Holman floated in darkness. There was no sense of time, no awareness of his body, nothing but the cold and the whispering. The cold was the worst—a deep, penetrating chill that seemed to come from inside his own bones, spreading outward until he thought he would freeze solid and shatter like ice. And the whispering... the whispering never stopped. It spoke in a language he did not know, but he understood it anyway. It promised him rest. It promised him an end to running, an end to fear, an end to the terrible weight of the Ring. All he had to do was let go. All he had to do was surrender.
No.
The thought came from somewhere deep within him, small but stubborn. It was the voice that had made him stop to offer a mushroom to a wandering Wizard years ago. It was the voice that had made him tend his garden even when the rain poured and the wind blew. It was the voice of a hobbit who simply refused to give up, even when giving up would have been so much easier.
No. I will not surrender.
The cold lessened, just slightly. The whispering grew faint, angry, but it did not stop. It would never stop, he realized. Not completely. Not as long as he carried the Ring. But he could push it back. He could resist. He could choose to live.
Slowly, painfully, he became aware of other things. Warmth, somewhere nearby. Light, soft and golden, filtering through his closed eyelids. A voice, not whispering but singing, high and clear and beautiful beyond anything he had ever heard. It was an Elvish voice, he knew somehow, though he had never learned the language. It spoke of healing and hope, of stars that never faded and springs that never ran dry, of a peace that lay beyond the reach of shadow.
He opened his eyes.
He lay in a bed, soft and white, in a room that seemed to be made of light. The walls were curved and graceful, and through a window he could see trees, their leaves shimmering with colours that changed and shifted as he watched—gold and silver and deep autumnal red, all at once. The air smelled of flowers and clean water and something else, something he could only describe as "ancient" and "wise."
"You are awake."
Holman turned his head. Beside the bed sat an Elf. She was tall and fair, with hair so golden it seemed to glow with its own light, and eyes that held the wisdom of uncounted years. She smiled, and the smile was like the first warm day of spring after a long winter.
"I am named Arwen," she said, "daughter of Elrond. You are in Rivendell, in the house of my father. You have been here for three days."
Three days. Holman tried to sit up, but his body would not obey. He felt weak as a newborn kitten, his limbs heavy and unresponsive. The Elf—Arwen—gently pressed him back against the pillows.
"Do not try to move. The wound you received on Weathertop was deep, and the poison of the Morgul blade works slowly. You have been fighting it, even in your sleep. Few could have done so. My father says you have a strong spirit, for one of your kind."
"Morgul blade?" Holman's voice was a croak. He remembered the Rider's hand reaching for him, the cold that had flooded through him, the fall into darkness. "Gandalf? Aragorn? Are they...?"
"They are well. Gandalf sits with my father even now, discussing what is to be done. Aragorn watches at the borders, lest the Riders return. You are safe here, Holman Greenholm. No servant of the Enemy can enter this valley while the power of Elrond protects it."
Safe. The word was so strange, so foreign, that Holman almost did not recognize it. He had been running for so long, frightened for so long, that safety felt like a dream from which he would soon wake. But the softness of the bed, the warmth of the sunlight, the gentle presence of the Elf beside him—these were real. He was safe. At least for now.
He slept again, and this time his sleep was dreamless.
When he woke again, the light through the window had shifted to the warm gold of late afternoon. Arwen was gone, but another figure sat in her place—a small, round figure with curling brown hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. He was a hobbit, unmistakably, though Holman had never seen him before. He sat in a chair pulled close to the bed, his feet tucked under him, a book open on his lap, though he was not reading. He was watching Holman with an expression of intense curiosity.
