Archive of Our Own

This story, alas, begins with a tragedy – as so many stories of eventual great importance are wont to do.

It was in March of the 2989th year of the Third Age, 1389 by Shire-reckoning, that Bilbo Baggins, head of the Baggins family and local oddball, went drinking with a few friends and did not return home later that night. Nor, for that matter, later that week or month or even that year.

Of course, investigations of more and less seriousness were conducted by people with more and less authority to do so; with the former trying their best to solve this unwelcome mystery, while the latter busied themselves with embellishing the story with even more rumours or asking absolutely uncalled-for questions whether Bilbo had vanished (again!) or died (for real, this time) and if so, how he had gone about it without anyone noticing.

These investigations, however, yielded nothing. His drinking companions of that evening, one Griffo Boffin, old Hamfast Gamgee, and Isenbras Took could merely report that Bilbo had been in good spirits that evening (in more than one sense), and maybe even in too good spirits, because other folk had seen him leaving the Green Dragon in Bywater with a noticeable weave in his step. It seemed not at all unlikely that Bilbo might have stopped on the bridge over the Water and, by accident, tumbled over the side and drowned like the parents of poor Frodo Baggins nine years prior. Others said that he had simply wandered off to visit Elves and other strange folk again, and that it was not so unlike Bilbo to do it without even packing and locking his front door – this particular version of the story was mostly accompanied by put-upon sighs and shaking heads. (Other, more ill-willed tongues even mentioned discreetly that Bilbo might have gone so far as to get it into his head to go boating while drunk that night, since Bagginses seemed to have no common hobbit-sense where deep water was concerned. But those rumours were never uttered aloud and eventually died along with all other speculations going round in the Shire.)

However, since nobody had been around to actually see an accident or a vanishing, no definite solution to the curious circumstances of the night of the 21st of March 1389 could be found, and the hobbits of the Shire had to content themselves with the fact that the Second Disappearance of Bilbo Baggins, as it came to be called, would remain an unsolved mystery. Soon, folk had other, more pressing things on their minds and as they lost interest in the case, the rumour mill in the West Farthing slowed down and, eventually, stilled.

Thus it came to be, that a year after his disappearance, just shy of the date of his 100th birthday, Bilbo Baggins was pronounced Dead-or-Missing, permanently. And since the mayor of Michel-Delving, with whom the hobbits had conferred upon this matter, deemed that they had waited long enough to exclude a sudden, unexpected reappearance of Bilbo (which had been vexing and very embarrassing for everyone involved the last time it had happened) it was decided that it was time that Bilbo's estate and assets should finally go to either the person determined in Bilbo's will (provided he had had the foresight to write one) or, lacking that, the highest bidder at an auction.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who was naturally present during this meeting, didn't even wait for the mayor to finish his sentence before she stood and ran out of the town hall, leapt on her pony and spurred it to its quickest trot in the direction of her house in Bywater. It was late at night when she arrived, but nonetheless she did not even bother to tie her pony to the hitching rail before bursting into the house, rushing into her bedroom and shaking her sleep-dazzled husband out of bed.

“Lobll'a?” Otho murmured. “What in the name of Bandobras Took – ”

“Get up,” Lobelia hissed, “we have to get to Bag End before anyone notices. Bilbo's estate is about to be given over to his heir, and I will be dead in the ground before that old wastrel plays another jest on us to trick us out of our inheritance again.”

Otho blinked. “… what?” He sat up in bed, his hair sticking up in all directions and his round face confused in the silver moonlight slanting in through the round windows. “What do you even plan to do?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Wake Lotho,” Lobelia ordered grimly. “Tell him to dress in dark clothes. And get your stationery from the desk.” When he just gave her a fearful glance, Lobelia swatted him over the head. “Now!”

*

Two hours and a lot of exhausting scurrying from tree to tree and bush to bush later, found Lobelia, Otho, and their son Lotho standing before the door of Bag End.

“This will be the end of the Sackville-Bagginses as a respectable family,” Lotho whined, which was something he had done with great persistence for the entirety of their trek to Bag End. “You know how these damned Hobbitoners are – eyes that can see in the dark, and their noses pressed up to the windows, there is no way they have not seen us!”

Lobelia didn't grace it with an answer. She knew that this was exactly how hobbits were, mainly because she was a woman who catalogued the comings and goings of her neighbours with great diligence herself. And while she had no problem in pointing out flaws in others that she displayed herself, this was not the time to get into an argument with her son.

“Be quiet,” she said. “We are securing your future fortune, and you should thank us instead of yammering.”

“Yes, about that,” Otho said, who had been ducking into the vegetable patch in the front garden in a surprisingly successful attempt to blend in with the fat pumpkins there. “What are we doing here, Lobelia? It is the middle of the night and we have been sneaking all through Hobbiton like thieves...”

“We,” Lobelia said with great determination, “are taking care to right things, since nobody else will apparently do right by us in this damned town. Go and check the front door.”

“Do what?” Otho squeaked.

Lobelia just rolled her eyes and then stepped forward to turn the knob on the garish green door of Bag End, silver-grey in the moonlight. She was only half-surprised when it actually swung open to the inside. It was so very Bilbo-ish to have a drink and then run off or die without locking his door like any normal hobbit would do.

Well, it seemed that she would not need her lockpicks after all.

“Mother,” Lotho said slowly, as she stepped over the threshold and into the oddly silent vestibule. “Mother, we should not be doing this.”

“This whole venture is something a poor, old woman like me should not have to be doing,” Lobelia growled. “Alas, nobody is asking us. Now get inside before anyone sees us, you oafs!”

The two hobbit-men hurriedly scampered inside, where they huddled into a corner in order to stand in the shadows and away from the windows, breathing heavily. Lobelia threw them a glare before shutting the door and then moving about the house closing all the window shutters. She banged her toes against a table two times and nearly stumbled over the damned piles of books Bilbo had left everywhere three times, and when she returned to the vestibule where her two useless companions where still cowering, she was duly aggravated.

“Candles,” she demanded and she did not even sigh when Otho did not light them, but instead handed them to her.

“Why did I bring you again?” she muttered and then lit each of the three candles, passing one each to her son and her husband, and keeping one for herself. Lobelia cupped her hand around the flame to dampen the glare.

“Now,” she said, and when she turned to her husband and her son, it was the grim disappointment of decades speaking through her, “look for anything that resembles a will. Don’t rush and don't be sloppy – we're not leaving before we have found it.”

Even with this threat hanging over Otho's and Lotho's heads, it took them nearly all night to find it. Of course Bilbo had not left his will in a drawer or in the locked chest in his bedroom like a sensible hobbit would. Lobelia nearly threw her lockpick away in frustration when she had finished digging through all the drawers and chests that seemed like reasonable hiding-places and had still come up empty. It was Lotho who found it eventually, shoved haphazardly between two stacks of manuscripts detailing a mind-boggling episode featuring three talking spiders, which Bilbo must have written down after a particularly bad smoke of spoiled Longbottom Leaf.

Alerted by Lotho’s cry of excitement, Lobelia marched into the study and plucked it from his hands, even while he was still doing a little triumphant jig, slammed it down onto a free spot on the horribly disorganised desk and read it through. With every line her brow creased further and when she reached the end of it, her face resembled the snarl of the wolves who had come to the Shire during the Fell Winter in 2912.

Otho and Lotho were wisely standing at a safe distance, when she whirled around.

“Can you believe it?” she said. “Can you believe the audacity of this good-for-nothing fool?” She waved the will around.

“If you would only tell us...” Otho started.

“Here!” Lobelia spat, jabbing a finger at a particularly offensive line. “He actually named that Frodo Baggins heir to all of his assets, his estate, and his property! He does not even know the boy! He hasn't talked to him even once in his life! Rumour has it that he wanted to adopt him, but until now he has left him to rot in Brandy Hall and done nothing – and it is to this – this child that he wants to bequeath the home and the goods that are meant to be mine!”

“Well,” Lotho said annoyedly, shoulders hunched nearly up to his ears. “Cousin Frodo is an orphan after all, maybe Bilbo just wanted to do some good by him, who knows – ”

“Oh no! He did it to spite me!” Lobelia turned around. “Do you know what Bilbo left to me? Do you know what he wrote? Here: 'And to my esteemed cousin Lobelia I leave my remaining collection of assorted silverware, to complete the part that she has already taken for her own household, given with my sincerest blessings.'”

Lotho raised an eyebrow. “So these spoons that you boasted with in front of Dora Boffin weren't ours after all?”

“They – that is beside the point!” Lobelia screeched. “Do you not care at all that we're being laughed at? Even from the grave the old scoundrel intends to do nothing but thumb his nose at me! But not this time, do you hear, not this time!”

“But what do you want to do?” Otho whined. It would not have taken much more for him to start wringing his hands. “The will is absolutely clear that Frodo gets everything – and everyone who reads it will know.”

Lobelia said nothing. Instead of answering, she held up the will, slowly lifting her candle underneath. Otho's and Lotho's eyes widened, but she watched with an unmoving expression as the flames caught at the edge of the will and started to consume the leaf of paper with breathtaking speed in orange-and-red tongues of fire. Afterwards, she fetched a brush she had seen standing around in the vestibule and returned to the study to sweep the ashes under a rug.

“Now,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Lotho, how about you put your skills in imitating other people's writing to a better use than forging my signature on your atrocious school reports?”

Lotho blanched. “You know about that?”

“Are you asking me whether I believed the story of you losing your reports five years in a row and thus being unable to have me sign them for your teacher?” She gave him a hard look and Lotho shrank under her glare. “Please, I came up with better excuses for that when I was only ten years old.”

Otho's head whirled around quick enough to give him whiplash. “Wha –”

Lobelia held up her hand. “Enough of that for now.” She allowed herself to enjoy watching Lotho squirm under her gaze for a few more moments, before a slow grin spread over her lips. “Now how about we put your talents to a more profitable use?”

*

Naturally, there was no end to the talk in Hobbiton when after the reading of Bilbo Baggin's last will it became known that he had apparently excluded his entire extended family from his inheritance and instead left everything, including Bag End and the gold he had brought with him from his mysterious journey, to his most hated cousin and her husband, Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins.

Wild guesses were made concerning Bilbo's reasons, most of them concluding that his adventuring must have taken a toll on his sanity after all. Other rumours were even stranger and more outlandish, and in every tavern and home in the Shire there was no topic that was more hotly discussed than the unexpected fortune that had been bestowed upon the Sackville-Bagginses.

For once, Lobelia enjoyed every minute of being the centre of attention, even though most of the gossip was hardly flattering. She even enjoyed the glares of the Gamgees as they moved all the Sackville-Bagginses' belongings up the Hill and into Bag End. That is, Lotho and Otho did the heavy lifting, while Lobelia watched and instructed them where to put everything, standing in Bilbo's front garden with her arms crossed and surveying everything with the sharp eye of a military commander.

She could feel the eyes of the Old Gaffer and his son Samwise boring into her back, but she did not even bother to turn around. The first thing she had done after moving into Bag End had been to release the Gamgees from their duty as the gardeners of Bag End, which caused an uproar in the Green Dragon the same night. Lobelia could not have insulted them worse if she had spread rumours about the Old Gaffer being a drunkard – and she as well as everyone else in Hobbiton was aware of that.

