Disclaimer: I most certainly don't own these characters and haven't been paid for writing stuff like this.
Author's Note: I don't speak any Elvish except "Havo dad, Legolas," so if "Caerolas" actually means "mother monkey butt" in Quenya or something, then I apologize. It wasn't intentional.
* * *
It was the most beautiful Elven artwork Frodo had ever seen. He turned the pages of the volume in the bookseller's stall, entranced by the skill in the pictures, the grace of the calligraphy. His heart beat quickly; he knew the large book must be incredibly rare and quite old, and was worth far more than the seller was asking. True, the fact that some previous owner long ago had glued pink satin ribbon and tea-colored lace to the edges of the front cover would diminish its value a little bit, as would the looping handwriting on the flyleaf, which seemed to consist mostly of the name "Mariella" joined with the names of legendary heroes inside flower-shaped bubbles. But it was still a treasure, the likes of which he never expected to see in the Hobbiton marketplace.
Silently blessing the mysterious paths that had delivered this book into his unworthy hands, Frodo counted out the requested coins for the seller.
The fellow was a middle-aged hobbit with a distracted look in his eyes. "Thank you, good sir," the seller gushed. "You're too kind, sir." He wrapped up the book in a length of snow-white cotton and offered it up to Frodo.
"Not at all, friend. The pleasure is mine," Frodo responded, and bore away his new darling with a thrill of euphoria. He restrained himself from unwrapping it for most of the walk home, but as he strode up the path toward Bag End, he couldn't resist any longer. He pulled away a corner of the white cloth and touched the faded pink ribbon with one fingertip, reverentially. Then he lifted the book to his lips and kissed it. "We shall never part, my sweet," he promised, and grinned from ear to ear.
* * *
Things got even better when Frodo dug into his other Elvish books at home. It was as he suspected: the artist's name, stylized in a cryptic rune in the corner of each drawing, was the mark of the famed Caerolas. Frodo found some brief accounts, buried in the vast Elven histories, of that celebrated Mirkwood Elf, whose illustrations were the most desired among the scribes of seven centuries ago. Caerolas had been killed in battle at the young age of 189, so not only was it rare to find surviving instances of his artwork (apparently most of it was either in Rivendell or Valinor now), but he was considered something of a child genius among the Elf-kind. And Frodo had a huge, well-preserved book of legends right here, illustrated by Caerolas's very hand! He could have danced with joy. As it was, he leaped up from his desk and looked out his window to see if Sam was here yet. It was hard to find people who could appreciate this, since Bilbo was now gone and Gandalf hardly ever came to visit.
There came Sam now, pushing a wheelbarrow full of grass clippings. "Sam!" Frodo hollered, startling Sam into dropping the shears. "Come in here! Come, come!"
"Yes, sir; right away, sir." Wiping his hands on his green-smeared shirtfront, Sam came running, entering the smial through the kitchen and arriving out of breath in Frodo's study. "What's wrong, sir? Spider? Mouse?"
"What? No, you silly ass. Look what I've just bought." Frodo darted across the room to pull on Sam's elbow, and promptly sneezed three times when he caught wind of Sam's clothes. "Goodness, Sam," he said, his nose stuffing up. "You positively reek of lawn."
"Begging your pardon; I was just..."
"No, it's all right. Look!" He led Sam to the desk where the book lay open, and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose as Sam bent to examine the drawings.
"Ain't those something!" Sam murmured. "That may be the finest art I ever saw. Course, I daren't get too close. Grass stains on them would be a pity indeed."
"No worse a pity than a girl's lovestruck doodlings," Frodo laughed, and laid a hand on Sam's back to show that he didn't mind touching the garden dirt himself, hay fever or not.
"A girl's what?" Sam asked, puzzled.
"Have a look. It's quite funny." Frodo flipped back to the flyleaf, where the clouds and flowers and name-pairings sprawled across the paper, in what appeared to be lavender-colored ink - or possibly black, faded with age. "My guess is that some girl named Mariella was in possession of this book, ages ago. Seems she took a fancy to several of the fellows in the legends."
"Well, when they're drawn as nice as this, who could blame her?" Sam said, smiling.
"That's the best of it." Frodo leaned on the desk, his head close to Sam's as he turned pages to show a fine full-color illustration of an Elven wedding. He pointed to the rune in the bottom corner. "The artist, who leaves this mark, is none other than Caerolas of Mirkwood. He's been dead for centuries, and his work is considered absolutely priceless. And I found it for a few silver pennies at Hobbiton!"
