Standard disclaimer: All the characters, locations, some quotes, and the initial conception of this world belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, whether it be from Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, or The History of Middle-earth Volumes I-XII. I do indeed mix Tolkien's material into my own without citing it in footnotes because I imagine much of his material to be myth or legend in ME. As for the trend of including LotR lines in Silmarillion fics, I imagine it to be like "rats!"-an exclamatory phrase invented by Charles Schultz (author of Peanuts/Snoopy). Some of the phrases in LotR must've been common sayings even in the First Age, so I do this so that readers can enjoy catching the phrases and also to try to better establish a world that survived Three Ages. This disclaimer applies to all subsequent chapters of this fic.

The One Ring Reforged

"The Ring. Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing?" Boromir had said. "So small a thing."

Yet Elrond had said, "Small hands do what they must, when the eyes of the Wise are elsewhere."

Frodo looked at his hands, and the Ring rested in his palm and did indeed look like a small thing. Frodo's hands were large for a hobbit, as large as a man's, and many had said that it was the mark of a scholar. He'd felt self-conscious of it in his youth, but he'd hardly given it a second thought in recent years, not until the matter of the Ring had arisen. Frodo knew what he had to do.

"I will do now what I must," Frodo said aloud. "I will go alone. Some I cannot trust, and those I can trust are too dear to me. I will go alone. At once." Now resolved, the hobbit closed his hand about the Ring.

"Excuse me." Frodo started. He had just run from Boromir. The Ring was still tied about Frodo's neck, and so Frodo simply dropped it, trusting that it would not be able to escape from the chain, and drew Sting. Deft hands sandwiched the blade between palms, and Sting was wrested from Frodo before he had even swung about to face his enemy. The stranger flipped the blade into the air and caught it up by the handle. He studied Frodo's sword with some interest. Frodo gaped at the stranger, cloaked in burgundy red with no attempt to camouflage himself with the surrounding forest. The stranger shook his head. "Everyone's a copycat." He drew back his hood to reveal the fine features of the highest of the fair folk. His hair was raven dark, and his eyes were silver like the moon. "You make one blade, and every smith will try to imitate you."

"Are you a friend or foe?" Frodo asked. He knew of no elf who was against his quest, but Frodo had seen the effect of the Ring on even Lady Galadriel and knew that it could turn those who were good to evil.

The stranger shrugged and turned the blade over in his hands. "No wait. It is not a copy but an original." The elf-lord knelt to the level of the hobbit. He spoke some words in the high elven tongue. Runes flared red on the blade. "There, you see? It was forged by me." He smiled smugly and returned the blade to Frodo hilt first.

Frodo accepted it. "What does it say?"

"The High Prince of Tirion, Curufinwe Feanaro, gifts this blade to Glorfindel, Lord of the Golden Flower." His voice was clear, and his pronunciation was pure and like music to the ear. "Well, then, I see that the blade has endured the fires of a balrog, and so I guess that this is the very dirk that Glorfindel used to stab his enemy ere he fell."

"I have heard the legends of Glorfindel in the Halls of Fire, for he now dwells in Rivendell. But never have I heard of Curufinwe Feanaro, yet I perceive that you are an elf-lord of great might and you have said yourself that you are a prince," said Frodo. "Please, won't you tell me more?"

"I am known in this land as 'Feanor,' but it does not surprise me that you have heard no legends about me. Too much time has passed. But did you not before say: 'I will go alone. At once.' I think perhaps we do not have time for storytelling." The corner of his lips quirked up in a unique smile, one that seemed meant for Frodo alone. Frodo had thought none could match the beauty of Galadriel unless it be Arwen, yet now he was proven wrong. Feanor's his face seemed to reflect the strength of all men, great and small, and his beauty was wrought from the trials that men endured on behalf of the safekeeping of the world. It was entirely different from the aloof and feminine beauty of Galadriel and Arwen.

"Then what is it you desire of me?" The Ring seemed to grow heavier, and the chain cut into the back of Frodo's neck. Frodo drew it forth and suddenly perceived what he needed to do. "You are wise and fearless, Feanor. I will give you the One Ring if you ask for it. It is too great a matter for me."

"Eh?" Feanor drew the chain over Frodo's head and examined the Ring. "This piece of crap? Why would I want it?" The elf prince drew out a sphere of bright blue light and held it to the Ring. The runes that had been revealed before by Gandalf again glowed brightly though the Ring itself was not cast in fire. "Ash nazg durbatul√Ľk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul√Ľk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul. Che. How cheesy. Who comes up with this junk?"

Frodo peered at the elf with large eyes. "You are not tempted by the Ring?"

"A Ring of simple gold with a cheap spell? No. Look at the shoddy craftsmanship here." Feanor held the Ring out and pointed to imperfections in its surface, tiny bubbles in the gold and lumps in what should have been a smooth surface. Feanor laughed lightly. "No, this pathetic little Ring holds no temptation for me."

"Then perhaps you are the one to fulfill this quest!" Frodo said, grateful to be free of his burden.

Feanor shrugged. "If you like, I'll take this Ring. But in return, I ask that you accept my gift in return." He gave Frodo a multifaceted crystal of surpassing beauty. As soon as he touched it, Frodo felt the gem resonate softly with music. His heart was uplifted, and the danger of the Dark Lord seemed a thing of the past.

"What is it?" Frodo breathed in wonder.

"A Silmaril. Well, but you wouldn't know what that is either, would you?" Feanor shook his head. "So much lore lost. Ah well. I forged three from light before the Sun and the Moon, but recently, I have forged one from the music of Ea, the existing universe, and that music, unlike light, is as strong as it was in the beginning of time."

"What do I do with it?" Frodo asked.

"Nothing. Just keep it. I think it belongs in Arda and not elsewhere."

Frodo spoke his last question: "Why me?" It was one he'd often wanted to ask with regards to the Ring.

Feanor shrugged and smiled. "No real reason, actually. I was looking for someone of a pure heart and found you." At that, Frodo stuffed the gem into his pocket, and it seemed to him that he could hear sweet music all about him. "Well, then, you may now continue your quest, Frodo, son of Drogo. I apologize for keeping you from it."

"But my quest was to destroy the Ring, and if you are taking it."

"Oh, well, life itself is a quest, and your story is not yet over. But if you wish, come with me, and you may see an end to the tacky Ring." Feanor led Frodo through the forest, and it seemed to him that he passed through a gate of light. They came to a forge, and then Frodo knew he was dreaming, for there could not be a forge in the middle of a forest. Feanor drew forth his great hammer. He melted the Ring in fire hotter than that of Mount Doom, and the world about them seemed to shudder at every strike of Feanor's hammer. At last, when he was finished, Feanor etched patterns into it. He offered the ring to Frodo, not the One Ring of plain gold, but a ring of surpassing beauty: gold as bright and pure as the Sun with fine script and miniature images, of which Frodo only recognized the Last Alliance of elves and men. It was simply the most magnificent craftwork that Frodo had ever seen, second only to the Silmaril in his pocket. "It says, 'Feanor, son of Finwe, gifts this ring to Frodo, son of Drogo, in friendship."

"So now, what of the Dark Lord?" Frodo asked curiously.

"Dark Lord? You mean Sauron, the little upstart?" Feanor snort sounded like "puh-shaw." "Even in the Aman, his skills never rivaled mine. He was foolish to put so much of himself into one ring. His malice has been pounded from the Ring, and he is now but a bodiless spirit, too small and diluted to even hurt a gnat. Now why don't you return with your friends to Gondor and help with the rebuilding of the world. The Silmaril will help you much in this." Feanor led Frodo back to the gate of light. "Good-bye, Frodo."

"Good-bye, Feanor." They had not known each other long, but somehow, for some reason that Frodo could not understand, they felt like friends. "Will I see you again?" Frodo asked. Now that the Ring was no more, there was a merry skip in Frodo's steps. He was again eager for adventure, eager to see the world now that it had passed from the shadows. In his pocket, the Silmaril hummed to him softly.

"Maybe." With a faint smile on his handsome face, Feanor gave Frodo a gentle shove through the gate.

Frodo found himself once more in the forest, but the gate of light to Feanor's forge was nowhere to be seen. Frodo pinched himself, but he was indeed awake. On his finger, he saw the Ring of Feanor, forged from the One Ring. He knew as if with elven insight that the Dark Lord was no more and that the orcs had disappeared with him. In Frodo's pocket, he felt the continuous, vibrating music of the Silmaril. Frodo shrugged, just as Feanor had. He did not understand the happenings of the world, but he was content to play his part in it. Frodo began to hum a tune of traveling that he'd learned from Bilbo and skipped off to find the rest of the Fellowship.


Notes: No really, this isn't a serious story at all. Please don't take it as such. My sense of humor is very mild when played out.