spread through him, recovering his cold limbs and his frozen memory. Through his closed eyelids, he saw that the dark shadow of Death had fled, and was gone.

Frodo finally awoke slowly, with the picture of the Shire now gone, but not forgotten. What a glorious sight greeted his weary eyes as he looked upon it! The golden sun was rising over the flourishing hill on the horizon, and its young rays shone on the ground near Frodo, making the small puddles of water in the mud glimmer.

The hobbit suddenly felt life in him again, and he took bravery in raising his arm – to find that he could lift it with effortlessness. No, he no longer felt weak, but full of spirit and merriment. He rolled over, and slowly sat up on the wet dirt beneath him, so he could finally see the river that he had heard all those days ago.

It was quite a wide river, which shone in the early sunshine. Large rocks and boulders were firmly planted in the soil under the water, creating small waves as the liquid rolled up onto them. The waterway seemed to go on, and it disappeared behind a hill not far away, where the sound of a waterfall was coming from.

Frodo rose and stood up, though he stumbled slightly as he did so, for his knees still felt a little weak – he recovered soon enough, and walked over to the edge of the river, where the cool water rolled up onto his bare feet. He bent down, and sat on the riverbank itself. The liquid seemed beautiful, and good enough to drink.

In fact, as Frodo gazed into the water, he felt his hand trailing down to scoop some of it up, and when he was aware of this, he threw the fluid over his sore and dirty face. It felt cool and refreshing, so he took another handful, and this time rubbed it onto his feet.

He sat there for what must have been quarter of an hour, throwing water onto his recovering limbs, and feeling his head fill with joy, when he saw something he had not yet noticed in the swirling liquid – a large, golden fish. Its golden fins sparkled in the early, growing sunshine, and it seemed to float without moving, or swimming away in terror. It looked beautiful. Frodo immediately thought of food, and he had an idea that he could catch the fish, and cook it over a blazing fire. The idea came over him suddenly – he must catch that fish, no matter what the cost.

Frodo sat up, and put a foot down heavily in the water, sending ripples to the animal – it bolted away quickly, and the hobbit went in pursuit of it. Up, up, up the river he ran, towards the hills in the distance. The sun was now no longer in front of him, but to his right. The fish swam on hurriedly, its golden fins glimmering, and Frodo felt even more need to catch it. He ran round where the river bent behind the hill, and stopped dead at the waterfall, which was of no considerable height. He could have easily jumped down it, yet that was not the thing worrying him: the fish had gone, even though he had kept his keen eyes on it for the entire chase. How could something so bright just disappear, like a dream in the dark night?

In anxiety, Frodo jumped down the waterfall, which was only around four foot in height. He landed in the swirling water below, just next to one large rock under the falling fluid, and sat down on the riverbank miserably, pondering over his loss. Behind him was a large group of trees, shrouded in shadow, and the hobbit thought of the strange feeling that had just overtaken him – he felt sure that he had sensed it before.

As he gazed at the trees, however, his eyes were suddenly diverted back to the river, where he thought he had heard some sort of clatter of metal, mingling with the sound of the fall of water. It was not very loud, but enough to catch his attention.

Then, as he was inspecting the water from his sitting place, he noticed something had definitely on been there before. But, was it? No, surely not.

But then, he saw it again. Frodo sat up in a slight hurry, and made his way towards the rock under the waterfall. What he had seen was gone, so he took a step back.

Wait... there is was again. The hobbit now strode through the water and over to the waterfall, where he bent down and inspected the large, white-coloured boulder. This time, he knew his eyes had not deceived him – the glimmer of bright gold that he had seen was existent, though it was not the fish he had first thought it to be.

Frodo lifted the golden article out of the water, and examined it. There was no doubt that it was some sort of gold ring, as smooth as silk, and as bright as the sun. It was truly a very precious thing...

There was that thing again, in Frodo's mind. He felt that, for no apparent reason, he had to put on this ring, and not doing so was not an option. He was not aware of the golden thing drawing closer to his outstretched finger, nor of the water that was now soaking through his already wet clothes.

Before Frodo could fit the ring on, however, something interrupted his thoughts: a sudden, loud hiss from somewhere behind him. He was thrown out of the trance, stood upright, and looked towards the trees that he had been looking at earlier.

There was something different about it now. Was that a figure, a small figure, drawing back into the shadows of the darkened trees with a gleam in it's wicked eyes shining out through the darkness? And was that, by any chance, the sound of a twig breaking on a forest floor, as if someone, or rather something, had stepped on it carelessly? What Frodo thought to be a figure seemed to make a sudden movement; the hobbit rubbed his eyes, took a second look, and the thing was gone.

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Frodo had been so influenced by recovering, the river, the fish and the ring that he had not thought about Bilbo, or the Grey Havens. It suddenly seemed a long time ago that he was sitting in the boat, and talking to his cousin.

After the incident with the figure, the hobbit had followed the river downstream, and it seemed to turn west after a while. It was late afternoon; Frodo had noticed the clouds gather overhead, showing sure signs of heavy rain. He had ignored it at first, but made shelter under a canopy of trees near the riverside when the first few drops of water hit him. After all, he was yearning for a short rest.

The ring was still with him; he had not the heart to let it go, somehow. As he set down on the ground, he realised how lonely he suddenly was. He had no food, no inkling of where he was, and felt as if he hadn't seen a single person for years. His heart suddenly felt empty.

Frodo then noticed an odd thing as he looked about him; the ground he was sitting on was bare, though the trees above were covered with lush, dark leaves. The rain, he had noticed, was warm, not cold, as should be in winter. To the hobbit's thoughts, it had to be summer.

Yet, the White Ship had left in autumn, and Frodo had only been asleep for a couple of days, hadn't he?

Seeing that the rain was thinning out, the hobbit sat up from the woodland ground, and set off again down the river, which became wider and rougher as he progressed. The scenery around him changed; no longer were mountains in view, but a wide expanse of fertile land all around.

Still, the day wore on, and soon enough, Frodo felt an urge to sleep. It was getting dark now, yet shapes could be seen clearly all around, and it wasn't long before the hobbit noticed a different sort of shape on the riverbank to what he had been used to.

He approached it warily, and in the setting sun, could still make out what it was. It looked like the wreck of a small, wooden rowing boat, and the oars were lying on the ground some way off, severed in two.

And what was this on the riverbank? There was an empty water skin, and a soggy bit of lembas bread lying there in a pathetic way.

Frodo didn't need to think twice; this boat wasn't just any old boat – it was their boat – Bilbo's boat. But, what had happened to him?

Then, the hobbit thought he heard a distant voice through the trees. It sounded familiar...too familiar to the hobbit's ears – but he shook his head and turned away, gazing out at the river with a hard face.

He did not notice the thing crawl back into the trees as silently as the grave, nor hear the whispered words of "My preciousss" echo throughout the night.

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