Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or LotR or profit from writing this fic. I did take several passages in this chapter from Tolkien's work; true LotR fans will recognize which passages are verbatim from Book I.

A/N: Alright, we're finally back in Middle Earth but will be jumping between Konoha and Middle Earth going forward within the same chapter. If you don't like the Konoha parts, look for when it says (year equivalent to 3018 Middle Earth) because that means it's Konoha.

Also damn, when did FFnet readers get so salty? I mean whatever, you do you; but I've been up front about what the story would be about, so... *shrugs*. I hope y'all enjoy the chapter, I guess? I'll try to update May 1st, depends on how swamped I am with grading finals. Take care ~ love, DC


Chapter 11: The Shadow of the Past


January 3018 (Middle Earth)

Dear Papa,

I am stationed near the Old Forest again. It is a sad sort of beauty to see the forest in deep winter. The trees are quieter and sleep deeper—even Old Man Willow! It makes me feel a little lonely to walk beneath their branches, but I know not to wake them. The cold hurts their bark sometimes.

In other news, the rangers received a missive which said that their leader has captured his quarry. Get this, the quarry was all the way out East in a place called the Dead Marshes. Sounds scary.

I tried to ask Gilvegil why the marshes are called that, but he just got sad and said it was from ages past. If I knew the lay, "The Fall of Gil-galad," then I'd know the answer. Do you know of it? Perhaps Uncle Bilbo had translated a copy?

Oh Papa, I do miss you terribly. I especially miss our quiet winter evenings around the fireplace and when we'd make soups and bread because the snow had gotten too thick to leave the burrow to go trade at the market. Remember that soup we had made from a chicken carcass, potatoes and the diary about to spoil? What had we called it? Chicken cheddar soup? Did we call it that because we had added cheese or am I misremembering?

The rangers say I'm homesick, but how can I be when I'm just at the border of the Shire? Saeradan says home is not just a location but the people too. So perhaps I feel so homesick because I am far from you? And yet, I've chosen this: to continue training under the dúnedain and Tom (though Tom and his wife now sleep with the forest, so I cannot visit them).

I know you will not be happy to learn of this, but I have ventured into the Barrow-Downs again. I am determined to strengthen my ability to drive away that awful presence from you, so I must push myself. I will be careful, of course, but I must become stronger.

I love and miss you deeply, Papa.

Your ever-loving son,

Dôranna

Late January (year equivalent to 3018 in Middle Earth)

Gaara had felt…off since the Chūnin exams. Mother was quiet, she had not spoken to him since the exams. At first, he had thought she was mad at him for not killing everyone in that stadium as she had wanted. Then he had thought she was angry at him for not killing the boy who wore green and had that oddly shiny hair styled in that strange haircut—even when that boy had been unconscious in the hospital, Gaara had not killed him as Mother wished.

When Gaara expressed his…unease with Mother's silence, Baki had an elder examine him. Specifically, she examined a seal Gaara had never seen before on his person.

Baki had sent message after message to the Godaime Hokage and not just to maintain the strained peace between their nations. Gaara used to never pay attention to such matters; he had had mother to contend with all the time and therefore could not think about the matters of those around him. Now though, it was so quiet; he could observe the going-ons of his village better.

He noticed more clearly how people fled from him. His own people, people his family were meant to protect. They feared him and were more scared of him than they had ever been of Father (and they had been afraid of the Sandaime Kazekage, Gaara remembered).

He is supposed to be the Kage now that his father is dead—no, murdered, and by one whom they had thought was an ally and oppressed by the power of Konoha too. It was all delusion and greed which had led to the alliance. Father had seen a means of gaining power and of regaining the daimyo's favor. It had been foolish to align with so new a power. Gaara could recognize this now that Mother was quiet. He also recognized that Father had been trying to help his people—people living on the edge of famine and reliant on imports for survival.

As the strongest of his siblings, it is his duty to protect the people of Sunagakure. The Kazekage has always been one from their bloodline. But the elders, the citizens, they did not want Gaara to be their kage because they feared he would kill them to slake Mother's bloodlust. But Mother was quiet now; Mother had not called for blood since the exams.

Gaara could sleep now too, and with sleep and quiet, he saw the pain of the people. He saw their fear. They were uncertain. Could Temari be a strong leader? Could she be the last defense for the village? She could not defeat a rookie genin years younger than her from a village that coddles their genin. Or so the elders say of Temari and their gracious ally—who still wanted to be their ally after the betrayal.

Of course, why fear a smaller power when you have a ninja who can make an entire battalion disappear into a dim, empty dimension? Why fear someone already under your thumb when you can flash through their defenses like the terrible Yondaime Hokage back from the dead—no not back from the dead, for it was only his student who could now do The Yellow Flash's signature technique.

Mother had been silent since that man, Hatake Kakashi, fought her. It is clear this man did something to Gaara, but the boy did not know what. The elders asked if he felt different. When he told them Mother is quiet now, they asked if he feels weaker or less able to control his sand. But he does not. He feels unchanged and yet completely changed—because now he can sleep, now he can think, now he is not beset at all times by Mother's bloodlust and rage.

Gaara knows he should be Kazekage because he is the strongest of his siblings—he can be the best, last line of defense for the village. But why should he? No one wants him to be the kage even though he has the power to be one. Why should he protect the people who fear him?

Gaara often finds himself walking to the gallery in their Kazekage's home. There are portraits of his ancestors as well as prized artworks. Gaara moved the painting, which he had long thought of as Mother, to this gallery when he returned from Konoha after the failed invasion.

