Disclaimer: I own nothing. NOTHING!!! The plot belongs to Tolkien, the characters belong to Tolkien, and the title belongs to whoever has copyrighted that song by Dusty Drake…
Note to reviewers:
Obelia Medusa: Thank you, and you'll notice I did put the first chapter in paragraphs later. I actually had it like that in Word, but when I uploaded it they went away and I didn't notice.
Aemilia Rose: Here you go! You said write, I wrote. Quickly, I might add, so forgive any stupidness or evilness. Please don't kill Lotho yet; he might still have a part to play in this!
Ch. 2
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"Frodo Baggins. Again. I might have known."
Frodo began to interrupt, but the farmer continued before any words could be issued from his mouth.
"With Lotho Sackville-Baggins leading again, I presume?" As he was talking, the farmer crossed his arms and looked down ate the small hobbit before him, cheeks quickly turning pink. "You should know that when I feel like it, I could be quite a terror. You are trying my patience and I am about to snap. If you don't already know, soon you will. You need to learn a lesson," Maggot continued. Forgetting, he added, "What are your parents teaching you?"
As a result of this simple sentence, all too used in the Shire, Frodo Baggins, orphan, burst into tears.
Not feeling compassionate right then, Farmer Maggot left to go get his whip. Surely the little rascal is only faking it. His parents have been dead for 8 years. He should have been able to take a remark about them.
Upon returning, Maggot found Frodo exactly where he had been before, drying his tears. His sharp eyes catching the whip behind the farmer's back, Frodo stammered to apologize. "I'm sorry, sir, really. I really should have known better. I won't do it again, honest."
Five years of stealing were not to be made up in a 10 second apology. Brandishing the whip, the farmer advanced. Frodo's expressive eyes giving away his fear, as they grew wider as the farmer came closer. He had never seen anyone so angry…not at him, at least. Maybe someone make at Lotho, certainly, but never him.
He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't see Maggot draw his hand back, then forward. He experienced a searing pain, unlike he'd ever known before, and fell to the ground.
Emboldened by the success, if you could call it that, of the first blow, the farmer brought his hand back and forth, back and forth, quicker every time, raining blows on the small backs that his target.
It might have been raining blows, but it felt more like large hail to the owner of the small target back. As the whippings slowed, Frodo found the courage to lift his mostly untouched head, just in time to see Maggot's arm, already drawn back, come forward as time seemed to slow down and finally stand still. Frodo tried to move out of the way, an almost did, but his head turned in the page of the falling whip and was struck.
Seeing he had knocked the poor hobbit's head rather hard, the farmer dropped his whip. Noticing he was unconscious, he whispered, "What have I done? What have I done?"
As if to cover up what he had done, the farmer picked up Frodo and carried him to the edge of the farm. As it was getting dark, the farmer thought it best to wake Frodo up and send him back to Brandy Hall.
Gently shaking his shoulder, the farmer whispered, "Frodo. Frodo, wake up."
Watching the small eyelids flutter open, the farmer let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Seeing those huge blue eyes brought back the farmer's anger, which had been forgotten in his anxiety over Frodo.
Frodo stood up, not seeming disoriented. The farmer called for his dogs, figuring as he didn't want to lead the lad back to Brandy Hall himself, the dogs would not only get him there, but teach him a lesson he'd never forget. Not oblivious to the look of fear on Frodo's face, the farmer sent for his dogs.
The tweenager didn't start running until the dogs were nearly upon him. Then he ran as if his life depended on it, for he believed it did.
Frodo began to tire rapidly, quicker than normal for his injuries, but he kept running. The distance between him and the dogs, which was never far to begin with, began to decrease at an alarming rate. Frodo saw Buckleberry Ferry in the distance and headed towards it.
As he neared it, the dog's pace began to decline. They soon stopped chasing Frodo and headed back to Farmer Maggot's.
Finding relief at the ferry, Frodo began to take stock of his wounds. Running had made them bleed harder, and his normally dark brown curls had adapted a red tinge from his head wound's blood.
Ducking his head in the water to clean it, his feet slipped on the unstable riverbank. He gasped as the cold water swarmed over his body. After he got used to it, he quite welcomed the numbness that the freezing water brought.
The sun sinking below the horizon, Frodo pulled himself out of the river and, shivering, began to head back to Brandy Hall, feeling slowly returning to his body.
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Back at Brandy Hall, residents were sitting down to supper. Nobody noticed a small empty chair that belonged to a small hobbit named Frodo Baggins. No one had cared when Lotho returned by himself hours earlier.
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Treading slowly, Frodo knew he couldn't make it back before someone noticed he wasn't there. And when he did return, and for some unexplainable reason nobody had noticed his lack of presence, it was too much to hope for that they wouldn't see the blood seeping through the back of his shirt and through his thick curls. He'd just have to do what he could about staying out of trouble.
*********
Supper finished, the hobbits living at Brandy Hall began to make preparations for their young to head to bed. In the hustle and bustle, Frodo Baggins was still not missed.
*********
The young hobbit not in question was nearing Brandy Hall, close enough so he could see it. Yes, he'd gotten here just fine, but now how to get in?
The solution to his dilemma presented itself nearly immediately. One of the many servants working was bringing the dinner scraps out and left the door open. Quick as a mouse, and just as silent, Frodo snuck in and headed as quickly as he could to his room, just down the hallway.
While most hobbits would defiantly prefer to have a room that close to the kitchens, Frodo had never really cared until now.
Having gotten his own room just months earlier, Frodo found his room, as usual, empty. No one was waiting for him to return, and those that might have been were too busy elsewhere.
As soon as he had arrived in his room and shut and locked his door, Frodo took his shirt off, not without some pain, and exchanged it for a clean one. It was a good thing he did his own laundry. It was also a good thing he'd though to bind up the sores before going out too. For he was going to mingle, unless he really did become missed.
