It was the first day of April when Gandalf the Grey rode from Imladris along the East road, heading towards the green lands to the distant West. He was riding fast, and knew that he would have to ride hard if he was to reach the Shire and then return before the white council met to discuss the recent concerns coming from the East.
By his side rode Arathorn, son of Arador, heir to the ancient King of men Isilduir. A frown was etched onto his handsome face, and he was radiating tension from his every pore. It would seem that even men could sense the darkness on the horizon, or maybe it was just Arathorn's own anxiety of coming face to face with the bane of his line. Either way it did his companion good to be cautious, after all he of all people knew of both the Ring's power and danger.
"And you are sure it is the One Ring in the Halflings possession?" Arathorn asked that evening when they had stopped to rest the horses and have something to eat. "There are many rings of power in this world."
Gandalf chewed on the end of his pipe and mused over his answer to that particular query. Arathorn was indeed correct, there were many rings of power in Middle Earth each of them with different abilities and purposes. However there was only one which radiated evil in this way, which made it feel as though a great storm was bearing down from the West.
Yes, the only answer was one which filled Gandalf with dread: Bilbo Baggins had somehow found the One Ring.
"I am certain," he answered, watching his companion slowly eating his rabbit stew.
"And where did you come by this knowledge?" asked Arathorn.
"Minas Tirith," answered Gandalf, gazing up at the stars which filled the clear spring sky. "I came by Isilduir's journal there, it describes the Ring and the power it has over its bearer."
He knew better than to mention the way Arathorn's face darkened at the mention of Minas Tirith, he could only imagine how difficult it must be to be a King without a Kingdom. He had seen it before.
"And Denethor let you into his private archives?" asked Arathorn, his voice harsh.
"Denethor's mind may be troubled, but even he has the ability to be distracted by the promise of gold."
Arathorn raised an eyebrow, and the pulled out his pipe. "Gold? Gondor has no mines for gold, all of its goods are gained through trade and barter."
"Which is why Denethor is willing to give up nearly anything to get his hands on more gold than you could ever imagine." Gandalf offered him a light which was gratefully accepted.
"How much gold are we talking?" asked Arathorn.
Gandalf narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy brows, he had always been wary of those to interested in gold.
"More than could ever be counted," he answered. "The whole reason that we march upon Mordor now is because something has been taken and Gondor's aid has been secured. For a price."
"And what exactly has been taken that is worth that kind of gold?"
"His name is Kili, son Vili, and he is of Durin's line," muttered Gandalf around the stem of his pipe.
"A Dwarf?" hissed Arathorn, sitting forwards so as to catch Gandalf's eye in the firelight. "We do this for the sake of a Dwarf, and one of a cursed line at that?"
Gandalf felt his temper rising, of all the Dwarves that roamed upon and beneath Middle Earth, he had found young Kili one of the more likeable and genuine of his kind. The very idea that a man, of all things, would speak in such a way downplayed Kili's very worth and was nothing short of scandalous.
"Kili is very important to his people," he said, unable to keep the harsh edge from his voice. "And he is most important to me."
Arathorn slowly nodded his head.
"And exactly how much have the Dwarves offered Denethor for his safe return?"
"Gold is not what Denethor wants," answered Gandalf.
"I thought you said …" Began Arathorn, but he was quickly silenced by a wave of the wizard's hand.
"The Lord of Gondor wants Erebor itself," said Gandalf. "By offering the hand of his youngest son in marriage to Thorin Oakenshield."
No more was said that night, and eventually Gandalf dozed off into a dreamless sleep.
It was on their third day of traveling from Rivendell that they were attacked.
"A scouting party," said Arathorn, as his sword made quick work of the last Orc. "They brought enough warg's for a long journey."
Gandalf crouched beside the fallen body of one of the Orc's, prying the sword from its dead hand. It was a terrifyingly familiar blade.
"They hail from Mordor," he said, voice northing more than a harsh whisper.
"What are they doing this close to the Shire?" demanded Arathorn, cleaning black blood from his sword and re-sheathing it on his hip. "The servants of Mordor have never been out this far West, at least not in this age."
"Sauron's strength has returned," answered Gandalf. "He senses the Ring."
"The Halfling," said Arathorn.
Dropping the Orc's sword on the ground, Gandalf quickly got to his feet. The very thought of little Bilbo Baggins, despite his incredible bravery and passionate bearing, being hunted by Orcs was enough to make him very afraid indeed.
"We must ride swiftly," he said. "We need to get Bilbo into the safety of Rivendell."
Arathorn looked suitably concerned, and he mounted his horse with no further urging, then as one they made towards the Shire.