Ring of Darkness

Chapter 1: Hobbit and Dwarf

Towards evening, the clouds that had covered the whole sky unexpectedly parted, and the scarlet solar disk, as if into a feather bed, sank into the thickening mists that merged at the horizon with light, airy clouds. Against the crimson, the sharp black peaks of the Lunar Mountains were clearly silhouetted. The short hour of summer hobbit evenings was approaching, when the long day had not yet fully given way to twilight, but the outlines of objects had already acquired an inexplicable, mysterious vagueness: a tree appears as a strange beast, a bush as a dwarf hunched over in three deaths, and the distant forest seems like a beautiful elven castle. Even the evening cries of the roosters become softer and more melodious.

A light silvery mist reigned over the recently harvested fields. Spilling out of the lowlands and ravines, it spread around, turning the lonely standing hundred-year-old oaks into dark islands in the middle of a whitish ghostly sea. In the windows of the farms scattered here and there, the lights gradually went out - the owners were going to bed. An owl hooted, the swift shadow of a nightjar flashed. The gates on the Brandywine Bridge were locked. To the south, in Buckland, a hobbit watchman with a bow and a full quiver of arrows climbed the high watchtower in the courtyard of Brandy Hall. Adjusting the signal horn at his belt, he began to pace the watch platform, fenced with thick logs. A few miles to the east, the solid wall of the Old Forest, stretching far to the south and east, loomed gloomily. The watchman wrapped himself tighter in his woolen cloak and leaned on the railing, peering into the distance, which was rapidly being swallowed by the twilight. Behind the first trees of the Forest, the clearing of the Fire-break was still visible, but it too was quickly being filled with twilight. The autumn-bright stars appeared in the sky.

The watchman on the tower turned around, suddenly hearing light steps in the courtyard of the estate. A small figure, even by the small hobbit standards, slipped out of the side door, opened the stable gate and immediately darted inside. Soon the hobbit led out a saddled pony, mounted it and slowly trotted towards the road leading north. The fog quickly swallowed him.

“Well, it’s a common thing, this crazy guy is wandering around at night again! - The watchman grinned and spat. - He’s completely lost his mind with these fairy tales!.. He’s read the Red Book, and there you have it… What, the laurels of Meriadoc the Great give him no peace? How many years have passed: it must be three centuries… And old Bilbo, and his nephew, Frodo, have gone beyond the Sea… What now? And the elves have sailed away, they say, and the dwarves have disappeared somewhere… Even people avoid us… What’s wrong with him?”

The watchman’s thoughts flowed slowly, lazily, like the tedious watch itself, left over from past times…

The pony trotted slowly along the well-trodden, long-known road. But was it known? The night with a powerful hand had washed away the everyday colors, giving for a time a different guise to every object and every living creature. Gnarled branches stretch out predatorily from both sides towards the rider, like snakes, trying to grab his shoulders, to pull him out of the saddle… A bush grows before his eyes, unfolds, swells - no doubt a shadow with a lantern in a disembodied, fleshless hand will now appear from the green depths. One must be able to answer. On the hobbit’s belt hung a treasured Gondorian blade, taken in secret from his elders - the very one that the Great Meriadoc himself had worn. With such a weapon, there was nothing to fear - any evil spirit should flee at the mere sight of it.

Tock-tock, tock-tock. The darkness thickens; the shadows along the road line up in long rows. It seems to the hobbit that he recognizes them. Here - is it not a slender elf-warrior waving a welcoming hand to him? Or is it not a cheerful dwarf leaning on a heavy battle-axe, carelessly smoking a pipe over there?..