All in all, the Sackville-Bagginses' sudden fortune and move were mostly frowned upon, and when Lobelia wandered the streets of Hobbiton, there were few friendly faces and no greetings for her. But she did not care when the other adults turned away or went inside their houses when she approached or the children gave her a berth when they crossed paths with her. She had what she wanted.

She had Bag End.

She had enough gold to last her for the rest of her life.

And she had finally, finally managed to put one over on Bilbo.

Or so she thought.

*

It took them nearly half a year to clean out the mess Bilbo Baggins left behind. The entire place needed thorough reorganisation, but even though Lobelia would have liked nothing more than to just throw out all the papers and books Bilbo had possessed, she knew it would have been foolish to let the opportunity to discover all the secrets that Bilbo had kept so close to his chest go to waste.

Thus she instructed Lotho and Otho to sift through Bilbo's manuscripts with painstaking care, trying to glean valuable information for them (for example, where he had left the key to his secret cellar that was allegedly filled with gold from floor to ceiling, or the hiding places of other legendary treasure he had brought with him from his infamous adventures).

Unfortunately, Bilbo did not appear to be the type to write down clues leading to where he had hidden his valuables, although he had certainly been airheaded enough to forget about them. After going through a greater part of the yarn Bilbo had spun – allegedly a written account of his adventures, though it seemed more likely that Bilbo had had more to drink than was good for him even more frequently than Lobelia had initially thought – Lobelia was convinced Bilbo must have been even madder than the worst rumours (most of which existed courtesy of herself) would have had it. The tales he had spun concerning goblins and stone giants and wolves and eagles were hair-raising, to say the least.

Lobelia was close to giving up and just throwing everything away, when something in Bilbo's tale caught her eye. He wrote of a strange encounter with a creature in a cave, and a magic ring he had won in a riddle contest.

Lobelia frowned and let the hand holding the manuscript sink. She was not one to readily believe in miracles and magical trinkets, but the less fantastic parts of Bilbo's accounts seemed reliable enough, especially when it came to the riches he had brought home from his travels. And now that she thought about it, there had been a few instances, mostly at family events, when Bilbo had suddenly and inexplicably vanished, seemingly into thin air …

Lobelia leafed through the pages again. The magic ring appeared time and time again, sometimes helping Bilbo to escape goblins, then to escape from the prisons of Elves, and after that to escape the gaze of a dragon – apparently, Bilbo had done a lot of escaping in his lifetime if his mad stories were to be believed.

“Otho, Lotho,” Lobelia called out without taking her gaze from the paper. Only when she heard two pairs of stumbling steps did she look up to see the dishevelled forms of her son and husband standing in the door of the study, their eyes red-rimmed from weeks spent digging through all the papers and books and other clutter Bilbo had left behind.

“What?” Lotho asked, his voice gruff and snappish. His patience had been worn thin by hundreds of hours of fruitless searching.

Lobelia didn’t heed his tone. “We have to look for a ring,” she said.

*

Eventually, they found the ring.

As was typical for Bilbo, it was not kept in a locked chest or a jewellery box, but in the pocket of a jacket he had likely forgotten to pull on the night he vanished.

“It's big,” Otho said. “How's it supposed to fit on a hobbit's finger?”

“It's dumb and boring,” Lotho groused. “I bet it's just a brass curtain ring anyway. Look at it. It doesn't even have a jewel or something and as father said, it is way too big to fit on a finger.”

Lobelia turned in her hand, held it up to her eye, scratched her fingernails over the spotless surface, and even bit down on it.

“Gold,” she said.

“As if you'd know that from biting on it,” Lotho said. “I'm leaving.” He turned to leave.

Lobelia turned the ring some more, and even as she watched it seemed to shrink, and suddenly it seemed perfectly wearable for a hobbit hand. She put it on.

Otho stared.

“What?” Lobelia demanded.

Otho stared some more. His mouth moved like that of a fish out of water, and he raised a trembling finger to point at her. He made a high, whining noise, at which Lotho turned around once more.

Lotho gaped. His ruddy face was suddenly as pale as a sheet.

“What?” Lobelia demanded again.

Instead of answering, Lotho pointed behind her and said, “M-m-mirror.”

Lobelia turned around.

It would be wrong to say that she did not see anything in the mirror. The vestibule, the bookshelf, and the old Baggins family portraits which they had not yet gotten around to taking down were all perfectly visible. What was missing and definitely should not have been, according to all common sense allotted to hobbits, was her.

Lobelia turned around, staring at her husband and then at her son and even though she would drop dead before she would admit it aloud, her mouth must have made the same gaping-fish motions as theirs in this moment.

She felt faint and suddenly quite cold. She fumbled for the ring and pulled it off her finger.

This seemed to be the last straw for Otho and Lotho. Already quite taxed by her vanishing into thin air her sudden reappearance caused both of them to drop to the floor in a dead faint.

After a moment of consideration, Lobelia did the same.

*

After the initial shock, their terror of the magic ring was quickly replaced by fascination. On the first evening, they passed it from hand to hand, each of them putting it on and pulling it off again giddily, delighting in the shouts of surprise from the others.

“Just imagine what we could do with this!” Lotho laughed. “I could sneak into Old Gaffer’s house and rearrange things a bit, if you know what it mean – or I could pull out all their turnips in their stupid vegetable patch or – ”

Lobelia laughed along with her husband and her son, but it soon became clear to her that both of them would make for very unreliable owners of the ring: Otho would just about lose his head if it wasn’t attached to his shoulders, so entrusting the ring to him was out of the question; and Lotho would probably share it between himself and Tim Sandyman to chase after unsuspecting young hobbit-women, which was something not even Lobelia would condone, no matter how little she liked the Hobbitoners. Thus, on the next day, she announced in a tone that brooked no argument that she would keep it safe and, as she added, out of the hands of immature people who would most likely only use it for their own mean schemes and personal benefit.

Lotho looked mutinous, Otho less so, but in the end, the argument ended as every other argument in the Sackville-Baggins household: with Otho losing interest in the discussion, Lotho stomping off to fume somewhere else, and Lobelia sitting down to take a cup of tea with all the contentment due to the winner of the confrontation. She patted the ring which she kept in a pocket of her flowery apron.

“You're mine,” she said. “Now don't you worry, I will keep their fingers off you. I won't let them use you for childish stuff and stupid endeavours. No, no, I will use you smartly and as you were meant to be used.”

'Smartly, and as it was meant to be used' meant, of course, that Lobelia had, at last, the means to get back at the haughty inhabitants of Hobbiton, who had snubbed her ever since she had moved into Bag End. Thus Lobelia found herself suddenly out and about more than she had been in a long time, busy exacting her revenge on all those who had wronged her.

She pulled the clips from Linda Proudfoot's laundry so that half of it landed in the dirt, and the other half was blown all over the place and into the sheep field down the road. She went to the market and when no one was looking, she tipped over the apple baskets of Roslinda Hornblower, picking up a few that rolled over the cobblestones and walked off without paying. She sometimes stopped to overhear others talk (often about herself) and made sure to play some mischief on them as well. Other days, she stood invisibly in the middle of the Green Dragon and she interjected nasty comments into ongoing conversations, which sometimes even caused a scuffle to break out.

All in all, the magic ring made her life a lot more interesting, and if you know Lobelia at least a little bit by now, you will already suspect that she did not tire of her magic ring even after years. She kept using it freely and frequently, and if anything, she only became more attached to it as time progressed.

Now there was an old Hobbit saying that every mischief ultimately and inevitably will have its pay-back. And although it didn’t appear that this saying would come true for Lobelia any time soon (for the villagers still complained about ill luck, vanished family heirlooms, and bad rumours, and lamented how the mysterious incidents did not decline in viciousness or frequency) the day of consequence was soon to come.

Lobelia herself would have waved the warning off with an air of great superiority if you had told her. What retribution did she have to fear? She had a magic ring, and although she was more ill-liked than ever, nobody had proof that she was behind it, although the nastiness of most incidents and the pettiness of some rumours certainly carried her signature.

She would have told you that she knew what she was doing; and what business of yours was it anyway to put your nose into her affairs?

Alas, even though Lobelia would have been right about being above persecution under most circumstances and even though she was a smart hobbit-woman, she was not smart enough to suspect that a magic ring would call down greater trouble upon her head than angry hobbits. She was neither clever nor far-sighted enough to suspect that a mysterious ring that Bilbo had won from a mysterious creature under dubious circumstances might not have waited to come to her, but rather belong to someone else; someone who had sent even stranger and even more dangerous creatures to look for it.

Thus, the Sackville-Bagginses were completely unsuspecting when on a warm September evening in the year 1392 by Shire-reckoning, a heavy thump came on their front door.

Lobelia, who had been sitting in an armchair by the fire, looked up. Otho was snoring in a second armchair opposite her, unaware of the knock, and Lotho was nowhere to be seen. She frowned. Nobody ever came to visit the Sackville-Bagginses, safe for the hobbit-boy who brought the mail and never went further than the mailbox at the garden gate. Besides, she thought with a frown at the ticking brass clock on the desk by the window, it was nearing midnight on a workday – an hour when no respectable folk were out and about any longer.

This late, a knock at the door meant most likely a rascal trying to play a prank – or an urgent message or a visit by the bailiff. None of these options were particularly pleasant, but when a second knock came and nearly blasted the door from its hinges, Lobelia jumped to her feet.

“Oi!” she shouted. “Leave my door alone! If I find any scratch or splintered wood, I'll make you pay for the new planks and the varnish!” She grabbed the iron poker from its hook by the wall next to the chimney and took it with her, ready to give whoever was standing at the door a piece of her mind and, if necessary, a whack over the head to go with it.

She grabbed the doorknob, and pulled the door open  – and nearly dropped her poker.

Standing not two feet in front of her was a … was a … a thing – a thing so big and dark that it seemed to blot out the entire night sky. It was wrapped in black cloth from head to toe, with no visible face, and when it talked, the marrow nearly froze in her bones.

“Sssshiiiire. Bagginssssss,” it hissed.

Oh.

Oh.

That.

Was so.

Typical.

And with those two words, all of Lobelia's fear evaporated in the face of righteous fury caused by the impossible company Bilbo undoubtedly used to keep and had the cheek to drag to her front door even posthumously. She should have known that he was behind this.

“Baggins? Baggins?” she repeated. “There are no Bagginses in Bag End! The last one to live here has died nearly five years ago, and good riddance I say!” She did not care if the Old Gaffer could hear everything from where he was doubtlessly listening in near the fence between their gardens.

“A never-do-well he was, acting suspiciously and all in all completely inappropriate for a good hobbit!” Lobelia's voice grew louder and she brandished her poker. “Vanishing all of sudden not once but twice and telling nobody about it, keeping his riches to himself and taking the fun out on his family, not to mention flouncing off with Dwarves and a wizard and Bandobras knows who else – and just look at you! What are you, even? Where did he pick you up?” She waved her poker in the direction of the thing. “I have no idea who you are and what you want, but you are on my property in the middle of the night, asking for a good-for-nothing who hasn't lived here in half a decade, no doubt in a completely disreputable matter judging by your looks, and I will have you know that if you do not tell me a good reason for that right away, I will personally chase you down the Hill and into the Water!”

