I was there three thousand years ago
when Isildur took the Ring. I was there the day the strength of Men failed.
I led Isildur into the heart of Mount Doom, where the Ring was forged, the one place it could be destroyed.
It should’ve ended that day, but evil was allowed to endure.
No one answered. The noon-bell rang. Still no one spoke. Frodo glanced at all the faces, but they were not turned to him. All the Council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. A great dread fell on him, as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain at peace by Bilbo’s side in Rivendell filled all his heart. At last with an effort he spoke, and wondered to hear his own words, as if some other will was using his small voice.
`I will take the Ring,’ he said, `though I do not know the way.‘
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien