It was a restless night, that first night I spent in Moria.
I lay on my bedroll a long time, unable to sleep, stealing glances at Frodo---what little I could see of him from where I lay. And listening to all four hobbits' breathing. I fancied, after a while, that I could separate Frodo's exhalations from the others. And then suddenly---was I mistaken, or had a tiny cough emitted from those fragile hobbit lungs of his?
Moria was a nasty, damp place---not good for anyone susceptible to pulmonary difficulties. Nosirree. I certainly hoped Frodo did not become ill (okay, just a leeeetttle cold) but if he did . . . what would we do? Aragorn would have to make teas and we'd have to keep him well-wrapped and of course hold him carefully and remove his clothing and monitor his temperature---damn, why had I not put a rectal thermometer in my pocket before going to the gym? If only I had known, I could have been prepared.
Leaning up a bit, I peered at him as he lay curled up, admiring the way his fanny rounded out nicely in sleep. Oh---the poor thing was shivering. I YEARNED to crawl over to where he was and draw him to me . . . maybe it would get REALLY cold and then I'd have to warm him up with skin-to-skin contact---
All right, enough wishful thinking. I lay back down and squirmed, pulling at my jog bra, which was chafing quite uncomfortably under my t-shirt. Why had I been transported wearing this thing? Why, it made my breasts as flat as pancakes. How come I hadn't dropped into Middle-earth wearing a chiffon nightgown and a Miracle Bra?
Never mind that I owned neither of those things. Just wait until I got to Lothlorien and pushed these babies up with some kind of fancy Elvish corset. THEN Frodo would want to rest his head against them.
Don't say it's impossible. I know he fancies tall women---"Fair lady Goldberry! Oh slender as a willow-wand! Oh clearer than clear water!" and all such sweet-tongued talk. If old Tom Bombadil hadn't been in the picture . . . and you know, when he descended the steps to Galadriel's Mirror, he looked rather like he was thinking, if you'll pardon the crude expression, "I'm fixing to get laid."
However, I am neither Goldberry nor Galadriel, and God forbid, not Arwen. I do have light hair, thanks to L'Oreal Frost and Tip. Don't ask me what clearer than clear water means---I have no idea, but I'm quite certain it would not apply to me anyway.
"Why are you staring at Frodo?"
I must have jumped ten feet. Unbeknownst to me, Pippin had been watching me out of curiosity and had crawled over. I was surprised---surely he had been warned to stay away from me? But then I remembered this hobbit's penchant for not heeding his elders' advice.
"I am not staring at Frodo. Shouldn't you be asleep?"
"I'm too hungry. And you *are* staring at my cousin---are you after the Ring?"
"No. Of course not."
"I thought not. Your eyes do linger over parts of his body that aren't close to the Ring. You must be sweet on Frodo."
"I am not."
"Better not let Aragorn or Sam find out."
"I won't."
"So you do want my cousin?"
"No, no, for the last time, no! Gracious." I was going to lie---lie through my teeth.
"Well . . . I heard you showed him your private parts and gave him a terrible fright."
"My priv---now look here----" I was becoming exasperated and now really just wanted to go to sleep. Contrary to popular belief, this hobbit's cuteness wears off after five minutes of intense questioning.
Suddenly Gandalf's voice rang out in a very loud stage whisper. "Peregrin Took, you will CEASE this mindless chatter."
Frowning, the hobbit went back to his sleeping spot next to the others, lying down and purposely burying his face in Frodo's shiny curls with an evil little grin at me.
***
ANOTHER SIX HOURS OF MARCHING IN SILENCE EXCEPT FOR GIMLI'S GRUMBLINGS . . .
I marched blearily onward, at the back of the Fellowship with Legolas and Gimli, ready to clock the dwarf on the head if I heard the phrase "red meat off the bone" one more time. There was only one sort of meat I was interested in, and it . . . never mind. Anyway, all those two did was argue, and since I was immune to Legolas's handsomeness---well, for the most part---it just served to make me seethe inside. We had to be reaching the Chamber of Marzarbul soon, I knew. The Fellowship was only in Moria for four days or so and had spent some time there before I dropped in on them.
