Hobbit of Constant Sorrow
By Singe (singeaddams @ hotmail.com)
Frodo has wealth. He has a remarkable constitution, in fact, he hasn't aged in years. He has the grandest home for miles. He has fine food, fine wine and uproarious and true friends to help him share it all. He has talent with a pen and a fine singing voice. He has beauty, charm, wit and brains and he works hard to do good and to be good. He even has a magical ring, of all the extravagant things, that makes him invisible when he wants to escape his unwanted visitors and helps him play baffling pranks on the unsuspecting.
He has a burning hot bitterness that's eating him up from the inside out because having all these wonderful things means less than nothing if he can't have what he wants. What does he want? Those two. He wants to give himself over to that one's strong, caressing hands and breathe in light and warmth and the perfume of the blooming garden. He wants to slip his arm around the other's slim waist and dance down the hall to his bed in a whirl of laughter and desire and long, streaming hair just the way they dance together. He wants them.
He can't have them. What would they want with him when they have each other?
So he hits himself in the head and laughs at his folly. And when he's feeling truly sorry for himself he puts his talents to use and writes and sings sad, disappointed songs. Sometimes he even sings his creations to them and they praise his originality. He smiles. Sometimes he overhears them singing his tunes and is pleased that they've reworked his grand, useless words into something simpler but much more powerful and pleasing to them. Oh, he loves them so much. They are his greatest joy. And his constant sorrow.
"Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger,
a face you'll never see no more.
But there is one promise that is given.
I'll meet you on that Golden Shore."
~
Pretty Good Year