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Chapter 1: Dawn of the Diminutive Dark Lord |
| Disclaimer: To my endless regret these characters, or at least the canon versions thereof, belong to the Tolkien Estate and not to me. It is the middle of the night and you lie, as you have lain for hours, tossing and turning in your bed. Sighing in frustration you finally get up and head towards the kitchen for a glass of water. Suddenly the soft murmur of voices from the parlour stops you in your tracks. Although you know that you shouldn’t, you tiptoe to the door and peek inside. Frodo and Legolas are sitting by the fire, clearly in their cups. You smile at the sight of the two friends and turn to creep away, when your movements are suddenly stilled by the words that you hear: “So Legolas, whilst you know that I am always pleased to see you, I feel that you have something on your mind. Can you not tell me the real reason for this late night visitation?” The Elf Prince shifts in his seat, clearly finding difficulty in framing a response. Staring intently at the rug, he swallows and says, “it’s all these women…I think there's something very odd going on.” Frodo lifts an eyebrow and waits for him to continue. “There must be at least thirty here already and more arriving every day. Now, I don’t mean this nastily, but you never had much of a reputation with the ladies back in the Shire.” Frodo shrugs and grins self-consciously, “perhaps I never met the right girl…or girls.” Undaunted, Legolas ploughs on, “and every one of them perfect, with flawless complexions, pre-Raphaelite hair and heaving bosoms. I don’t have a problem with physical perfection – I am an elf after all - but the amount of cheesecake they eat, without putting on a single ounce? Now that just isn’t natural.” Frodo gazes into the fire for a few moments and sighs. “Ah Legolas, my friend, I fear you have discovered my shameful secret. Do you remember the end of the War?” Legolas nods. "How could I forget? How could any of us forget?" “Well,” says Frodo, “I may have been a little economical with the truth about what really happened on Mount Doom.” Legolas looks up, clearly shocked to the core. “A little economical? About what?" Frodo's gaze sweeps to Legolas, his eyes reflecting the light of the flames. “About the Ring, of course.” Legolas leaps to his feet. "What in particular about the Ring?" "The bit about it being destroyed. It wasn't destroyed at all, it's still here on my finger," Frodo says as he holds up his mutilated hand. Deserted by his usual composure and forgetting any tact in the heat of the moment, Legolas throws his arms wide and almost screeches, "what finger? You don't have a finger any more." "Yes I do," says Frodo, a study in deadly calm by comparison, "it's just invisible." Legolas sinks back down into his chair and says, in the sort of tone with which one addresses the insane, "perhaps you'd better explain." Frodo takes a mouthful of wine. "Well, it's like this. I really couldn't bring myself to throw it into the Crack of Doom, but I didn't want to let the rest of you down so I made Sam think that Gollum had bitten my finger off and fallen to his death with it," he pauses, looking uncomfortable, "actually, I pushed him in." "Sweet Eru," murmurs Legolas, believing that Frodo has finally gone off his rocker. He suddenly perks up, "aha! How do you explain the fall of Sauron and the victory of the Armies of the West?" "Umm, that was me," Frodo replies. "You? You were barely alive - Gandalf and the eagles only just rescued you in time." "It was more dramatic that way," says Frodo, "besides, I rather like eagles." "All right," says Legolas running his fingers through his hair without causing any perceptible damage, "just suppose you did keep the ring. Why aren't you some new Dark Lord ruling over a land of horror and despair? There's no sign that you've even been meddling with reality," he pauses, "other than all the women, of course." "Oh, that's easy," says Frodo, "I rather liked the world the way it was and I couldn't see any point in turning it into pools of molten lava - I have to live here, after all. And as for meddling, what about the impossibly happy endings that all of my friends got? Aragorn got the Kingdom and the elf queen, Faramir got a nice blond, Merry and Pippin got a limited conflict to enhance their reputations…" Suddenly this was all beginning to make horrible sense to Legolas, who added, "and Sam got thirteen children." "Oh, that was nothing to do with me. Sam has always been very…" Frodo searches for a moment for the right word, "…diligent." "But what about your illnesses?" queries Legolas, becoming more and more convinced that Frodo is telling the truth. "An excuse. Being a tragic hero in the Shire wasn't all I thought it would be. People just didn't seem that impressed, and do you have any idea of how boring it was living with Sam and Rosie?" Legolas had to agree that it wasn't his idea of a good time. "All they ever talked about was gardening and babies. Plus, they made it absolutely impossible for me to score so I faked the illness and came over here to set up this little place." "And very nice it is too," said Legolas, "but that really isn't really the issue here, is it? The point is that you are the new Dark Lord and now that I know I'm morally obliged to do something to end your reign of terror." "It's hardly a reign of terror," objects Frodo. Legolas looks affronted. "Do you think it's entirely fair that you get thirty-plus impossibly perfect hobbit maidens and I just get Gimli? I am prettier than you, after all." Frodo looks hurt. "I thought you liked Gimli." "Oh, I adore Gimli, and he's certainly got the pre-Raphaelite hair. But have you ever seen him in a low-cut velvet dress? Not a pretty sight, I can tell you." Frodo frowns and then looks up hopefully. "Velvet doesn’t suit everyone. Perhaps if you tried him in something with a more formal cut?" Legolas ponders on this for a moment and then says: "No, that won't do. I'm just going to have to start a Crusade against you." There is a moment's silence and then Frodo rises to his feet "I'm afraid I really can't let you do that, my old friend." Your voice, long trapped within your throat finally breaks free with a despairing cry. Frodo swings round and you realise that the flames in his eyes are not a reflection of the fire after all. He advances towards you and, though you struggle, you are suddenly rooted to the spot. He advances closer until suddenly you wake up and realise that you are still in bed and really are gazing into a pair of eyes, except that these are of clear sapphire and filled with concern. "Dearest," he says, "you were calling out in your sleep." "Oh, Frodo," you sigh, "I've had such an awful dream." "Hush," he says soothingly, "I'm here now, I'll hold you until you go back to sleep." He lifts the covers and climbs in, spooning up behind you. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing as his arm snakes around you and his hand traces lazy circles on your breast. “Your heart is racing so fast, little one,” he says, his breath ruffling the fine hairs at the nape of your neck, "are you still afraid?" "No," you reply, feeling your doubts and fears draining away, "and I'm not really sleepy any more either." You could swear that you feel his whole body smile. "In that case," he purrs, "we'll have to find something else to while away the hours." As his touch starts to drive all thoughts by him from your mind a small voice echoes: 'but was it just dream?' The thought is ruthlessly suppressed by your rising passion - for the moment at least… |
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