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Sam sat down on the rock and wondered what the end would be like. He would not get to marry his Rose, he knew that, but what of Frodo? He was much older than Sam and had never shared much in the delights of adulthood, except for ale and pipe weed perhaps. He turned his head to look at him, half dead from the heat alone. “What about you?” he said.

Frodo looked up. “What about me?”

“Isn’t there a lass that ever caught your eye?”

Frodo looked out into the distance, thinking back over his eventful life. “There was one . . .a long time ago.”

Sam’s ears perked up. He had never told him this before, and in his minds eye he named and subsequently eliminated every lass he could think of. Frodo knew more hobbits than he did, having travelled to every corner of the Shire, but still, he could try and get them back together, couldn’t he? “Who was it?” he asked finally.

Frodo looked at him, a small smile on his lips. “Nobody you know, Sam,” he said, knowing what his friend was up to. “And no, I don’t want to meet her again.”

Sam sank a little. “You never told me about her,” he said. “Who was she? What was she like?”

Frodo did not reply right away, but then his soft, wistful voice came to his ears, almost as if he thought it too loudly. “Naked in the dark.”

Sam frowned and then his eyes grew large, hearing his master speak so of a sweet lass. “You what?” Frodo was away in his thoughts. “Now, Mr Frodo, that’s no way to talk of a hobbit lass, all sweet and innocent as you are, if you get me.” He saw a light in Frodo’s eyes he had not seen before. “As they are, too,” Sam continued. “Like light on the ripples of a pond, fresh untrodden snow and daisies at dawn,” he murmured.

Frodo smiled widely. “I’m not that innocent, Sam,” he admitted.

Sam looked at him suddenly. “You’re not?” he asked quietly. He saw the faint nod of his master, and wondered if he should ask. As it was Frodo seemed intent on telling him, with the hope that it would not diminish him in Sam’s eyes. Time would tell.

“She was naked in the dark,” he stated. “And she was not as innocent as I thought either.”

Sam looked at him, his dark eyes wide. He had never seen a naked lass before and suddenly wondered what Rose would look like with all her clothes off. He put that thought aside for later, if there was a later, and concentrated on the words that suddenly seemed to tripping over themselves to get out of Frodo’s mouth.

“I was barely in my tweens, and impetuous. She was beautiful, Sam, just like a carpet of woodland flowers. She was lying in a patch of bluebells, fast asleep, and naked.”

“In the woods?” Sam blurted out before he could stop himself.

Frodo nodded. “Bilbo said she was a water nymph. I had never heard of them before. They aren’t mentioned in any stories he had ever told me or that I had read. To me she looked like an elf only small, like a hobbit.” He gazed out into the distance, not seeing the molten fires around them, and he drifted into his memories as he spoke.

“As you can see, we have come full circle,” Bilbo enthused with a wide smile.

Frodo stopped, gazing at something in the bed of bluebells ahead. “Not exactly, uncle,” he said softly. “We’re about half a mile from where we started.”

Bilbo’s smile dropped off his face as he looked this way and that. “Well, bless me, you’re right, my boy. How clever of you.” He was not going to admit that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and for a moment did not know exactly where he was. Then he saw the stream, and heard it bubbling over the rocky bed. “Well I never,” he said to himself. “Now there’s a sight I never tire of seeing.”

“Really?” Frodo replied. “But I’ve never seen her before. Who is she?”

Bilbo turned around. “What? She? What are you talking about?” He stepped up to where Frodo was standing beside a large beech tree gazing at something in the bluebells. “Oh!” he gasped and shut his eyes at once, a hand whipped up to block the young lad’s gaze.

Frodo, caught by surprise, wriggled out from his grasp. “She might be hurt. Perhaps we should help her find her clothes. She might have been set upon by bandits or trolls or . . .”

Bilbo suddenly chuckled. “Frodo, my lad, if she had been set upon by anything other than sleep, she would most likely be dead, or at least bruised a good deal.”

“She’s sleeping?” the young boy said in surprise. “Naked? Out here?”

“She seems fine to me,” Bilbo decided, and Frodo looked at him strangely. “If you get my drift,” the old hobbit added with an uncomfortable cough. “Let’s get home. It’s getting on towards dinner time.”

Frodo reluctantly followed, casting a glance over his shoulder as he went. “Why have I never heard you speak of water nymphs before, uncle?”