Lobelia gasped for air and brandished the poker again for good measure in what she guessed was the approximate direction of the thing’s face.

“Sssshire. Bagginssss,” it repeated.

“Are you deaf?” Lobelia cried. “There are no Bagginses here in Bag End! There is a single Baggins living in Brandy Hall, but he's more Brandybuck than anything else and I doubt that he's ever set foot into Hobbiton!”

The thing was silent. If Lobelia was any judge, considering it did not have a recognisable face, it seemed nonplussed.

“There isssss no Bagginssss here?” the thing asked.

Lobelia nearly lost her temper. “What did I just say?” she screeched. “Now, get out of my front garden!”

It was in this moment that Otho finally chose to appear and maybe even take up his duties as a husband when his wife was clearly being harassed by a nightly visitor.

“I heard you shouting, Lobelia, what – ” Otho stepped into the doorway, caught sight of the creature, and fell silent. All of his blood left his face. “What in the name of –”

The thing perked up, as if Otho's arrival had filled it with new hope to get the information it wanted. “Bagginssss?”

Otho's reply consisted of fainting where he stood and landing in an undignified heap on the floor.

Lobelia resisted the urge to tear her hair out. She could already feel it coming loose from her bun. “Now look what you have done! That's enough, that is enough ! Out, out!” She lifted the poker with both hands, ready to slam it wherever it hurt most – surely even black-cloaked strangers had their weak spots.

Her blow was intercepted when all of a sudden a huge hand in black-scaled iron gauntlets closed itself around her wrist, as cold and as relentless as death itself. All of her breath left her when the thing pulled her arm up further, further, further, until she was standing on her tiptoes and she felt like her shoulder might be pulled out of her socket.

“Ah! Let me go!”

The thing ignored her and instead pried open her fingers one by one, until her poker fell from her hands, followed by – when had she taken it out of her pocket? – the gold ring that had once belonged to Bilbo.

The ring landed on the doorstep with a thump whose sound made it seem like it weighed five stone.

Both Lobelia and the thing looked at it, then Lobelia tried to kick at the knee of the creature that had to been hidden under his dark cloak.

“Let me go! How dare you treat me like this! I will report you to the bailiff for that! They will lock you up in the cell under the town hall in Michel-Delving!” she screeched. “And don't you dare take that ring, it is mine! I did not steal it, it was already here when I moved here, it was bequeathed to me along with everything else that is here in Bag End!”

“Be sssssssilent.”

Lobelia's mouth snapped shut as if somebody had punched her jaw from below.

The thing still stared at the ring. It also still had not let go of her arm. It seemed to ponder something, then it apparently came to a decision, because it let Lobelia go.

She stumbled backwards, breathing heavily. Her hair was falling loose around her face. “You – you!” she snarled, but her voice did not sound as firm as she would have liked. She had to stare at those hands with those gauntlets that reminded her of dragon-scales although she had never even seen a dragon –

“Pick up the Ring.”

The voice was like ice and the screech of nails on a chalkboard, and Lobelia pressed her hands to her skull, but to no avail.

“Take the Ring.”

“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you come here, asking for Bagginses in the middle of the night, and asking for my ring – ”

“We were not asssking.” And with a motion as fluid as water the creature drew a sword from beneath its cloak and levelled the horrible blade at Lobelia's nose.

“Now pick up the Ring and get on the horssse.”

“What are you talking about, what hor –”

The words died in her throat when she looked past the creature for the first time. Right there, standing on the road directly where the delivery boy used to shove her mail into the mailbox, stood a horse bigger than any pony she had ever seen. It was as black as a new moon's night, maybe even more so, as there was no light reflecting off its coat. It was stomping restlessly, its mane strangely clotted, its mouth foaming. Its eyes were red.

“What in the name of Bandobras Took ist this?” she said, her voice faint. She gazed up at the hooded figure again, truly looking at it for the first time since she had opened the door. The sword, the chainmail-gauntlets, the black void under its hood where a face was supposed to be…

“Who are you?”

“We are the onesss that have come for you,” the hooded creature hissed – and now she could see more shadows moving in the deeper darkness down the hill, three, four, five ghostly forms of lightless void shifting soundlessly in the night! – and then took another step forward until it filled her entire doorway. Its sword was very close to her chest. “And you will come with usss.”

Oh dear.

 ***

Despite being on his way back to his Lord after finally finding the long-lost Master-ring, the Witch-king of Angmar felt anything but triumphant. In fact, even in his hazy, simple, and Ring-dominated mind he was beginning to feel sorry for himself.

He had been searching for the Ring for so many years that he had never much thought past the point when they would finally find it and take it back to its master. Now, though, it seemed as though the task after the task would be even more difficult and unpleasant than everything that had come before.

The hobbit-woman was worse than any foe the Witch-king had ever met on the battlefield, mainly because contrary to his usual way of dealing with nuisances he was not allowed to strike her dead, but had instead been ordered to bring the Ring-bearer back before his master, so the Dark Lord could kill her himself.

The Witch-king was no stranger to intimidation, but although the hobbit-woman had seemed sufficiently cowed when he had packed her onto his horse, the blessed silence did not last long. Quite the contrary, soon the hobbit-woman – who had introduced herself as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, not that he had asked – started to complain. And good gracious, how much there was to complain about.

Initially she screeched and cried about wanting to go home and about how she had to prepare breakfast for her husband and son, but when the Witch-king had made it clear to her that there would be no going home, at least for now, she dropped her panic as quickly as a dog would drop an unsavoury bone, and went on to complain about other things instead.

She complained about the uncomfortable seat in his saddle, and she complained about nearly falling off sitting behind him. When they switched places, she complained about how cold his arm was when he held her to keep her from falling off like a sack of potatoes – and anyway, this was no way for a gentle-hobbit (or ghost-king or whatever) to touch a respectable hobbit-woman.

She complained about the sun stinging her eyes during the day and about the cold winds during the night. She complained when they galloped, because she was thrown around in the saddle, and she complained when the Witch-king slowed his horse to a trot, because she was a busy woman and didn't have all the time in the world, and they weren't getting anywhere going this slow.

If it had been the Witch-king's issue to decide, he would have cut her head off first thing after he laid eyes on her, but unfortunately he was unable to do this for various reasons. No Nazgûl could carry the Master-ring, for one, and the Dark Lord had reserved the murder of the Ring-bearer for himself – not to mention that it would probably have produced another fit of temper from Lobelia, about how a respectable gentle-hobbit or gentle-wraith did not simply lop off the head of a poor, old hobbit-woman.

Had it been possible, the Witch-king would have ridden hard for Mordor without a single break, just to get rid of her a few days earlier, but unfortunately neither his horse nor Lobelia were capable of traversing hundreds of miles without food or rest.

He had, of course, used his authority as the Witch-king to temporarily foist the hobbit-woman off onto the other Ringwraiths, and used the blessedly quiet hours of her absence to regain his patience and his nerves, but those intervals of peace always seemed too short. He suspected the other Nazgûl were not holding up their end of the bargain to keep her for half a day each, either. She always came back way too quickly, jabbing at his knee with her horrible pink umbrella, which she had insisted on bringing, and demand that they “ride on, wherever you're taking me, so we can put this all behind us and I can go back to being a respectable hobbit again!”

Naturally, she was not happy when they arrived in Mordor, either.

She watched with an aghast expression when the doors to the Dark Land slowly opened before them, and the Witch-king began to hope that the sheer size of the gates might have struck her into silence, but he soon realized that he had no such luck.

As soon as they were on the great east road that crossed the plains of Gorgoroth, Lobelia recovered quickly. “What a dreadful land!” she cried. “Do you have no gardeners here? Even the talentless Gamgees have a greener front yard than you do! Do you not care at all what your neighbours will say when they come looking and see that you don’t even have a few turnip and pumpkin patches? And I can see no pastures and fences, either! Where are your hobbit-holes? Where do you live?”

The Witch-king counted down from ten in his head, then lifted his left arm and pointed at the great tower of Barad-Dûr looming like a dark, warning finger on the northeastern horizon.

“Thisss isss where the Dark Lord residesssss.”

Lobelia followed his gesture and frowned. “That? What is that? A tower? How come your Lord needs a tower?” she asked. “Even the mayor of Michel-Delving contents himself with a hobbit-hole, lavish and pretentious though it may be. Whoever needs or wants a tower? Now that is just atrociously bad taste! – And what about all the stairs? How do you even clean such a tower?”

The Witch-king stared straight ahead. Not much longer, he told himself.

The other eight Nazgûl were hanging back suspiciously far, and only a fool would believe it had nothing to do with an attempt to get out of earshot of Lobelia's tirades.

*

Lobelia was fuming when the Black Riders finally came to a halt in front of the tower. They had ridden over a drawbridge and a moat of lava, and if that had not been enough to convince her that this tower must house a scoundrel of the worst kind, the gruesomely ugly guards and the spikes on the tower everywhere would have settled the matter.

She refused any and all help at dismounting, sliding carefully from the saddle of the huge horse, and then hobbled away, sore and stiff from the bumpy ride and leaning heavily onto her pink umbrella.

“Now,” she ordered, turning around to face the nine riders, “Bring me to your Lord of the Tower or whatever he fancies calling himself! I have to give him a piece of my mind about abducting helpless old women away from their homes and their workplace without any reason whatsoever!”

None of the riders gave her an answer – which had been their default behaviour to every justified complaint she had brought to their attention. Instead, they swept around her and one of them gave the guards a horribly hissed order, and the gates of the tower opened to let them in.

One glance at the inside was enough to confirm Lobelia's suspicion that she was dealing with the worst sort of people here. There were no decorations, no rugs, no umbrella stands, and not even some pegs where you could hang your coat. Nobody came and offered to take her umbrella for her, and no one offered her tea. It was just an empty, round hall of black iron with a winding, black staircase spiralling upward. The only light came from sooty torches. It was horrible.

Lobelia snorted and shook her head.

Welcoming even your worst enemy in a home like this would have been considered a disgrace in the Shire, but what could you say? Big Folk in general and these rascals especially seemed to possess no manners to speak of. Lobelia very much would have liked to talk to their mothers, wherever they were, and give them an earful about how to raise your children with a mind for proper manners and decorum.

“Is your Lord not going to welcome me?” she asked. “Or do I have to go to him myself?”

“He isss in the upper chamberssss,” one of the riders hissed. “Come.”

His voice still sent cold shivers down Lobelia's spine, but she knew a dog who was all bark and no bite when she saw one. So she raised her nose high and pointed at the stairs with her umbrella, guessing that this was where they would go. “Then bring me there,” she ordered pompously.

*

The climb took the better part of the day and after Lobelia had counted three hundred steps, she sat down. “Incredible!” she screeched, when the riders wanted to shoo her on. “That a woman of my age would have to climb so far, after being abducted and manhandled onto a horse to go on an adventure I never asked for! An adventure! Good gracious, what will my Otho say?” She went on like that for a while, but it did not make her feel better at all. Her feet still hurt and she was beginning to get cold from sitting on the iron floor for so long.

At last she clambered to her feet again and she climbed another three hundred steps, before it became too much for her and she explained to the riders in very clear terms that she would not climb another single step today, and if they wanted her to go on, they would have to carry her.

