Finding Mordor
By Squishy

Yeah, so this is a Lord of the Rings fiction! Woot! But, unfortunately, LotR isn't mine. However, if it WERE mine, you could rest assured that The Hobbit would be made into a Peter Jackson film. But Chris Tolkien is just a prick and should die and leave the rights to someone who actually deserves them (.i.e. ME ) instead of disowning his children -- ugh, the slimy git.

Year 2968

"Wow… " said a middle-aged hobbit. He was very short, which was quite normal for his kind, but his extra shortness gave him extra pride. He had large, hairy feet and the ears jutting out from the mess of dark, curly hair on his head sloped to a fine point. He was a hobbit – a hobbit named Drogo Baggins.

"Mm.." replied his mostly uninterested counterpart: his wife, Primula. She was only an inch taller than Drogo and had long sandy-brown hair that cascaded down her back into soft curls.

"Wow," he breathed.

"Mmmhmm.." She really didn't care. The two hobbits stood together outside their hobbit hole. Their home. There was a large (In comparison to their tiny stature, of course. If one of our human size stood next to it, one would have to crouch down low to enter.) circular green door cutting into the side of a hill, leading into a very large and cavernous, but very pleasant and humble abode. The hobbit hole was right on the river bank, with a tiny dock for their tiny boat not three feet from the door. The Branda-nîn River, sometimes called the Baranduin or Brandywine River, spread across before them, its vast golden-brown waters glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

"Wow," he sighed again.

"Yes, Drogo, I see," Primula cut him off, aggravated and rolling her eyes. "It's … beautiful."

"So, Primula," he said slyly. "When you said you wanted a view of the Branda-nîn, you didn't think you'd get the WHOLE river, did you?!" He walked up and sat on the edge of the dock, his toes just barely submerged into the cool water. He took a big breath and sighed. "Oh, yeah, a hobbit can breathe out here. Barely any neighbors around, too! So did your hobbit deliver, or did he deliver?"

"My hobbit delivered." She replied, automatically, as she sat down and joined him.

"Because – "

"Because a lot of other hobbits had their eyes on this place!"

"You better believe they did. Every single one of them." He then continued, sounding less assured, "… So you do like it, don't you?"

"No no no! I do, I reeally do like it." She said. "But, Drogo, I know that the riverside is desirable with its seclusion, all the fresh fish you want, the amazing view and all that… but do we really need all this SPACE?"

"Primula, this is our son we're talking about!" he exclaimed. "I want only the best for our Frodo!"

Primula laughed. "Shh, you'll wake the baby."

They got up and looked at the riverbank, where a darling baby boy slept in a cradle, a soft breeze blowing the few wisps of hair he had on his pale head. He fidgeted, clenching his tiny fist.

"Aw look, he's dreaming…"

Year 2980 (12 years later)

"Frodo, sweetie," called Primula from outside. "Your dad is taking me on the river on his new boat to try it out. We'll be back before dinner, and DON'T get into any trouble!"

"Yes, Mum. Have fun!" he replied before going back to his book. He was much more interested in reading than he was in getting into trouble. He was the very image of his father: the pointed ears and large feet common to all hobbits, a mess of curly dark-brown hair, bright, shining eyes, and when he smiled, his cheeks flushed to an innocent shade of pink. He was twelve years old, and, quite unusual to most all hobbits, he loved to read and to imagine about far off places and about going on grand adventures.

He read and read and read some more, until his eyes began to feel sore. He didn't even notice that neither Primula or Drogo came home.

The next day, after sleeping in quite late, he heard a familiar tune being carried by the wind. He leapt up from his luncheon to see his favorite relative – Bilbo Baggins, strutting down the path to his home, whistling.

"Uncle Bilbo!" he cried, embracing him. Although they were both first and second cousins, once removed either way, to each other, their relationship was more that of uncle and nephew than of cousins. "Have you gone on any new adventures?! I want to hear all about it!"

His elder clasped his shoulder and laughed heartily as he came inside. "No, no, my lad," he said. "Not since the Dragon! I would like to return one day… However, I've simply come to visit your dad – where is he? I need to speak to him."

A wave of realization seemed to crash down on young Frodo. His eyes widened with fear. "T-they went out boating y-yesterday noon. I've only just noticed they – they never – "

He ran out of the hole and began to bolt up the riverside, looking, looking for something. Why, oh why didn't he say "Be safe!" of "I love you!" before they left? Why did he care more about the book he was reading than seeing his parents off? He KNEW that it was incredibly unsafe down-river, that the rapids were too dangerous – Mum had scolded him many times for going too close to the water- it was too deep and too powerful a current to fight --- He couldn't even bear to think about it any more. He just ran and searched.

Then he began to see traces... He saw scraps of wood painted red float along, some having found its way onto the sandy beach. And all at once his heart leapt into his throat and his stomach plummeted to a place far, far below where it ought to be.

When Bilbo caught up with him, Frodo was rocking back and forth, Primula's head resting on his knees, his small hand pressed against her soaked, tangled curls.

"Oh goodness, me" whispered Bilbo in shock.

Drogo lay, bloodied and still, next to her, and Bilbo could see that Frodo had dragged him over from a long ways off. It appeared that the boat had been tossed and smashed in the rapids, and that Drogo had been flung out of it to be beaten and battered by the rocks himself. Primula had drowned in the deep waters and was washed ashore

Tears streamed down Frodo's face as he rocked back and forth. He was drowning in guilt and denial and shock. Bilbo, unaware of what else to do, simply held Frodo in his arms. "There, there," he said. "Uncle Bilbo's got you. And I will never let anything happen to you, Frodo..."

A/N; Meh. Seems like a good spot to stop, ne? Tell me what you're thinking!

Edit (7.31.07): I changed some italics and whatnot. I took the advice of an intelligent reviewer. And I do so humbly and gratefully. Woot! So that should encourage YOU to review. Give me thoughts, criticisms, whatever. But be kind - being mean is a total waste of time, as I will automatically disregard everything you say. YAY!