She dreams of Golden Hope

Prologue

A sizzle and the smell of a recently-lit fire. He kindled the candle in his hands and immediately the darkness that had surrounded him, dispersed and a flickering illumination enlivened his hobbit hole. Guided by this small flame that threw dancing shadows on his earthy-brown walls, he moved toward his chest with intent and purpose. It was time. He had awoken this morning and to all intents and purposes it would have looked like it was a normal morning in Bilbo Baggins' household. He had awoken to the sun's light shining on his weathered cheeks and illuminating his silvery hair. He had awoken and he would have strained his ears to detect the sound of soft, dulcet humming and he would feel intense disappointment at perceiving the silence in his home. He would stand up with difficulty due to soreness in his back that seemed to have become a constant company to him for the past few months. He would think of his progressed age, of his senility with bitter amusement. Time had passed so quickly. Too quickly and it seemed as if it had only been yesterday when he had shakingly passed his fingers through untameable red curls and, with tears imparing his vision, had held a dainty hand that had been so cold. Colder than the air in Gollum's cave, colder than the winter that had come upon them when he had been a young, sensible man and that had taken almost everything from them. Bilbo closed his eyes as the memories came down upon him like an avalanche and the pain accompanied them smothered him. Bilbo's youth and strength had left him, but the memories had cruelly remained. The memories of the quest- of her.

Appearance-wise this morning had not been special. Bilbo Baggins had awoken and he had gone to his kitchen to cook breakfast and tea for himself and his nephew. The young hobbit lad had come in, prompted by the sweet smell of warm tea and the scent of warm bread. Uncle and nephew had sat down and enjoyed their meal and Frodo had questioned him about his adventures, for Bilbo Baggins was known for his unorthodox, daring spirit in the whole of the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, who had nothing of the conservative, burgeois manner of the Baggins folk, but had inherited his mother's Tookish streak. He was often looked down upon for his adventures, would often be described as foolhardy and admittedly slightly mad for leaving the comfort of his home to engage in pursues that were entirely galling and would make him late for dinner. Adventures, uncomfortable things that make you late for dinner, the Hobbits would say. This conservative perspective had prompted Bilbo from being regarded as the most sensible and responsible of young lads to an older man that was the topic of Hobbiton's gossip. Yet, while he was frowned upon by the adults, the hobbit infants seemed enamoured with him and his tales of bravery and courage. Tales that were so fantastical that they seemed to be fairy tales, but that according to the teller had indeed occured. Tales of glorious heros, of beatiful princesses, of the most fierce and breath-taking battles. Descriptions of the most magnificent locations. Stories that would prompt the young, impressionable Hobbit children to reenact the tales in the surrounding woods, shielded from their parent's disapproving eyes.

No, this morning had nothing out of the ordinary. He would sit with Frodo at breakfast and the kitchen would be brightly illuminated by the sun's light, that had filtered through the pane of the windows and the smell of freshly sprouting grass and roasted sausages would intersperse and fill the alcove, blanketing itself around Bilbo and Frodo. The idyllic quietude of the outside would infiltrate Bag End's kitchen, but it would also be accompanied by the sound of Bilbo relaying one of his many tales to Frodo and indulging the young lad's curiosity. He had told him all his adventures. All but one, for this one was too painful to relive.

It would seem to be a day as others. Yet, apperances were so deceiving, because when Bilbo Baggins had awoken this morning, when he had opened his eyes for the first time and his weary pupils had been hit with the early morning sun, an unprecented determination and euphoria had gripped him. Had caused him to recover some of his strength that had inhabited him during his youth. Had caused him to rise much quicker, propelled by this urge and certainty that it was now time. And it was this very same urge, that now had him moving through the unlit, winding corridors of Bag End, his only companion being the candle, that he held onto like a sacred beacon and the eary silence. His nephew had long ago retired and were Frodo to awaken, he would be quite disconcerted by the fact that his elderly uncle was still wandering the halls of their hobbit hole, like an unholy spirit. Like a ghost, that had not managed to find its peace, but seemed possessed. Possessed by the need to complete the task that had been trust upon it, in hopes of achieving liberation.