The Hobbits chose to surrender in their own way.
First, the fairly small number of Hobbit Bards composed a number of patriotic jigs and reels, designed to get the heart stirring and the blood pumping.
The greatest challenge of this is that Hobbits don’t really know whom to be patriotic to.
Every reasonable, civilized sentient humanoid species has a government. And the Hobbits presumably have one, as well. Certainly the Mayor of each town acts as those he, she, or it is part of a large, organized body of Hobbit rulership, and the fact that THIS particular Mayor almost never needs to leave to meet with more than, say, three or four other mayors, doesn’t mean that each Shire is something like a Greek city state. Or at least, definitely definitely NOT Sparta.
It was always assumed by most Hobbits that they had a governing body. Hobbit life was sufficiently pleasant and relatively sedentary to the point where somebody clearly must be running things.
Only this was not at all the case.
There were certainly plenty of mayors and various chiefs of assorted towns and villages. There were not a great deal of constabulary; it’s not that theft didn’t exist, it’s that most but the poorest Hobbits didn’t want to buy anything they wouldn’t want to brag about. And the community generally took care of the poorer Hobbits, who seldom considered themselves poor.
That’s not to say it was some sort of Utopia. There’s a reason why Hobbits have provided so few of our major Mages, Warriors, Engineers, and even inventors; honestly, even the eccentric received enough opprobrium, and had enough sources of Second Breakfast, not to worry very much, and not to particularly accomplish all that much. They wrote some books, made some music, built some rather nice places to live and, as is rather famous, kept to themselves.
But as with Dwarves and (frankly) so many of us, it wasn’t hard to get together a group of influential Hobbits, as long as it was in a very good pub and someone else was paying.
“We should fight the Dark Lord,” said one prominent Hobbit, while trying to navigate a fairly complex chicken wing.
“Is he planning on destroying our Shire?” asked another.
“She, and no, not as far as we can tell.”
“Has she threatened us, send fearsome riders, sealed your letter with an explosive rune?”
“She sent a proclamation asking for an ambassador.”
“Hmm,” said several of the Hobbits. They signaled for more drinks; well, most of them did. Burgo simply threw back the ornate-but-very-fake Elf carpet which ran under the table and halfway across the rest of the huge room. There was a trapdoor, and under the trapdoor, as any Hobbit might have guessed, was an excellent wine cellar.
“Meanwhile,” said Ulthar, hastily, “The Humans have told us to put together a force to attack the Dark Lord.”
The Hobbits whose mugs were not empty, drained them. The Hobbits whose mugs were empty began surreptitiously eyeing the opening arch, hoping it might disgorge a few dozen barmaids.
The Hobbits upstairs spent a great deal of time debating what to do. Send troops to attack the Dark Lord? Ask Hobbits to leave home and hearth so they could be murdered by green humanoids? The green humanoids would, admittedly, enjoy it, but Hobbit hospitality only ran so far.
The Hobbits downstairs had a certain Adventure. For example, they discovered the Cavern of Liches; but that’s another tale.
Within perhaps forty minutes, there were exactly three Hobbits left at the table, and everyone else had begun shambling rather red-facedly up the stairs. “Look!” cried Burgo, “A decent vintage!” He held a Balthazar of red in his hand.
We’ll never know the names of the other two Hobbits, or indeed, any of those Hobbits. It was decided thus:
The Hobbits would send an army to the field. They would paint heroic portraits and, if Mr. Backville-Saggins could be persuaded to bring out his novelty Crystal Ball, which he kept with his bowling gear and which still worked despite having holes for two fingers and a thumb, they’d show the troops marching out.
Then they’d distribute the wine.
The Hobbits had a simple thought. Lose to the Dark Lord, and make her angry. Winning against the Dark Lord, even if desirable, seemed impossible unless one could rely on the competence and honor of Humans. The average Hobbit trusted those things as far as she could throw them, which was not at all.
So the Army would be issued strict rations of alcohol, and with any luck, they’d fall down before getting close enough for anyone to get hurt and (being Hobbits) they’d hopefully be ignored, especially if they hung back.
Except for the very drunkest person there, Burgo.
Who was to head the Hobbit Ambassadorial position.
Not only did this reduce the likelihood of death from perhaps four per cent to perhaps two per cent (no-one knew quite how much this particular Dark Lord might want to vaporize those around her who annoyed her, ambassador or otherwise, but they hadn’t heard of it happening yet)—but it also vastly increased the likelihood that he could sample HER cellar, which was said to be ‘extensive’ in ways which resembled more the Catacombs of Paris-Atlantis than a wine cellar.
The Hobbits were determined:
Good is Good. Evil is Evil. Somebody probably has a really good idea of the difference and has written a book about it, and that book should be read in maximal comfort to ensure it’s properly understood.
In the meantime, they know this about Good and Evil: Neither should be faced sober. Or on an empty stomach.
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