Bilbo was at a loss for words. “Well . . .I . . .” He struggled with some inner argument. Do I tell him, or do I not? “Oh, all right, I admit it. I have no idea what she is. She looks like a hobbit, but I’ve never seen one so fair and lovely.”

“And her feet,” Frodo noted. “They aren’t like hobbit feet at all. All bare, like her face.”

“Like I said, I have no idea what she is. Maybe she’s a maiden of the big people, not yet full grown,” Bilbo supposed.

“She looked full grown to me,” Frodo noted.

“Now, Frodo,” Bilbo snapped. “That is no way to speak of a lass, whatever her kind.”

Frodo looked up at him, embarrassed. He swallowed. “Sorry, uncle.”

Biblo smiled, and gently patted the young lad’s face. “Not to worry. When you are older and full grown like me, you’ll see that there is not much about women you really want to know.”

“Like what?” Frodo asked, following him.

“They are always tied to their kitchens,” he groused, as if speaking of the strange creatures caused a bad taste in his mouth. “They surround themselves by other married lasses sharing jams and recipes, and never want to do anything with their time except cook and have babies.” He huffed. “Say nothing of putting grown men under their thumbs, frowning on every friendly smile to every lass, including your own sisters, as if you were planning some moonlight tryst or three.”

By now, Frodo was smiling to himself.

“And then to top it all,” Bilbo continued. “They like to spend your money, on anything that they think will better themselves in the neighbour’s eye. No, I want nothing to do with them, Frodo. I love my freedom too much. Unmarried, I can be what I want, do what I want, go where I want when I want. I can‘t be tired down by those confounded things wanting dinner on the table at 6 pm, sharp. It would drive me mad.”

By now, Frodo was positively grinning.

It was dark when they arrived home, and dinner was eaten around excited discussion of the sights of the day, and updates on their detailed maps of the Shire. Bilbo loved his maps, as did Frodo. Frodo yawned widely. They had been further that day then they had ever been before and he was tired.

“Better get some sleep, my boy,” Bilbo said.

Frodo nodded, sleepily, and rose to go to his room. “Good night, uncle,” he said, giving him a warm hug. “It was a lovely day.”

“Goodnight, Frodo,” Bilbo smiled.

Frodo lay in his bed, but did not sleep. In truth, he was not tired at all. He was far too awake for sleep. Looking up at the high curved ceiling, he thought of the lovely maiden he had seen in the forest. He wondered who she was, where she had come from, and above all what she was. It seemed impossible to him that his uncle, who had been further and seen more and knew more than any other hobbit he knew could not know what the lass was.

A thought entered his mind, one that he had been entertaining all afternoon. Carefully he rose and stepped out of his room into the hallway. Bilbo was asleep in the bedroom next to his, snoring as usual, although he strongly denied doing such a thing whenever it was suggested. Tiptoeing along the hall, he grabbed the spare key and let himself out the door, locking it behind him.

The moon was full and high, lighting up the world with its silver light. With a bright smile, he was off down the lane and into the woods, running along the path they had taken. It was not difficult to find, but it was a good hour before he came to the blanket of bluebells down by the stream. There, at the edge, he stopped.

What if she was no longer there? What if she had simply been a mirage, an effect of their long summer walk in the sun? He located the beech tree he had been standing beside, and for a moment gave in to his doubt as he could not see her. Suddenly, there she was, still lying among the flowers, her golden hair fanned out beneath her head.

Frodo carefully made his way towards her, bursting with questions, but at the same time not wanting to wake her. She lay there, with the silver light of the moon shining down on her. A thrill of excitement exploded within him, like a thousand fireworks. He had never felt this was before. She was as white as cream, her curves gentle and sensual all in one. She looked as if she had been created simply look upon and touch. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked.

Suddenly she stirred, stretching in her sleep, her breasts impaling the air as she did so. Slowly her eyes opened, to show the bluest eyes he had ever seen, like the blue of the summer sky, or perhaps the sea. She smiled, like the dance of sunbeams on water. Frodo was suddenly afraid, but her smile seemed to evaporate his fears and uncertainties as quickly as they formed.

“I . . .wanted to talk to you . . .” His words evaporated just as quickly as his fears.

