The lane crawled up, up, and away from the village of Fen Heath, a ribbon of pale dirt that wound its way into the dark arms of the Thornwood. On the last evening of autumn, a chill wind ran through the tall grass like a shiver, carrying the scent of wood-smoke from cozy hearths and the faint, sweet decay of fallen leaves. In the lowest and most westerly house of the village, a small, round door with a gleaming brass knob stood slightly ajar, letting out a sliver of warm, golden light and the sound of a kettle's gentle song.
Within, Holman Greenholm sat in a deep, cushioned chair by the fire. He was a hobbit of middle age, his feet, large and leathery, propped on a low stool, his pipe sending up lazy blue spirals that tangled with the steam from his teacup. To look at him, one would think him the very picture of comfort and contentment. And for the most part, one would be right. Holman loved his larder, his garden, his pipe-weed, and the predictable turning of the seasons. But on this particular evening, a small, uninvited guest had taken a seat in his mind: a memory.
It was a memory of light. Not the homely light of hearth-candles or the warm light of the sun on his prize-winning pumpkins. It was a cold, distant, and yet piercingly beautiful light, a light he had seen only once, as a faunt, peering through the tangled roots of the Old Forest's edge. The Elves had passed through the Shire that night, a silent, gleaming company on their way to the Grey Havens, and the light that flowed from them had seemed to be made of the very stuff of stars. It had filled him with a strange longing, a feeling that the world was larger and more full of wonder and sorrow than the neat, hedged fields of the Shire could contain. He had not thought of it in years.
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat on his round green door shattered the memory and made him jump, slopping his tea.
"Bless me!" he muttered, setting down his cup with a tremor. Visitors at this hour were uncommon. Visitors at any hour, if he was honest, were a slight disruption to the comfortable order of things. He unlatched the door and pulled it open.
The light from his hallway spilled out onto the path, illuminating a figure that was decidedly not hobbit-sized. It was a Man, tall and cloaked in dusty grey, leaning on a worn staff. His hair and long beard were the colour of untarnished silver, and his keen grey eyes peered out from under the brim of a pointed, wide-brimmed hat.
"Good evening, Holman Greenholm," the man said, his voice deep and warm, like the sound of a great river moving slowly underground. "It has been a long while. You have a comfortable look about you."
Holman blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in a bucket. "I… I am sorry, sir, but you have the advantage of me. Have we met?"
The old man smiled, a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "We have met in a manner of speaking, though you were smaller then. You offered me a mushroom once, on the North Road, a plump, fine specimen it was. I declined, but the offer was kindly meant." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I am a friend of the Elves. My name is Gandalf."
The name struck Holman like a pebble dropped into a still pond. Gandalf! The wandering Wizard, a figure of fireside tales and children's stories, a bringer of wonders and, it was whispered, of trouble. His comfortable evening, his safe, predictable world, suddenly seemed as fragile as an eggshell.
"G-Gandalf?" he stammered. "The Gandalf? What brings you to Fen Heath?"
"News, Holman Greenholm. And a question," Gandalf said, his gaze moving past the hobbit and into the simple, warm room. "May I come in? The wind has a bite to it, and my bones are older than they appear."
"Of course, of course! Come in, sir, pray come in!" Holman bustled aside, his mind a whirl of panic and excitement. A Wizard in his smial! What would the neighbours say? What would his Aunt Petunia say?
Gandalf ducked his head to enter, leaning his staff by the door. He settled himself into the chair Holman had just vacated, stretching his long legs towards the fire. Holman, flustered, hurried to put the kettle on again, to find his best cup and saucer, to offer cakes and preserves.
"Tell me," Gandalf began, once a cup of tea was steaming in his gnarled hands, "do you still have it? The thing you found in the Thornwood, by the root of the old oak, the summer you were barely come of age?"