The hobbit had long since dropped the reins, and the pony was wandering on its own… There was nothing better than these lonely walks on summer nights, when old fairy tales and legends come to life, when you expect an attack at any moment, when your hand itself reaches for the hilt…

Under the spreading elms, the road made a sharp turn. This was the most terrible place. To the left, through the thickets, the ghostly gleam of a deep, dark pond, surrounded by a dense willow grove, broke through. Night birds always gathered here: their strange, unfamiliar to the hobbit’s ear voices were especially loud. But for the hobbit frozen in the saddle, this was the jeering retinue of the Nine whistling and hooting, announcing their imminent appearance. The hobbit closed his eyes and imagined them: black horses, as if woven from darkness, in dense blinders - inside them a magical fire burns, their gazes must not be let out - they race, race through the night, the wind tears the black cloaks of the Riders, long pale swords, from which there is neither protection nor salvation, beat against their hips, empty eye sockets burn with frantic, inhuman malice, and their sense of smell greedily seeks the scent of fresh blood… In a moment the retinue will fall silent, the thickets will part silently, and the hobbit will find himself face to face with the Leader of the Black Riders. It’s scary and tempting! Tempting because deep down the hobbit knew that nothing of the sort would happen, the bushes would remain motionless, and, having calmly passed this place, he would turn back to get enough sleep before a difficult day full of household chores. There would be the usual measured life, in which everything is known in advance and nothing will change and cannot change…

The pony suddenly snorted and stopped. In the moonlit gap between the trunks, a stocky figure appeared, two heads taller than the hobbit. The unknown person was wrapped in a thick cloak, so that only the hand with a long staff, held out to the side, was visible.

The hobbit’s hair stood on end. A heart-chilling terror seized him, his voice failed, the cry died on his lips… The unknown person took a step forward. The pony backed away, jerked - and the hobbit, having lost his balance, rolled into the roadside grass. A hurried clatter of hooves was heard - the pony was nimbly running away wherever it could. Forgetting everything in the world, the hobbit rolled over onto his stomach and jumped up, drawing his sword. (How many times in his little room had he proudly drawn it from its scabbard, imagining that he was fighting an orc or a troll!) The weapon gleamed dimly, giving the hobbit courage.

Hey, buddy! Have you eaten henbane? Put away the blade! - a calm, slightly guttural voice came from the darkness.

  • Don’t come near! - the hobbit squealed, retreating and holding the sword in front of him.

  • Stand still! I’ll strike a fire now. - The unknown person bent down, picking up something on the side of the road. - Put away your dagger!.. By the way, where did you get it? A wavy pattern… a hilt with a catch… A Gondorian one, I suppose?

Something clicked dryly, flashed, and a thin tongue of living fire appeared. The flame quickly grew, illuminating the face of the stranger, who had finally thrown back his hood. The hobbit breathed a sigh of relief. A dwarf! A real dwarf, exactly as they are described in the Red Book! Stocky, broad-shouldered. a ruddy face framed by a thick beard, a potato nose… A heavy battle-axe at his patterned wide belt, a pickaxe strapped to his back.

  • So you’re a dwarf? - The hobbit calmed down a little, but did not lower his sword. - Where are you from? Where are you going? What are you looking for?

He continued to back away, and the hard branches of a roadside bush poked him in the back of the head.

  • I’m coming from the Lunar Mountains. - The dwarf was fussing with the fire, adding dry twigs to the flames. - I’m looking for new ore veins. Now I’m walking through your Hobbiton, I was in Hobbiton, in Delving, now I’m going to Buckland… They pointed me to the Brandybuck estate from the other side, they say you can spend the night there…

  • And why couldn’t they put you up? - the hobbit wondered, sheathing his sword.

The fear passed, leaving curiosity and a vague disappointment: just a dwarf… However, even dwarves had almost stopped visiting Hobbiton now.

  • The “Golden Pestle” is packed, - the dwarf replied.

  • So what are we standing here for? - the hobbit suddenly remembered. - Let’s go, I live in that very estate. You’ll spend the night, and tomorrow you can go wherever you want. Let’s go! It’s not far… True, the pony ran away, what a nuisance. Now I have to look for it…

  • So you’re a Brandybuck? - The dwarf suddenly stood up and looked at the hobbit with sharp interest. - Well, let’s get acquainted. Thorin, son of Dart, and I’m from the south of the Lunar Mountains.