Thus, about an hour later, the nine riders reached the top of the tower and came to a halt in front of a double-winged door with ominous red and black markings. The rider who seemed to be the leader of the lot stepped forward, while the one who had been carrying Lobelia on his back plucked her off and set her down with a distinct air of embarrassment and hurt pride.

The knock reverberated through the very core of the tower itself, but this was nothing compared to the voice that answered the knock: it seemed to come from the deep bowels of the earth, it seemed to tear the air itself in half, and it was nearly enough to knock Lobelia over where she was standing, although it only said one word.

ENTER.

And without any discernible assistance, the double-doors swung open to reveal the room behind it.

It was not very big, given the circumference of the tower at this height, but the ceiling was very tall and its empty darkness served to give the room the strange air of a crypt elevated more than a thousand feet above ground level.

Lobelia crinkled her mouth in distaste as she let her gaze wander. In the middle of a room, there was some sort of table, upon which a strange stone was placed, as round and as dark as a marble, but much bigger and with odd bursts of light and fire blazing up in its depths. Behind that, at the far end of the room, was a dark throne, upon which a shadowy creature was sitting, and although Lobelia wasn't able to see its face, she could feel its eyes resting upon her.

She felt shaken and afraid, but she knew that she couldn't show any fear – after all, she had done nothing wrong, it was them who had dragged here to this abysmal place against her will. She had no reason to be afraid and every right to be angry. Therefore, Lobelia squared her shoulders, gripped her umbrella a bit tighter, and before the leader of the riders could step forward, she cut him off by striding into the room, feigning a confidence she did not quite have.

Lobelia had always been good at letting righteous anger propel her through unpleasant situations, so although she was afraid and tired, there was almost no tremor in her voice when she said, “Good day – although I cannot say I honestly wish a good day to someone who ordered my abduction from Hobbiton! My name is Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and I want to know what on earth is going on here!” She stopped a few paces in front of the shadowy creature on the throne. “And you are?” she demanded.

The shadow on the throne shifted, and when it spoke next, its voice was not quite as loud as it had been before.

“This is the Ringbearer?”

Lobelia looked behind herself with a frown. The nine riders did not shuffle their feet, but they felt distinctly uneasy, that much was clear.

“We followed the directionsss we had been given, my lord,” one of them said. “Sssshe had the Ring.”

The shadow on the throne and the nine riders shared a glance over her head. Lobelia felt left out of the joke, and – what was even worse – she felt ignored and made fun of. Once again it seemed it fell to her to intervene in order to bring the conversation back to important matters.

“Excuse me!” she cried. “But I think I asked you a question!” And to give her demand some emphasis, she took two steps forward and jabbed the shadow in the knee with the tip of her umbrella.

This was not as effective as she had hoped it would be, because the umbrella just went right through its leg with little resistance. Nonetheless, the shadow looked down, first at her umbrella, then at the hand holding it; and at last Lobelia felt its gaze settle on her with the heat of a forest fire and the weight of a millstone. Lobelia took a step back, but she kept her back straight and her mouth pressed into a firm line.

“My name?” the shadow asked and then she saw the two burning dots of fire where its eyes had to be. “My name is too great that vermin like you should ever be able to speak it. Seeing me here is more than a puny mortal like you deserves, and you should fall to your knees in front of me and tremble in fear and admiration, for this is the last and most magnificent thing that you will ever see in your life.”

“If anything, I'll fall to my knees because I had to climb your horrible stairs all day,” Lobelia deflected. “Has nobody thought of installing a pulley system? We have them everywhere in the Shire! And what is with all these threats? Have you no manners at all?”

The shadow was very still, and it began to dawn on Lobelia that maybe waltzing in and reprimanding the master of this horrible tower had not been a good idea to begin with. As a hobbit, she was about as familiar with evil lords and death threats as a dairy farmer with warfare, but right then she realised that she might be in real danger, because whoever these strangers were, they were not hobbits, and heaven knows what they might have in mind to do to her.

“I reserve manners for those who come here and have not stolen something belonging to me,” the shadow said.

“I never stole anything!” Lobelia cried, all her resolutions to be prudent going right out of the window. Caution was fair, but being accused of thievery was not something she'd let go lightly (even if it was technically correct).

“You have my Ring,” the shadow said.

Lobelia narrowed her eyes. “Which ring?”

“Oh, shall we make a game of riddles of it? It appears to be a tradition with this specific artifact,” the shadow said with false, dangerous amusement. “How about the one you carry in your pocket?”

Lobelia involuntarily reached inside the pocket of her apron and closed her fist around the ring.

“Give it to me.”

“It is mine.” Lobelia closed her fist tighter. She felt the ring press into the inside of her hands. “I inherited it.”

“Interesting. But that still does not make it yours.” The shadow extended a hand. “I will not ask again.”

Lobelia turned away. “No, no, no! I am not giving it to you, you hear! You cannot just drag me here and rob me of something I rightfully inherited – by Shire Law! The ring is mine and I won't give it to a shadow scoundrel in a horrible tower just because he tells me so!”

It was the wrong thing to say. The shadow suddenly stood – or rose, or grew, she could not quite tell – and she saw that it was not two, not three, but four times her height, and suddenly she felt like a little ant that was about to be squashed by the heels of Odo Proudfoot.

GIVE ME THE RING.

Lobelia cried out in surprise, when her hand moved on its own. It seemed like a greater will had encompassed her own and was smothering it, for suddenly she desired nothing more than to obey the voice, to give the ring back to its rightful master…

Her fist was drawn out of the pocket, and with a trembling hand, she extended her arm, fingers still clenched tight around the ring.

The shadow reached out for her hand, holding it under her shaking fist, and she felt it in her head, as if it was her own idea, to open her fist finger by finger, and the ring trembled and fell and it fell into the hand of the shadow –

– and went right through its hand to plonk on the floor.

Lobelia, the Black Riders, and the master of the tower all stared at the ring that lay bright and innocent on the dark stone floor.

“That – was not supposed to happen,” the shadow said.

It bent down and tried to pick the ring up, but its misty fingers went right through it.

“I cannot pick it up,” the shadow said, more baffled than anything.

“Well, that's what I thought,” Lobelia said into the silence and crossed her arms. “I mean, what use would a ring be to a ghost, anyway? You cannot even put it on!”

*

Some time later, after Lobelia had been more or less forcibly removed from Sauron's rooms at the top of the tower, the Nazgûl and their Dark Lord stood around the palantír in the middle of the room in varying states of cluelessness as to how to proceed from here.

The Ringwraiths shifted uneasily, whereas Sauron had been staring out of one of the narrow windows for nearly an hour. When he finally turned around, heat and darkness were rolling off him in waves. Considering how weakened his state currently was, one could only imagine how unpleasant it would be to be locked in the same room with him when he was at the height of his powers. Not that the Nazgûl wanted to imagine that. Besides, their thoughts were too closely tied to the Ring to allow for such flights of thought.

“Now these,” Sauron gestured at the One Ring, which was still lying on the floor where Lobelia had dropped it, “are complications I have not foreseen.”

The Nazgûl turned to stare at the Ring, as if they could find the solution to their current problem engraved on its surface, if they only looked hard enough.

It was ridiculous, frankly, that they should be kept from their well-earned triumph even after having recovered the Ring. Still, they felt they should have at least considered that wearing a Ring would pose difficulties for someone who didn't have a body to begin with, and in all honesty they all felt kind of stupid for not having thought of this possibility in the first place. For some reason, they had assumed that after they retrieved the Ring, the rest would just work itself out.

They should have known better. Anyone who had ever thought up a plan in his life must know that things never work out as planned – and even if they appear to, they will not sort themselves out without someone fighting tooth and nail to wrestle the plan in the right direction.

“So,” said Sauron, and regarded each of the Nazgûl in turn. “I should probably know better than to ask, since you are merely extensions of my own will – but does anyone have an idea what to do about this?”

The Nazgûl pondered this. After so long of having no free will to speak of, being asked for your opinion all of a sudden became quite the hurdle to overcome.

“We could talk to the White Wizzzzzard,” one suggested. “He issss wisssse.”

Sauron visibly balked. The shadows coiled tighter around him in a very agitated manner. “No, we will not ask the wizard. He is one of the Istari, and he is not on our side yet,” he snarled. After a pause, he added, “Besides, being called The Wise is not exactly a distinguishing title among a group in which it is considered an intellectual achievement to know which end of the staff shoots the fireballs.”

The Nazgûl pondered some more.

“We could kill her,” one said. “And ssssolve thissss issssue one problem at a time.”

“We cannot kill her,” another one hissed. “Sssshe isss the only one who can pick up the Ring.”

Sauron perked up. “This is correct.” His misty claw-like fingers opened and closed around empty air. He paced up and down the length of the room, then came to stand in front of his commanding wraiths again. “We can not kill her. We can not use the Ring as of now, either.” Another hiss, like an angry breath. “So the only opinion left to us is...”

Shadows, per definition, could not grimace. So it must suffice if I tell you, dear reader, that if Sauron had had anything resembling a face, he would have pulled a grimace that is usually reserved for little children who have been told that they would have spinach pie for lunch.

*

Lobelia had been tapping her foot for so long that it had started to hurt when she was finally, finally allowed back into the room after the ghosts and the shadow without manners had finished whatever talk they'd had to conduct in utmost secrecy.

She was once more brought before the dark throne, and when she stopped she put her hands on her hips. “Well?” she barked and raised her eyebrows. “Have you come to a conclusion concerning whatever problem you have?”

“Yes,” the shadow answered.

“Good, good,” Lobelia said. “Because now that this is over and done with, I would like to have my Ring back and go home. I am tired and hungry and if memory serves me right, my poor Otho has gone without lunch for more than five days already. The man cannot cook a soup without burning it, he must be starving by now. Also, I would like to sleep in a proper bed again after all this adventuring, so – ”

“You will not go home,” the shadow said.

“What?” Lobelia snapped.

The shadow made a sound that might have been a growl or a sigh, and lifted a dark hand to rub its brow. “Believe me when I say that I am just as displeased about this as you are. I would not dream of keeping you around a moment longer than necessary.”

“Oh, really? Why can't I go home then?” she demanded.

“Because, as you have seen, despite my tremendous strength and boundless might, I do – for reasons that have nothing to do with my strength and might – not yet possess the power to pick up my Ring again.” The shadow raised a hand and pointed a claw-like finger at her. “And therefore you will remain the Ringbearer until such a time as I can wield it again, and I will exert my will through you and with you. You should consider yourself lucky. Not many mortals ever get the opportunity to become the direct instrument through which my will is imposed upon the world.”

“I do not agree with this,” Lobelia said.

“Did I sound like I was asking permission?”

“No, but that is obviously because your poor mother, wherever she was when you were young, missed out on the opportunity to be there with a firm hand or a rod to the bottom, whenever you –”

“Silence.”

Lobelia opened her mouth to protest, but the shadow simply talked over her.

“Just in case you have not yet understood this, your opinion on the matter, though you will doubtlessly feel the need to express it, is neither desired nor will it be heeded in any way.”

“That is preposterous!” Lobelia screeched. “Not only are you stealing my heirloom, you are also you keeping me –” she shivered, never in her life would she have thought that this word would ever cross her lips, “hostage.”

“Ah, but not to worry,” the shadow said, and here its tone became almost sardonic. “This is merely a temporary arrangement. It will not be long before I will be able to use the Ring and you will become expendable.”

