I’m dozing, almost asleep, with Bilbo curled up right behind me when I feel a strange presence surrounding me, almost inside me, that is not Bilbo Baggins, o no precious, not at all.
“And so, Daughter of Men, you can foretell the future?” says a low, seductive voice right inside my mind. This is bad. Very bad.
“I did not tell Gollum the truth of what would come of the Ring,” I reply, hoping I’m not speaking aloud.
“You may tell me the truth of it, precious.”
If the Ring and the Dark Lord were embodied in physical form, right now he would be pulling me close to him, one hand in my hair and the other running slowly over my side, lingering possessively at my waist, his breath hot and moist on my neck as he nibbled my earlobe.
I hope to God he can’t read my mind. Misleading Gollum is one thing, but pulling one over on Sauron the Deceiver himself is another matter entirely.
“Frodo Baggins will take the Ring to Imladris,” I say. “From there, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir of Gondor will lead the Ring South with a Fellowship of eight others. Saruman the White will try to take the Ring, and the Fellowship will break, but Aragorn will come to the White City in triumph and seek to be made King again.”
“Let us hope you say true, precious,” and it’s like he’s kissing me, long and lingering, and it’s wrong, so wrong, but it feels so right. With some effort I push him away.
“If you tempt me like this,” I say shakily, “What I have foretold may not come to pass, and I could not promise you victory if I claimed you for my own.”
He caresses my hair even as he withdraws his presence from me. “I shall not forget this, precious,” he murmurs. “When the time comes, you shall have your reward for your foretelling.”
God, I hope not.
The Dark Lord seems to have decided that my foretelling is promising enough for him not to come on to Bilbo too strong either, though I do notice him fingering the Ring a lot. Maybe he’s just fidgety, like me. My guilt at misleading Gollum is balanced out with my apparent success against Sauron himself, though I hope I’m not just justifying my actions to myself. I tell myself firmly that I’ve done as much as I can to save Middle Earth and that I don’t need to think any more about it. To distract myself I set to imagining the taste and feel of a nice Caramel Macchiato, warm in my hand, sweet on my tongue, and warming me from within. Oh yeah, and the warm socks, although at this point we’ve been on the road so long that I’m almost used to going barefoot.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.