  • Folco, Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast, - at your service. - The hobbit bowed ceremoniously, and the dwarf answered him with an even lower bow. - We’ll go now, - said the dwarf. He carefully stamped out the fire he had just so painstakingly built, then threw a heavy bag over his back and walked next to the hobbit along the road, which was once again plunged into darkness. Only now it did not seem to the hobbit either exciting or dangerous… They were silent. Thorin was the first to break the silence: - Tell me, Folco, is it true that one of the three copies of the famous Red Book is kept in your Brandy Hall?

  • It’s true, - the young hobbit answered, somewhat puzzled. - Both it, and much more…

He suddenly broke off, remembering his uncle Paladin’s warnings: “Don’t tell anyone that we have many manuscripts brought by the Great Meriadoc from Rohan and Gondor!” His uncle never explained why it was necessary to do so; he usually confirmed the weight of his words with a resounding slap on the back of the head.

  • And much more what? Is that what you wanted to say? - the dwarf picked up, looking the hobbit in the face. The latter involuntarily turned away.

  • Well, something like that, - he grumbled reluctantly. - Tell me, have you read these books? - the dwarf persisted.

Now not only Thorin’s gaze, but also his voice revealed his extreme interest in Folco.

The hobbit hesitated. Tell this strange dwarf everything? Tell him that he was the only one who had entered the Library in the last seven years? Tell him how he spent nights on end, bent over ancient folios, trying to understand the events of an unimaginably distant past? Tell him that he had earned a bad reputation as a hobbit “not of this world”? No, not now, and it’s somehow awkward to say such a thing to a stranger…

They approached the gates of the estate. The pony had not yet appeared.

“Tomorrow I’ll have to climb through the ravines and fields, looking for that fool,” the hobbit thought gloomily, “and they’ll pull my ears too…”

He became quite sad.

  • Folco, is that you? - the watchman’s voice was heard. - Where did you put the pony, you scoundrel?! Who else is with you?

Folco pushed the gate and entered, paying no attention to the shout. However, Thorin stopped and, bowing politely, said, addressing the indistinct figure on top of the watchtower:

  • Thorin, son of Dart, a dwarf from the Lunar Mountains, - at your service. I ask your kind permission to spend the night under this hospitable roof, known far beyond the borders of your beautiful country! Have mercy on a tired traveler, do not leave him under the open sky!

  • Don’t pay any attention to him! - Folco hissed, grabbing the dwarf’s hand. - Go, and that’s it, before he raises the whole house! Come on!

  • Hey, Krol, what’s wrong with you? - Folco shouted to the watchman. - He’s with me, and everything’s fine. I hope your pipe doesn’t go out while you’re talking! The hobbit resolutely pulled the dwarf across the courtyard. - I’ll tell my uncle everything tomorrow! Tomorrow my uncle will know everything! - the offended Krol wailed. - He’ll show you…

But at that moment the hobbit and his strange companion had already disappeared into the depths of the huge labyrinth of the estate. The watchman cursed, spat… and then adjusted the straw mattress, settled himself comfortably on it, and soon the watch platform was filled with sweet snoring.

Along the long corridors, Folco and Thorin passed countless low doors to the western part of the estate. The log cabins clinging to the slopes of the hill in three tiers hung over the bank of the Brandywine, forming something like a honeycomb. Unmarried young people usually settled here until they had families.

Folco pushed open one of the doors, and they entered a small room with two round windows overlooking the river. Having seated the guest in a deep armchair by the fireplace and fanned the fire, Folco bustled about, setting the table.

In the sooty fireplace, red tongues of flame danced, illuminating the walls, a small bed, a table, and - books. Books occupied all the free space - they filled the corners, lay under the bed, were piled on the mantelpiece. Old, heavy folios in leather bindings…

Folco brought bread, cheese, ham, butter, greens, boiled a kettle and got an opened bottle of red wine from a hiding place somewhere. The dwarf ate hastily, and Folco, so as not to disturb the guest, turned to the window.

