DISCLAIMER: Sorry, own nothing, so don't sue!
SUMMARY: Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins and the One Ring. Valar help us all... Oddly enough, NOT a parody. Parma Award Winner: Best Plot
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I know that he's in here somewhere - probably hiding in that dusty old study of his, pouring over maps of faraway lands. A most un-Hobbitlike pastime, in my opinion. Honestly, who does that Bilbo Baggins think he is? If it wasn't for that little orphan he adopted - Frodo - I'd have been left standing affronted on the doorstep.
Speaking of the boy, where in the name of the Shire is he? Doesn't he know how rude it is to leave a guest waiting? Probably not, seeing as he has Brandybuck blood, and some Took in him as well. A bad combination, if you ask me. Nothing good will come of it, you mark my words.
Hello - what's this? I slip out of the armchair, cross the floor, and bend down to examine the glint of gold in the rug.
Oh, it's nothing. 'Tis only a ring, covered in grubby fingerprints. I shake my head. My Otho would never leave anything lying on our carpet, especially not in this shameful condition. Whipping a handkerchief out of a pocket in my skirts, I pick up the wretched thing, and begin to polish away the dirt.
Quite a plain thing - I wonder if Bilbo acquired it one of his travels? But why should I care about the random belongings of some crazed relative of my husband? Now those spoons were an entirely different matter. A spot of revenge, if you will, for his most inopportune return. And we've had plenty of use out of them too, although I wouldn't mind the whole set.
Otho and I had only turned up at the auction because of our interest in Bag End. We'd only been there once or twice, and even then, had seen little of the house.
From the moment, I stepped into the Hallway that morning, I knew that I wanted this to be my home. Immediately, plans began to form in my mind - I'd have afternoon tea out on the green every day, and there'd be plenty of space to hang the portraits of my parents on the walls. Otho never allowed to hang them up in our house, saying there wasn't enough room. Once we were living in Bag End, he couldn't use that excuse any more.
Teeth clenched, my eyes devour the room. This should be my living room, I think bitterly. Absently, I drop the ring into my outstretched palm, while the finger of my other hand traces the outer rim of the metal slowly, cautiously. It feels wonderfully cool against the heat of my flesh.
I can hear that boy in the kitchen, muttering to himself. If he thinks keeping out of my way will make me disappear, then the lad is sorely mistaken. I'm not leaving bag End until I've spoken to that crackpot Bilbo. He can't hide in that study of his forever...
"Aunt Lobelia?" A dark head peers tentatively into the lounge. I quickly clench my fist to hide the ring, trying my best to look impatient. "Would you like some sugar with your tea?"
I purse my lips. "No thank you." The words have barely left my mouth when the little orphan slips back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. The cheek!
I uncurl my hand, and look at the ring once more. I'm sure Bilbo won't miss the thing. After all, if was important, he wouldn't have left it lying on the floor, now would it? Of course not! Although that batty old Baggins is quite strange; a few apples short of an orchard, as my Otho would say.
That's all Otho ever does - talk, I mean. All mouth and no muscle. Never acts, only reacts with snide comments and rude asides. If the man had got off his fat backside years ago, we wouldn't be in this position now; we'd be living at Bag End. It's all my weak-willed husband's fault. Well, I don't need his help - or hindrance, for that matter - anymore.
I can hear that boy coming again, so I drop the ring into my pocket, once finger still caressing it lovingly.
"Here you go, Aunt Lobelia," Frodo says with feigned politeness, handing me a steaming cup of tea. Not a usual guest cup, I note with a raised brow; 'tis likely the same cup he and that crazed uncle of his take their tea in every day. I know it is - the rim is stained with use and age. Talk about being ill-mannered indeed! I'd be perfectly justified if I slapped that impertinent inbred!
"Thank you," I say coldly, sipping at my drink. Well, if that's how he expects to treat me, then I won't make the experience any easier for him. I lower the mug to the table. "Frodo, dear. Could you please do me a favour?" Inwardly, I cringe at the motherly tone I have adopted, but seeing the boy squirm is well worth it. He can't throw an immediate 'no' at me, but he fears what I will ask of him.
"I'll... I'll help if I can, Aunt Lobelia," he finally answers, his eyes flickering nervously.
As best I can, I smile softly, my outward expression hiding my inner seething. "I've changed my mind - could I please have some sugar in my tea?"
He snatches the cup from my hand and darts into the sanctuary of the kitchen. I can hear him sigh his relief. But not for long... Oh, not for long...
That accursed Brandybuck child will suffer. If I had my way, that poor little orphan would soon be reunited with his parents.... Sooner than he thinks. And then, who would be Bilbo's heir? Who will be there to oppose my claim to Bag End when the crazed old fool finally dies? I slip out of the lounge, grinning inwardly at the thought, one hand still clutching the ring.
Suddenly, those silver spoons don't seem so special, in comparison to this golden ring. Fist clenched, I call the boy, and prepare to teach him a lesson in manners.