The woman in the sandstorm feels less like Mother now and more like…him. Instead of Mother raging in the middle of the storm, her power and might on full display, he now sees a woman—a figure—caught in the throes of the storm. She moves with it because to resist is to be torn apart. So, she moves fluidly, gracefully—like a dancer—through the cutting winds and piercing sand. For so long, Gaara had been caught in the throes of Mother's storm and Father's cruel indifference, and he had contorted himself to survive. He bent to the howling winds of Mother and slaked her bloodlust as best he could, but it had never been enough. He had never been enough for either Mother or Father.

Gaara leaves the gallery and begins to wander the village by rooftop. Up here only ninja flinch away from him. He heads towards the bazaar. He used to feel envious of, even angry at, the people who milled about below him. But now, now he watches as Suna citizens go about their days and he feels a sort of peace.

He sits for hours observing citizens who fear him but whom he feels obligated to protect because that is the duty of his family. If Father is gone and Mother is silent, who then is to tell Gaara what to do but the expectations of his family line? It is confusing to him and yet not. He is a weapon, he has always been a weapon, and he must find something to serve; so, he will serve his country, these people who fear him.

He's stirred from his melancholy thoughts by a sight he has not seen in seven, almost eight years: a man who did not flinch away from Gaara. The purple face marking, brown hair, and beauty mark are the same as Gaara remembers. The man wears different traveling clothes, but they are still simple and traditional in design. With him is a pale boy that Gaara at first thinks he recognizes, but perhaps it's because of his blood-red hair that is so much like Gaara's.

He drops down from the roof to the main road of the bazaar. At first, he is not noticed, but then the gasps and steps backward occur from the civilians around him. Now Gaara feels all the civilians' attention on him; the very air feels as if it is heavy and filled with a suspense. He ignores them and moves to the stand the man is setting up.

"Sukea-sensei," he greets in a monotone.

Sukea, the painter who made the last family portrait of the Kazekage's line (and the painting Gaara had called Mother), straightens and blinks before recognition alights on his face. "Waka-sama!" He greets warmly and with difference for Gaara's station. "You have grown so much!"

"You have not changed," he comments. The man does not seem changed, perhaps one or two lines at the corner of his eyes.

The man blushes and laughs. "Oh, you are too kind, Gaara-sama, but I have aged, I know."

"May I look at your wares?" Gaara asks. He has learned this is what one should do. He should not have grabbed the painting as he had in his youth.

The redhead accompanying Sukea stills as he's setting up their wares. He seems nervous. Has Gaara's reputation preceded him again?

"Of course," Sukea replies warmly. Gaara realizes the man had been warm to him in the past too. It is typical of a salesman and yet Gaara knows other merchants who dropped their affability around his unsettling presence. Perhaps this painter has no survival instincts?

"Thank you," Gaara replies with a nod as he is not sure what else to say. He sees the redheaded boy, who is likely Gaara's age if not older, is fumbling slightly as he sets out the paintings. A watercolor the boy is setting down arrests Gaara's attention. His sand has reached watercolor before his mind fully understands what he's doing. The redheaded civilian yelps and jumps away from the sand clumsily. Gaara's sand catches the watercolor before it falls.

"Ah, that is one of my apprentice's pieces," Sukea announces as he claps the nervous boy on the shoulder.

"Forgive my suddenness, but the painting spoke to me," Gaara confesses. He is already reaching into his pocket for money. "How much for this?" he asked the nervous redhead.

"F-free," the boy squeaks.

"Aah, my apprentice is nervous," Sukea says with a laugh while pushing the boy behind him. He explains how watercolors of the standard portrait size have a set price and that Gaara could get a deal if he buys three.

Gaara nods and begins to peruse the watercolor selection the apprentice has made. He finds two more that speak to him, and then he pays the asked for price. As he leaves the painter and his apprentice, he hears the man say: "My cute apprentice's first sold pieces, we will have beef tonight!"

"Shishō," the boy whines, "that commission isn't enough for beef, don't get ahead of yourself!"

"But we need to celebrate!"

Gaara finds himself smiling as he continues to listen to the artist and his apprentice banter even as Gaara commissions a specially made frame from a carpenter three stalls down. He plans for the three watercolors to be housed within the same frame but separated by a thinner partition.

Gaara smiles down at the paintings in his hands. The first painting, which he had instinctively reached for, is a landscape that reminds him there is always calm in the middle of a storm. Even if Mother were to begin speaking again, he knows he could find this calm again—or so he tells himself. The second watercolor is a red ball which reminds him of his lonely childhood. There is a simplicity in the painting itself and a beauty in the shading. Perhaps his childhood had been lonely, but he can try to find the beauty in it like he can in this watercolor. The last watercolor is of sand dunes at sunset. It reminds him of looking out at the desert around him, his home.

He will tell the elders that he will be their last line of defense. Temari does not have the power or reputation that he does. If Konoha has as fearsome a ninja as Hatake Kakashi as a deterrent for enemy attacks, then Suna needs a stronger deterrent as well. He will get stronger, and he will work to be a leader worthy of his family name. Father may have let their people down, but Gaara will do his best to never be like him. He will make amends.

April 3018 (Middle Earth)

Frodo reread his son's last message and reflected on the conversation he had heard at the Green Dragon earlier that evening. He thought something Sam and Ted had been talking about had sounded familiar, and so he had found his son's last letter and begun to re-read it upon his return home.