The ghostly moonlight flooded the low banks of the Brandywine, the water rolled in a gloomy black mass, in which, it seemed, even the reflections of the stars drowned. On the other bank, the sharp peaks of the trees of the Forest Domain rose, a lantern flickered faintly at the pier. Folco opened the window, and the voices of the night burst into the room: the barely audible splash of the river, the rustle of the coastal reeds, the light but continuous hum of the wind in thousands of crowns that were now living their own special, nocturnal life. And as always at such moments, the hobbit was seized by a sharp, incomprehensible longing for something unusual, wonderful, fabulous…

He imagined how Bilbo and Frodo had gone on their famous journeys; probably, they stood just like that at the window open to the night and peered into the surrounding twilight, - and in the courtyard, dwarves or hobbit friends were already waiting, and there were only a few hours left until dawn, when it was time to set off and no one knew whether you were destined to return…

A delicate cough from the dwarf was heard behind him. Folco shook himself, driving away the uninvited sadness, and turned to the guest who had finished his supper. Then they threw more wood into the fireplace and lit their pipes. - Tell me, Thorin, what brought you to our parts? We’ve never had any ore veins… - Folco asked.

Everything that was happening seemed to him a wonderful dream, a magical fairy tale that had rushed from the darkness of distant and amazing years. A dwarf! A real dwarf is sitting in front of him now and thoughtfully sucking on his pipe!.. The flame illuminates his round, open face, and it seems that now the gray veil that obscures his vision will lift, that if Folco now extends his hand - he will touch the amazing secrets and wonders of the Big World, about which he had only heard until now…

Sweetish tobacco smoke floated through the dark, dimly lit by the fireplace room. Outside the open windows, the night was stepping, peeking into the lit openings on the go, but now its mysterious voices did not frighten the hobbit. Maybe this meeting is not for nothing - and it will be followed by some wonderful journey, like the one old Bilbo went on - for dragon treasures… After all, it all started with an unexpected visit from dwarves!

  • I need the Red Book, - the dwarf answered, looking intently at Folco.

The hobbit shuddered, as if suddenly awakened; Thorin’s words puzzled him. - Why do you need it?

  • I want to figure it out. I want to know how our world took its present shape, - Thorin answered. - So few changes happen in Middle-earth that the causes of many current events should be sought not so much in the present as in the past.

  • What events do you want to understand? In our Hobbiton, time seems to have stopped. I don’t know, of course, how it is in other places…

  • There, too, many would like the course of events to freeze and life to stand still. For a very long time, it seemed to many that a golden age had come…

Folco climbed into the armchair with his feet and fixed his shining eyes on the dwarf. The latter was thoughtfully looking at the fire and habitually squinting, as if standing before a furnace, then he continued, slowly dropping his words:

  • Something is wrong in our world, Folco. We, the dwarves, have felt it for a long time. But few could imagine where it was all going. The world seemed unshakable and strong, evil - overcome forever, and strange and frightening events - just annoying misunderstandings. It all started in the Mines of Moria. As you know, shortly after the victory in the Great War for the Ring, the dwarves re-inhabited the palaces of their ancestors; in the abandoned forges, as in the old days, heavy hammers began to pound; the dwarves greedily rushed into the depths of the earth, hunting for elusive ore veins. And everything went on as usual, when suddenly…

A long, mournful howl suddenly broke the nocturnal silence. A groan full of inhuman anguish rolled along the dark banks of the Brandywine and died away in the distance. The hobbit and the dwarf shuddered and exchanged glances.

A gust of wind rustled outside the windows; the shutters creaked, a loosely closed door slammed somewhere; below, under the bank, the reeds rustled dryly and lispingly, like an ancient old man. The hobbit huddled in his armchair; in an instant all his fears came to life, he remembered how he had trembled in anticipation of the appearance of the Nine on the dark road… The dwarf jumped up and rushed to the window, leaning out almost to his waist, he tried in vain to see something in the darkness. However, everything fell silent, the wind that had risen died down, a pale moon peeked out from behind the light clouds. The dwarf looked around cautiously and sat down again by the fireplace, thoughtfully lighting his extinguished pipe.

