Nobody knows who I am. Nobody knows why I am here. If I'm being honest, not even I know the real reason as to why I am here. Walking down the little pathway built simply of stones, I am realizing why I am here; what I am looking for. The Ring.
As I walk through this quiet and beloved little town, I notice people whispering. “Gollum.” Word had gotten out about a certain... “Bilbo” coming across a ring that had, later, devoured him with curiosity and obsession. Soon after, word had got out about how he came to find this ring, and the person responsible for the ring resurfacing from its hiding place deep in the Anduin River. They knew me. They knew who I was and what I had spent the last 500 years doing. No matter what they may think: I lost my precious ring, and I will get it back.
As I walked into a place that I later identified as “The Shire,” I noticed houses. Houses that were built into the ground as if the people residing in them were shorter than man. These people must be Hobbits. A name I had forgotten, as well as a life I had left, for my Precious. “I wonder if these Hobbits are Stoor Hobbits” I said to myself as I walked past the lanterns hanging from the trees above the pathway. Yes, yes this place is definitely inhabited by Hobbits, which kind I do not know. This place is far inland, and Hobbits fear the sea.
As I tread further into this small, fruitful place, I notice agriculture. Big, full, juicy tomatoes growing in gardens filled with every kind of vegetable and flower you can think of. This place seems very calm and pleasant. Walking down to where the wooded area was, I noticed more houses. These houses had colourful, yet strong doors as well as windows lined with flowers and vines. Each front yard had a path of stones, breaking through the grass and vegetation, as well as blooming flowers that gave off the most magnificent scent. There were mountains in the distance that resembled those seen in books. My eyes were darting from colour to colour as the sun started to set, from the trees blowing in the wind, to the lights slowly turning on in the houses, this place seemed like a dream.
After admiring this place for a while, I reminded myself of my Precious, and the reason why I am here in the first place. I had heard of a Hobbit by the name of Baggins, living in this place, who is rumoured to have knowledge of where to find my Precious.
Many people, once laying their eyes on me, started to run inside with their friends and family. They would slam shut their wooden doors and open the light curtain- like drapes that they had covering their shiny windows. They would look out, and stare at me; watch me as I crept through their little town. I had become too enamoured with this place, too attached and mesmerized. I needed to focus on finding The Ring.
As I walk up to a house, with the name Baggins carved intricately into a wooden post, all I have seen falls out of my head. All I need is my Precious and then I can leave this place and go where I belong. Wandering up the pathway, I look around to make sure nobody is in sight. I clench my fist and execute three powerful, strong knocks on the frame of the paint chipped door. No answer. I creep around the house, and look through the window, to see a Hobbit packing his things into bags. I see my Precious. He grabs the ring, tosses it into his pocket, and zips up his coat. He must be going away. I can wait to get my Precious a little longer. Backing away from the house, I think to myself “this will be fun.”
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