Hey, wow! You liked it! Blushes madly and hides under her desk in
pleasure.
Angie
What Frodo Did Chapter 2/?
Frodo was so glad to be tucked up in his soft bed in his comfortable room at Bag end. Bilbo had found him and carried him home. There would be mushroom soup for supper and a story before bedtime. The relief that he was not badly hurt was almost overwhelming and Bilbo was just so glad to have him back safe that no punishment had even been mentioned.
His room felt oddly cold though. Maybe the quilt had fallen off. He could not move to reach it. He could not move at all. Something was holding him down. Maybe he was in a sack and a troll was going to sit on him.
There were little pinpricks of pain running up and down his spine when Frodo opened his eyes, and it hurt even to breath. He was still lying under the tree and despair gripped him. He wanted so much to be safe in his bed.
The sun had fallen lower in the sky and a chill breeze had started up. He moaned, and felt dried flakes of blood scatter from his chin. His jaw throbbed.
He must have been unconscious for a couple of hours. He had missed tea and Bilbo would be cross and starting to pace. His Uncle might come looking for him but, seeing as he had said he would be down by Bywater, the search would do neither of them any good. He had meant to go to the lush meadows around the pool but then the lure of dragon hunting had called and he had taken the other direction. Bilbo would not know where to look for him.
He had always been warned that one day his trick of running off by himself would get him into trouble. Well, now it looked like he was fair up to his neck in trouble.
Oh, if only he could transport himself into his bed at Bag end. The old embroidered quilt that was too thread bare for the guest rooms but upon which Frodo loved to trace the delicate patterns of violet and pansy. Oh, for his feather mattress and plump pillows. A cosy fire in the grate and Bilbo, in the rocking chair, telling him a story until he fell asleep with a head full of trolls, shape shifters, and singing elves.
He was suddenly feeling very very sorry for himself, and wished he had been better behaved, or that he had some friends with whom he had been playing and who would now run back to fetch an adult who would know what to do. But he had no friends in Hobbiton and now he was stuck under a tree all night and that was that.
There was a rustling from the low bushes that grew between some of the trees. The sound of a weight being thrust through the barrier.
Frodo tried to stop breathing - the better to listen. It might just be a badger or a fox but his mind was running to bears or wolves. Trying to still his breathing only caused his heart to beat more loudly to his ears and his chest to hurt. The something was definitely getting closer. It could probably smell the blood and was coming to see what tasty morsel had been left out for its supper.
It was nearly upon him and Frodo took as deep a breath as he could through the pain and readied himself to scream.
"Mr Frodo, Sir?" It was Samwise Gamgee. Youngest of Gaffer Gamgee's boys. A tousle headed, rosy lad, solid and comforting in his homespun jacket and trousers. And Frodo thought he had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.
"Sam!"
"You're hurt, Mr Frodo, you got blood on your chin."
"I think I've hurt my leg too. Can you help me get up?" It was alright now. He had been found.
Sam looked quizzical. He was a deal shorter than the older hobbit. He came over and knelt by Frodo's side and then looked up into the tree.
"You've been climbing trees again!" Sam was fair set to turn into a miniature version of his father. The fact that he was so much younger than Frodo, and yet so much more serious would have been funny if Frodo had not been in such a predicament.
"If you stick your hands under my middle you could leaver me up without me having to bend my back too much."
"Alright." Sam stuck his hands into the small of Frodo's back. "You say when."
"When!"
The yell this time sent the first of the evenings roosting birds back into the sky to circle in alarm in the dusk.
"Oh, Mr Frodo. Say you're not dead!" Sam wailed in terror.
Frodo was clutching the gardener's boy by the upper arm in a vice like grip. Tears were streaming down his face. "O, Sam," he moaned, when he could talk "I think you are going to have to go for help." His vision was swimming with darkness as though night had come of a sudden.
"But I can't leave you!" Sam was crying too. Frodo's cry of pain had been like nothing he had ever heard before.
"I'll be alright Sam. Run back to Bag end and get Bilbo. Please!"
Crying and stumbling Sam, thrust on by the desperation on Frodo's, words fairly flew back to the road.
Frodo did not hear the crashing progress of his would be saviour. He had never imagined in his life that anything could hurt so much. He must have a terrible wound in his back. He could no longer see the branches of the tree above his head. His peripheral vision was swamped with darkness. He wondered if this is what it felt like to be stabbed with a sword.
Oh, if only Bilbo would get here before he died. He could not imagine how anyone could be in so much pain and live.
Little aftershocks were still shaking through his body. He tried again to reach his back to see if there was any blood. Maybe he had a branch sticking right into him. But even that small movement was too much for him and the darkness closed in.
What Frodo Did Chapter 2/?
Frodo was so glad to be tucked up in his soft bed in his comfortable room at Bag end. Bilbo had found him and carried him home. There would be mushroom soup for supper and a story before bedtime. The relief that he was not badly hurt was almost overwhelming and Bilbo was just so glad to have him back safe that no punishment had even been mentioned.
His room felt oddly cold though. Maybe the quilt had fallen off. He could not move to reach it. He could not move at all. Something was holding him down. Maybe he was in a sack and a troll was going to sit on him.
There were little pinpricks of pain running up and down his spine when Frodo opened his eyes, and it hurt even to breath. He was still lying under the tree and despair gripped him. He wanted so much to be safe in his bed.
The sun had fallen lower in the sky and a chill breeze had started up. He moaned, and felt dried flakes of blood scatter from his chin. His jaw throbbed.
He must have been unconscious for a couple of hours. He had missed tea and Bilbo would be cross and starting to pace. His Uncle might come looking for him but, seeing as he had said he would be down by Bywater, the search would do neither of them any good. He had meant to go to the lush meadows around the pool but then the lure of dragon hunting had called and he had taken the other direction. Bilbo would not know where to look for him.
He had always been warned that one day his trick of running off by himself would get him into trouble. Well, now it looked like he was fair up to his neck in trouble.
Oh, if only he could transport himself into his bed at Bag end. The old embroidered quilt that was too thread bare for the guest rooms but upon which Frodo loved to trace the delicate patterns of violet and pansy. Oh, for his feather mattress and plump pillows. A cosy fire in the grate and Bilbo, in the rocking chair, telling him a story until he fell asleep with a head full of trolls, shape shifters, and singing elves.
He was suddenly feeling very very sorry for himself, and wished he had been better behaved, or that he had some friends with whom he had been playing and who would now run back to fetch an adult who would know what to do. But he had no friends in Hobbiton and now he was stuck under a tree all night and that was that.
There was a rustling from the low bushes that grew between some of the trees. The sound of a weight being thrust through the barrier.
Frodo tried to stop breathing - the better to listen. It might just be a badger or a fox but his mind was running to bears or wolves. Trying to still his breathing only caused his heart to beat more loudly to his ears and his chest to hurt. The something was definitely getting closer. It could probably smell the blood and was coming to see what tasty morsel had been left out for its supper.
It was nearly upon him and Frodo took as deep a breath as he could through the pain and readied himself to scream.
"Mr Frodo, Sir?" It was Samwise Gamgee. Youngest of Gaffer Gamgee's boys. A tousle headed, rosy lad, solid and comforting in his homespun jacket and trousers. And Frodo thought he had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.
"Sam!"
"You're hurt, Mr Frodo, you got blood on your chin."
"I think I've hurt my leg too. Can you help me get up?" It was alright now. He had been found.
Sam looked quizzical. He was a deal shorter than the older hobbit. He came over and knelt by Frodo's side and then looked up into the tree.
"You've been climbing trees again!" Sam was fair set to turn into a miniature version of his father. The fact that he was so much younger than Frodo, and yet so much more serious would have been funny if Frodo had not been in such a predicament.
"If you stick your hands under my middle you could leaver me up without me having to bend my back too much."
"Alright." Sam stuck his hands into the small of Frodo's back. "You say when."
"When!"
The yell this time sent the first of the evenings roosting birds back into the sky to circle in alarm in the dusk.
"Oh, Mr Frodo. Say you're not dead!" Sam wailed in terror.
Frodo was clutching the gardener's boy by the upper arm in a vice like grip. Tears were streaming down his face. "O, Sam," he moaned, when he could talk "I think you are going to have to go for help." His vision was swimming with darkness as though night had come of a sudden.
"But I can't leave you!" Sam was crying too. Frodo's cry of pain had been like nothing he had ever heard before.
"I'll be alright Sam. Run back to Bag end and get Bilbo. Please!"
Crying and stumbling Sam, thrust on by the desperation on Frodo's, words fairly flew back to the road.
Frodo did not hear the crashing progress of his would be saviour. He had never imagined in his life that anything could hurt so much. He must have a terrible wound in his back. He could no longer see the branches of the tree above his head. His peripheral vision was swamped with darkness. He wondered if this is what it felt like to be stabbed with a sword.
Oh, if only Bilbo would get here before he died. He could not imagine how anyone could be in so much pain and live.
Little aftershocks were still shaking through his body. He tried again to reach his back to see if there was any blood. Maybe he had a branch sticking right into him. But even that small movement was too much for him and the darkness closed in.