The Lord of the Rings
Chapter 3: Three is Company
The transition from a quiet life to the life of a fugitive was not as sudden as Frodo had imagined. Under Gandalf's advice, he did not simply vanish. Instead, he spent months organizing a "move." To the rest of Hobbiton, it appeared that Frodo Baggins had finally run out of money and was selling the prestigious Bag End to the hated Sackville-Bagginses to move to a small, humble cottage in Buckland.
Only two people knew the truth: Samwise Gamgee, who was busy packing secret bags, and Gandalf, who looked more worried with every passing day.
"Travel only by night if you must, or in the shadows of the hedges," Gandalf warned on the morning of his own departure. He had to ride south to seek counsel, promising to meet Frodo before he left the Shire. But as the weeks passed, Gandalf did not return. The day of the move arrived, and the wizard was nowhere to be seen.
The Last Night in Hobbiton
The sun was setting on Frodo's last day at Bag End. The house was empty, the furniture sold, and the echoes of his footsteps sounded lonely on the wooden floors. He felt a deep, pulling sadness. This was the only home he had ever known.
"Ready, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, appearing at the door with a massive rucksack that looked twice his size. Along with them was Pippin (Peregrin Took), who had insisted on helping Frodo "move," unaware of the true danger but sensing a great adventure.
"Ready, Sam," Frodo whispered. He felt the Ring in his pocket, a cold weight against his thigh.
They set out in the twilight. The Shire looked beautiful—the mist was rising from the streams, and the smell of evening flowers was thick in the air. To any onlooker, they were just three hobbits on a walking trip. But Frodo couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were watching them from the darkness of the trees.
The Sound of Hooves
They had been walking for a few hours, heading east towards the Brandywine Bridge, when the atmosphere changed. The cheerful chatter of Pippin died down as the woods became denser. The wind, which had been a gentle breeze, suddenly felt cold and sharp.
"Listen," Frodo whispered, stopping dead in his tracks.
From far behind them, on the road they had just traveled, came a sound. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. It was the sound of a horse, but it didn't sound like a pony from the Shire. The hoofbeats were heavy, slow, and purposeful.
"Hide!" Frodo commanded, his instincts screaming.
The three hobbits scrambled off the road and threw themselves into a deep hollow behind a large oak tree. They lay flat against the damp earth, their hearts hammering against their ribs.
The sound grew louder. Out of the darkness, a figure emerged. It was a large black horse, its coat as dark as a starless night. But it was the rider that made Frodo's breath catch in his throat. The rider was tall, draped from head to foot in a heavy black cloak and a deep hood that revealed no face—only a void of shadow.
The Black Rider stopped exactly where the hobbits had been standing moments before. It sat perfectly still, like a statue carved from coal. Then, the head of the rider began to turn slowly from side to side. It wasn't looking; it was sniffing. It let out a long, shuddering hiss, a sound of indrawn breath that felt like it was sucking the very warmth out of the air.
The Temptation of the Ring
As the Rider sniffed the air, a terrifying urge seized Frodo. His hand moved, almost of its own accord, toward his pocket. He felt an overwhelming desire to take out the Ring and slip it onto his finger. He felt that if he did, he would be safe, hidden in another world.
The Ring seemed to pulse in his pocket, calling out to the dark figure on the horse. Put me on, it whispered in his mind. Give in to the shadow.
Frodo's fingers touched the cold gold. He began to draw it out. But just as he was about to slide it onto his finger, a sudden sound broke the silence. From the woods ahead, a clear, bell-like voice began to sing.
"Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!"
The Black Rider jerked its head toward the sound. With a sudden, violent movement, it turned its horse and galloped away into the darkness, its black cloak streaming behind it like the wings of a giant bat.
The High Elves
Frodo collapsed against the tree, trembling. The urge to use the Ring vanished, replaced by a wave of relief so strong he felt faint.
"Elves!" Pippin cried, jumping up. "Did you hear that? Those are Elven voices!"
Out of the trees came a company of the Fair Folk. They were tall and radiant, their hair shimmering with a light that seemed to come from within. They were the High Elves, led by a noble named Gildor Inglorion. They were leaving Middle-earth, heading for the Grey Havens to sail across the Sea, but they paused when they saw the three trembling hobbits.
"Who are you, and why do you hide in the shadows?" Gildor asked, his voice like music.
"We are just travelers," Frodo said, recovering his dignity. "But we are being followed. A rider in black..."
The Elves' faces grew grave. They brought the hobbits to a hidden glade, offering them food that tasted like honey and starlight, and clear water that revived their spirits.
Gildor's Warning
Late that night, while Sam and Pippin slept, Frodo sat with Gildor under the stars.
"That was no mortal man you saw," Gildor said quietly. "Those are the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths. The shadows of the Nine Kings who long ago fell under the power of Sauron. They are his deadliest servants. They do not see like we do, but they feel the presence of the Ring. It calls to them."
Frodo looked at the golden-haired Elf. "What should I do? Gandalf has not come."
"The fact that the wizard is missing is a dark omen," Gildor replied. "But you cannot wait for him. The Shire is no longer safe for you. The Enemy has set his traps. You must fly, Frodo. Take your friends and go to Rivendell. But beware—the more you use the Ring, the more you become visible to them. To them, you will shine like a beacon in the night."
As the first light of dawn began to touch the sky, the Elves prepared to leave. Gildor placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder.
"I name you Elf-friend," he said. "May the stars shine upon your path. But do not travel the road again. The Black Riders are still searching."
Frodo watched the Elves vanish into the morning mist. He felt a new sense of urgency. The "move" to Buckland was no longer a game. It was a race for his life. He woke Sam and Pippin, his face set in a grim expression.
"We leave the road," Frodo announced. "We go through the woods and the marshes. We have to reach the ferry before the sun sets, or the shadows will catch us."
And so, leaving the comfort of the path behind, the three hobbits plunged into the thickets of the Shire, beginning the most dangerous stage of their journey