“Does that mean when you're strong enough to pick up a piece of stolen jewellery I will be able to go home?”

The shadow shifted, and although Lobelia knew better than to read a facial expression into the shifting mists of the shadow's visage, she could not help but feel that it was smiling.

“Oh yes. When all this is over, you can go … home.”

Lobelia mulled it over. She crossed her arms and thought about throwing a temper tantrum. In the end, she discarded the idea. These people seemed vexingly immune to her rants and fits of rage, and opposing them would probably not get her very far. Besides, temper or no, she had to be careful, considering one of these rascals had already pointed a sword at her!

Lobelia frowned and drummed her fingers on her upper arms. She was absolutely unhappy with the situation, and saying any less would have been a lie. But in the end, she was still a hobbit, and that meant first and foremost that she would make the best out of any given situation.

So she turned back to the shadow with a long sigh. “Fine,” she said. “But the points I made earlier still stand: I am tired and I am hungry. So if you want me to stay here I need a room and a bed, and first and second supper. It must be eleven o'clock at night already. I guess you have no decent hobbit cuisine here, but I think you'll manage to scrounge up a bit of bread and cheese, a few brown-capped mushrooms and a bit of wine, won't you?”

She looked up at the shadow expectantly.

*

The hobbit-woman had just left the room, when the anger that Sauron had been biting back behind his proverbial teeth ever since she had first opened her mouth at him broke forth.

“AAAARGH, I AM GOING TO KILL HER.”

The Nazgûl shared a furtive glance and then slowly backed out of the room. They had served their lord long enough to know when it was better to duck out and leave him to cool off for a few hours. Or days.

*

An hour later, Lobelia had been brought to a room in the middle-levels of Barad-Dûr. Of course she immediately found fault with the cold, almost uninhabitable interior – and she was, for once, justified in her woes, for Barad-Dûr was in no way comparable to the comfort and coziness of a hobbit-hole.

Still, her need to be alone and sort herself out won out over her ever-present urge to complain, and she sent the goblin – or whatever the thing was that had brought her here – away with a shooing motion, but not before reminding him of the food and drink she had ordered.

The goblin didn't look like he had ever heard of barley bread and Old Wingert, uncivilised brute that he was, but nevertheless he scuttled off and out of the room. A moment later, she heard a key turn in the lock of the door, and Lobelia almost shouted after him to unlock it again, but then thought better of it.

She had more important things to do. If she was to live here with any decent standard of living at all, she had to knock this horrible excuse for a bedroom into shape before doing anything else. Thus she busied herself pulling the sheets onto the bedding, putting up candles on what was probably supposed to be the bedside cabinet, but looked like it had served as a weapon stand of massive black iron until two hours ago, and using the spare bed sheets to create a makeshift curtain on both sides of the horrible narrow window.

Lobelia then realised that she hadn't even brought a handkerchief, a towel, and a set of spare clothes. Still, she'd rather drop dead than to ask for a change of clothes from these people. Judging by her bedside table, she'd demand a night gown and get a set of black iron armour or somesuch. There was only so much insult to proper behaviour and hospitality she was able to take in the span of a day.

Lobelia lamented her life, but only as long as it took the goblin to return with a tray of food that was supposed to be dinner. She scrunched up her nose. “What is that?”

“No idea,” the goblin said. “Bread?”

“This is not bread. This looks like something that had to be clubbed into submission before being served. Is this even edible?” she asked, poking at the lumpy thing on the tray with a disgusted expression.

“It's edible,” the goblin grunted. “I mean, I eat it all the time.”

“Oh, and you are surely a judge for good taste,” Lobelia snorted. “Pah, give it to me. And now get out of my sight, I want to eat in peace!”

The goblin gave her a hard look, then stuck his tongue out at her, and scuffled out.

What a lout, she thought to herself, before she sat down on the sorry excuse for a bed that stood in a corner of the room. She looked down at her plate morosely.

She still wasn't convinced that whatever food they had brought her was actually supposed to be ingested, but at least the silver knife and fork that had come along with the plate were nice. Lobelia sighed, and started to eat.

*

Lobelia was woken early next morning by the same goblin who had brought her the food. He kept knocking at her door until she ripped it open and made him nearly topple forward with all the force he had put behind the last swing (to be fair, she had taken her sweet time before answering the door, but then again, being fair rarely won you anything if you asked Lobelia).

“What?” she snarled.

“You are to come up to the Dark Throne Room, boss's orders.”

Lobelia's eyes narrowed. “What is he thinking? I'm not even presentable yet! I'll come to him at my own convenience. Go and tell him that.”

The goblin stared at her.

“What?” she repeated. She had a feeling that she would be using this word a lot.

“The Dark Lord said 'immediately',” the goblin said.

Lobelia put her hands on her hips. “Well, I am sure your lord says a good deal of fine stuff all day, but he'll just have to learn some patience instead of bossing his guests around.”

“You have to come. It was 'n order.” The goblin seemed to shrink. He appeared to be at a loss what to do with her and her staunch refusal to obey.

“I don't have to do anything,” Lobelia said, her tone hard. “Now why don't you just go and tell him what I told you?”

The goblin shrunk even further. He was suddenly shorter than Lobelia. “You must come,” he all but squeaked.

“No. You can bring my breakfast first. I'll consider visiting him later. Good-bye.” And with that, she shut the door in his face.

When there was another knock at her door ten minutes later, Lobelia opened it to one of the huge, sniffling wraiths who had brought her here.

“Ssssackville-Bagginssss,” it hissed. “Come. Now.”

Its tone brooked no argument.

*

“Now,” the Dark Lord said, marching up and down in front of her, if what he did could be called “marching” at all, foggy and insubstantial as he was. “Why do you think I have brought you here?”

“Certainly not to enjoy the view,” Lobelia grumbled.

This seemed to surprise the shadow. “Do you not find the vista enjoyable?” The Dark Lord pointed out of the window and over the vast, horrible red plain stretching out in front of them.

Lobelia stepped up next to him. “What is there to find enjoyable? Where is the green? The flowers? Fields of pumpkins, acres of taters? Where are the hills and the hobbit-holes?”

She felt the shadow regarding her, then mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “backwater philistine”. There was an odd silence for a few moments, then the Dark Lord rounded on her once again. “Leaving your regrettable lack of appreciation for neat and ordered military terrain aside, that was indeed not why I brought you here.”

Lobelia felt like another question was expected of her, but she did not feel particularly gracious toward the shadow right now. She looked up at the shadow and the shadow looked back. They stared at each other like that for some time, the shadow's growing irritation radiating off him in waves.

“Put on the Ring,” the Shadow ordered.

*

A platoon of orcs was just lazing about on the lower levels of the tower on Cirith Ungol, when suddenly a blaze of fire and fury went right through them that they had never felt before in their lives. Neither had their predecessors and those before them, and you'd have to go back in time very far indeed to find some orcs who'd remember being subjected to a will so pure and unrelenting, it was mind and force and focus distilled into one lava-hot blaze enough to fry their brain in their skulls.

The orcs jumped up and screamed, tearing at their ears, ripping at their sparse hair and screeching. It happened everywhere in the fortress, from the lowest to the highest level. It happened in Ûdun and in the trenches of Barad-Dûr, it happened on the slopes of the Morgai and on the plains of Gorgoroth.

The orcs screamed. But even their loudest screams could not drown out the voice that boomed inside their heads, made their eyes protrude from their sockets with the force of its pressure and set the blood to a near-boil in their veins.

The voice did not say much, only this:

MUSTER YOUR FORCES. ASSEMBLE YOUR ARMIES. PREPARE FOR WAR. I AM RETURNED.

A moment of glorious silence followed, offering momentary reprieve.

Then, another voice, much quieter this time, said:

Must you shout in my ear like that?

And the orcs looked at each other in great confusion. 

 *

What followed was, for the orcs, probably the most confusing time they had ever experienced. Naturally they felt Sauron's will at all times, however faintly, for they were his creatures. But what was new was that he suddenly seemed to be constantly arguing with himself even about the most trivial matters.

For example, when a platoon was told to move their camp to the south by the Great Voice, suddenly a second voice butted in, “But why would you do this? They were fine just where they were, and look at them now, trampling the only patch of good soil in this entire rotten land!”

Other days, they'd be ordered to start preparing weapons in the catacombs and subterranean foundries found everywhere throughout Mordor, only to be told in the afternoon to get out in the open air and start harking and ploughing a patch of desert sand. Despite being Sauron's creatures, the orcs could not help but question the strangeness of it, but in the end they were subject to the Ring's will, and they did as the one bearing the Ring told them.

– only to be subjected to a fit of rage the next day and a lot of WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM TO DO WHILE I WAS GONE? and HOW DARE YOU?, which was usually countered by some kind of hysterical Is that how you talk to a hobbit-woman?

And back and forth it went.

One day, they were grinding blades, and the next they were digging water trenches to bring the pitiful trickles that ran through Mordor to the surface and around to their ploughed patches of soil.

Another day, they'd be firing up the furnaces and oiling the war machinery that lay in tunnels and caves under Mordor, and then the next they'd be sitting in circles and weaving straw hats or fixing up farming tools.

The arguing continued, and it did not get any less strange with every day that passed, which led to many bemused orcs, muddled orders, and a lot of headaches.

But the oddness did not stop at the borders of Mordor, quite the contrary. The second voice became ever more meddlesome, and whenever Sauron himself was not speaking to his minions, the second voice picked up where he left off and ordered them to do the strangest things in the meantime.

 *

Far away, a few Rohirric soldiers were leaning against the wall of the guard house in the small village of Aldburg when suddenly a warning gong sounded out over the settlement from on top of the guards tower.

“Orcs! Enemies! To the east, to the east! Look out, the enemy is coming!”

There was a great outcry of fear from the women and a shout of rage from the men and guards, and all those who could bear a weapon went to grab whatever was closest at hand to defend their settlement.

There is one thing you must know about Rohan: ever since Evil had started stirring in Mordor again, many villages and settlements in the Eastmarch had been plagued by frequent raids of the hordes of Mordor. For powerful and dreadful as the Dark Land had become, it was still barren and did not provide enough food for its terrible inhabitants; also the horses that the Nazgûl used as mounts were corrupted, yet mortal, and as such, the formidable black stallions from the stables of Rohan had ever been a target for raids by the Nazgûl's troops.

Thus the guards cried, “The enemy has come to raid us again! To the gates, to the stables! Protect the horses, do not let them be taken!”

Once armed, all fit to wield weapons were sent hurrying to the gates. When opened, the gates admitted farmers rushing in  from the settlements outside of the walls, bringing provisions and children with them, while the guards and the armed men stormed out to bring in the horses from the pastures and bring them to safety within Aldburg’s walls. Corn and vegetables they could stand to lose, for it was summer and the harvest promised to be plentiful. But they could not afford for their stables to be raided, for it took years of intensive care and training to rear a generation of yet unbroken colts into magnificent stallions.

Ever closer drew the raiding horde, while the pastures were swiftly cleared and the horses brought inside the walls, but to the surprise of the guardsmen the orcs did not stop to destroy their crops and raid their houses. Instead, the horde slowed down when they reached the outskirts of the first farms, and abandoned their marching order to come together in a huddle instead.