"You're awake!" the stranger said, snapping his book shut. "Good! Elrond said you would wake today, and he's usually right about these things. I'm Folco. Folco Boffin, from Hobbiton. Well, originally from Hobbiton. I live in Buckland now, near the Ferry. You came through Buckland, didn't you? Gandalf said you crossed at the Bucklebury Ferry. That's how I know about you, you see. I was visiting my cousin when the news came. Black Riders, searching for someone called Baggins—though you're a Greenholm, Gandalf said, so that's a bit confusing. Anyway, when I heard that Gandalf and a hobbit had passed through, I came as fast as I could. Well, as fast as I could after packing. And after saying goodbye to my cousin. And after stopping for lunch. But still, here I am!"
Holman stared at this torrent of words, trying to make sense of them. "You... you came to Rivendell? From Buckland? Alone?"
"Oh, no, not alone!" Folco laughed. "I'm not that adventurous. I came with a party of Elves who were going to the Last Homely House anyway. Much safer that way. Though I did have to ride a horse, which was terrifying. Elves don't understand that hobbits were meant to keep their feet on the ground. They put me on this enormous creature—well, it seemed enormous to me—and it kept trying to eat flowers when it should have been walking. I nearly fell off three times."
Despite everything, Holman felt a smile tugging at his lips. This Folco Boffin was clearly one of those hobbits who could talk about anything and nothing for hours on end, a type well-known in the Shire and generally considered harmless if exhausting. But there was something else in his bright eyes—a sharpness, a curiosity—that suggested there was more to him than mere chatter.
"Why did you come?" Holman asked. "To Rivendell, I mean. It's a long way from the Shire."
Folco's cheerful expression softened, becoming thoughtful. "Because I wanted to help. I know that sounds foolish. I'm no warrior, no Wizard, no Elf-lord. I'm just a hobbit who likes his comforts and his conversation. But when I heard about the Riders, about what they were hunting, about the danger that had come to the Shire... well, I couldn't just sit at home and do nothing. So I came. If there's anything I can do, anything at all, I want to do it."
Holman looked at this strange hobbit—this Boffin from Buckland—and felt a warmth in his heart that had nothing to do with the sunlight. He was not alone. He had Gandalf, and Aragorn, and now this cheerful, talkative hobbit who had crossed half of Eriador just to offer help. The Ring was still heavy in his pocket—he checked, and yes, it was still there, still cold, still pulsing faintly with that terrible life of its own—but the weight seemed slightly more bearable.
"Thank you," he said simply. "Thank you for coming."
Folco beamed. "You're welcome! Now, you must be hungry. Elrond said you could eat today, but only light things at first. I'll go find someone to bring you something. And then you must tell me everything. Absolutely everything. I want to know about the Riders, and the barrow-wight, and Tom Bombadil—I've heard stories about him my whole life, but I never believed he was real! And the Prancing Pony! I've always wanted to go to Bree. Is it really as exciting as they say?"
He was off the chair and halfway to the door before Holman could answer, which was probably just as well. Holman lay back against the pillows, still weak, still weary, but for the first time since leaving the Shire, not entirely alone.
The days that followed were strange and wonderful. Holman grew stronger under the care of Elrond and his household, and as his strength returned, he began to explore the Last Homely House. It was a place of wonders beyond anything he could have imagined. The buildings seemed to grow from the rock itself, their graceful arches and delicate carvings blending seamlessly with the trees and waterfalls that surrounded them. Everywhere there was light—the golden light of the sun by day, and at night the silver light of stars reflected in countless pools and fountains.
The folk of Rivendell were Elves, mostly, though there were others as well—visitors from distant lands, come to seek counsel or shelter. Holman met dwarves from the Blue Mountains, grim and proud, with beards that reached their waists and axes always at their sides. He met men from the South, dark-haired and fierce-eyed, who spoke of wars and kingdoms that Holman had never heard of. And he met more hobbits—not just Folco, but others who had made their way to Rivendell as news of the Ring spread.
There was Hamfast of Long Cleeve, a distant cousin of Folco's, who had come because he was curious and because, as he said, "You never know when a good adventure might come in handy." There was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who had not come to help at all but had been caught up in the general movement of hobbits towards Rivendell and was now making the best of it by complaining loudly about everything. And there was Frodo, a quiet young hobbit from Hobbiton who had been a particular friend of Bilbo Baggins—the very Bilbo whose name the Riders had been asking about in Bree.