Sam turned amazed, delighted hazel eyes to Frodo. "Did you! Ah, see, I knew you were part Elvish like they say. You must have a touch of real magic, to find such a thing."
"Oh, just luck, I imagine. But it's all mine now." Frodo turned aside to push the handkerchief back into his pocket. He glanced at Sam, who was tilting his head in examination of the herbs and flowers in the drawing. "I hope you'll come up after supper, and look at it with me," Frodo added shyly. Sam's eyes, curious and surprised, lifted to him. "I mean," Frodo rushed on, "you're the only one around here who could really understand its value."
Sam seemed to grow taller with the compliment, and looked down at the book again, obviously pleased. "I'm sure I don't know half as much about it as you. But I'd quite like to see more of it. When I'm cleaner, as it were."
Sam therefore went home and changed into clean clothes for supper. Upon returning, he dined at Bag End with Frodo, and afterward pulled up an extra chair to Frodo's desk and sat beside him to look at the splendor of Caerolas's inks. In the light of the surrounding lamps and candles, Frodo read aloud some of the stories, and Sam read some aloud too, apologizing whenever he stumbled over the foreign Elvish sounds. Frodo was not bothered in the least. He was proud of his young friend for being able to read Elvish at all, and told him so, and thumped him happily on the back more than once. They were sipping wine, it was a fine autumn evening, and they had an original book of Caerolas artwork: how could life be better?
Sam grew tired at about ten o'clock, and had to return home. He got up much earlier than Frodo, after all. Frodo assured him he understood, and invited him back for the next evening. Sam accepted. After seeing Sam off at the door, and taking a moment to look up at the stars in the crisp night sky, Frodo wheeled round and went back into his study to spend a little longer with the book. He sat down in his chair, and touched the open page gently.
"My lovely treasure," he sighed.
It came as a great shock when someone's icy-cold hand caressed his cheek.
He yelled, scrambled out of his chair, fell to the floor, and sat there breathing in a panic, staring at the apparition that regarded him from beside the desk.
She was transparent, seemingly. And glowed with a blue tint. She was very tall, too: her head touched the rafters of the room; or, rather, it merged with the rafters of the room. She looked like a Big Person, a young woman, but in terrible condition. Her waist-length hair was matted and tangled and appeared to be wet, her dress was crumpled and mud-streaked, and her face and arms were bruised and bloodstained.
Frodo heard a wheezing sound like a puppy whimpering. He realized it was coming from his own throat.
"Who are you?" he demanded, in a squeak.
"Goodness," she said. "I seem to have startled you."
"Are you a g...a gh..."
"A ghost? Yes, alas." She turned aside, and reached toward the book. Somehow her finger made contact with the page, and she began leafing through it. "Ah, it feels good to be awake again! The last owner was all right while he was young, I suppose, but he became wholly uninteresting after that. I gave up and went back to sleep. I'm so glad *you* bought it." She sent him a hideous smile which, he supposed, was meant to be coquettish.
"Bought...the book? You followed the book here?" he said.
"Of course. I'm Mariella." She took hold of her tattered skirt and curtsied for him.
Frodo decided it would be courteous to get up off the floor, even if his guest was dead. He got to his feet and bowed a little, still trembling. "Frodo Baggins. I...I beg your pardon, but I've never met a ghost before. I'm a little frightened, to be honest."
"Well, you should be," she said. "I'm twice your size." Suddenly she rushed close to him, bending to look in his face, and pushing her clammy hand across his hair and down his neck.
Frodo cried out in terror, stumbling backward and hitting the edge of the desk.
"Oh, but you're such a pretty thing!" she said. "I could eat you up!"
"No! No! Please stop!" He wriggled away, darting for the corridor, fending her off with one arm, but she moved with an eerie speed, and the next thing he knew, she had him trapped in the corner.
With a quick reach she slammed the door shut, and loomed over him, still grinning with nightmarish delight. "Ooh, I don't think I've ever had an owner as lovely as you! And you love my book very much, don't you? I can tell. We're going to be together a long time."
"Don't hurt me," gasped Frodo, on his knees. "I beg of you, don't hurt me. I mean you no harm. What is it you want, o terrible spirit?"