She rose with a grace that told him elf, but with a height that told him hobbit. She smiled gently. “In your night clothes?”

Frodo suddenly looked down at himself. He was wearing nothing but his night shirt, and suddenly gulped. It was unbecoming of a gentleman, and well he knew it. In fact, talking to a naked woman who was not your wife, in the dark, could also be considered ungentlemanly. Frodo’s cheeks flushed red.

“I didn’t want to come back and find you gone,” he said.

She smiled, and giggled. It sounded like tiny bells jingling to him.

“What are you?” he asked slowly. “You are not like me.”

“I am not a hobbit,” she replied in agreement. “I come from everywhere, I am a nymphet. There,” she said, seemingly satisfied with her explanation. “Is that enough?”

Dumbly, Frodo nodded, despite not understanding and that it was barely enough. “You are very beautiful,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she replied. “Come, sit with me so that we can talk.”

Frodo sank into the bluebells as if the legs beneath him had suddenly vanished. It barely registered to his conscious mind. Something about her was enchanting him, and he didn’t seem to mind one bit. On the contrary, he liked the warm feelings that were spreading through his body. He wanted more.

“What are you doing here, in the Shire?” Frodo asked softly. “Other than sleeping in the nude,” he added.

“I was waiting for you,” she replied, smiling.

“For me?” he asked, in delight, as if a gift had been placed before him already unwrapped, although he could not make his mind form the question that should have followed. Why?

His eyes saw nothing but her, the moonlight bathing her shimmering skin. She leaned towards him, so close him that it was intoxicating. As if some unspoken invitation had been uttered, he reached out to touch her shoulder. It was as soft as he had imagined it, His hand slowly followed the curve of her shoulder and down her arm to her elbow. As his fingers touched her breast, he drew them back as if burned. He tried to apologise, but no sound came out of his mouth, except the gasp of air.

She leaned closer to softly kiss his lips. Frodo returned the kiss, delighting in this new sensation. He had never kissed a lass before, had never touched one. As they kissed he touched the inviting breast again, cupping it in his palm. His thumb brushed the nipple with youthful curiosity, unsure of what he was doing.

His eyes were captured in hers, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. His hands followed, excepting and yet not understanding. Her hands moved to his body, lifting the cloth of his nightshirt up over his head, exposing him to the cool of the night air. He shivered, as much with the feel of her fingers on his skin as with the cold.

His breath shuddered in his throat, and reached out his other hand to tenderly feel her other breast. Her lips returned to his, and her hands smoothed down his back. Instinct spurred his actions, as his lips moved from her mouth to her jaw and to her ear, nibbling the sensitive flesh of her throat to her shoulder. He wanted to know every part of her, every inch of her skin.

She smiled, her breath dusting his skin, causing goose bumps to rise up. Her hands swept across his back, to his thighs moving back up his inner thighs to his groin. Frodo gasped, his senses sliding.

Suddenly he wanted her, a feeling that scared him, being only young, but she seemed to know what she was doing, guiding him. Pushing him gently onto his back she kissed him down the centre of his chest. He sighed, eyes drifting closed, feeling the soft forest floor beneath his back and her fingers to his need smoothing up and down his shaft. He let out a breath, and another, matching her moves, enjoying the rush of desire as it spread through his body. His hips followed suit, pushing upward into her hand. He didn’t know what it was, but something was happening. Some coiled knot inside was about to snap.

Frodo reached for her, pulling her to him, kissing her, wanting to roll her onto the ground, but she held him back. Dreamily he lay back, content to be loved through his first time with a lass. Her lips continued down his body and his fingers still fondled the pearled peak if her nipple until she was out of reach. Suddenly her mouth was on him, dragging a gasp from his lips. He moaned deeply, feeling hot wetness cover and devour him. She was moving up and down at a fast pace, unaware of his almost tortured desire raging to be quenched.

Suddenly she stopped, just as he reached the point of no return. Again he sagged. She lifted up, and straddled him, her hot body to his. She felt as light as air as she nudged him, easing him into her depths. Frodo wanted slow, to enjoy the new sensations, but she sank down on him. A loud shuddering sigh drifted up from his mouth as her body took him in.

She began to slid up and down in long moves, he breasts swaying with each move. Panting, he cupped them both, pushing up to meet her. She smiled down at him, and moved faster. He panted harder, swirling the nipples in his palms, pinching them between thumbs and fingers. His body arched upward, reaching deeper, his breath shuddering into the air.