Dôranna was stationed in the North Farthing and camping in the moors. These were the very same moors Halfast had been hunting in when he saw an elm tree walking. Dôranna had confessed before that he could hear the trees talking like the elves can and that he can speak to them in turn, so perhaps his son had heard of walking trees?

Ah there was the passage Frodo had been looking for:

I met an interesting fellow last night on watch. He was tall as a tree and looked part tree except at the joints—there you could see he had skin. Anyways, his name is Longelm—silly I know, but it was beautiful in tree language, though it took a very long time for him to say it.

He says he's a tree herder and normally he'd be in a forest herding trees, but he's looking for his wife. I offered to help him, but he can't remember what his wife looked like because it had been so long since they were last together. Longelm was trying to find his wife because he was worried about a blight coming from the East. It was sad to hear him talk about how trees are dying and being uprooted for fires. Humans are awful, Papa.

Before Frodo could get too lost in the letter again, there was a familiar tap at his study window. Nearly hopping off his seat, Frodo raced to the door. There Gandalf stood in all his travelworn charm.

They looked hard at one another for a moment before Gandalf spoke. "All well, eh?" the wizard asked. "You look the same as ever, Frodo." The wizard then gave a look about the burrow as if hoping to sense Dôranna.

"So do you," Frodo replied even though he thought Gandalf looked older and more careworn. "I'm afraid Dôranna's still off with the rangers," he added after clocking the wizard's examination of his home.

"Ah, is he?" Gandalf remarked as they moved into the sitting room. Frodo set about getting tea ready while Gandalf settled in. "I am glad to hear you were able to connect him with them. How long has he been training with them then?"

"Oh goodness," Frodo said while thinking. "Since he was ten." A glance over at Gandalf told the hobbit the wizard was trying to recall just how old Dôranna was. "He turned thirteen this last October," Frodo added helpfully.

Gandalf smiled. "Ah, yes, yes, I recall now. My, three years with a company of dúnedain. He's a hard-working boy."

"He is," Frodo agreed sadly. "He keeps telling me he's trying to get stronger so he can lift the influence of Bilbo's ring—"

Gandalf held up his hands as soon as Frodo said Bilbo's name. "Let us save such talk for the morning. Dark things are best not discussed in the dark of night," he said almost cryptically.

"Then it is dark, corrupting even?" Frodo asked quietly as his hand gravitated toward the ring in his pocket—even now he could not bear to be separated from the ring. Perhaps that should have been the largest clue to its harm? That despite Dôranna explaining the corruption, Frodo could not discard the ring.

"We will discuss it in the morning," Gandalf repeated tiredly. "But come, how is your son? What is new in Hobbiton?"

And so, they discussed matters of the wide world, and Dôranna's adventures with the Rangers of the North. Frodo even explained how a hobbit had seen a tree herder, and Dôranna had confirmed the rumor for Frodo in his last message. In the end, Frodo and Gandalf talked late into the night, but Frodo was left with the impression that many troubling things were occurring in the larger world, and the Shire was seeing a fraction of the displacement these troubles had caused.

When Frodo had explained his son's newfound ability to make things grow, speak to trees, and how he could manipulate the wind around him to sharpen his weapons, Gandalf had stared at Frodo with his mouth agape. Frodo explained that his son had been trying to piece together spells and would have greatly appreciated Gandalf's wisdom in such matters. Gandalf's only reply was that if he and Dôranna should meet again, he would happily teach the boy. Eventually, of course, the two friends tired and went off to sleep.

Come morning, they both woke late and therefore ate a late breakfast (it was nearly time for second breakfast when they had finished). They then retired to the study and lit a fire in the hearth. While the day was already growing warm (as per spring tradition), the burrow tended to have a chill in the mornings. They opened the study window to let in the breeze coming from the south and to enjoy the fresh spring green of the fields and trees beyond.

Gandalf had lit his pipe and appeared to be in thought, much like Frodo was. Granted Frodo could only think of the grim tidings Gandalf had likely brought.

"Last night you said we should not speak of Bilbo's ring, or how my son wishes to lift its corrupting influence from me," Frodo broke the pensive silence between them. "Not at least until morning."

"Indeed, I did," Gandalf confirmed with his mouth pressed into a firm line. "Dôranna said the Ring's influence is corrupting?"

"Yes," Frodo admitted with shame, although he couldn't stop from touching the outside of his waistcoat pocket. "Dôranna says it has been burrowing into my mind, like a worm into earth. He also…" It pained Frodo to recall what his son had said, just as it pained him to think of the discomfort he must have caused his son. "He said it also lashed out at his energy—that it was…unhappy? If such a thing is possible." Frodo tried to laugh at the strangeness of it but it fell flat and awkward.

Gandalf closed his eyes slowly, as if he too was in pain. "Yes, I suppose that is one way to describe it. A burrowing corruption into the mind," he said quietly.

The wizard then opened his eyes and regarded Frodo seriously. "I had alluded in the past that Bilbo's ring might have been much more dangerous than anyone would have thought. And I have discovered it is far more powerful than I ever dared to think; so powerful that, in the end, it would utterly overcome anyone of mortal race who possessed it. It would possess him, just as it tries to possess you, but it seems the progress is slow?"

There was a hopefulness to Gandalf's question, and yet it seemed as if the Wizard was wary of the hope as well.

"Yes, I believe so. I…" Frodo trailed off, and Gandalf gestured for him to continue.