  • What was that? - Thorin raised his eyes to Folco. - How should I know? - The hobbit shrugged. - The Red Book says… But no, no, that can’t be! Probably some bird…

  • A bird, you say… - the dwarf grumbled. - I haven’t heard of such birds… I heard the same howl the day before yesterday, when I was walking past Michel Delving… And at night too!

The hobbit had nothing to say to that. After a pause, the dwarf continued:

  • So, I stopped at the fact that the dwarves began to work in the old mines again. They went deeper and deeper, and then one day in one of the lower workings they heard strange sounds and a strange stirring in the depths. A scraping sound came from below, as if someone was gnawing at the stone. Suddenly the very roots of the mountains trembled. The dwarves threw down their pickaxes and rushed upstairs - but the vaults began to collapse, burying under the rubble those who dared to disturb the peace of the stone depths. Few managed to get to the surface. I myself have not been to Moria and I am telling you this from the words of my friends who fled from there. The dwarves there were threatened not only by cave-ins - an incomprehensible and chilling fear seized everyone who lived there then. This fear was impossible to overcome, the underground gnashing of some gigantic teeth extinguished consciousness, and there was only one thing left to do - to flee. “The dwarves are leaving Moria,” my friends told me. They are going wherever they can, but mostly - to the Lonely Mountain in Erebor and to the Iron Hills. That’s how it is, my hobbit friend. - The dwarf sighed. - And you say - a bird…

There was silence, only the logs crackled slightly in the fireplace.

Folco stared intently at the fire. The dwarf continued, quietly and with a hidden anxiety:

  • No one knows and cannot explain what the matter is. Our elders dismissively waved away the confused stories of the refugees, secretly rejoicing at their misfortunes. Many of my kinsmen, who live in the Lunar Mountains, envied the wealth and skill of the Moria dwarves. Those who came to us could not stand the ridicule and scattered wherever they could. Some went to Erebor, others were taken under the protection of the King’s Steward in Annúminas, and some attached themselves to the court of Círdan the Shipwright…

I tried to figure it out, I talked to many, I listened to the rocks - and finally I realized that something was really wrong in the depths. I suggested that our people go to Moria to finally understand what was going on there. But they told me that if the Moria dwarves’ eyes were clouded with fear and their ears were ringing, then it was none of our business. And in general, they should have strengthened the ceilings and vaults better, and not spread all sorts of rumors… - Thorin waved his hand in annoyance. - From my father and grandfather I heard that it is in Hobbiton that the Red Book is kept, which tells about the events of the last war. The last time Moria was shaken was in those years - maybe the answer can be found in this Book?.. So I ended up here. I asked the hobbits, and they told me that the old manuscripts must be kept in the Brandybuck estate. And one directly hinted that the famous Red Book might be found there, which, probably, everyone has heard of, but no one has held in their hands. Thorin raised his eyes to the hobbit. - So, Folco, son of Hamfast, now you know everything! Help me! Is it possible that among your books there is not the one that I need more than anything in the world? Help me, and I will not spare gold for such a service!

  • I wouldn’t sell you the Red Book for all the gold in Middle-earth! - exclaimed Folco, and he tensed up, as if preparing to jump.

  • I’m not asking for that, - Thorin answered quickly. - At least let me read it!

  • I don’t have the Red Book itself, - the hobbit admitted, a little embarrassed, after a pause. - There is only a copy of it, but it is completely accurate!

  • A copy is good enough for me, - Thorin said impatiently. - And if the reading takes a long time, then I am ready to pay for my stay here. - The dwarf reached into his bosom. Folco stopped him.

  • No, no! - he exclaimed, hastily grabbing the dwarf’s hand. - Be my guest! We will carefully read the whole Book again and together we will try to find answers to your questions. Besides, I have many other ancient manuscripts. Perhaps they will be useful too.

  • That’s great, - the dwarf sighed with relief. - You know, Folco, I was very worried when I was coming to you in Hobbiton, - I was afraid I would run into some miser… I was very lucky!