She reared back and folded her arms, looking displeased. "Well, first of all, you simply must stop calling me things like 'o terrible spirit.' A girl does not find it the least bit flattering. Honestly, it's no wonder you're a bachelor."
"I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry. Accept my apologies, my lady."
"'Mariella' will do. Though 'my lady' is awfully adorable, I must say." She batted her pallid eyelashes, and twirled a lock of limp hair around her finger, as if she were a damsel at a dance.
"Perhaps if you would tell me, Miss Mariella, who you are and how you came to be here, and how I can be of assistance to you?" Frodo attempted, hoping that this was more diplomatic and would not induce her to start chasing him around the room again.
"Oh, my life is a sad story," she sighed, and paced to the window, trailing her weightless skirts behind her.
Frodo slumped against the wall, and suppressed a groan. This sounded like it would take a while.
"I was born some three hundred years ago, the daughter of a book-trader in Minas Tirith."
"Minas Tirith?" Frodo said, interested in spite of himself. "Oh, how magnificent! I've never been so far away. Why, my uncle Bilbo hasn't even been there, and he's been just about everywhere."
She shot him a glance, and he understood that he was not supposed to talk during this, except maybe to sympathize with her.
"Sorry," he quickly said. "Do go on."
She resumed her former mood with another melancholy sigh, and turned her face to the window. "My young, happy, romantic life was cut tragically short at age nineteen, on a starlit night rather like this one."
Frodo bit his lip, to keep himself from asking if it was an attack by Orcs or what exactly. Surely she was about to tell him.
"I heard that my cousin, a handsome lad of twenty-two, was going to be playing a game of dice with his friends in the Guard, a game which involved removing a piece of clothing for every losing roll. Naturally I had to see such a thing for myself, so I climbed up the latticework outside their tower, to peer in the window."
Frodo tried to assume the proper countenance for this confession, but was unsure which one to settle on. Understanding? Amusement? Disapproval? Outright bewilderment? He also made a mental note to look through any accounts of Minas Tirith he might have lying around, for mention of this unusual and lascivious-sounding dice game. It sounded like it might be of scholarly significance.
"Well," Mariella continued, combing her fingers through her bedraggled hair, "I saw only a small amount of fair man-flesh through the shutter slats, before disaster befell me. For, you see, their window was some hundred feet above the ground."
"Oh, dear," Frodo said.
"Yes. When I lost my footing and fell to the flagstones, I was sure it was the death of me."
"What a very sad death," he said. "Your, er, family must have been very grieved indeed."
"Oh, but I didn't die then," she said.
"You didn't?"
"No. Though I lay bruised and broken at the base of the tower, I still lived!"
"How...um...remarkable..."
"But alas," she mourned, "I had fallen directly into the path of a carriage, pulled by four horses."
Frodo winced. "Oh...that is awful."
"Yes. When they trampled me under their hooves, and I felt the carriage wheels roll over my body, then, indeed, I despaired of ever living to dream of man-flesh again."
"It sounds very painful," he said, hoping he came across as compassionate, though mostly he was just revolted.
"But I was not dead yet!" she exclaimed. "The driver of the carriage heard my cry, and stopped to gather me up beside him."
"How gallant the Men of Gondor are," observed Frodo.
"Yes. He immediately set out for the nearest healer's house, across the bridge. I often wonder if I would have survived," Mariella lamented, "if he had not hit that large stone in the road, which so jolted the carriage and threw me clear out into the river."
"Oh..." Frodo made a serious effort not to laugh. "Yes, I suppose it would be impossible to swim, with such injuries..."
"Oh, but I did swim! And perhaps would have made it, too, if not for the waterfall."
Frodo's self-control collapsed, and he burst into nervous giggles. When Mariella turned a stern and wrathful look on him, he quelled them. "Sorry. Terribly sorry," he said. "I thought perhaps...nothing. Sorry. Er, I do hope your suffering ended shortly after that?"
"Yes, the waterfall at last took my life. Rather, the rocks at the bottom did. With some help from the venomous water-snakes."
"Ah. Indeed, yes. Terrible." Frodo had read, in many naturalists' notes, that one should not go swimming in the rivers of Gondor for precisely that reason. The snakes, that is; not the rocks and the waterfalls, though now that he thought about it, those were good reasons too.
"And so my spirit took residence in this book, the one possession I loved most in all the world," Mariella concluded. "I have been passed from hand to hand, owner to owner, taking what pleasure I could."
"What...pleasure?" Frodo asked, fearfully.
"In any young men of the house, of course." She glided close to him again, and he shrank back till he was pressed to the wall. "They are always such fun to watch. And touch." She captured his face in both icy hands, and nuzzled his nose with her own. It felt like being caressed by a dead fish. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to scream. Then she let him go and stood up straight. "However," she said, flatly, "I can't really feel much anymore, when I do touch them, and they tend to take it about as graciously as you are. So there's seldom any use."
Frodo's whole body drooped with relief. "Oh, good. That is--I feel very sorry for you naturally, but I don't think I could give you what you want, being just an inexperienced bachelor, and merely a hobbit in any case, so really it's just as well--"
"But I'm not done with you," she interrupted. Her voice had become wickedly lively again, and Frodo felt the dread return to his heart. "Why, I shan't waste an opportunity like this! A beautiful lad like you, innocent in the ways of the flesh, just languishing about and waiting for someone to indoctrinate him? Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world!"
"I can't," gasped Frodo. "Really. I'm sure you're a very nice girl and would make someone a--er--lovely teacher, but I couldn't possibly--"
She grabbed an empty pewter mug from his desk and flung it at him. He cried out and covered his head. The mug bounced off the wall, an inch from his ear. "You shall do what I say!" she thundered. "Or every night in your house shall be spent like this, with you dodging your own possessions; do you hear me?" She seized a candlestick next, and flung that. Fortunately there was no candle in it; but the brass smacking against the wall, on the other side of Frodo's head, sounded quite solid and dangerous.
"Please don't," he whimpered. "Please. Surely we can come to some sort of peace...perhaps you'd prefer just to go back to sleep..."
"I am awake and I will have you do my bidding!" she boomed. A handful of sealing-wax stubs fell upon Frodo like hail.
"What do you wish?" he cried. "Please stop! Tell me what you want!"
She smiled, and put down the inkwell she had just taken up. "How kind of you to ask. Well, Frodo--may I call you Frodo?--I wish to get you into the position found on page 36. To start with."
Disturbed, Frodo edged forward until he could reach the book, and leafed back to page 36. Two Elves with long rippling hair were wrapped in a kiss. "You wish me to...kiss someone?" He looked up at Mariella, who hovered beside him.
She looked smug. "Not only that, but I've picked just the person. That sweet little gardener of yours: 'Sam', you called him?"
"Me kiss Sam!" laughed the shocked Frodo. "A lad kissing a lad? But that's not what this picture--oh." He had given it another look, and realized that, actually, it was two male Elves he was looking at. "With the long hair, I didn't see at first..."
"They're so beautiful, they're really almost girls," she sighed. "You have some of that quality yourself. It's perfectly divine...those eyes, those lips...oh, it's a waste not to use them for passion!"
"But why Sam?" moaned Frodo. "You mustn't make him do this. He's too innocent. He would never understand."
"What, don't you fancy him?"
"I do--I mean I don't--that is--no, you're missing the point..."
"The warmth between you tonight while you were looking at my book was darling," she cooed. "I nearly squealed aloud."
"You were here?"
"I was hiding, staying quiet. I didn't dare disturb you. The way you were cuddled together at this desk, it looked like it might turn into a love scene." While Frodo spluttered indignantly, Mariella's face turned severe. "But it didn't, did it? You failed me. I want to see this--" She stabbed a finger at the drawing. "--and I want to see it tomorrow! Do you hear?"
Frodo slid down until he huddled with his nose at desk level. "Why must it be me?" he asked.
"Because you are my owner, and I've become quite smitten with you. Looking upon beautiful males--especially with each other--was always the thing I loved best in life. Some could even say it was my downfall." Her regretful tone became sharp again. "But I shall not have died in vain! I will have my wish, do you understand?"
Frodo groaned, and hid his face in his arms. "I won't ask Sam. I won't," he said, but he sounded vanquished.
"Oh, yes you will. Or I'll insist that you start with the scene on page 87, instead."
"What's on page--never mind. I don't want to know."
"Anyway," she yawned, "if you don't ask him, I will."
Frodo looked up at her in horror. "No!"
"Goodnight, little Frodo. Be ready for me tomorrow, with your sweet young friend." And Mariella evaporated out of sight.
Frodo, quivering, stayed on the floor.
Well, at least now he knew why that book had been so inexpensive. He tried to laugh, but it came out a terrified squeak.