She concentrated on him, holding his gaze with hers in a grip of steel. She was almost there, as was he. She could feel it. She moved faster, sliding up and down on him, willing him with her eyes to release himself to her, completely.

He could feel his will slipping, his mind slipping into her welcoming soul, with each groaned breath less of him was his own. The coiled spring wound tighter with each stroke and was closer to breaking point. His body shuddered, ecstasy and joy washing over him. Their eyes were locked. He could not look away even if he tried, and he didn’t want to.

Her skin was changing from white to grey, like thin rain clouds drifting across the sun, and her eyes were no longer blue, but black as the deepest caves of Bilbo’s stories, but Frodo was too far gone to be alarmed. The ecstasy washed through his body like a whoosh of heat from a roaring fire. Her body rose and sank on his, riding him like a horse, but there did not seem much similarity after that. He held her down, arching his hips up into hers, reaching for the heaven he knew to be there, somewhere, if only he could reach it. He panted, thrusting harder, grunting with need and effort. Again he tried to roll over, to master her as she was mastering him, but he couldn’t make his muscles obey.

She looked up, hearing someone approach. She was suddenly angry, she was so close to chaining this soul to her will. She urged him faster, quickening the pace, she would have him first. They would be too late.

His will was almost gone. He groaned with each breath, seeing but not registering the twisted smile on her face. Their bodies were locked together, undulating with searing heat. She shuddered as something hit her from behind. As his body finally succumbed, spilling precious fluid into the air, her face darkened and vanished.

He was dimly aware of the Elven face that swam into his line of sight, the worried look vaguely concerned him. That he could not move also concerned him, he felt all warm all over, as if swaddled in hot cloth. In his mind he wondered if he was dead.

“He is still alive,” the elf called out, although his voice seemed far away.

“Then we reached him just in time,” another voice spoke with relief.

The first nodded, still looking down at him. “Any longer and he would have been lost to her, forever.”

The elf lifted him and carried him in his arms. “Where do we take him?”

The second elf, stepped closer and looked into his face. “He seems familiar,” he said with a frown. “I would take him to Rivendell to my father, but Hobbiton is closer. I have a friend there. He might now the lad. Let us get there quickly.”

“At once, Elrohir,” said the first, bowing as best he could while holding the hobbit.

“Elladan,” Elrohir called. “Take word to our father, and let him know where we are. He will worry, but we will return as quickly as we can. Tell him we caught the dark nymph.” He handed him the glass vial.

Elladan took the stoppered bottle, gazing into the curved glass, seeing the saddened face peering out at him beseechingly. Held securely within, she could do him no harm. “What of the hobbit?” Elladan asked.

“He will waken in an hour or two with nothing but dreams to accompany the remainder of his life, which will be long, thanks to your bow,” Elrohir praised, with a smile. He watched his brother ride away before turning towards a light twinkling in the distance.

The grey light of dawn lightened the sky above him. He heard their voices. They were discussing the small lamp in a window through the trees as they walked on up the lane, the gentle incline changing the angle he was being carried in. He knew where they were going, but still could not speak. He was dimly aware of the voice of his distraught uncle calling his name, and of the greetings that followed, and his uncle’s distress and relief that followed that. Sleep left the rest of the day unknown to him, and nothing was ever spoken of the incident again.

“Until now,” Frodo ended, panting for want of breath.

He sighed gently, the hot poisonous air finally taking its toll and lulling him into an unnatural sleep. Sam looked on for a moment more, thinking and wondering. His master had had a long and adventurous life, but he was still his Frodo, still the hobbit he had grown up with and played games with, and worked for and who still had his respect. He considered himself lucky to have known him, and lucky that the elves had come just in time to save him so they could meet and become friends. Deep inside he was glad also never to have met a water nymphet. Unlike Frodo, he had heard of them; they were nasty things that played on your deepest desires to lure you into the darkness of the underworld, never to escape.

His own breath seemed to be failing him now, as the thick hot, ash-filled air barely brought enough oxygen to his lungs. He coughed weakly and sank against the rock. As oblivion took him, he curled an arm protectively over Frodo and let the darkness take him.

El fin

Zuleika von Fleuger © July 2004

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