The chief of the guard, a brave spear-man named Éothan, raised an eyebrow. “Now what in the name of Eorl is that supposed to mean?”

“Are they afraid of us?” one man asked.

“No, I do not think so. Behold, they are approaching again! Archers at the ready, but do not loose your arrows until I tell you so!”

The men held their ground and their breath as the orcs approached, watching the strangely hesitant manner in which they did so. They did not torch the houses nor did they trample their crops. Instead, they drew closer until one orc raised one hand in the universal gesture for a request to parley.

The guards shared a long look.

Éothan looked at his second-in-command, who slowly shook his head. He looked at the orcs again, waiting about three hundred feet downhill, just out of range of their archers.

“What do you seek here, plundering scum of Mordor?” Éothan shouted. “If you want horses you will have to look elsewhere –”

“We dun' want your dratted horses!” the orc captain shouted. “Jus' give us what we came here for, and we'll leave you in peace!”

“What do you want of us, then?” Éothan cried.

“Give us all your pumpkins! And cabbages! And ta...ters?”

“I beg your pardon?” Éothan asked, confused.

“In the name of the Great Eye I order you to give us your taters!”

“What are taters?” a man asked next to Éothan, and Éothan repeated the question to the orc captain.

“We haven’t the foggiest!” the orc captain shouted back.

The men shared another look.

Éothan waved his fellow guardsmen forward. “Come with me. Keep your guard up, but do not attack. I have a suspicion that this particular raid might just be averted.”

A very befuddling parley later, Éothan had learned that the orcs had been sent not to destroy but to gather crops and seeds, although what they were supposed to do with them remained a mystery, just as the nature of the 'taters' they had demanded.

The farmers finally cut a deal with the orcs that went as follows: in exchange for a chosen variety of crops and farming tools, the orcs would go away and not pester Aldburg ever again. The farmers weren’t at all happy about it, but then it did seem preferable to having their sheds and granaries torched and their horses stolen out from under their legs when they weren’t looking. The orc captain growled that he was in no position to give such promises, but that he’d pass it on to his superior.

“Also, we’re taking some of your grass,” the orc said while his subordinates were hefting the heavy sacks of grain and vegetables onto their shoulders.

“Our grass?” Éothan repeated.

“Yeah, you sure have more than enough o’ it,” the orc grunted.

Éothan opened his mouth to ask, then thought better of it and just shrugged. “Do whatever you want to, just stay away from our settlements.”

“I told you we’re gonna take your grass. And I’m not asking permission, just so we’re clear.”

“Perfectly clear,” Éothan said.

Later, the guards were watching the group of orcs shovelling and hacking away at a small spot in the middle of the grassland of the Eastmarch, loading a bit of turf into their sacks, and finally making their way east toward Mordor.

“What in the name of Éorl was that about?” one guard asked.

“I don’t know, and I am not sure I want to,” another responded. “I just hope this isn’t some new devilry of Sauron.”

“A devilry that demands vegetables and turf?” Éothan asked, eyebrow raised. “Now that is something I’d be curious to see in the works.”

“Don’t jinx it,” another guard said darkly.

*

A week passed. Sauron spent these seven days retreated to his private chambers, mainly because working his will through the Ring and an incredibly obstinate hobbit was still beyond anything he could do with any ease and comfort for longer stretches of time – but also because he had direly needed to get some distance between himself and Lobelia. Not only was she shrill and loud and incredibly difficult to control, she also managed to give him a headache although he didn’t even have a head to begin with. The knowledge that she was his best and currently only option to regain power was nothing short of a tragedy.

Commanding his forces through her cost him more nerves and strength than he had imagined and at last he had realised that the only way he would not possibly burn her to a crisp within the next few hours would be to remove himself from her presence for a few days.

He was, of course, aware that Lobelia would be trying to use the Ring for her own means and ends in the meantime (whatever they were), but he trusted the Ring to turn it to Evil eventually and his Nazgûl to keep her reined in in the meantime.

As such, when Sauron stepped out of his rooms after a week of voluntary solitary confinement, he nearly had a stroke when he looked out of the window and out over his kingdom.

Barad-Dûr was shaken to its foundations when a wordless cry reverberated through its walls and a few miles to the east, Orodruin erupted with a bout of flame.

 *

Lobelia was overseeing the orcs’ work, walking up and down along the trenches, shouting orders and when that didn’t help, pushing the orcs around with the aid of the Ring. It was tremendous, really, how much you could get done in a day when everyone else around you was just a slave to your will, she thought.

“Bring them over there,” she ordered an orc stumbling past her with two ripe pumpkins under his arm. “And don’t forget to water them plenty or else they’ll dry up!”

Then she turned around and barked out orders at a few sorry excuses for orcish carpenters, who’d once again tried and failed to erect the basic wooden casing of a round smial door. “Oh, no, no, no, not like that! I said it’s made of wood, not iron - also, why are there sharp spikes sticking out everywhere? Do you want to cut up the fist of everyone who comes knocking?”

She shook her head. How was she supposed to get anywhere with only a handful of lousy goblins at her command who didn’t know the first thing about how to dig furrows in a field, let alone build a proper smial?

 *

“What is she doing?” Sauron asked and he wished he sounded more angry and less disbelieving when he looked down at the ever-growing green patches of grass and vegetables planted in neat rows, criss-crossing the volcanic soil to the east of Barad-Dûr.

“It looks like she is commanding the orcs to do field work?” the Mouth of Sauron replied, not sure how to deal with what was obviously a rhetorical question. His master was not in the habit of using these; he was quite fond of direct commands and absolute statements.

Sauron's fingers opened and closed into smoky fists at his sides. “Bring her to me,” he said, his voice so deep and low that the Mouth of Sauron could feel it like a tremor in the marrow of his bones.

He sensed the danger, and yet he could not help but step forward. “Temperance, my master. Patience. You have become very strong already. I will not be much longer before you will be able to wield the Ring again yourself. And then you can make her pay for every slight, every bit of impertinence, every wrong use of your Ring. But right now she is the Ring-bearer, you cannot kill her without drawing out your return even longer!”

This was objectively sound advice, but the Mouth of Sauron knew of course that the thing with his master, temperance, and patience was that they mixed about as well as oil and water most of the time. Lobelia's gruesome death was not a matter of if, but when – and the only question that remained was whether the Dark Lord would lose his already strained temper before or after Lobelia completed her little undertaking to convert the area around Barad-Dûr into what could only be a hobbit-village.

***

Rohan, as should probably be mentioned here, was not the only realm to experience strange changes in their undesirable interactions with Mordor, for even in these days of growing darkness, Mordor's power did not stand unchallenged. For hundreds of years the Stewards of Gondor had been in the possession of a powerful seeing-stone, and as guardians of the realm of Men, the strong-willed and steadfast descendants of the line of Númenor – although not kings themselves – had always used this seeing-stone to learn what they could of the mind and the plans of the enemy. It was a dangerous task to venture forth and into the heart of the Enemy's thoughts, and it was a duty that had for generations been passed on from one steward of Gondor to his sons, who in turn passed it on to their sons when the time had come.

In that manner, Denethor had learned to gaze into Sauron's mind from his father Ecthelion, and just like his father had taught him decades ago, today he would initiate his eldest son into the dangerous nature of the palantír.

At fourteen years of age, Boromir was tall for his years, dark, and clever – and like anything that was dangerous and better left alone by an inexperienced youth, the seeing-stone had just started to work its irresistible lure on him. As such it fell to Denethor not to keep his son away – he knew from his own youth that this would be a futile attempt, and one that could be even more dangerous in the long run – but to teach him what he could about the palantír and the duty that came to the stewards with its possession.

“It is a mighty weapon,” Denethor explained, and his steps echoed from the marble columns and floors of the throne room of Minas Tirith, “but like any mighty weapon you must know how to wield it. Failure is not an option; when dealing with an artifact this powerful, the punishment for abundant pride or lacking ability are grievous injuries, or even death. A weapon of this calibre does not forgive even the smallest mistake or the slightest inattention! ”

Boromir flinched when Denethor stopped and whirled around to face him, and hurriedly tore his gaze from the seeing-stone where it had been drawn ever since he had entered the throne room.

“You are young and reckless, just as I was when I was your age,” Denethor said. “But one day, you will take my place as the Steward of Gondor, the leader of the race of Men, and our people will look to you for defence, assurance, and knowledge. Therefore, you must learn to wield the palantír of Fëanor as I have and my forefathers before me. But before you yourself can meet the mind of the Enemy and wrestle his vile plans from him, you have to see with your own eyes the danger that expects you when you open your mind to gaze into the seeing-stone.” He waved impatiently. “Step closer, but stay behind me. As soon as I cast my mind into the depths of the stone, the Dark Lord will become aware of me, and he will answer before long!”

With a flourish, Denethor shook his wide sleeves back and then grasped the seeing-stone, holding it at arm’s length.

“Now,” he said, “behold the terror and the might of the palantír!”

Boromir beheld, and when nothing happened, he tried to behold the stone even more intently. But when even more moments went by and still the stone remained dark and silent and even his father started to frown, he began to suspect that things were not going as they were supposed to go. He made one last valiant effort at beholding (the stone remained dark), then he frowned. The stone obviously was not working. He said as much.

“Nonsense,” growled Denethor. “I fought Sauron the Deceiver just two months ago – if anything, this is another ploy of this scourge of the Free Peoples!”

“What ploy would that be?” Boromir asked, eyebrow raised. “Father,” he added quickly.

“I do not know,” Denethor said. “Dark and unknowable are the twisted turns of his mind.”

“Or maybe the stone's just kaput.” One of Boromir's teachers had hammered it into his head never to blame witchcraft for a technical failure when a situation could just as adequately be explained by broken equipment.

“Nonsense!” Denethor thundered. “Despite his growing power, Sauron remains weakened – and he has ever been a coward. The blood of Númenor runs in our veins, and he fears its might still!” He averted his sharp gaze from his son and fixed the palantír with his eyes. “Show thyself, Sauron, Deceiver, if thou wouldst not prove thyself a coward to the eyes of Denethor, Son of Ecthelion, once and for all!”

Suddenly, the dark obsidian ball in Denethor's hands burst into flame. Searing white fire and black and red intertwined, and Boromir took two hasty steps backwards. His father, though, gritted his teeth and seemed all the more furious.

“Do not think that thou canst hide behind thine firewall and keep me out! I shall persist until I have broken through it! Face me with thy lidless eye of flame!” Denethor cried.

The fire inside of the palantír started to churn and to rotate like a storm, wheeling and hissing in ever-faster circles, until out of its depth an abyss opened itself up, swallowing the fire down a chasm – a slitted pupil in the middle of flame and fire.

BY ALL THE RINGS OF POWER – WHAT? said a voice so mighty that it made the marble columns tremble even from hundreds of miles away – whereas its tone was strangely similar to how Boromir usually sounded when he wanted to be left alone, but Faramir wouldn't stop knocking on the door of his rooms.

“Thou revealst thyself at last!” Denethor said, who had apparently never heard of things like conversational flow and non-sequiturs.

The slitted pupil narrowed. CAN THIS WAIT? YOU HAVE CAUGHT ME AT AN EXCEPTIONALLY BAD TIME. I REALLY DON'T –

“Ha! Look, Boromir, the scoundrel has barely made an appearance and already he seeks to flee the enquiry of my mind!” Denethor shouted, his eyes fixed on the glowing seeing-stone.