* * *
Author's Note: I don't speak any Elvish except "Havo dad, Legolas," so if "Caerolas" actually means "mother monkey butt" in Quenya or something, then I apologize. It wasn't intentional.
* * *
It was the most beautiful Elven artwork Frodo had ever seen. He turned the pages of the volume in the bookseller's stall, entranced by the skill in the pictures, the grace of the calligraphy. His heart beat quickly; he knew the large book must be incredibly rare and quite old, and was worth far more than the seller was asking. True, the fact that some previous owner long ago had glued pink satin ribbon and tea-colored lace to the edges of the front cover would diminish its value a little bit, as would the looping handwriting on the flyleaf, which seemed to consist mostly of the name "Mariella" joined with the names of legendary heroes inside flower-shaped bubbles. But it was still a treasure, the likes of which he never expected to see in the Hobbiton marketplace.
Silently blessing the mysterious paths that had delivered this book into his unworthy hands, Frodo counted out the requested coins for the seller.
The fellow was a middle-aged hobbit with a distracted look in his eyes. "Thank you, good sir," the seller gushed. "You're too kind, sir." He wrapped up the book in a length of snow-white cotton and offered it up to Frodo.
"Not at all, friend. The pleasure is mine," Frodo responded, and bore away his new darling with a thrill of euphoria. He restrained himself from unwrapping it for most of the walk home, but as he strode up the path toward Bag End, he couldn't resist any longer. He pulled away a corner of the white cloth and touched the faded pink ribbon with one fingertip, reverentially. Then he lifted the book to his lips and kissed it. "We shall never part, my sweet," he promised, and grinned from ear to ear.
* * *
Things got even better when Frodo dug into his other Elvish books at home. It was as he suspected: the artist's name, stylized in a cryptic rune in the corner of each drawing, was the mark of the famed Caerolas. Frodo found some brief accounts, buried in the vast Elven histories, of that celebrated Mirkwood Elf, whose illustrations were the most desired among the scribes of seven centuries ago. Caerolas had been killed in battle at the young age of 189, so not only was it rare to find surviving instances of his artwork (apparently most of it was either in Rivendell or Valinor now), but he was considered something of a child genius among the Elf-kind. And Frodo had a huge, well-preserved book of legends right here, illustrated by Caerolas's very hand! He could have danced with joy. As it was, he leaped up from his desk and looked out his window to see if Sam was here yet. It was hard to find people who could appreciate this, since Bilbo was now gone and Gandalf hardly ever came to visit.
There came Sam now, pushing a wheelbarrow full of grass clippings. "Sam!" Frodo hollered, startling Sam into dropping the shears. "Come in here! Come, come!"
"Yes, sir; right away, sir." Wiping his hands on his green-smeared shirtfront, Sam came running, entering the smial through the kitchen and arriving out of breath in Frodo's study. "What's wrong, sir? Spider? Mouse?"
"What? No, you silly ass. Look what I've just bought." Frodo darted across the room to pull on Sam's elbow, and promptly sneezed three times when he caught wind of Sam's clothes. "Goodness, Sam," he said, his nose stuffing up. "You positively reek of lawn."
"Begging your pardon; I was just..."
"No, it's all right. Look!" He led Sam to the desk where the book lay open, and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose as Sam bent to examine the drawings.
"Ain't those something!" Sam murmured. "That may be the finest art I ever saw. Course, I daren't get too close. Grass stains on them would be a pity indeed."
"No worse a pity than a girl's lovestruck doodlings," Frodo laughed, and laid a hand on Sam's back to show that he didn't mind touching the garden dirt himself, hay fever or not.
"A girl's what?" Sam asked, puzzled.
"Have a look. It's quite funny." Frodo flipped back to the flyleaf, where the clouds and flowers and name-pairings sprawled across the paper, in what appeared to be lavender-colored ink - or possibly black, faded with age. "My guess is that some girl named Mariella was in possession of this book, ages ago. Seems she took a fancy to several of the fellows in the legends."
"Well, when they're drawn as nice as this, who could blame her?" Sam said, smiling.
"That's the best of it." Frodo leaned on the desk, his head close to Sam's as he turned pages to show a fine full-color illustration of an Elven wedding. He pointed to the rune in the bottom corner. "The artist, who leaves this mark, is none other than Caerolas of Mirkwood. He's been dead for centuries, and his work is considered absolutely priceless. And I found it for a few silver pennies at Hobbiton!"
Sam turned amazed, delighted hazel eyes to Frodo. "Did you! Ah, see, I knew you were part Elvish like they say. You must have a touch of real magic, to find such a thing."
"Oh, just luck, I imagine. But it's all mine now." Frodo turned aside to push the handkerchief back into his pocket. He glanced at Sam, who was tilting his head in examination of the herbs and flowers in the drawing. "I hope you'll come up after supper, and look at it with me," Frodo added shyly. Sam's eyes, curious and surprised, lifted to him. "I mean," Frodo rushed on, "you're the only one around here who could really understand its value."
Sam seemed to grow taller with the compliment, and looked down at the book again, obviously pleased. "I'm sure I don't know half as much about it as you. But I'd quite like to see more of it. When I'm cleaner, as it were."
Sam therefore went home and changed into clean clothes for supper. Upon returning, he dined at Bag End with Frodo, and afterward pulled up an extra chair to Frodo's desk and sat beside him to look at the splendor of Caerolas's inks. In the light of the surrounding lamps and candles, Frodo read aloud some of the stories, and Sam read some aloud too, apologizing whenever he stumbled over the foreign Elvish sounds. Frodo was not bothered in the least. He was proud of his young friend for being able to read Elvish at all, and told him so, and thumped him happily on the back more than once. They were sipping wine, it was a fine autumn evening, and they had an original book of Caerolas artwork: how could life be better?
Sam grew tired at about ten o'clock, and had to return home. He got up much earlier than Frodo, after all. Frodo assured him he understood, and invited him back for the next evening. Sam accepted. After seeing Sam off at the door, and taking a moment to look up at the stars in the crisp night sky, Frodo wheeled round and went back into his study to spend a little longer with the book. He sat down in his chair, and touched the open page gently.
"My lovely treasure," he sighed.
It came as a great shock when someone's icy-cold hand caressed his cheek.
He yelled, scrambled out of his chair, fell to the floor, and sat there breathing in a panic, staring at the apparition that regarded him from beside the desk.
She was transparent, seemingly. And glowed with a blue tint. She was very tall, too: her head touched the rafters of the room; or, rather, it merged with the rafters of the room. She looked like a Big Person, a young woman, but in terrible condition. Her waist-length hair was matted and tangled and appeared to be wet, her dress was crumpled and mud-streaked, and her face and arms were bruised and bloodstained.
Frodo heard a wheezing sound like a puppy whimpering. He realized it was coming from his own throat.
"Who are you?" he demanded, in a squeak.
"Goodness," she said. "I seem to have startled you."
"Are you a g...a gh..."
"A ghost? Yes, alas." She turned aside, and reached toward the book. Somehow her finger made contact with the page, and she began leafing through it. "Ah, it feels good to be awake again! The last owner was all right while he was young, I suppose, but he became wholly uninteresting after that. I gave up and went back to sleep. I'm so glad *you* bought it." She sent him a hideous smile which, he supposed, was meant to be coquettish.
"Bought...the book? You followed the book here?" he said.
"Of course. I'm Mariella." She took hold of her tattered skirt and curtsied for him.
Frodo decided it would be courteous to get up off the floor, even if his guest was dead. He got to his feet and bowed a little, still trembling. "Frodo Baggins. I...I beg your pardon, but I've never met a ghost before. I'm a little frightened, to be honest."
"Well, you should be," she said. "I'm twice your size." Suddenly she rushed close to him, bending to look in his face, and pushing her clammy hand across his hair and down his neck.
Frodo cried out in terror, stumbling backward and hitting the edge of the desk.
"Oh, but you're such a pretty thing!" she said. "I could eat you up!"
"No! No! Please stop!" He wriggled away, darting for the corridor, fending her off with one arm, but she moved with an eerie speed, and the next thing he knew, she had him trapped in the corner.
With a quick reach she slammed the door shut, and loomed over him, still grinning with nightmarish delight. "Ooh, I don't think I've ever had an owner as lovely as you! And you love my book very much, don't you? I can tell. We're going to be together a long time."
"Don't hurt me," gasped Frodo, on his knees. "I beg of you, don't hurt me. I mean you no harm. What is it you want, o terrible spirit?"
She reared back and folded her arms, looking displeased. "Well, first of all, you simply must stop calling me things like 'o terrible spirit.' A girl does not find it the least bit flattering. Honestly, it's no wonder you're a bachelor."