"We had done a trial period with the dúnedain before Dôranna committed to staying with them," Frodo explained slowly—thinking of the rejection (though unintentional and mistaken) still hurt. "Dôranna…he said I felt icky, wrong when we met again." They still had not found the right word in hobbitish or westron for that dream-word Dôranna had used. Gandalf's confusion was clear, so he tried to explain what the word meant. "Dôranna first used the word icky when touching a congealed mass of rotting food that had somehow also gotten wet."

The grimace Gandalf made summed up how Frodo had felt upon hearing himself described in such a way. However, the wizard sobered quickly and nodded his head. "Yes, I suppose that would be a good descriptor for the ring's influence, if one could see it for what it is." Gandalf appeared thoughtful now. "How curious that your son could so immediately feel the harm and wrongness of the Ring when so many others have been seduced by its power."

At Frodo's concerned confusion, the wizard launched into his tale of the Rings of Power. He described their origins in Eregion and of the Elven-smiths who made them. Then the wizard explained the Great Rings.

"A mortal, Frodo" Gandalf began, "who keeps one of the Great Rings, does not die, but he does not grow or obtain more life. He merely continues, until, at last, every minute is a weariness. And if he often uses the Ring to make himself invisible, he fades: he becomes, in the end, invisible permanently, and walks in the twilight under the eye of the Dark Power that rules the Rings."

Frodo's horror at the similarities between him and Bilbo's lack of aging must have been clear. Moreso, even, Frodo's terror at the descriptor of the Dark Power. "Yes," Gandalf confirmed, "sooner or later—later, if the mortal is strong or well-meaning to begin with, but neither strength nor good purpose will last—sooner or later the Dark Power will devour him."

Frodo was silent in his fear, and he prayed with all his heart that his son could help him. A long silence stretched between Frodo and Gandalf, during which the soft sound of Sam Gamgee cutting the lawn came in from the garden.

Once the chill of this revelation had passed and the unsettling news lay heavy in Frodo's stomach, he asked what he now wondered. For surely Gandalf must have had some inkling? His son knew right away of the…awfulness of the ring. "How long have you known this? And how much did Bilbo know?" Had his beloved uncle gifted him such a terrible thing knowingly?

"Bilbo knew no more than he told you, I am sure," said Gandalf, and that at least put Frodo at ease. "He would certainly never have passed on to you anything that he thought would be a danger, even though I promised to look after you. He thought the ring was very beautiful, and very useful at need; and if anything was wrong or queer, it was himself. He said that it was 'growing on his mind,' and he was always worrying about it; but he did not suspect the ring itself was to blame. Though he had found out that the thing needed looking after; it did not seem always of the same size or weight; it shrank or expanded in an odd way and might suddenly slip off a finger where it had been tight."

"Yes, he warned me of that in his last letter," Frodo said, "so I have always kept it on its chain."

"Very wise," said Gandalf. "But as for his long life, Bilbo never connected it with the ring at all. He took all the credit for that to himself, and he was very proud of it. Though he was getting restless and uneasy. Thin and stretched, he said. A sign that the ring was gaining control."

Frodo felt a lump form in his throat. Bilbo had the ring for fifty some years. How long before the ring tried to claim Frodo? In the two months separated from Dôranna, its influence had grown noticeably, how much worse has it gotten in the last three, nearly four, years?

"How long have you known all this?" Frodo asked again. His words managed to stay neutral despite the tightening of his throat.

"Known?" Gandalf mused. "I have known much that only the Wise know, Frodo."

Frodo's unease must have been apparent, for Gandalf hurried on. "But if you mean 'known about this ring,' well, I still do not know, one might say. There is a last test to make, but I no longer doubt my guess." Then it was doubt beforehand which had kept Gandalf from alerting Frodo or Bilbo of the danger.

Gandalf continued. "When did I first begin to guess?" he mused and appeared quite thoughtful—as if searching his long memory. "Let me see—it was in the year that the White Council drove the Dark Power from Mirkwood, just before the Battle of the Five Armies, that Bilbo found this ring.

"A shadow fell on my heart then, though I did not know yet what I feared. I wondered often how Gollum came by a Great Ring, as plainly it was—that at least was clear from the first. Then I heard Bilbo's strange story of how he had 'won' it, and I could not believe it. When I at last got the truth out of him, I saw at once that he had been trying to put his claim to the ring beyond doubt. Much like Gollum with his 'birthday-present.' The lies were too much alike for my comfort.

"Clearly, the ring had an unwholesome power that set to work on its keeper at once. That was the first real warning I had that all was not well. I told Bilbo often that such rings were better left unused; but he resented it, and soon got angry. There was little else that I could do. I could not take it from him without doing greater harm; and I had no right to do so anyway. I could only watch and wait. I might perhaps have consulted Saruman the White, but something always held me back."

Frodo motioned for Gandalf to continue. He assumed Saruman the White was one of Gandalf's order and perhaps one learned in the matters of Rings of Power. He would not ask for clarification because he needed to know about the Ring. That was his biggest concern—that was what troubled Frodo most.

"So, I watched, and I waited. And all seemed well with Bilbo. And the years passed. Yes, they passed, and they seemed not to touch him. He showed no signs of age. The shadow fell on me again. But I said to myself: 'After all, he comes from a long-lived family on his mother's side. There is time yet. Wait!'

"And I waited. Until that night when he left this house. He said and did things then that filled me with a fear that I could no longer ignore. I knew at last that something dark and deadly was at work. And I have spent most of the years since then in finding out the truth of it."