Boromir thought that Sauron sounded more like he had a burning steak on the stove he urgently wanted to get back to, but he wisely kept that comment to himself. Instead he stayed back, watching the exchange with a mixture of surprise and fascination.

I ASSURE YOU THAT FEW THINGS WOULD GIVE ME GREATER PLEASURE THAN TROUNCING YOU IN A BATTLE OF WILLS, STEWARD, BUT AS I SAID, IT IS A VERY BAD TIME RIGHT NOW, BECAUSE –

Denethor's frown deepened. “Excuses are all thou canst make! But I shall see right through thy lies! I command thee, hell-hound of Morgoth, reveal to me the devious machinations of Mordor!”

Boromir secretly wondered if his father really had to shout everything he said at that volume – it was supposed to be a battle of wills, after all – or if he was doing it just for show. Oddly enough, the eye in the seeing-stone seemed to think the same.

LOOK, I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS NONSENSE. HOW ABOUT YOU CALL ME BACK LATER WHEN I DON'T HAVE – SEVEN HELLS, WOMAN, STOP TELLING THEM TO DIG IRRIGATION TRENCHES FOR THE BROCCOLI! IT IS BAD ENOUGH THAT YOU RAISED A HOBBIT-VILLAGE AROUND BARAD-DÛR! THE PLAIN OF GORGOROTH IS A MILITARY FIELD NOT A VEGETABLE PATCH!

To his credit, Denethor only raised an eyebrow. “What?” he said. He coughed. “I mean – speaking in tongues will not help thee to disguise thy true purpose! I shall know thy plans before long!”

The eye didn't seem fixed on the Steward of Gondor, however. It appeared to look elsewhere and only after a few moments did it seem to remember that Denethor was still waiting for an answer.

UGH, YOU'RE STILL THERE. HOLD ON, I HAVE TO SORT THIS OUT.

The eye turned away from them and a diffuse mixture of fire and shadow wafted through the palantír, though they could still hear the booming voice, slightly muffled by lack of focus and distance to the second seeing-stone.

–don't care if you do not like the food here, this is no reason to upturn everything I have carefully been planning out for a thousand years – stop using the Ring immediately – no, that is an order! Also, why in Morgoth's name is the Witch-king standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch and waving his arms like a dimwit? Tell him to stop that and get out of there immediately, he is making a bloody fool of himself! What are the soldiers supposed to think? – They asked him to do it? Why – what do you mean there are birds now and they are eating the crops – remove my generals from your ridiculous hobbit-fields at once!

“Er,” Boromir said, and then fell silent, because there really was no way in hell he could come up with a fitting reply for any of this.

Denethor did not react, but simply stared at the palantír as if he was trying to find out whether the universe itself had somehow conspired to fool him into playing a very elaborate joke on himself with what could only be a fake seeing-stone.

All of a sudden the eye returned, and both father and son were startled out of their disbelief.

“Sauron!” Denethor cried. “I demand that thou – ”

SHUT THE HELL UP, the eye interrupted him. I REALLY DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR RANTS NOW. WE WILL FINISH THIS CONVERSATION ANOTHER DAY; THERE IS ONLY SO MUCH RUBBISH I CAN TAKE AT A TIME.

And without further ado, the palantír went dark and blank again.

Silence hung heavily in the throne room of Minas Tirith.

“So…” Boromir started, drawing out the word. “That's what your battles with Sauron are like?”

***

“Enough is enough. This ends right here, right now,”  Sauron said.

The Mouth of Sauron, who was taking the minutes for this hastily convened emergency meeting, smoothed out his parchment and stepped a bit further away from where the shadow of his master was running in an invisible circle on the obsidian floor of his chamber.

“I was content to let her have her own rooms, even let her build her ridiculous earth-hole to have her gone from the tower, but this – is – too – much.” Sauron stopped, smoke and fire spilling from where his nose and his mouth would be, had he been in possession of a corporeal form. “This hobbit-woman is the most detestable, hysterical, uncontrollable, and uncooperative creature I have ever had the misfortune to meet – and that's including the Elf Lords when they discovered I made the One Ring.” He turned on a smoky heel. “Not enough that she is abusing my military force as – as farmers, now she has also brought my generals under her heel and is using you as … what is she using you as, exactly?”

“Sssscarecrows,” a Nazgûl answered.

“Scarecrows,” Sauron repeated, deadpan. “Which brings me to my next question: Witch-king, why are you wearing a straw hat?”

The Witch-king hurriedly took it off. “Forgive me, masssssster. The hobbit-woman forced ussss into it; sssshe sssaid that every sssself-ressspecting sssscarecrow in the Ssshire had one, and – ”

“Yes, yes, enough. No need to go on.” Sauron waved him off. “I think I speak for all of us – which I do, since technically I am all of us – that this cannot be allowed to go on even for another day.”

“I still advise you against killing her, if I may be so bold as to speak,” the Mouth of Sauron said. “She is the only one who can carry the Ring and use it without immediately succumbing to its power – no Man could do that, let alone in Mordor, at the very core of your kingdom and power.”

“What then?” Sauron said. “I cannot let her go on like this. If she continues in this vein, she'll have Mordor transformed into a greenhouse before I am substantial enough to grip dandelion seeds – not to mention that my orcs will be farmers and she'll probably use Shelob to plow the fields before the year is out.”

The prediction was not as ridiculous as it might have seemed two weeks ago. The Nazgûl were silent, but there was an air of deep discomfort in the room.

“I'd rather kill her and be done with it,” Sauron said.

“But then you will delay your return for hundreds of years,” the Mouth of Sauron said. “If you kill her now and wait for yourself to regain enough power to wield the Ring, it will take much longer than if you had somebody to use it and draw power from its wrongful owner and his corruption”

“I tried that with her. I am not doing it again. Besides, every second the Ring spends on the finger of this hobbit-woman besmirches my work and insults my very being.”

“And yet,” the Mouth of Sauron said slowly, “if it was brought to someone who did not suspect its true potential, and who would use it on a regular basis – why, you could return in a few decades at most. And it would not have to be this particular hobbit-woman, either.”

Sauron stepped closer to his counsellor. “What do you suggest then? We can't carry the Ring anywhere else and I am not leaving Lobelia here. She is making a home for herself right in front of Barad-Dûr for Morgoth's sake!” He stepped over to the window and quickly away again when he was greeted by the sight of half a hobbit-village under construction, as well as greens and flowers and vegetables, all of which flourished magnificently in the nutritious volcanic soil. “What's your advice, advisor?”

“I would send her back,” the Mouth of Sauron said. “She is indeed not very fit for … cooperation, but all in all, hobbits do not strike me as people well-versed in old lore and magic rings. They might just be gullible and hardy enough to use your Ring and withstand most of its influence for however long it takes you to regain enough strength to rule Middle-earth again. I would avoid harming her, though. If word gets out of malicious magic rings, then – ”

“Gandalf and Saruman will be breathing down my neck again, no, thank you.” Sauron shook himself. “Fine. That just leaves the question who we'll be giving the Ring to – not that I like giving it away again after all this time...”

***

“… really, I cannot believe that she would be so bold and try it again, after I've already established that I do sometimes take my time to return from my adventures,” Bilbo complained between two sips of tea.

Frodo just threw him a wry smile over the kitchen table where he was just proof-reading one of his uncle's Elvish poems. “I'd wager that this particular disappearance of yours was even more unexpected than your last one. All of Hobbiton and Bywater was talking about little else for months afterwards.”

“Unexpected? Quite! And not only for them!” Bilbo chuckled. “Would you imagine that I didn't even think of getting my walking stick and my jacket from home before I set off? I guess Daisy Cotton's good old South-Farthing brew must have had quite a bit to do with that...” He shook his head. “In any case, when I remembered everything I had forgotten, I was already so close to the Grey Havens that I just decided to continue on my merry way. I mean, I outsmarted Elves and dragons in my time – 'I think I can stand a bit of adventuring without a walking stick and a handkerchief,' I told myself.

“What I did not think, however, would be that upon my return I'd find my precious Bag End quite literally sacked – hah! – by Lobelia and her despicable husband and son. They simply couldn't wait for me to die to get their hands on my home.” He snorted. “I must confess that this was one reason why I fetched you from Brandy Hall, Frodo – one among many others, of course! You are a fine boy, Baggins through and through, and I should have done it much sooner than leave you to run around with Saradoc's get for the better part of your youth. Though Brandy Hall does seem to have instilled a predilection for mischief and adventure in you that I myself am quite fond of.” Bilbo scratched his chin. “In any case, Bagginses should stick together, and I'd rather die knowing that Bag End should pass on to you instead of falling into Lobelia's greedy claws again.”

“I should have liked to see Otho’s and Lotho’s faces when you suddenly stood on the doorstep again,” Frodo said with a laugh. “They must have been unable to believe their eyes.”

“Oh, yes, they were! Tried to explain me away, tried to frame me as an impostor – even to the mayor, can you imagine that?” Bilbo crossed his arms. “Which was made all the more ridiculous by the fact that Lobelia herself had been missing for two months at that point. I said as much to Otho, and I also told him that if he thought I wasn't real he was welcome to prod me with his walking stick – at the risk that I would prod him back with Sting to convince myself that he was not a particularly fat goblin in disguise. Otho did not find that very funny, but the mayor still shares my brand of humour, I found. When I showed the backup copy of my will to the mayor – which Lobelia hadn’t thought to look for, despite her considerable cleverness when it comes to swindling someone out of their inheritance – he must have found it more convincing than Otho’s stuttering, and when he ordered Otho to return the keys of Bag End to me, he did. I was lucky that Lobelia hadn't been there; she would never have given Bag End up again while she was alive – and she wouldn’t have had any qualms about using a forged will to confirm her claim, too.”

“I do wonder where she is, though,” Frodo said, writing a suggestion in the margin of Bilbo's poem. “It seems very much unlike her to vanish from the face of the world all of a sudden. She never struck me as an adventurous hobbit.”

“Hmph. Wherever she is, good riddance. Though I doubt she'll stay gone forever, these types always come back,” Bilbo said.

It was in this moment that a sharp knock came at the front door of Bag End.

Bilbo and Frodo shared a surprised glance.

“I thought Gandalf had already left,” Frodo said, looking out over his shoulder and into the garden. True enough, the wizard’s pony was no longer tied to the fence post.

“Me too,” Bilbo said, tried to get up, but sank back with a grimace, pressing a hand to his aching back. “Be a good boy and look who is at the door, Frodo. Ever since I came back from my last adventure, my back and my old legs have never been quite the same...”

Frodo laid down his quill and made his (still slightly unfamiliar) way to the front door and pulled it open.

And stepped back immediately, when he saw who was standing there.

“Lobelia!”

“Frodo Baggins? What are you good-for-nothing scoundrel doing in my smial?” Lobelia screeched. “Where are Otho and Lotho – ” Suddenly, her tirade was cut off – and only then did Lobelia's companions step forth from where they had been standing out of view of the front door and up against the walls of Bag End.

