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‘[Hobbits] love peace and quiet and good tilled earth; a well-ordered and well-farmed countryside was their favourite haunt.’
(Tolkien, Lord of the Rings prologue, ‘Concerning Hobbits’)
‘But [Sauron’s] capability of corrupting other minds, and even engaging their service, was a residue from the fact that his original desire for 'order' had really envisaged the good estate (especially physical well-being) of his 'subjects'.’
(Tolkien, in ‘Morgoth’s Ring’)
If it had been the mystics who found Sauron, he would be ruling kingdoms in the East by now, a sorcerer king, a tyrant of wraith and shadow.
If it had been a group of fleeing Southlanders he would have ended up on a raft in the Sundering Seas, chased by a sea-drake, suspected by his companions, abandoned and sunburned and parched and wondering why the Númenorean sea-guard hadn’t turned up yet, when a half-drowned elf swam towards them and changed everything.
If it had been the Valar he would have been thrown into the void with Morgoth for eternity.
But it was Nori Brandyfoot, who taught him the word for ‘friend’. And later, taught him where the best berries are to be found, how to find mushrooms in the woods, and when the snailing season starts.
The mystics do catch him up, eventually. By then he has remembered enough of who he is to recognise them, and their hissed “Lord Sauron…” fills his veins with the thrill of power, of armies, of order…
He destroys them with a flick of his hand and goes back to making breakfast.
Celebrimbor finds out for himself how to use the small amount of mithril to contain an immense amount of power. As he must, for there is no lost King of the Southlands to help him here.
Galadriel returns from Valinor, spends a few hundred years battling Adar, and returns eventually victorious but still convinced that somewhere Sauron lives.
Númenor cycles through endless political turmoil, hates the elves, loves the elves, hates the elves again, and goes on in the same way. Sometimes there are bad storms, but the waves don’t breach the sea walls.
Eregion is never besieged and Lindon thrives and grows. Galadriel comes sometimes to insist that Sauron still lives, his evil only waiting for them to lessen their guard. Gil-galad, who had long deduced that an immortal Maia who has not returned to Valinor must indeed still be out there somewhere, sighs and tells her to let it rest.
Ages pass. Between the elves and the dwarves and the warring faction colonies of Númenor, nobody cares that much when the Harfoots ask for some land of their own and settle down.
The Harfoots begin to call themselves Hobbits, in time. They farm and make things and keep mostly to themselves, although their settlements do a reasonable trade from the travellers passing between Lindon and Eregion. Beer brewing methods are exchanged; wine is traded for pipeweed. People get along affably enough.
There are some who wonder how the Hobbits seem to have technologies beyond even those of the elves; how they can spark fire with ease, work metal into intricate mechanisms of machines. But they use the sparks for matches to light the log fires in their cosy hobbit holes, and they use the metal to make intricate clocks which are argued over in wills, and outsiders do not pay them much attention.
War breaks out, and kingdoms rise and fall, and nothing really threatens the hobbits. Maybe it is because nobody thinks they have any territory worth seizing; maybe it is the rumours of the wolves that hunt in terrifying packs around the borders of the Shire; at any rate, they always seem to get overlooked. Whatever the reason for this, the hobbits go about their lives unaffected, quiet, peaceful, well-fed - and always well-ordered.
It is well into the Third Age of Middle-earth, and Galadriel and Elrond are in the Prancing Pony, jostled by drunk farmers, dwarf traders, and numerous hobbits. There are no mysterious cloaked Rangers lurking in dark corners, for there is no need for Rangers in Middle-earth. But there are passing elves, often enough, and nobody pays too much attention to the golden-haired daughter of Finarfin and the former herald of Gil-galad, in the best table by the fire and sharing tales of the distant south over imported miruvor. The hobbits, polite but distant with elves, mostly ignore them.
It is only because the inn is so crowded and the tables packed so closely together, because elf ears are so keen and drunk argumentative hobbits are so loud, that she happens to overhear someone reading out a proclamation about grazing rights and learns the name of the mayor of the Shire.
“Elrond,” she says.
Elrond, whose eyebrows had shot up almost to his hairline, says “No. No, no no no no.”
“Elrond.”
Elrond finishes his drink with one gulp and says that he is sure it is only a coincidence. Very sure. Sure enough, in fact, that if they just put the drinks down and left it would probably all make sense in the morning. After all, they know so little about the municipal decrees of hobbits, even masters of lore like him don’t know that much about it, and really -
“And does ‘Tar-Mairon of the Shire’ sound like a normal Hobbit name to you?”
Galadriel had expected an army to meet her when this day finally came. She would have settled for a herald riding to treat with her, shield and sword and bright banners at their side. What she receives instead is a little too long left to wait in a comfortably furnished, wood-panelled room before a hobbit clerk in a green waistcoat and an officious manner bustles out to meet her.
He bows, politely. He unrolls the scroll he is holding. “Galadriel of the Noldor, daughter of the golden house of Finarfin, commander of the Northern Armies of High King Gil-galad,” he reads. And then furrows his brow at her, questioning.
She angles her head in acknowledgement.
He goes back to the scroll, and she can see his lips move as he scans the next lines to himself, the brow even more furrowed, a splutter that turns into a cough that turns into a polite request for pardon. “Right, then.” A cleared throat. “He says is this about the tolls on the trade road or is it about the time he sent werewolves to eat your brother, because if it’s the trade road then he’s busy until Wednesday but if it’s the werewolf thing then he can probably fit you in before lunch if you’re not going to -”
She gets up.
“Wait!” the clerk calls after her, and she spins on a heel, hand on the pommel of her dagger. “He also says to tell the elves not to bring half a cavalry next time.”
“Or what?”
“Or -” Another check of the scroll. “Or the horses’ hooves will churn up the shallot fields again and it’ll be merry hell to replant.” A grimace, an uncomfortable shrug. “He says at least the back paddock, if you must?”
She walks straight past him into the inner office.
Sauron the Abhorred, Gorthaur the Cruel, the most trusted high lieutenant of Morgoth, the terror of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the dark embodiment of evil on the face of Middle-earth, is sitting with his feet up on a desk. He is wearing a bright hobbit waistcoat, tailored for his apparently human size, and no shoes. He seems to have eaten well these past few thousand years. His office is neat and tidy, and well-furnished, and comfortable. “Hello!” he says. “Galadriel, isn’t it? I was wondering when we’d finally meet.”
Gil-galad says, leave it alone.
Elrond says, I’m not saying we should let evil thrive, Galadriel. I’m only saying that if evil currently cares more about import taxes and - neighbour disputes between the Tooks and the Sackville-Bagginses, did you say? - perhaps we could operate a policy of non-hostile containment?
Celeborn says, please just come home, Galadriel.
The long line of hobbits she hauls in front of the High King of the Elves to explain what has happened look at each other, pull faces, shuffle hairy feet on the ground, or simply shrug, unbothered. Yes, they know there’s tales of him being part of some bother with the elves in the past, but he’s really very sensible these days. Yes, they know he’s not from these parts originally, but he’s been around for so many generations now he’s as much of a local as they are, in truth. Yes, they know he’s immortal, and they find it very handy he can remember exactly whose cousin married who ten generations back, and where the borders of someone’s vegetable gardens were originally drawn. Yes, he does appear to have something of a thing regarding wolves, but the wolves never eat any hobbits. Yes, he isn’t exactly one of them, but really all told they think he’s been very good for them - and he’s friendly enough - and really the Shire is so well-organised, there is barely any trouble at all, there’s nothing so unpleasant as war or turmoil or adventures, no, no.
You should see his birthday parties, they say. He is so very generous with his gifts.
The second time she sees him, it’s an arranged meeting in the Prancing Pony. Her suggestion to meet, through gritted teeth, and only because there seems no other way to speak to the hobbits about things that might concern them as a whole, and only because he won’t deal with other elves, it seems, only her. His suggestion to meet there, just outside his lands of the Shire and convenient for the road from Eregion.
He is already waiting for her when she arrives, has a drink ready for her on the table. He does not seem to be armed, and does not object that she, clearly, is.
“I am sorry about Finrod,” he says, before she can decide what to say in greeting. “I know - I know - don’t say it - but come on, you can see why I wouldn’t be looking back on all that mess as one of my greatest successes.”
“I did not come here to discuss that,” she snaps. “I am here only because Mithrandir asked me to be, because there are matters that concern your periandi -”
“Hobbits. They prefer hobbits.”
“Hobbits, then.” And she tells him of the other one of the Istari, the one driven out of his fortress near the Isen by the armies of the Númenorean empire, who is travelling north under the name of Sharkey, who has plans for the Shire and a long-nurtured grudge against its mayor.
“I see,” he says, his casual, affable manner replaced by the focus that must once have commanded armies. “I see.”
And while he remains her loathed enemy, she grants him a few hours of time to discuss intelligence and tactics and plans, because after all neither of them wants anything terrible to befall the peace and order of the Shire.
The third time they meet, he says it’s to thank her. Again, in the Prancing Pony; again, he’s waiting when she arrives. And thank her he does. He didn’t need to borrow an army in the end (“but I’m grateful for the offer - the offer you were going to make, I mean. Yes you were, Galadriel, don’t be coy”), but it’s through her work that his hobbits remain safe and entirely ignorant of Saruman’s plans for them.
“I refuse to believe this is the limits of your ambition,” she says. “Ruling hobbits.”
“And what’s wrong with hobbits? I like hobbits. Hobbits are underestimated. As is the importance of local government, by the way. No point ruling vast empires when you don’t know who’s son’s neighbour’s sweetheart cheated a contract for repairing the bridges. You elves, you see, you don’t -”
“Stop it,” she says. He does.
“Tar-Mairon,” she says. “You pretend this is all you want, and you call yourself Tar-Mairon? King Admirable, Master of Excellence?”
“In my defence, I was somewhat put on the spot when asked for my name. And then, you know, everyone knows you, you’ve signed things, it’s hard to change…” He leans back in his chair, waves at a friendly passing trader, signals over more drinks for them both from the barman. “Besides,” he says more quietly, “if Morgoth ever comes back, I am very confident he won’t be looking for me here.”
“But all these hundreds of years - you have no armies, you have no - what have you been doing?”
“Enjoying it,” he says. “Enjoying it all. I have a good home. I have a very comfortable feather bed. I have a big fire. Good food. I fix things, I have a lot of discussions about grazing rights and land boundaries. Nobody sends armies after me. Nobody tries to tear down my fortresses. I don’t even have fortresses. I have a study. The sun comes in through the window first thing in the morning and I like to sit and read. They have a lot of parties. Music, dancing. It’s nice.”
She is not quite sure what to say about this. Then the barman brings their drinks, and he changes the subject, and she doesn’t have to say anything at all.
(“I meant it, about Finrod,” he says later. “All of that really. But Finrod especially. I had nothing in particular against Finrod. Everybody loved Finrod. I wish it had been one of Fëanor’s appalling children if it had to be any of your lot.”
She just about stops herself from nodding. He pretends not to have noticed.)
The fourth time they meet, he says: our usual table?
She stops counting, after a while. They fall into a routine. It’s easy enough - she travels to Lindon around the same time every season, he has a regular schedule of meetings that are best held in Bree, they’d be in the same place anyway.
They agree that of course they’re enemies, of course if things ever begin again they’ll fight each other’s armies without hesitation, of course he’s a demon servant of Morgoth and she’s a nightmare vengeful elf, of course of course, but in the meantime… well, it does turn out they have a lot in common. They were in a lot of the same places, after all. They fought in a lot of the same battles, albeit on different sides. They’re old, in a world full of younger ones who don’t remember half of this, and sometimes an opponent who was there is - and this is his words, his words, she doesn’t agree, she just says nothing and accepts the drink he hands her - better company than an ally who wasn’t, when you want to talk about the old days.
They both say ‘the old days’, now.
"How's your family?" he says, on one autumn evening when they both arrive late and end up sat on the floor by the window for lack of seats.
"Well, thank you."
“Does your husband know you’re here?”
“You had better not be suggesting -”
“Oh no. No no. Of course not.”
“- that I would ever -”
“Absolutely not.”
She’s brought wine from Fornost, this time. He’s ordered in beer from all the way down in the White Mountains. They swap, a well-practised tradition by now, and toast each other.
“It’s not like it could happen anyway,” he says. “An elf and a Maia, that’s never been done. Well, that once. But it was a disaster. Well, not for them. But for me it was. I know we’ve agreed Lúthien is on the list of things we don’t talk about here, but I do think if we’re going to even mention the very possibility of -”
“We are not.”
He all but giggles.
It’s midsummer, late into the day, humans and hobbits and elves all spilling out from the rooms of the inn itself into the courtyard outside, little happy groups gathered under the cloudless sky. He’s sprawled out next to her staring up at the stars.
“Are you staying in Bree, this time?” she says. “Or are you travelling?”
It’s small talk, really, they don’t even bother with it half the time, but this particular time he looks downright sheepish. “Just Bree.”
“Are you here to meet anyone?”
“Yes?”
“Are you here to meet anyone but me?”
“Don’t start.”
“You -”
“If you must know, I’m here because it’s my birthday.” He held up one finger at the response that didn’t get all the way past her lips. “Because it’s my birthday according to the day I gave the hobbits when they asked, because they really care about birthdays and I had to think of something, all right? And I’ve already given everyone else their presents - that’s how it works for hobbits - but then I thought, we’ve been coming here many years now and I’ve never given Galadriel anything.”
She stares at him, baffled.
“And then,” he goes on, “I realised that I have, actually! That dagger you carry. I know it was Finrod’s, I recognise it. And it’s a Valinor blade, yes? Made in Aulë’s own workshops? And I don’t know if you know who was making blades like that for Aulë at the time that was made -”
“Are you telling me that the blade I have been carrying for centuries for the sole purpose of killing you, is your own work?”
He grins.
She holds the blade in her hands. It’s perfectly weighted, perfectly crafted. “Are you asking for it back?”
“No, no. It’s a gift. It’s precious to you. It’s my birthday present. You keep it. Just in case, yes? You never know when you might need to kill me.”
She does keep it. There never does come a time when she needs to kill him.
Things pass slowly in the Shire. Harvests come and go, children are born, sweethearts marry, beloved great-grandparents die. Houses are built, much the same as the old houses. Fields are ploughed, and left fallow, and ploughed again. And in the lands around them kingdoms rise and fall, empires surge and retreat, kings face victory and defeat, an ever-changing tapestry of power. Nobody pays much attention to Hobbits. Nobody except one Maia, and one elf, sat at a table by the fire in the Prancing Pony.
Somewhere far away, the Valar must have noticed by now. Somewhere far away, the Valar must have decided to let them both be.