A shriek rang out over the Undying Lands.
Not quite the entirety of the Undying Lands, but rather a small bit of it. A very small bit. A small bit that contained a cozy smial with a window that overlooked a garden. In the garden, a small figure straightened abruptly at the shriek, letting a handful of soil drop through his fingers. Inside the window (or, rather, the smial where the window was set), a second small figure thumped his forehead against a desk covered in parchment. Hearing the thump, the first figure (who happened to be a hobbit, and a gardener of great renown), peered inside the open window.
"Mr. Frodo? Is somethin' wrong?"
Frodo paused briefly in smacking his forehead against the parchment. "Oh, Sam," he groaned. "I don't think I can take another minute of it."
Sam sighed and went to wash his hands. He knew what Frodo meant, and it was no business to bandy about through a window.
Sam's arrival in Valinor some years earlier had been cause for great celebration. Frodo was overjoyed to see his friend again, but he also explained to Sam that not much really happened in the Undying Lands. There was little by way of entertainment when everybody was twice your height and nobody had more than a vague idea of how to play whist. After several decades of quiet, pastoral existence, without so much as a bothersome relative to disturb the peace, Sam found himself agreeing.
After quite some time, there was some upheaval in the hobbits' lives. By some boon Sam was never quite able to figure out, the entire Fellowship was given a place in Valinor, complete with immortality, eternal youth, and a well-stocked larder. Even Boromir was present, much to his surprise. (Everyone else was downright flabbergasted. Boromir had to walk into a wall twice to prove to Pippin he wasn't a ghost.) For a time, the Fellowship was content merely spending time together, enjoying their friendship in a peace denied them when they first met. (Gandalf muttered for a time about pitiful contrivances and pathetic deus ex machinas, but no one paid him much heed. As Boromir so eloquently put it, "I'm not dead. I kind of like that.")
But eventually, everyone agreed they needed to find some sort of hobby. Gimli took Merry and Pippin under his wing, and the three of them built a highly successful forge. Jewelry-making (no malice, hatred, or world domination, guaranteed!) proved a lucrative enterprise and the elves willing customers. (Legolas had stoutly denied the elves were all quite so vain, but the argument lost quite a bit of credibility when two elves began tussling over a silver tiara in the background.) A Pippin Original alone was worth two kegs of dark ale and five backrubs. (Backrubs were actually a viable currency in the Undying Lands; centuries of immortality had given the elves unbelievable muscle tension, as well as truly astounding methods of massage.)
Aragorn and Boromir invented their own amusement. The Game (neither of them was very inventive with titles) involved weeks of tramping through the woods, a number of yellow flags, four silver spoons, a leather ball, iambic pentameter, and a badger. What the actual rules of The Game were, only they knew for sure. Attempts to involve the others inevitably failed, but they seemed to enjoy themselves, and the others left them to it. (Legolas had been persuaded to join The Game once, but had only lasted a day. When asked about the experience, he burst into tears, and only after several cups of Sam's strong tea was he able to reply, "Don't. Just don't.")
Legolas, having had quite a bit longer to get used to the idea, was well adjusted with his immortality. His one foray into self-diversion was to help Sam in his efforts to fend off boredom. Sam had turned immediately to what he knew (caring for Frodo, gardening, and cooking, in that order), and Legolas often brought him new plants to try out in his burgeoning garden. In return, Sam would bake, much to Legolas's delight. (Lembas bread was excellent for a march, he confided in Sam, but a triple berry tart with fresh sweet cream lay much easier on the tongue. Sam privately wondered if his baking would be the cause of the first fat elf in history, but continued baking anyway.)
Frodo alone found difficulty in choosing a hobby. Books he had in abundance, but he soon grew impatient with the long-winded and inevitably tragic tales of the elves. He longed for something to Ido/I. Eventually, Gandalf appeared with a solution.
(No one was quite sure how Gandalf spent his days, but he seemed happy enough. Pippin had heard rumors of strip poker, and after that, everyone was a little afraid to ask.)
"Look, Sam," Frodo had said, sorting through the parchments Gandalf had brought. "We are in tales! Lots of them! And I'm going to read them, and find the mistakes, and fix them if I can."
That had been the beginning of the trouble.
Freshly washed, Sam entered the study and settled on a low chaise near Frodo's desk.
"What is it this time?" he asked. "Is it one of them Mary-Sues again?"
Frodo had stopped beating his face against the desk, his forehead becoming rather sore, and he turned to gaze mournfully at Sam.
"Oh, Sam, it's much worse than that."
Sam snorted. "I can't see how that is, Mr. Frodo. Them Mary-Sues are somethin' awful. There weren't no lasses on Mount Doom, unless there's somethin' none of us knew about old Gollum, and I'm right tired of hearing how some flouncing skirt did the work as we done ourselves."
He reached for the parchment and Frodo grasped his wrist, panicked.
"Don't, Sam! It's terrible, and I don't want you to…"
"There, there," Sam soothed, easily shaking off Frodo's grip and taking the parchment. The ink was a shocking shade of pink, and small hearts mingled with the runes. With barely a glance at Frodo (who moaned melodramatically), he began to read.
"Oh," he said at last. "Oh."
"I told you," Frodo whispered.
A loud rap at the door halted further conversation. Frodo rose to answer it, and Sam gingerly replaced the parchment on the desk before following. He found Frodo in the kitchen, being pushed into a chair and offered a tumbler of brandy by Merry and Pippin.
"Drink that," Merry ordered. "I can't think what's gotten… Hullo, Sam."
"Not you as well!" Pippin cried, looking up. "Pour us another, Merry, Sam's as pale as Frodo. What's happened, you two?"
"Slash," Frodo mumbled. "It's called slash."
Merry and Pippin exchanged blank looks. Frodo buried his head in his arms, and Sam tossed back his brandy with one smooth motion.
"It's them stories," he supplied. "They've taken a turn for the worse."
"Not the Mary-Sues again," Pippin groaned. "The spelling…"
"Worse," Frodo said emphatically, his voice muffled by his arms.
"Does it get worse?" Merry asked.
"Seems some people think that Mr. Frodo and I… Well, that we Ienjoy/I each other's company," Sam said, flushing a little.
"Well, of course you do," Merry said kindly. "Everyone knows the two of you are the best of friends."
"The best of friends don't usually bugger each other," Sam muttered. The sentence had the most unusual effect of rendering both Merry and Pippin speechless at the same time. The four hobbits sat in silence, Frodo's face completely hidden, Sam staring intently into his empty tumbler, and Merry and Pippin staring, wide-eyed, at them both.
"Perhaps," Merry ventured at last, "perhaps you've read it wrong, Frodo. Mistranslated or something."
Frodo's head snapped up, blue eyes blazing. "Merry, it's possible I could have mistranslated a word or two. I might have even mistranslated 'bugger'. But I really don't think I misinterpreted four pages of unresolved sexual tension, two and a half pages of angst-ridden wanking, five pages of not-so-subtle seduction, and nine pages of rampant debauchery in every corner of Bag End!"
"Nine pages?" Pippin said weakly. Merry gaped. Sam shook himself and stood, half out of sheer habit, to put the kettle on.
"Well, you're supposed to keep the stories accurate, aren't you?" Pippin demanded. "You'll just have to…to…burn them all!"
"I can't," Frodo said morosely. "Don't you remember the Great Mary-Sue Incident?"
The four hobbits soberly looked down at the table. The Great Mary-Sue Incident had been more excitement than anyone had really needed. Frodo, in a fit of editorial rage, had thrown several manuscripts into his fireplace. Fourteen elves had disappeared almost instantaneously. (Elrond had spoken darkly of closets and shrines and whipped cream in unspeakable places. None dared ask how he knew such things; in fact, few heard the full tale, the great majority running away with their hands over their ears in utter horror.) Gandalf had managed to reverse the process, thanks to a solitary three days bent over Frodo's fireplace, but the event had rattled everyone, the elves in particular. (Two of those to return still fainted dead away when faced with the smallest dollop of whipped cream.)
"The worst part is, it's not just Sam and I," Frodo continued. "There are all sorts of pairings."
"What do you mean?" Pippin asked. Frodo frowned at him.
"Well, on the hobbit end of things…" he began, but Merry interrupted.
"Hobbit end of things? Pippin and I were the only other hobbits on the quest."
"Exactly."
Merry and Pippin stared at each other, realization dawning at the exact same moment.
"Argh!" they shouted in one voice, and toppled off the low bench.
"But… We're cousins!" Pippin announced from the floor.
"And when has that stopped anyone in the Shire?" Sam interjected, filling the teapot.
"Sam makes a point," Merry remarked. "Those Bracegirdles…"
"Merry!" Pippin exclaimed. "You're rather missing the point! We've been accused of clandestine romantic involvement! Bugger the Bracegirdles!"
"I have," Merry mused. "Well, one of them. Once."
Sam nearly spilled the tea, and Pippin flailed incoherently on the floor.
"I beg your pardon?" Frodo sputtered. Merry rolled his eyes.
"It was a tweener lark, and we were both so drunk, I'm surprised I remember it happened at all. But it's never happened with Pippin, and I can't imagine you snogging Sam, either."
"You buggered a Bracegirdle," Sam said, flopping into a chair. "That's an eye-opener, and no mistake."