That was an adventure.
And it was, as our sages foretold, horrible.
Death at every turn! Monsters! Fighting! Balancing atop, of all things, an active volcano!
It’s good to be home, in my snug little Hobbit-hole, with ale by my side and my pipe in my hand.
Well: someone’s pipe. The pipe of someone who has no further use for it, I think.
There’s a feast of celebration in my honor tonight. I do quite like parties, and they say they’ll be breaking out the Unforgivable Cider, the one that’s started feuds between families which don’t even exist yet. I may stay home, though. “I’ll be late; do start without me!” If there’s enough liquor, they may forget my absence altogether.
It’s good to drink and dance and kick up one’s heels, but it’s also good to just stay in and tend to one’s things. All my books are dustry, the garden’s not been watered half so often as it ought, and the kitchen, why, the kitchen needs work overall. That stove will simply never do; what was I cooking in the old days, partridges? And the oven..! No, no. Better to have out the whole wall, and simply keep one end of the room a mighty blaze. Wood will be scarce; but there’s plenty of combustible pyroclastics on their way. One is owed a favor or two, after all.
I suppose I don’t mind a little hard work, and getting my hands dirty, if it’s going to lead a few of the finer things in life. If I’m not mistaken, that’s some of Radagast’s tea in the cupboard; a rarity! And even old Bullroarer Took was never given quite such fine a leaf of Hobbit-weed, nor in such quantity. Yes, I suppose I’ve earned a little fame and glory around here. The Sackville-Bagginses will simply bite themselves in envy.
Which is really quite a waste of the teeth, I’d say.
Oh, poor Sam, faithful Sam. He was destined for heartbreak anyway. His was a noble death, sealed with a kiss, and he went down that precipice truly thinking he’d saved me. If I ever meet up with his ghost, I won’t disabuse him of the notion. He deserves the best, does Sam. And I suppose he wouldn’t want to see the next part.
Though you never know. The way to one’s heart is said to be directly through the stomach, and while we’re all going to eat well from now on, I shall have the finest larder in all of Hobbitdom. If it ever turns out that he clung to a ledge and made his way back up, I will invite him to a very fine dinner; I’ll stake my reputation on my marinated Elf with forest mushrooms.
We Hobbits aren’t too organized as a people, but when the Dark Lord’s dominion threatened our peaceful way of life, it was obvious:
Man and his allies are terrible at avoiding adventures.
“Run from those Orcs!” “Fight those Trolls!” “Look, it’s a spider as big as a horse, just in case you needed nightmare-fuel for the rest of your life.”
No, no, no. What Hobbits like is a nice, predictable life, with lots of comforts and plenty of good meals.
Humans are simply full of chaos. The Dark Lord, on the other hand, is extremely consistent. Now that he’s crushed all resistance, there’ll be just the one season year-round; there are no unpleasant surprises; and while it’s a bit murky outside, it turns out that there are several delicious vegetables which grow well by the light of the everpresent moon. And as for meat for the table…why, there’s a reason why there were so many of the race of Man and so few of the race of Hobbits: it’s because we were destined for eternal bounty and full bellies.
I have singlehandedly saved the Hobbit race from the horror that is venturing outside of one’s front door, and brought in an abundance of the finer things in life…and no need to share them with all those clashing, banging, noisy Big Folk.
Perhaps I’ll go to the party after all. After second dinner, and before fourth dinner. For there’s one thing every Hobbit knew, deep in their bones, when the Shadow first began to creep over the land:
Eternal Night means Dinner forever.
Hail the Dark Lord!
Here’s my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN“.
And here’s Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains.