Frodo went into his room, throwing himself upon his bed.  Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice chided him for his shocking breach of manners and lack of hospitality—it sounded rather like old Aunt Dora—but he pushed it away.  More than anything else at the moment he needed to think!

He was rather surprised at his strong reaction.  He thought he had come to terms with the notion that for some inexplicable reason, he and not another, had been chosen to bear the Ring.  But now many of those feelings he thought were gone came flooding back, along with memories…

…Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker.  In which case you were also meant to have it…Why was I chosen?...Such questions cannot be answered. You may be sure that it was not for any merit that others do not possess…but you have been chosen and you must therefore use such strength and heart and wits as you have…

His own voice seeming to come from far away >”I will take the Ring though I do not know the way.”

...this task is appointed for you, Frodo, and if you do not find a way, no one will…this is the hour of the Shire-folk…

…I fear the burden is laid upon you…

…It is a hard doom and a hopeless errand…

…Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still!

The same long tale, from before the First Age, from the singing of the world into being.  The Children of Ilúvatar, the Elves, and Men were in the Great Music, and the Dwarves were adopted as Children after Aulë created them; but what were hobbits but afterthoughts? 

The Shire-folk, his people, hobbits.  Had they never been anything more than pawns?