Frodo chewed his lip. He understood Gandalf's reasoning and yet…Dôranna had known right away. Frodo realized now that his son had always avoided the study where Frodo had kept the ring (before temptation? worry? need? no, the ring had called for Frodo to remove it from its hiding place). Dôranna would even find ways to draw Frodo away from the study when the hobbit had found himself staying in there for longer than necessary—had it been the ring beckoning him on those days?

"You seem troubled," Gandalf remarked.

Frodo gave a wry laugh. "Of course I am troubled and yet…" he trailed off, but Gandalf made a motion for him to continue. The hobbit closed his eyes. "How is it that my son knew immediately of its harm? You suspected a Great Ring, but not…not whatever ring this is."

Frodo shook his head. "Dôranna hated the study because I kept it hidden here, and, when he was gone, the loneliness…" Frodo rubbed his face, perhaps to clear away the threat of tears or perhaps from his mounting frustration. "I found myself in here more and more often, and then my thoughts went to the ring, and it became a solace."

A thought came unbidden to him. "What if my son's mere presence had been…staving off the ring's corruption?" At Gandalf's open shock, Frodo added, "Dôranna says it attacks him, zaps at his energy as if its…threatened by him."

"It would be a rare and, frankly, unbelievable thing for any being to be a threat to…" Gandalf trailed off. "I can only think of the Valar as ones which would have enough harmony and power. Even I would eventually succumb to the Ring's temptations," Gandalf confessed.

Frodo felt both pride and fear swell within his chest. Valar, right, his son said he essentially had a Valar sealed within him. But how does he explain this to Gandalf, to explain the existence of an impossible other world? If it is even that.

"What is it, Frodo?" Gandalf asked quietly.

"Dôranna wrote to me and told me that Mr. Fox is…" Frodo trailed off, unsure how to say this.

"One of the Valar?" Gandalf guessed, though he did not sound surprised.

Frodo chewed his lip again because the wizard was not quite right in his guess. "Dôranna said that he carries Mr. Fox within him. There are separations between them, but Mr. Fox is always with him."

"Not a new Blue Wizard but Oromë's vessel…" Gandalf breathed in awe. Frodo did not have the heart to correct the wizard for perhaps there was nothing to correct. Or perhaps it was best the Wizard understood things this way because how could Frodo explain that his child was from an altogether different world? "But if a Vala had returned, the discord it could cause…" Gandalf was thinking aloud to himself, his words were so quiet, Frodo could barely hear them. "Of course, the Great Hunter would need to hide with his power muted, but why a newborn babe?"

"Because he will grow into Mr. Fox's power," Frodo reasoned quietly.

Gandalf looked up at Frodo alarmed, and then his eyes widened in wonder. "And he came to the exact place he was most needed."

"Most needed?" Frodo repeated.

Gandalf sobered and nodded. "Ever since Bilbo left, I have been deeply concerned about you, and about all these charming, absurd, helpless hobbits. It would be a grievous blow to the world if the Dark Power overcame the Shire; if all your kind—jolly stupid Bolgers, Hornblowers, Boffins, Bracegirdles, and the rest, not to mention the ridiculous Bagginses—became enslaved."

Frodo shuddered at the very notion. "But why should we be?" he asked, "And why should the Dark Power want such slaves?" And could Dôranna have been brought to the copse of trees as a literal godsend (or god-sent to make a pun that would have Pippin, Fredegar, and Dôranna rolling on the floor).

"To tell the truth," replied Gandalf, "I believe that hitherto—hitherto, mark you—He has entirely overlooked the existence of hobbits. You should be thankful. But your safety has passed. He does not need you—He has many more useful servants—but He won't forget you again. And hobbits as miserable slaves would please Him far more than hobbits happy and free. There is such a thing as malice and revenge."

"Revenge?" Frodo parroted in alarm. "Revenge for what? Raising my son? Being in possession of this ring?"

Gandalf was frowning. "I will explain it all in time, but there is one final test, as I said."

Frodo swallowed but nodded and waited for the wizard to proceed. "Frodo, please withdraw the Ring," Gandalf instructed.

Reluctantly, Frodo removed the ring from the pocket of his waistcoat. All the while, he watched Gandalf warily. "Can you see markings on it?" Gandalf asked.

"No," Frodo replied. "There are none. It is quite plain, and it never shows a scratch or sign of wear."

Gandalf nodded and held out his hand. "May I see it for a moment?"

Reflexively, Frodo's hand closed around the ring, but he made himself relax his hand and then unfastened the ring. He handed it to Gandalf who immediately threw it into a glowing corner of the fire. Frodo gave a cry of alarm and went to fish the ring out of the hearth with tongs, but Gandalf held him back.

"Wait," he commanded. Frodo's legs tensed and his heart raced in his chest, yet he listened to the command. For the time being, at least, there seemed to be no harm to the ring or change. He still, ridiculously, felt betrayed.

Gandalf got up, closed the shutters, and drew the curtains. The room became dark and silent, though the clack of Sam's shears (now nearer to the windows), could still be heard faintly from the garden.

For a moment, the wizard stood looking at the fire; then he stooped and removed the ring to the hearth with tongs, and at once picked it up. Frodo gasped.

"It is quite cool," Gandalf assured him. "Take it!" Frodo received it on his shrinking palm: the ring seemed to have become thicker and heavier than ever.

"Hold it up!" Gandalf commanded, "and look closely!"

As Frodo did so, he now saw fine lines, finer than the finest pen strokes, running along the ring, outside and inside: lines of fire that seemed to form the letters of a flowing script. They shone piercingly bright, and yet remote, as if out of a great depth.

"I…it's in Quenya but it makes no sense." Much like the dream-language notes would make no sense to anyone who did not know the dream language.

"Indeed, the letters are of old Elvish, but the language is that of Mordor, which I will not utter here. But this, in the Common Tongue, is what is said (close enough):

One ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.

"It is only two lines of a verse long known in Elven-lore:

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."

Gandalf paused and then slowly said in a deep voice, "This is the Master-ring, the One Ring to rule them all. This is the One Ring that He lost many ages ago, to the great weakening of his power. He greatly desires it—but He must not get it." Softer now, Gandalf added, "And that is why we are so blessed that Oromë sent Dôranna here."

Frodo, lost in his fear at the providence of his ring, had no strength to tell Gandalf that his son was not some Valar sent from the Undying Lands. Instead of correcting Gandalf, Frodo closed his eyes even as his hand closed around the Ring. He didn't want to believe that Bilbo's ring could be that ring, but all proof showed otherwise.

"How, how on earth did it come to me?" he asked desperately and with a shake of his closed fist lest Gandalf assume he was talking about his son still.

"Ah!" Gandalf exclaimed as he sat down opposite a still stunned Frodo. "That is a very long story. The beginnings lie back in the Black years, which only the lore-masters now remember. If I were to tell you all that tale, we should still be sitting here when Spring had passed into Winter.

"But last night I told you of Sauron the Great, the Dark Lord. The rumors that you have heard are true: He has indeed arisen again and left his hold in Mirkwood and returned to his ancient fastness in the Dark Tower of Mordor. That name even you hobbits have heard of, like a shadow on the borders of old stories. Always after a defeat and a respite, the Shadow takes another shape and grows again."

"I wish it need not have happened in my time," Frodo whispered, his thoughts were all on Dôranna.

"So do I," Gandalf agreed, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. And already, Frodo, our time is beginning to look black. The Enemy is fast becoming very strong. His plans are far from ripe, I think, but they are ripening. We shall be hard put to it. We should be very hard put to it, even if it were not for this dreadful chance.

"The Enemy still lacks one thing to give him strength and knowledge to beat down all resistance, break the last defenses, and cover all the lands in a second darkness. He lacks the One Ring.

"The Three, fairest of all, the Elf-lords hid from him, and his hand never touched them or sullied them. Seven the Dwarf-kings possessed, but three he has recovered, and the others the dragons have consumed. Nine he gave to Mortal Men, proud and great, and so ensnared them. Long ago they fell under the dominion of the One, and they became Ringwraiths, shadows under his great Shadow, his most terrible servants. Long ago. It is many a year since the Nine walked abroad. Yet who knows? As the Shadow grows once more, they too may walk again. But come! We will not speak of such things even in the morning of the Shire.

"So, it is now: the Nine he has gathered to himself; the Seven also or else they are destroyed. The Three are hidden still. But that no longer troubles him. He only needs the One; for He made that Ring himself, it is his, and He let a great part of his own former power pass into it, so that He could rule all the others. If He recovers it, then He will command them all again, wherever they be, even the Three, and all that has been wrought with them will be laid bare, and He will be stronger than ever.

"And this is the dreadful chance, Frodo. He believed that the One had perished; that Elves had destroyed it, as should have been done. But He knows now that it has not perished, that it has been found. So, He is seeking it, seeking it, and all his thought is bent on it. It is his great hope and our great fear."

"Why, why wasn't it destroyed?!" cried Frodo. His son, the Shire, could all be in danger! He began to pace in his fear and anxiety. His hand was curled tightly around the Ring while his chest seized with dread. No, this was too fantastical, too awful. "How did the Enemy ever come to lose it, if He was so strong and it was so precious to him?"

Why were they all now doomed? Frodo wanted to ask, but he kept that last question to himself for he suspected Gandalf would mention his son again as some sort of savior. Dôranna was a boy, a child still!

Gandalf proceeded to explain the Last Alliance, of Gil-galad and Elendil, and then the fall of Sauron. While Frodo had not been able to find a copy (translated or otherwise) of the lay his son requested, he could now explain that the Dead Marshes were the grounds of the last battle. He could explain that so many thousands had died that not all the bodies could be recovered and so now lay at the bottom of a bog. The evil of that battle and the unsettled dead make the place treacherous.

Gandalf spoke of Islidur, son of Elendil, who kept the Ring as a prize and was later ambushed near the Anduin. Then the Ring was lost for centuries until two folk, who were distant kin of hobbits, found it while fishing: Sméagol and Déagol. Gandalf told Frodo the sordid tale of Déagol's murder by Sméagol for possession of the ring and then the deterioration of Sméagol into Gollum.

When Frodo voiced his incredulity at Gollum's part (and distant relation to hobbits), Gandalf reasoned with him and explained that more than one Will was at work when Bilbo found the Ring. If Gandalf meant to make Frodo feel better by implying some Valar or the greater harmony of the universe meant for Bilbo (and in turn Frodo) to find the ring, then he failed. Frodo only felt more stress and fear.

Gandalf related the travels of Gollum after losing the Ring, and Bilbo cheating him in their riddle game. He mentioned enlisting an Aragorn in his hunt for Gollum. The wizard had called the man the best huntsman and traveler of this age. Frodo decided he would relate this information to his son since the boy had been curious about the mysterious leader of the rangers.

And then Gandalf finished the "adventures" of Gollum by telling of his capture and torture within Mordor. Worse, Gollum had told his torturers of hobbits, the Shire, and Baggins. This information shattered something within Frodo's chest. His son was a Baggins.