Bilbo Baggins. The name echoed in Holman's memory. He had heard stories, of course—every hobbit in the Shire had heard stories of Bilbo Baggins, who had gone on an adventure years ago and come back with a fortune in gold and a reputation for eccentricity that had never quite faded. But it was only now, in Rivendell, that Holman began to understand the connection.
"He had the Ring before you," Gandalf explained one evening, as they sat together on a terrace overlooking the valley. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and the sound of a waterfall provided a gentle background murmur. "Bilbo found it in a cave beneath the Misty Mountains, during his adventure with the dwarves. He kept it for many years, never knowing what it truly was. It prolonged his life, made him feel thin and stretched, but he did not understand why. When I finally guessed the truth, I urged him to give it up. It was the hardest thing he ever did. The Ring does not let go easily."
"Where is he now?" Holman asked. "Bilbo, I mean."
"Here, in Rivendell. He came to live with the Elves after he left the Shire. He is old now, very old for a hobbit, but his mind is still sharp. He has been writing—poetry, mostly, and the story of his adventures. He wants to meet you, I think. He feels a connection to you, as one Ring-bearer to another."
Holman shivered. Ring-bearer. The title sat uneasily on him, like a cloak that did not fit. He had not asked for this burden. He had not wanted it. And yet here he was, in the Last Homely House, preparing for a future he could not begin to imagine.
"When do I meet him?" he asked.
"Soon," Gandalf said. "But first, there is something you must know. Elrond is calling a council. It will be held in three days' time, and all the peoples of Middle-earth will be represented—Elves, Dwarves, Men, and hobbits. They will discuss the Ring, and what is to be done with it. You will be asked to speak, Holman. You will be asked to tell your story. And when the council is done, a decision will be made. A path will be chosen. And you will have to walk it, whether you will or no."
Holman looked out over the valley, at the last light fading from the hills, at the first stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the protection of Elrond's power, the Riders were waiting. The Dark Lord was waiting. And in his pocket, the Ring waited too, patient and terrible, biding its time.
"I understand," he said quietly. "I'll be ready."
The day of the council dawned clear and bright. Holman woke early, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Folco was already up, bustling about the room they shared, straightening his clothes for the third time and muttering about the importance of making a good impression.
"Do you think they'll let me speak?" Folco asked for the tenth time. "I have things to say, you know. Important things. About the Shire, and how the Riders frightened everyone, and how we need to do something about it. They should hear from ordinary hobbits, not just the important ones."
"I'm sure they will," Holman said, though he was not sure at all. He had no idea how these councils worked, or who would be allowed to speak. He only knew that he would have to stand before all the great folk of Middle-earth and tell them about a ring he had found by a root in the Thornwood, and hope that they believed him.
They made their way through the winding paths of Rivendell to a circular glade surrounded by tall beech trees. In the center of the glade stood a great stone, flat-topped and ancient, and around it were arranged seats of carved wood and stone. Many folk were already there—Elves in gleaming robes, Dwarves in their finest mail, Men in cloaks of grey and green. Gandalf sat near the stone, his staff across his knees, his face unreadable. Aragorn stood apart, leaning against a tree, his hood thrown back to reveal his stern, fair features.
And there, in a seat of honour near the front, sat an old hobbit. He was very old indeed, his hair white as snow, his face lined with years. But his eyes were bright and keen, and when they fell upon Holman, they lit with a warmth that made the younger hobbit's heart swell.
"Holman Greenholm," the old hobbit said, rising with some difficulty and coming forward. "I am Bilbo Baggins. I have wanted to meet you ever since I heard you were here. Come, sit beside me. This council will be long and full of grave matters, and we Ring-bearers must stick together."
Holman sat, and Bilbo took his hand and pressed it. The old hobbit's grip was surprisingly strong, and his eyes held a depth of understanding that spoke of long years and heavy burdens.