  • Not at all, - Folco objected, not too confidently, immediately thinking of his uncle Paladin.

  • However, - said Thorin, - we will still have time to rummage through the parchments… Tell me about your country! I have walked through it all - I have never seen a more beautiful place anywhere. Such fat pastures, such well-kept gardens, such ruddy apples and such delicious tobacco!

  • And have you traveled much? - Folco asked with envy. - Lucky you! I’ve never been outside of Hobbiton in my whole life…

  • I haven’t been to that many places either, - the dwarf answered. - I’ve met many people, asked many questions. Everyone has heard of Hobbiton, but few have seen it with their own eyes, - King Elessar’s law is strictly enforced…

  • And that did us, the hobbits, a disservice, - said Folco. - My kinsmen were not very interested in the affairs of the outside world even before, and after the victory in the Great War they finally decided that evil was overcome forever. King Elessar granted our grandfathers new lands, they had to be developed, and the hobbits forgot about everything else. Like your tribesmen, they also became too carefree… However, what does “became” mean - they have always been like that. - And why are you different? - Thorin asked. - It’s hard to say. Maybe because I was taught to read very early, and it so happened that I got into our Library and did not leave the shelves until I had read all the manuscripts at least once… - Folco suddenly laughed. - I often said things that everyone else had forgotten about: about the Hobbit Militia, about the Battle of the Green Fields… At first they were touched by this, then they began to look askance, and then they disliked me altogether. I dared to have my own opinion! And often I would pop up with some historical example at the wrong time, which greatly embarrassed our elders. The past taught me to understand the present, I began to think about causes, consequences, I began to gather information, to ask passers-by, just like you. And the news from distant lands is becoming more and more alarming and incomprehensible. - For example? - the dwarf asked quickly. - On the West Road, robbers suddenly appeared out of nowhere, who had not been heard of here for many centuries. Skirmishes began between people - one village suddenly took up arms against another. Once I even happened to hear that a gang of dwarves attacked a settlement not far from the Misty Mountains! Can you imagine? The astonished Thorin just threw up his hands. - Unthinkable, - he said hoarsely. - For dwarves to attack people of their own free will, like vile orcs… I swear by Durin’s beard, this has not happened since the days of the First Age! Are you sure this is true?!

  • What can be said for sure in such matters? - Folco shrugged. - News from afar is rarely true, as King Théoden once said… However, the truth can only be learned from real witnesses…

Both fell silent. Thorin was thinking hard about something, then waved his hand in annoyance.

  • All the same, I can’t figure it out now, - he said angrily. - Tell me more, Folco!

  • What is there to say, - the hobbit shrugged again. - I’m not going to list for you how many turnips were harvested in different years? You walked through Hobbiton and saw everything with your own eyes… For our hobbits now, in my opinion, the main thing is that everything should be no worse than the neighbor’s. So they compete: who will have a higher fence, and the whole district watches this fascinating spectacle with tension, even bets are made. - He smiled wryly. - You can judge for yourself! What do your kinsmen care about the troubles and anxieties of the Misty Mountains? And ours, it seems, don’t care about anything at all, except for food and a warm bed! Be full yourself, feed your family and guests, and a hobbit needs nothing more. But behind this moderation I see just laziness and indifference. Most believe that everything should go as it goes. But I can’t do that! No, don’t think I’m bragging… I just can’t look at this turnip anymore!

The dwarf listened attentively to Folco’s rambling speech, not taking his long-extinguished pipe out of his mouth. The wood in the fireplace was burning down. Feeling an awkward, unfamiliar emptiness after his passionate confession and trying to drown it out, Folco fussed, dragging fuel.

  • What are you going to do, Folco? - the dwarf asked cautiously.

  • If only I knew! - the hobbit sighed. - When you think about what a scolding I’ll get tomorrow, you could howl like a wolf! I never found the pony, and Krol won’t miss the chance to tattle to Uncle Paladin… - And who is this Uncle Paladin? - Oh, he’s the main keeper of the memory of the valiant past of the Brandybucks! He’s only busy with making sure that no one dishonors the family name…

  • So what? In my opinion, family honor is a wonderful thing!