"No! No, he did not tell them where to find us!" Frodo cried as he began to pace. He and Dôranna needed to flee. They had to flee immediately. He began to pace about the study as his free hand came up to grip his hair in frustration.

"This is far worse than the worst that I imagined from your hints and warnings. Oh Gandalf, what am I to do?! They'll be after my son! They'll be after us."

Rage flooded Frodo's chest. "What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature when he had a chance!" he seethed. His son was now in danger!

"Pity?" Gandalf challenged. "It was Pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity."

And the more one gave into the evil, the corruption, the easier it would be for the Ring to possess him. The rage ended, but the fear persisted. Frodo felt left adrift in water. There may no longer be wind in his metaphorical sails, but he was still in the current.

"I'm sorry," Frodo whispered. "I'm so frightened, for my son, for myself." He was near tears. "I cannot feel pity for Gollum after he's endangered my boy."

"You have not seen him," Gandalf broke in.

"No, and I don't want to," Frodo retorted. "I can't understand you. Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc and just an enemy. He deserves death."

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them?" Gandalf questioned, and Frodo froze. Gandalf continued his chastisement. "Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends. I have not much hope that Gollum can be cured before he dies, but there is a chance of it. And he is bound up with the fate of the Ring. My heart tells me that he has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before the end; and when that comes, the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many—yours not least. In any case, we did not kill him: he is very old and very wretched. The Wood-elves have him in prison, but they treat him with such kindness as they can find in their wise hearts."

"All the same," Frodo said—now like a boat stuck in a sandbar—"even if Bilbo could not kill Gollum, I wish he had not kept the Ring. I wish he had never found it, and that I had not got it! Why did you let me keep it? I've endangered my child, and the Shire! Why didn't you make me throw it away or-or destroy it?"

"Let you? Make you?" Gandalf repeated. There was a note of disbelief or perhaps frustration in his voice. "Haven't you been listening to all that I have said? You are not thinking of what you are saying."

Frodo felt his face flush in shame at the second chastisement in less than five minutes. Yes, part of him understood that the Ring was a corrupting influence and much like how Gandalf could not have forced Bilbo to give up the Ring before he left, the wizard could not have forced Frodo to abandon the Ring either. However, the hobbit was still upset. Frodo had a son to think about!

"But as for throwing it away, that was obviously wrong," Gandalf reasoned. "These Rings have a way of being found. In evil hands it might have done greater evil. Worst of all, it might have fallen into the hands of the Enemy. Indeed, it certainly would have; for this is the One, and he is exerting all his power to find it or draw it to himself.

"Of course, my dear Frodo," Gandalf began more gently now and seemed as if he wished to physically console the hobbit but refrained, "it was dangerous for you; and that has troubled me deeply. But there was so much at stake that I had to take some risk—though even when I was far away there was never a day when the shire was not guarded by watchful eyes—as you well know!"

Frodo closed his eyes. Yes, he knew the rangers were capable men, but Gandalf had spoken of such terrible evils this morning. The Barrow-wights now felt like the least of all the threats his son might face.

Gandalf set his large hands on Frodo's shoulders—it was grounding. "As long as you never used it, I did not think that the Ring would have any lasting effect on you, not for evil, not at any rate for a very long time. And you must remember that nine years ago, when I last saw you, I still knew little for certain."

And Dôranna had likely been keeping the effects of the Ring at bay, Frodo thought. Gandalf stepped back from him and sat down. Frodo despondently sat across from the wizard.

"Why can it not be destroyed?" he asked tiredly. "If I'd know—" Frodo cut the complaint off.

He had known for years now that the Ring was no good, that it was corrupting him. Frodo clenched the Ring in his hand even more tightly both in anger and in the desire to protect it—for he had thought just now of destroying the ring and had been overcome with a disquieting anxiety.

He should put the Ring back on its chain before it tried to escape him. He gave a derisive, hopeless laugh. Of course, he fears it will leave him because Frodo had just thought of destroying it, and the Ring had dug its claws into him so deeply already.

"Frodo? What are you thinking of?" Gandalf asked him softly.

"I want it destroyed, but I feel in my heart already that…" he trailed off and shook his head.

"Such is the influence of the One," Gandalf lamented. "But it can be destroyed." The wizard then explained how the ring was made and where it could be destroyed.

When Frodo tried to give the Ring to Gandalf, he saw genuine fear enter the wizard's expression. Did he fear the Ring sapping at his power like Dôranna? No, he feared its corruption and that, from him, the Ring would do terrible things. Would Dôranna be similarly corrupted? He could never imagine his sweet son being tempted by it, but he could see it hurting his son. No…this was Frodo's burden to bear.

Gandalf went to the curtains and opened them along with the shutters. Sam was walking along the path outside whistling. Gandalf turned to Frodo and set one hand on his shoulder.

"The decision lies with you," the wizard said. "But I will always help you. I will help you bear this burden, as long as it is yours to bear. But we must do something, soon. The enemy is moving."

Gandalf sat down again, and Frodo fixed the Ring back on its chain. He fiddled with the chain while Gandalf observed him. Frodo knew his answer already.

"The Ring cannot stay in the Shire," Frodo announced. "I will not endanger my son. But until a better suited Ring-bearer is found, I must be the one to guard it.

"And yet, wherever I go, I will bring danger to those I live near," Frodo murmured. "I will have to travel, leave the Shire. If only to make sure that there will be one safe place from this terrible Enemy."