"You carry it still," Bilbo said quietly, glancing at Holman's pocket. "I know what that feels like. The weight of it. The way it calls to you in the night. I carried it for sixty years, and giving it up was the hardest thing I ever did. Harder than leaving the Shire. Harder than saying goodbye to everything I loved. But I did it. And so will you, when the time comes."
Holman wanted to ask how, how did you do it, how did you let go, but there was no time. A horn sounded, clear and silver, and all rose as Elrond entered the glade.
Elrond was tall and grave, with hair as dark as the night sky and eyes that held the light of stars. He was neither young nor old, but seemed to partake of both, his face bearing the marks of sorrow and wisdom in equal measure. He wore no crown, but none was needed. All who saw him knew that they were in the presence of one of the great ones of the world.
He took his seat upon the stone, and the council began.
One by one, they spoke. Elrond told of the history of the Ring, of its forging by the Dark Lord Sauron in the fires of Mount Doom, of the wars that had been fought for its possession, of its loss and long wandering through the ages. Glóin, a dwarf from the Lonely Mountain, spoke of a messenger from Mordor who had come to his people, offering peace in exchange for news of a hobbit and a ring. Boromir, a tall man from the South, told of the growing darkness in his land of Gondor, of the dreams that troubled him, of the sword that had broken and the prophecy that foretold its reforging.
Gandalf spoke last of all. He told of his long search for the truth about the Ring, of his imprisonment by the traitor Saruman, of his escape and his journey to the Shire—too late to prevent the Riders from beginning their hunt. He told of Holman's flight, of the barrow-wight, of the attack on Weathertop, of the race to Rivendell. And when he finished, all eyes turned to the small hobbit who sat beside Bilbo Baggins.
Holman's mouth went dry. He stood on trembling legs and faced the assembled company—Elves and Dwarves and Men, the wise and the mighty, the ancient and the powerful. He was just a hobbit from Fen Heath, a gardener who liked his pipe and his comfort. What could he possibly say to such as these?
But he thought of his smial, abandoned now, probably searched by the Riders. He thought of his neighbours, his Aunt Petunia, the life he had left behind. He thought of the long road he had travelled, the terror he had faced, the cold touch of the Morgul blade. And he spoke.
He told them of finding the Ring, simple and plain, by the root of an old oak in the Thornwood. He told them of keeping it, forgetting it, rediscovering it when Gandalf came. He told them of the flight through the wood, of Tom Bombadil's house, of the barrow-downs and the fog and the terrible wight. He told them of Bree, and the Prancing Pony, and the Riders at the door. He told them of the marshes, and the hills, and Weathertop, and the cold that had flooded through him when the Rider touched him.
When he finished, there was silence. Then, slowly, Elrond rose.
"Here then is the heart of the matter," he said. "The Ring has returned to the light, after long ages in darkness. But it cannot remain here. Rivendell is strong, but it is not strong enough to withstand the full power of Mordor, should the Dark Lord choose to move against us. The Ring must be destroyed. It must be taken back to the fire in which it was made, and cast into the cracks of Mount Doom."
A murmur ran through the assembly. Mount Doom! In the heart of Mordor, in the land of the Enemy himself! It was madness. It was suicide. Voices rose in protest, in fear, in anger.
But Elrond raised his hand, and silence fell. "I do not say that this task is easy. I do not say that it is likely to succeed. I say only that it is necessary. The Ring cannot be used, for it would corrupt any who sought to wield it. It cannot be hidden, for the Eye of Sauron searches ever more widely. It cannot be destroyed by any power we possess, save the fire from which it came. Therefore, someone must take it to Mordor. Someone must cast it into the fire."
Again the murmur rose, but this time it was different. Eyes turned towards Holman, small and frightened, standing beside the ancient Bilbo. He felt the weight of their gaze like a physical thing, pressing down upon him.