"I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry. Accept my apologies, my lady."
"'Mariella' will do. Though 'my lady' is awfully adorable, I must say." She batted her pallid eyelashes, and twirled a lock of limp hair around her finger, as if she were a damsel at a dance.
"Perhaps if you would tell me, Miss Mariella, who you are and how you came to be here, and how I can be of assistance to you?" Frodo attempted, hoping that this was more diplomatic and would not induce her to start chasing him around the room again.
"Oh, my life is a sad story," she sighed, and paced to the window, trailing her weightless skirts behind her.
Frodo slumped against the wall, and suppressed a groan. This sounded like it would take a while.
"I was born some three hundred years ago, the daughter of a book-trader in Minas Tirith."
"Minas Tirith?" Frodo said, interested in spite of himself. "Oh, how magnificent! I've never been so far away. Why, my uncle Bilbo hasn't even been there, and he's been just about everywhere."
She shot him a glance, and he understood that he was not supposed to talk during this, except maybe to sympathize with her.
"Sorry," he quickly said. "Do go on."
She resumed her former mood with another melancholy sigh, and turned her face to the window. "My young, happy, romantic life was cut tragically short at age nineteen, on a starlit night rather like this one."
Frodo bit his lip, to keep himself from asking if it was an attack by Orcs or what exactly. Surely she was about to tell him.
"I heard that my cousin, a handsome lad of twenty-two, was going to be playing a game of dice with his friends in the Guard, a game which involved removing a piece of clothing for every losing roll. Naturally I had to see such a thing for myself, so I climbed up the latticework outside their tower, to peer in the window."
Frodo tried to assume the proper countenance for this confession, but was unsure which one to settle on. Understanding? Amusement? Disapproval? Outright bewilderment? He also made a mental note to look through any accounts of Minas Tirith he might have lying around, for mention of this unusual and lascivious-sounding dice game. It sounded like it might be of scholarly significance.
"Well," Mariella continued, combing her fingers through her bedraggled hair, "I saw only a small amount of fair man-flesh through the shutter slats, before disaster befell me. For, you see, their window was some hundred feet above the ground."
"Oh, dear," Frodo said.
"Yes. When I lost my footing and fell to the flagstones, I was sure it was the death of me."
"What a very sad death," he said. "Your, er, family must have been very grieved indeed."
"Oh, but I didn't die then," she said.
"You didn't?"
"No. Though I lay bruised and broken at the base of the tower, I still lived!"
"How...um...remarkable..."
"But alas," she mourned, "I had fallen directly into the path of a carriage, pulled by four horses."
Frodo winced. "Oh...that is awful."
"Yes. When they trampled me under their hooves, and I felt the carriage wheels roll over my body, then, indeed, I despaired of ever living to dream of man-flesh again."
"It sounds very painful," he said, hoping he came across as compassionate, though mostly he was just revolted.
"But I was not dead yet!" she exclaimed. "The driver of the carriage heard my cry, and stopped to gather me up beside him."
"How gallant the Men of Gondor are," observed Frodo.
"Yes. He immediately set out for the nearest healer's house, across the bridge. I often wonder if I would have survived," Mariella lamented, "if he had not hit that large stone in the road, which so jolted the carriage and threw me clear out into the river."
"Oh..." Frodo made a serious effort not to laugh. "Yes, I suppose it would be impossible to swim, with such injuries..."
"Oh, but I did swim! And perhaps would have made it, too, if not for the waterfall."
Frodo's self-control collapsed, and he burst into nervous giggles. When Mariella turned a stern and wrathful look on him, he quelled them. "Sorry. Terribly sorry," he said. "I thought perhaps...nothing. Sorry. Er, I do hope your suffering ended shortly after that?"
"Yes, the waterfall at last took my life. Rather, the rocks at the bottom did. With some help from the venomous water-snakes."
"Ah. Indeed, yes. Terrible." Frodo had read, in many naturalists' notes, that one should not go swimming in the rivers of Gondor for precisely that reason. The snakes, that is; not the rocks and the waterfalls, though now that he thought about it, those were good reasons too.
"And so my spirit took residence in this book, the one possession I loved most in all the world," Mariella concluded. "I have been passed from hand to hand, owner to owner, taking what pleasure I could."
"What...pleasure?" Frodo asked, fearfully.