Frodo smiled a bit wryly. "I always imagined going off on an adventure like Bilbo." The smile fell as he continued musing aloud, "I thought it would be like a holiday, but I would be going off into exile. Moving from one danger to the next, unable to be with those I love because I'd put them at risk."

He would never see his son again. Gandalf might think his son was some Valar, someone with great power, but he was just a boy, his boy. He soothed Dôranna after nightmares, had read him stories, taught him his letters and numbers. His son might be capable of great things, but he was still his son—his little boy.

Gandalf was regarding Frodo in an almost awed way. "My dear Frodo," he exclaimed. "Hobbits really are amazing creatures, as I have said before. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch. I hardly expected to get such an answer, not even from you. But Bilbo made no mistake in choosing his heir, though he little thought how important it would prove.

"I am afraid you are right. The Ring will not be able to stay hidden in the Shire much longer; and for your own sake, as well as for others, you will have to go, and leave the name of Baggins behind you. That name will not be safe to have, outside the Shire or in the Wild. I will give you a traveling name now. When you go, go as Mr. Underhill.

"But I don't think you need to go alone. Not if you know of anyone you can trust, and who would be willing to go by your side—and that you would be willing to take into unknown perils. But if you look for a companion, be careful in choosing! And be careful of what you say, even to your closets friends! The Enemy has many spies and may ways of hearing!"

Suddenly, he stopped as if listening. Frodo became aware that all was very quiet, inside and outside. Gandalf crept to one side of the window. Then, with a dart, he sprang to the sill, and thrust a long arm out and downwards. There was a squawk, and up came Sam Gamgee's curly head hauled by one ear.

"Well, well, bless my beard!" said Gandalf. "Sam Gamgee, is it? Now what may you be doing?"

"Lor bless you, Mr. Gandalf, sir!" Sam practically squeaked. "Nothing! Leastways I was just trimming the grass-border under the window, if you follow me." He picked up his shears and exhibited them as evidence.

"I don't," Gandalf said grimly. "It is some time since I last heard the sound of your shears. How long have you been eavesdropping?"

"Eavesdropping, sir? I don't follow you, begging your pardon. There aint' no eaves at Bag End, and that's a fact."

Frodo closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. Sam was harmless, but Gandalf had spooked him quite terribly.

"Don't be a fool!" Gandalf snapped. "What have you heard, and why did you listen?" Gandalf's eyes flashed and his brows stuck out like bristles. It was an unnerving sight.

"Mr. Frodo, sir!" Same cried. He was practically quaking. "Don't let him hurt me, sir! Don't let him turn me into anything unnatural! My old dad would take on so. I meant no harm, on my honor, sir!"

"He won't hurt you," Frodo reassured the young hobbit. Still, it was an amusing sight if unsettling given the talk of spies earlier. "He knows, as well as I do, that you mean no harm. But just you up and answer his questions straight away," Frodo warned.

"Well, sir," Sam dithered in reply. "I heard a good deal that I didn't rightly understand, about an enemy, and rings, and Mr. Bilbo, sir, and dragons, and fiery mountain, and—and elves, sir. I listened because I couldn't help myself, if you know what I mean. Lor bless me, sir, but I do love tales of that sort. And I believed them too, whatever Ted may say. Elves, sir! I would dearly love to see them. Couldn't you take me to see Elves, sir, when you go?"

Gandalf began laughing and Frodo bit his cheeks.

"Come inside!" the wizard shouted before putting out both his hands and lifting Sam (shears, grass clippings, and all) right through the window and setting him on the floor. "Take you to see Elves, eh?" Gandalf asked calculatingly, though there was a clear smile on his face. "So, you heard that Mr. Frodo is going away?"

"I did, sir," Sam confessed. "And that's why I choked—which you heard seemingly. I tried not to, sir, but it burst out of me: I was so upset."

"It can't be helped, Sam," Frodo said sadly. He had suddenly realized that flying from the Shire would mean more painful partings than merely saying farewell to the familiar comforts of Bag End. "I shall have to go. But"—and here he looked hard at Sam—"if you really care about me, you will keep that dead secret. See? If you don't, if you even breathe a word of what you've heard here, then I hope Gandalf will turn you into a spotted toad and fill the garden full of grass-snakes."

Sam fell on his knees, trembling. "Get up, Sam!" Gandalf exclaimed. "I have thought of something better than that. Something to shut your mouth and punish you properly for listening. You shall go away with Mr. Frodo."

"Me, sir!" cried Sam, springing up like a dog invited for a walk. "Me go and see Elves and all! Horray!" he shouted and then burst into tears.

Frodo only hoped that Sam would keep such a boyish optimism in the trials that would undoubtedly lie ahead.

"I need to write to my son," Frodo announced quietly. Sam sniffed and began to wipe at his joyous tears, whereas Gandalf frowned.

"I need not tell you the danger writing about the One Ring poses."

"We write in his dream language, Gandalf. It prevents nosy hobbits from prying where they shouldn't," Frodo explained with a side-eye at Sam. It was in hobbit nature to eavesdrop and put their noses in others' business, so he could not truly fault the young hobbit.

Frodo felt like he had aged over the course of his conversation with Gandalf, and he needed a break from both his gardener and the wizard. "May I have my study to my own for a moment?" he requested.

Gandalf hummed and nodded. He then gestured for Sam to follow him, and Frodo distantly heard the two talking about what Sam should say to his Old Gaffer about his departure from the Shire. Frodo moved to sit at his writing desk and sighed. What was he supposed to tell his son?