  • It depends on what you mean by it! “Brandybucks shouldn’t wander around at night! Let the hobbit beggars, who can’t even count five generations, do that! Brandybucks shouldn’t lose ponies, let the same hobbit beggars waste the family fortune. Every Brandybuck must work, so that his clan may be richer than all others and occupy its proper place - first, along with the Took clan!” It’s getting to the point of absurdity: “A Brandybuck shouldn’t run or walk fast, he should ‘stride,’ so that everyone realizes his dignity!” If he gets on my case tomorrow… I don’t know what I’ll do to him!

  • Come on, Folco. - The dwarf reassuringly placed his hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. - What do you care about his lectures? It’s not his fault that he doesn’t know what you’ve read… However, you’ve told me a lot, and I’ve told you even more. We’ve understood each other and now we’re unlikely to be able to sleep. Maybe we should get to the Red Book? Why wait? Open the window wide, light more candles, let’s fill our pipes again - and get to it!

Folco nodded silently and crawled under the bed. There was some rustling, stirring, then the hobbit sneezed loudly and soon crawled out, dragging a bound chest behind him. An oval iron ring was set into the lid, the sides were decorated with fine carving.

  • By the way, Thorin, - said Folco, fiddling with the complicated lock, - where did you manage to go, after all? You started to say, but for some reason you didn’t finish.

  • I was in Arnor, in Annúminas, where one of the King’s palaces stands, I was in the Grey Havens, I walked along the coast to the south, I crossed the Misty Mountains once… I’ve been to the fair in Bree, of course - four or five times, but this is the first time I’m going through Hobbiton.

  • And what were you doing with the elves? - The hobbit sat down on the floor next to the chest, apparently forgetting about the lock.

  • There were three of us there: me, Far, and Tror. Far and Tror are the same friends of mine who fled from Moria. They were not accepted in my homeland, and they went to the Grey Havens when they heard that Círdan the Shipwright was looking for masters for a new fortress wall…

  • For what?! For a fortress wall?! Círdan?! Wow! - Folco threw up his hands.

  • What’s the big deal? - the dwarf was surprised. - Let him build, the city will become more beautiful… And in general, what’s it to us? - think for yourself, why would Círdan need new walls? The Grey Havens have remained impregnable for I don’t know how many centuries! No one has ever dared to attack him! So why would he suddenly start building new fortifications? It’s as clear as day that Círdan is also worried about something, since he has taken on an unprecedented task!

  • Just think! - exclaimed Thorin, slapping his hands on his sides. - How did I not realize it right away! I swear by Durin’s beard, the world has never seen such a stupid dwarf!

They were silent, looking at each other. Círdan the Shipwright! The last Lord - an Elf of Middle-earth. The last remaining member of the Council of the Wise. The former master of the Ring of Fire, which he gave to Gandalf. The invincible, mighty Círdan - and he is afraid of someone! Is the threat really that great? But if it is so - can you fence yourself off from it with walls?

The hobbit and the dwarf stood by the dying fireplace. Outside the windows, the wide, restless Brandywine carried its waters to the Great Sea. Hobbiton was sleeping peacefully…

Folco suddenly felt that the walls of his cramped little room were somehow moving apart, his thought was rising high into the sky, vigilantly surveying the immense expanses of empty lands with rare, barely noticeable lights of small and scattered settlements. What is happening there, in these endless expanses? The hobbit saw the winding beds of nameless rivers below, the dark patches of endless forests, he saw the bluish-black peaks of mountain ranges against the background of the starry sky… From somewhere in these spaces, shrouded in nocturnal twilight, a shadow of a vague, terrible threat was crawling towards them. And Círdan, too, had noticed something, and, therefore, their fears were not groundless…

Folco looked around. Familiar objects, a familiar room… Unbearable! What to do? He wanted to immediately, right now, draw his sword, rush forward headlong to meet this faceless, nameless danger, to fight openly… But when, where, with whom?! The hobbit leaned out of the window, greedily catching the cool night wind with his hot chest. The dwarf stood next to him.

Somewhere across the river, in the Barns, the first rooster crowed. Folco rubbed his sleepy eyes. The excitement subsided, his gaze fell on the chest left in the middle of the room. The hobbit went to it, knelt down. The lock clicked dully. The hobbit threw back the heavy lid. Thorin’s excited panting was heard over his shoulder.

From the depths of the chest, Folco pulled out a heavy bundle. He carefully unwrapped the cloth, and the dwarf’s eyes beheld an ancient Book, written for preservation on parchment, in a binding of dark crimson leather. The hobbit handed it to Thorin.

  • Make yourself comfortable, - he said and, placing several candlesticks on the table, pulled up a chair. - This is one of the very first copies made from the Red Book. I don’t know who copied it, but here is the personal signature of the Great Meriadoc, certifying that the copy completely coincides with the original.

With both hands, the dwarf carefully accepted the precious volume and sat down at the table; Folco poked the fire with a poker, then climbed somewhere into a corner, got a jug of beer and two clay mugs.

  • Thorin, but what can we do if there really is… someone gnawing at the earth?!

  • I think a lot can be done, - the dwarf said, not taking his eyes off the book. - First of all, all the dwarves of Middle-earth need to believe in this. Then you can ask the King for help. He is mighty and fearless, he will not refuse to help… if only we can explain everything to him. And Círdan… and ambassadors can be sent to him… But first of all, we need to understand everything ourselves.

  • Well, what if those underground ones don’t need anything from us? They live their own lives, digging a tunnel somewhere… - How should I know? Maybe so… It is quite likely that there is nothing and no one there at all, and the Moria dwarves’ eyes were just clouded with fear and their ears were ringing… Anyway, I intend to go there myself.

Folco nodded sadly. The dwarf will leave… He will read the Book and go on a difficult, unprecedented task… He will make his way along the night roads, stop at inns, sleep wherever he has to… He will see foreign countries, travel along unknown rivers… And Folco suddenly really wanted to go with him, to leave this quiet, well-fed life that he was sick of, to experience the same thing that the four immortalized hobbits who had traveled on a great mission through Middle-earth had experienced… Folco sat down on the bed and looked over the dwarf’s shoulder. Frowning and thoughtfully moving his lips, Thorin devoured every word with his eyes. He was reading the first pages of the Book, which told of the memorable conversation of a respectable hobbit named Bilbo Baggins with the wizard Gandalf on a sunny morning on the porch of the hobbit’s estate… Looking at the familiar pages, Folco did not notice how soundly he fell asleep.

The dwarf smiled at the dozing hobbit, trimmed the candle, took a sip of beer and buried himself in the Book again, from time to time writing something in a small notebook hanging at his belt.

The hours passed, the pages rustled as they were turned. The sky in the east began to gradually lighten. The roosters crowed, the gates creaked - Buckland was gradually waking up to take on its daily chores…

About another hour passed, and when the crimson-scarlet solar disk appeared over the edge of the Old Forest, the dwarf heard steps in the estate. A door slammed somewhere, the splash of water was heard, delicious aromas wafted. Thorin was distracted and thought about how best to introduce himself to the owners of the estate; with a barely noticeable anxiety, he glanced at the sleeping Folco and went to the window.

The first rays of dawn illuminated the green banks of the wide Brandywine. The sun’s spears pierced the night shadows still remaining in secluded corners, and the remnants of darkness hastily fled, returning to the earth its familiar outlines and colors. Here and there, a transparent silvery mist floated over the flood meadows. On the other bank of the river, tall spruce islands blackened, still devoid of color and distinct outlines. The trills of morning birds were heard, the third roosters crowed in the nearby village and in the estate itself. The dwarf went to the barrel of water standing in the corner of the room to wash, when heavy, slightly shuffling steps were suddenly heard in the corridor and someone pulled hard on the door, which Folco had prudently bolted.