Holman froze, a jar of honey halfway to the table. The memory, so recently stirred, now roared back with terrifying clarity. The root, gnarled and ancient, the soil crumbling away to reveal something that was not a stone, not a root, but a ring of dull, pale gold. He had picked it up, and for a dizzying second, the world had seemed to fall silent, the birdsong ceasing, the wind holding its breath. Then the moment passed, and he had thrust it into his pocket, a curious, pretty thing. He had brought it home, hidden it, and over the years, forgotten its peculiar chill.
"The… the ring?" Holman whispered, his throat dry. "How could you know about that?"
"I know many things, Holman, that are best not widely spoken of. I have been following whispers for a very long time. Whispers of shadow in the south, of a power stirring in the dark fortress of Dol Guldur. And whispers of a lost thing, a thing of great and terrible power, that has been found again." Gandalf's eyes, fixed on Holman, seemed to hold the light of the distant stars the Elves had carried. "May I see it?"
With trembling hands, Holman went to his bedroom. From a small wooden box on his dresser, beneath a collection of pretty stones and bird feathers, he took a ring. It was unadorned, smooth, and deceptively simple. As he held it, the world did not go silent, but a flicker of something—a deep, instinctual unease—passed through him. He brought it back to the fireside and placed it in Gandalf's open palm.
The Wizard did not touch it. He held his hand beneath it, his brow furrowed in concentration. The firelight played upon the gold, and for a fleeting instant, Holman thought he saw faint lines, like fiery letters, appear and vanish on its surface. Gandalf's face was grim.
"This is a matter far beyond the comfort of your smial, Master Greenholm," he said, his voice heavy with an ancient sorrow. "This is no trinket of the Thornwood. This is a thing of legend, forged in the fires of Mount Doom itself. This is one of the Great Rings, lost for ages beyond count."
Holman's legs gave way and he sat down heavily on the floor. "A Great Ring? But… it's just a band of gold! I found it by a root!"
"It is a band of gold that carries a shadow," Gandalf said, his gaze never leaving the ring. "A shadow that a dark power in the East is seeking. A power that would cover all the lands in a second darkness. They are searching for it, Holman. Their servants, the Black Riders, are abroad. They will come here."
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Holman's heart. "Then take it! Take it away! I don't want it!"
"I cannot take it," Gandalf said, shaking his head slowly. "To touch it with intent to keep it is to begin a long and terrible fall. But you cannot keep it either. Not here. The Shire is no longer a sanctuary. The Enemy's reach is long." He finally looked up from the ring, his gaze meeting Holman's terrified eyes. "There is a task, Holman Greenholm. A task for which you did not ask, and for which you are entirely unprepared. This ring must be taken away from the Shire. It must be taken to a place of safety, a place where a council of the wise may decide its fate. The journey will be long, and it will be perilous."
"Me?" Holman squeaked. "But I'm a hobbit! I like my garden! I don't know anything about perils or dark powers!"
"That," Gandalf said, with a gentle smile that did not quite reach his troubled eyes, "is precisely why you are the best choice. The Enemy's eye is great and terrible, but it is fixed upon the mighty, the wise, the powerful. It overlooks the simple and the small. The fate of this age may lie in your hands, Master Greenholm, and in your furry feet." He leaned forward. "Now, we must not delay. The Enemy's servants are swift. Gather a coat, some food for a few days, and anything else you hold dear. We leave tonight."
As Holman stumbled about his own smial, gathering a cloak, a packet of dried apples, and a small pipe with a pouch of his best Longbottom Leaf, he felt the world he knew crumbling around him. The cosy, lamp-lit room, the crackling fire, the familiar smell of earth and wood—it was all receding, becoming a memory even as he stood in it. He was stepping out of his small, safe story and into a vast, terrifying, and ancient tale. A tale of fading light and gathering darkness. A tale that began with a foundling ring and an unexpected gathering, and that would lead him, a simple hobbit, far from the lane that crawled up from Fen Heath, into the very heart of shadow.