Mister Frodo's sleepin' - exhausted - deathlike. You glitter there against his threadbare chest, taunting, your voice the slithering of a snake down my back.
I try to ignore you, digging nails into my palms until they bleed.
Bag End. I'll give it to you for your own.
No! But my mind sees the gardens, the flowers. Hunger burns in my heart.
Master of Bag End.
I touch you, lightest fingertips fondling while the vision caresses my mind.
In that moment of weakness, doom was sealed. For now, as his ship sails west, I can see you delivered what was promised.