Frodo Baggins stared out his window at the approaching storm. It was early September, and it seemed the weather that week had gone haywire. He felt the bulge in his trouser pocket; the Ring of Power seemed to hum to itself as lightning played across the horizon and thunder grumbled in the distance. His friends had gone down to the Ivy Bush for a few pints and songs, but he needed some time alone in peace, thinking it would be a precious commodity he would not be able to enjoy for long. He built a huge fire to contest the weather, since the temperature was dropping in advance of the rain, and closed his windows.
After he started the fire, he wandered the halls of Bag End, lost in memory. For most of his adult life, this was his home, and giving it up would be the first sacrifice he would make for the Quest. The bill of sale to the Sackville-Bagginses was drawn up, and soon his friends would load a waggon to take his things to the house in far Crickhollow. He knew he was going farther yet, but knew not where. Every room of Bag End held a memory for him, a place where Bilbo told him a story from his great adventure, a corner where he read a heroic, old Elvish poem, a table where he and Sam Gamgee and their friends whiled away many a long winter's evening playing cards, the window where Gandalf caught Sam eavesdropping last summer.
He ended up back in the front living room, next to his fire, where he put a kettle on. Sam, Merry, Pippin, and the rest would probably burst through the front door any moment ahead of the rain, full of ale and stories from the Ivy Bush. If they didn't, he knew it would be definitely be a long stormy night alone in the empty hobbit hole.
Down the lane next to a thicket, two figures emerged: one tall and one short. The short one was in a hooded elven cloak, his features hidden, but the hands and arms showing were of a gnarled and elderly goblin. The tall figure was elegant, a sunbeam yearning to emerge from behind a cloud. She threw back her cloak to reveal an elvish face and long blond hair, her skin ivory and her eyes two dark almonds. Shaking her head, she looked at her companion: "This had better work. I know I should be grateful I'm getting laid for the first time in millennia, but a hobbit?"
The voice replied in a harsh whisper: "I hear hobbits can be surprising. With a little encouragement, he may be interesting for you."
"Don't get my hopes up," she pouted. "It's no good being the Empress of Darkness if you can never get fucked. I swear they cut more than your finger off the day Mordor fell."
"Silence, bitch." In the distance, "A Elbereth Gilthoniel" rang out in high, sweet Elvish voices, sailing gracefully through the air. The two stepped back undercover, the short figure grimacing and plugging his ears with his fingers. The tall figure crossed her arms and stood there, tapping her foot in irritation. The booming thunder grew closer and rain started to fall in heavy drops. The song faded into the distance; she tapped him on the shoulder and they started to emerge again. Pushing her out into the open, he ripped her cloak off, exposing her to the torrent wearing a dingy white dress with gold trim.
"Hey, you bastard," she began.
"Silence. If you're wet and cold, you'll be more likely to succeed."
Her hair was plastered down almost immediately, and the dress began to cling to her form. "I don't know what you want this hobbit for in the first place."
"It doesn't matter to you, you'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, knock on his door and tell him the story after it gets dark. Let nature take its course, and by morning our mission will be accomplished."
"YOUR mission will be accomplished. Hobbits probably have tiny dicks, and I'll be left wanting again."
"Shut up and go. You'll think of something, maybe he can put it in sideways. Begone!"
It grew dark, and the kettle began to sing. Frodo took the pot off the hook and poured the boiling water into his favorite teapot. The rain lashed against the window, and the sky grew darker with the combination of the storm and sunset. "The boys will be staying until this is over," he said to no one. "They aren't going to be drownded coming back from the Ivy Bush if they don't have to. They'll stay there all night if this keeps up." He lit a candle and went down the hallway to the library to seek an old scroll to read.
A sharp banging on his front door brought him back quickly. He laughed as he imagined his friends outside, freshly drenched. "Caught in the storm, right you dimwits?" he said as he pulled it open.
The sight wasn't the one he expected: "Please sir, can you help me? I'm looking for a hobbit, Frodo Baggins. I have an urgent message for him from Mithrandir." She was tall and slender, her blond hair plastered to her white dress, her feet were bare and she shivered in the rain and cold.
"Come in, come in, I'm Frodo Baggins," Frodo said, pulling her through the door. "Let's get you over by the fire so you can warm up. Can't stand there cold and wet, can you? What to do, what do to? I just made some tea, and I have a little brandy I can put in it. Please."
Bustling her through his entryway was difficult, because she had to stoop over to keep her head from hitting the ceiling. He positioned her by the fire on a low bench, and darted to the kitchen to fetch a bottle. When he came back, she had taken off her dress and sat naked, her dress steaming on the hearth. "Had to get out of the wet clothes," she said, her voice quivering. "Don't want to catch a cold. Hope you don't mind."
Frodo almost dropped the bottle in his hand. He had never seen a female Elf before, and certainly not an unclad one. Her pure white skin glowed red in the firelight, her curves were long and lean except for two conical breasts with puffy nipples dripping moisture from their hard peaks. Frodo knew he was due for an adventure as he approached his 50th birthday, but perhaps it would be at home after all. He had been alone for many years.
Many of the hobbit girls of Hobbiton admired Frodo: a healthy, rich hobbit in excellent health, and were willing to consider marriage in spite of the reputation he had for eccentricity. Even Rosie Cotton gave him an interested look one night from behind the bar, although he was too loyal to his friend Sam Gamgee to entertain any thoughts of stepping out with her. His intellectual pursuits were not all pure: his research into Elvish culture included several epic love poems that were very detailed and explicit. He was comfortable alone, but that didn't mean he didn't long for soft company on occasion.