Now, it took a lot to scare a seasoned prankster like Frodo Baggins, but the company standing in front of him was enough to send even the bailiff of Bywater running in broad daylight. Standing behind Lobelia were nine dark, menacing, and hooded … people, taller even than any of those of the Big Folk Frodo and his cousin Merry Brandybuck had seen on their rare stints to Bree. Their very presence seemed to dim the warm March sun, and a cold fell over him that reminded him of moonless, frozen nights of deepest winter.

“Bagginssss?” one of them asked.

Frodo swallowed, then remembered his good manners and gave a slight bow. “Frodo Baggins, at your service. How can I help you?”

At those words, a shadow, which had been looming off to the side, nearly insubstantial and invisible in the spring sun, stepped forward, bringing with it the smell of smoke, fire, and brimstone.

“Frodo Baggins,” it said, and then nothing.

Frodo looked up expectantly at it, wondering whether he should enquire about the visitor's decidedly ghostly nature (but that just seemed exceptionally rude) – or whether he should say something to the effect of asking them to state their name and business – but that likewise would have been rude, and Frodo was both smart and polite enough not to get in the bad graces of ten tall shadows who had shown up on his uncle's doorstep without forewarning.

Meanwhile, Lobelia had turned scarlet with the effort to rant and rave when her voice would obviously not obey her (no doubt due to finding her hated relatives on the doorstep of what she must have until recently believed to be her hobbit-hole), and Frodo ignored her for the time being.

“Yes?” he said at last, hoping to prompt a reaction from the shadowy company at his door.

“Extend your hand,” the shadow ordered, and Frodo, as if possessed by a will greater than his own, did so (even though he still did not understand the purpose of this supremely strange visit).

The shadow turned towards Lobelia. “Give him the Ring.”

Lobelia shook her head and her face assumed an unhealthy plum colour when she tried to resist the order, but slowly, her hand came forth from the pocket of her quite dusty flower apron and Frodo could see that her fist was clenched so tight her knuckles had turned white.

Inch for inch, Lobelia's hand moved forward, until her trembling fist was hovering inches over Frodo's open palm.

“Give it to him,” the shadow hissed, although the order seemed to cause it great dismay.

Lobelia's fingers opened and something heavy landed in Frodo's palm. When he brought it closer to his face, he exclaimed with surprise, “Bilbo's old ring! Why, he told me he believed he had lost it somewhere!”

“Lost, or taken his rightful possessions by someone who has no business doing so. It happens,” the shadow said.

“How did you come by it?” Frodo asked, his voice full of wonder.

“Lobelia found it, and I found her.”

Frodo threw Lobelia a surprised look. “I had not taken her for someone who would do that – well, use a magic ring, yes – but running off and going on adventures with Big Folk, if you’d excuse the hobbit-term. She always was very conscious as to what constituted proper hobbit behaviour, in herself and others, and we do not usually show ourselves to outsiders. Where did you meet her and how?”

“It’s a long story, and not one I want to get into the details of,” the shadow said. “Let it suffice that I … convinced her to return it to you.”

Judging by Lobelia’s thunderous expression, persuasion had had little to do with it, and Frodo was not surprised. Imagining a Sackville-Baggins handing out valuables and jewellery out of the goodness of their heart was about as absurd as an adventurous Gamgee or a prudent Took.

Frodo bit back a grin and instead gazed up at the shadow, a faded smudge of darkness against the daylight. It radiated annoyance and grumpiness, and yet Frodo found himself smiling in gratitude.

“Bilbo will be very happy to have it back again! He has been mourning its loss a lot; it was very dear to him. It was very nice of you to return it.”

“Believe me, niceness has nothing to do with it,” the shadow said.

“And still – a good turn is a good turn, and deserves another,” Frodo said. “It was very decent of you to give it back, and if there is any favour at all I can give in return – ”

“None,” the shadow said. “Except that you will look out of my Ring and take good care of it. For reasons I am not willing to explain it must remain with you in Bag End for now, so I'd thank you if you tried to keep it out of irresponsible hands.” For unfathomable reasons, the shadow threw a sharp glare at Lobelia at those words.

“Your ring?” Frodo repeated. “But you must be a mighty wizard or sorcerer – and the ring must be powerful as well!”

“It is.”

“I don't think this is a thing fit to carry for a hobbit,” Frodo continued. “And I am sure Bilbo would agree. A good friend of ours told us that magic rings are not to be trifled with. Would you not rather have someone greater and wiser look out for your ring? A wizard named Gandalf, he just left – ”

“No!” the shadow said sharply. “I came here to ask you specifically to look out for the Ring and I have my reasons. I am merely asking you to hold on to the Ring until I come back for it.”

Now, this was an unusual favour to ask of someone, but since the shadow had brought the ring back in the first place, Frodo really didn't think it was his place to argue about what to do or not to do with it – especially if all he had been asked was … to do nothing with it, but merely keep it safe.

“If that is your wish, we'll keep it for now,” he said.

“Good. It won't be long, I trust. A few decades at most.”

“When will I know that you need your ring back?” Frodo asked.

“I will send someone to collect it,” the shadow said. “Or come myself.”

Frodo laughed. “Maybe you’ll have time to come in and tell us everything that happened over a cup of tea. I doubt we’ll learn anything from Lobelia, especially if she remains as pleasantly silent as she is now.”

Lobelia shot him a deadly glare.

“Hm. Maybe,” the shadow said noncommittally. “I shall consider it. But it will be some years before I can make another journey as long as this.”

“Oh, don’t worry, we are used to the comings and goings of wizards here in Bag End,” Frodo shrugged. “Sometimes Gandalf comes by every few months, and then he doesn’t show up for years, before he is suddenly back on our doorstep, unannounced and wind-swept as ever. There is usually always at least one Baggins at Bag End now, so if you decide you need your ring back, you need just knock on the door.”

“Ah. Well. Good.” The shadow made a sharp gesture in the direction of the nine hooded riders. “We will be taking our leave then.”

Frodo had a great many questions he still wanted to ask, but the nine hooded shapes and the shadow were already turning to go, one hooded creature dragging Lobelia with them.

“Where are you taking her?” Frodo wanted to know.

“Home,” it hissed, but apparently Lobelia was in no hurry to get there, because she squirmed and thrashed, but was unrelentingly pulled out of Bilbo's front garden. The nine hooded shapes walked down the hill where ten great black horses were waiting for their riders, and one off them unceremoniously hoisted Lobelia over the back of his steed, not unlike an ill-tempered sack of potatoes.

The shadow, though, turned around once more all of a sudden and came back until it loomed over Frodo again, once more dimming the spring sun and warmth with its mere presence. Frodo looked back expectantly, bowing once more to show that he was still of service.

He was just straightening again, when a hand that was at once heavy as stone and light as air, cold as ice and hot as fire, landed on his shoulder. Frodo flinched, but barely, and forced himself to look up and into the patch of shadow where its face must have been.

“Keep it secret. Keep it safe,” the shadow ordered. “This is important. Tell nobody that you have it, especially not the wizard.”

Frodo frowned, but nodded. “I won't.”

The shadow paused, then straightened and looked down at him, as if suddenly unsure what to do with him – or any situation in which it was indebted to a little hobbit, no matter how slightly.

“Well,” it said awkwardly, and then it reached out once more to pat him on the shoulder. “Good lad.”

Frodo blinked. “Thank you. Are you sure you don't want to come in for tea?” he added, remembering his good hobbit manners (and in the Shire it was considered atrocious manners to allow a visitor to leave without even offering for them to come in and have a cup of tea or coffee).

“Very sure,” the shadow replied. “We still have a long way ahead of us, not to mention that we have to drop your … aunt off at her home and make sure she stays there.” The shadow walked over and through the garden gate, then stopped. It seemed to ponder something, then turned to Frodo again. “If she gives you trouble – put on the Ring and let me know.”

Frodo opened his mouth to ask how he was supposed to relay such a message via a ring, but the shadow had already marched through Bilbo's fence and down the hill, where its nine companions and Lobelia were waiting.

He dropped his gaze to the ring in his palm and weighed it in its hand. It seemed strangely heavy, much heavier than he would have guessed just by looking at it. Then again, it was obviously some sort of special ring. He had always guessed as much, but Bilbo had always taken care not to tell him too much about it and the circumstances in which he had found it. His uncle would have to tell him now, he guessed, at least if they both wanted to piece together what had happened to it while it had been in Lobelia’s possession, of all people.

Frodo turned around. The kitchen was absolutely silent – Bilbo had probably heard Frodo exclaim “Lobelia!” and taken that as his cue to vanish from the face of the world for the next half-hour. Frodo closed the door behind him with a smile. “Uncle Bilbo!” he called. “You will never guess who just dropped by and what they brought with them …”

*

And thus, what had begun as a tragedy, ended more or less to the (at least erstwhile) contentment of everyone involved.

Bilbo had returned to the Shire and not only reclaimed Bag End for himself, no, he also found out that he had not lost his magic ring while wandering drunkenly along the Water, as he had previously thought, but merely misplaced it so thoroughly that it had taken a few years and a mysterious shadow company to return it to him.

Frodo in turn, had gained an eccentric but kind uncle, teacher, and occasional companion on his wanderings through the Shire. He thought often and hard about the encounter on this day of March in the year of 1393, and at times he gazed at the ring and wondered what had become of the mysterious shadow that had given it to him – and whether or not to ask Gandalf about the stranger and his connection to magic rings.

Sauron had found a safe place to stow his most prized possession for however long it took him to regain a physical form – he had no doubt that Frodo and his uncle were able to hold Lobelia at bay and out of Bag End. If push came to shove, he would just have to intervene on their behalf (living with Lobelia had left him with distinct sympathy for anyone who had to put up with her, let alone call himself her relative). And if his encounter with Lobelia had woken in him even the smallest desire for peace and quiet – and if his meeting with Frodo had instilled in him even the tiniest bit of sympathy and fondness for hobbits who were not Lobelia, other tales will tell of it, for this story is at its end  – but many others are not and even the wisest cannot guess the great consequences such small events might come to bring about eventually in the grand scope of things.

Even for Lobelia things turned out well in the end, even though it might seem that she had gotten the short end of the stick. In the long run she was undoubtedly happier back among her family in Bywater than she would have been in Mordor  – even if both she and Otho would have told you that she could have stood to remain gone for a bit longer, and for entirely different reasons. She might have had her dreams of grandeur and might cut rudely short by her forceful eviction from Barad-Dûr, but in the end not even she had come out of this adventure poorer than she had gone into it. The Dark Lord and his Ringwraiths might have been in a great hurry to remove her from Mordor, but not even they had been quick or attentive enough to catch her immediately. Thus, upon her return to Bywater (after Lobelia had grumpily recounted all of her woes and misadventures to Otho and Lotho, and after all three of them had adequately mourned the loss of their magic ring and Bag End) she went into the kitchen where she upturned her apron. A small mountain of expensively made forks, spoons, and knives clattered onto her table, and with an expression of grim vindication Lobelia started to sort the heap of stolen Mordor-silverware into her kitchen drawers.

But this is just a small footnote in the much grander scope of events; and in the great story of the Rings of Power, the question of how the greater part of Barad-Dûr’s cutlery came to lie in a kitchen drawer in a small hobbit-house in Bywater shall, in all likeliness, remain what it is: a brief curiosity written down in the margins of history, and at least for now nothing more shall be said about it.