Elrond looked at him, and his voice softened. "Holman Greenholm, you did not ask for this burden. You did not seek it. But it has come to you, as such things do, and you have borne it well. You have brought the Ring to Rivendell, through peril and darkness, and for that, all the free peoples of Middle-earth owe you a debt that can never be repaid. But the road does not end here. It goes on, and it grows darker with every step. Will you take the next step? Will you carry the Ring to Mordor?"
Holman stood frozen. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to say no, to refuse, to beg someone else to take this terrible burden. He was a hobbit. He was no hero, no warrior, no wise counsellor. He was just Holman Greenholm of Fen Heath, who liked his garden and his pipe and his comfortable chair.
But he thought of the Shire. He thought of the green hills, the cozy smials, the simple folk who knew nothing of the darkness gathering at their borders. He thought of what would happen if no one took the Ring. He thought of the Riders returning, of the Shadow spreading, of everything he loved being swallowed by the night.
And he knew what he had to do.
"I will," he said, and his voice surprised him with its steadiness. "I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though I do not know the way, and I am afraid, and I would rather be anywhere else in the world than here, saying these words. I will go."
A great sigh ran through the assembly—of relief, of sorrow, of admiration. Folco was crying, tears streaming unheeded down his round cheeks. Bilbo gripped Holman's hand so tightly it hurt.
Then another voice spoke. "I will go with him."
It was Folco. He stepped forward, still crying, but his chin was set and his eyes were fierce. "I'm just a hobbit, and I talk too much, and I'm probably more trouble than I'm worth. But Holman shouldn't have to go alone. None of us should have to go alone. So I'll go. If you'll have me."
And then another voice: "And I."
And another: "And I."
When it was done, there were nine companions standing before Elrond: Holman and Folco, the two hobbits; Gandalf the Wizard; Aragorn the Ranger; Boromir of Gondor; Glóin the Dwarf; and three Elves—Legolas of Mirkwood, Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond. Nine companions, against the might of Mordor.
Elrond looked upon them, and his face was grave but not without hope. "Nine walkers," he said softly. "Against the nine Riders of the Enemy. It is fitting, in a way. Go now, and rest, for tomorrow your journey begins. The road is long, and the darkness is deep, but remember this: even the smallest person can change the course of the future. Go with our hope, and may the light of the Eldar guide your way."
That night, Holman sat alone on a terrace overlooking the valley. The stars were bright overhead, and the sound of Elvish singing drifted through the air, sad and beautiful and full of longing. The Ring was heavy in his pocket, but for once, it did not whisper. It was waiting, patient as ever, biding its time.
Footsteps approached, and Bilbo Baggins settled onto the bench beside him. The old hobbit was silent for a long time, looking up at the stars.
"I'm proud of you," he said at last. "I know that sounds strange, from someone who barely knows you. But I am. You're doing what I could not do. You're taking the Ring where it must go, instead of hiding from it like I did for sixty years."
"I'm frightened," Holman admitted. "I'm so frightened I can barely think straight."
"Good," Bilbo said. "Fear keeps you alive, if you let it. It's the fearless ones who die first. You'll be all right, Holman Greenholm. You've got good friends, a stout heart, and feet that were made for long roads. That's more than most can say."
He stood, groaning slightly at the stiffness in his joints. "I have something for you. A gift, from one Ring-bearer to another." He pressed a small package into Holman's hands. It was soft and warm, wrapped in cloth.
Holman unwrapped it. It was a coat, made of the finest mithril, light as a feather and strong as dragon-scale. It gleamed in the starlight with a pale, beautiful sheen.
"It was mine," Bilbo said. "From my adventure, long ago. It saved my life more than once. Now it's yours. Wear it, and think of me, and know that someone who understands is wishing you well."
Holman tried to speak, but his throat was too tight. He simply nodded, and Bilbo smiled, and patted his shoulder, and walked away into the night.
The next morning, as the sun rose over the Misty Mountains, the nine companions set out from Rivendell. The road lay before them, long and dark and full of peril. But they walked it together, and for now, that was enough.