"In any young men of the house, of course." She glided close to him again, and he shrank back till he was pressed to the wall. "They are always such fun to watch. And touch." She captured his face in both icy hands, and nuzzled his nose with her own. It felt like being caressed by a dead fish. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to scream. Then she let him go and stood up straight. "However," she said, flatly, "I can't really feel much anymore, when I do touch them, and they tend to take it about as graciously as you are. So there's seldom any use."
Frodo's whole body drooped with relief. "Oh, good. That is--I feel very sorry for you naturally, but I don't think I could give you what you want, being just an inexperienced bachelor, and merely a hobbit in any case, so really it's just as well--"
"But I'm not done with you," she interrupted. Her voice had become wickedly lively again, and Frodo felt the dread return to his heart. "Why, I shan't waste an opportunity like this! A beautiful lad like you, innocent in the ways of the flesh, just languishing about and waiting for someone to indoctrinate him? Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world!"
"I can't," gasped Frodo. "Really. I'm sure you're a very nice girl and would make someone a--er--lovely teacher, but I couldn't possibly--"
She grabbed an empty pewter mug from his desk and flung it at him. He cried out and covered his head. The mug bounced off the wall, an inch from his ear. "You shall do what I say!" she thundered. "Or every night in your house shall be spent like this, with you dodging your own possessions; do you hear me?" She seized a candlestick next, and flung that. Fortunately there was no candle in it; but the brass smacking against the wall, on the other side of Frodo's head, sounded quite solid and dangerous.
"Please don't," he whimpered. "Please. Surely we can come to some sort of peace...perhaps you'd prefer just to go back to sleep..."
"I am awake and I will have you do my bidding!" she boomed. A handful of sealing-wax stubs fell upon Frodo like hail.
"What do you wish?" he cried. "Please stop! Tell me what you want!"
She smiled, and put down the inkwell she had just taken up. "How kind of you to ask. Well, Frodo--may I call you Frodo?--I wish to get you into the position found on page 36. To start with."
Disturbed, Frodo edged forward until he could reach the book, and leafed back to page 36. Two Elves with long rippling hair were wrapped in a kiss. "You wish me to...kiss someone?" He looked up at Mariella, who hovered beside him.
She looked smug. "Not only that, but I've picked just the person. That sweet little gardener of yours: 'Sam', you called him?"
"Me kiss Sam!" laughed the shocked Frodo. "A lad kissing a lad? But that's not what this picture--oh." He had given it another look, and realized that, actually, it was two male Elves he was looking at. "With the long hair, I didn't see at first..."
"They're so beautiful, they're really almost girls," she sighed. "You have some of that quality yourself. It's perfectly divine...those eyes, those lips...oh, it's a waste not to use them for passion!"
"But why Sam?" moaned Frodo. "You mustn't make him do this. He's too innocent. He would never understand."
"What, don't you fancy him?"
"I do--I mean I don't--that is--no, you're missing the point..."
"The warmth between you tonight while you were looking at my book was darling," she cooed. "I nearly squealed aloud."
"You were here?"
"I was hiding, staying quiet. I didn't dare disturb you. The way you were cuddled together at this desk, it looked like it might turn into a love scene." While Frodo spluttered indignantly, Mariella's face turned severe. "But it didn't, did it? You failed me. I want to see this--" She stabbed a finger at the drawing. "--and I want to see it tomorrow! Do you hear?"
Frodo slid down until he huddled with his nose at desk level. "Why must it be me?" he asked.
"Because you are my owner, and I've become quite smitten with you. Looking upon beautiful males--especially with each other--was always the thing I loved best in life. Some could even say it was my downfall." Her regretful tone became sharp again. "But I shall not have died in vain! I will have my wish, do you understand?"
Frodo groaned, and hid his face in his arms. "I won't ask Sam. I won't," he said, but he sounded vanquished.
"Oh, yes you will. Or I'll insist that you start with the scene on page 87, instead."
"What's on page--never mind. I don't want to know."
"Anyway," she yawned, "if you don't ask him, I will."
Frodo looked up at her in horror. "No!"
"Goodnight, little Frodo. Be ready for me tomorrow, with your sweet young friend." And Mariella evaporated out of sight.
Frodo, quivering, stayed on the floor.
Well, at least now he knew why that book had been so inexpensive. He tried to laugh, but it came out a terrified squeak.
* * *