Meanwhile, my hobbit was on up ahead, walking with Aragorn and Gandalf. Ever since we'd risen that morning he had kept his distance, merely looking at me a bit fearfully when he'd caught me staring at him as he chewed his breakfast of dried fruit. He is quite a doll when chewing, I must say.
I had to stop this staring or I'd be outed. Pippin was watching me all the time. Seriously, I wouldn't call myself a hobbit fancier, per se---there was only one hobbit I fancied. And I definitely would not have kicked Aragorn out of my bedroll, either. The ranger's long legs were quite a treat to behold.
"Everyone, careful," Gandalf suddenly cautioned. We had apparently come to another crumbling stairway and had to crawl on our hands and knees in single file to scale it. I tried to get behind Frodo in case he needed steadying, but to no avail---Aragorn was there. Well, if I got to see Aragorn place his hands on Frodo's rump, it would all be worth MY not getting to, I suppose . . . maybe it would give Aragorn ideas. Hmmmm . . .
In fact, the thought so disquieted me that I lost my balance on the stairs momentarily and slid downward, feeling my knee scrape painfully as a pair of firm hands caught my bottom, keeping me from falling. I looked around---oh dear. It was Gimli---Gimli had his dwarven hands on my rear end. I mouthed a small thanks, realizing I SHOULD be thankful, but dang it, I am sure he was able to see right up my shorts. Lovely. Just lovely.
As we ascended the rocky stairway to solid ground I looked around, making sure no one else---meaning Frodo---was injured---and found them all in one piece. But my knee was burning quite miserably and bleeding, to boot. I'd managed in my clumsiness to scrape a good patch of skin off it.
Looking around at everyone, Aragorn noticed my bleeding leg and, reaching into his pack, pulled out some clean cloth and tossed it my way. "Clean it, but do not use the water here---it may be contaminated. Use water out of the canteen, sparingly."
And that was that. Hot fury welled up in me. I had been cheated! Aragorn was supposed to sit me down and gently dab at my knee while shaking his head in sympathy, murmuring tender reassurances, dang it. And Frodo might at least offer to hold my leg steady as it was treated, gazing at me with big blue eyes every so often in wonder.
Then, after seeing how sore my leg would be, Aragorn was supposed to suggest that he carry me. Of course I would refuse---until I gave out and he was forced to cart me about. I realize I weigh MUCH more than a hobbit, but hey---he and Legolas could tote me together. That would meet with my approval, as long as Frodo was there to stroke my forehead.
THAT was the way it was supposed to be. Hmmmmph.
I quickly cleaned my knee, wishing at least Frodo would kneel down and blow on it softly to ease the pain, and then we were off again.
Soon, I started alternating thoughts of Frodo with thoughts of food. Ah . . .I would have killed for chocolate. Or even fresh milk, despite my lactose problem. Sonic onion rings and Outback Steakhouse's cheese fries with "crispy bacon." Or buffalo wings. Yes, buffalo wings with that spicy red sauce coating him, er . . . them, I mean . . .
We finally took a break in which I made absolutely positively certain I found an isolated spot to relieve myself. I had already ruined one hobbit for life; no need to scare the others as well. After dripping dry, I made my way back to the Fellowship---but not before I heard soft hobbit voices. Hiding, I listened.
Merry was talking. "So, Frodo, are you quite recovered after your ordeal of yesterday?"
The dark-haired ADORABLE ONE nodded and grimaced, reaching up to rub his shoulder. "Her buttocks did cause my wound to ache a bit---but it is better now."
My eyes widened. The stress of viewing my unclothed backside had caused his Nazgul injury to flare up. Oh dear. The least I could do was remove his clothing and wash his shoulder with athelas, but I had a feeling he would not go for that . . . clearing my throat, I entered the camp again, studiously not looking at the others, waiting for my lovely lunch of rations.
Dried meat and cheese. The Atkins Diet of Middle-earth. I sat eating---gnawing would be more like it, trying not to stare at Frodo's pink lips enclosing a piece of bread. And then---oh dear---he actually licked his fingers when he was finished, his tongue flickering over the tips lightly. This was going to kill me.
And then it happened.
He sneezed.
To be continued
I lay on my bedroll a long time, unable to sleep, stealing glances at Frodo---what little I could see of him from where I lay. And listening to all four hobbits' breathing. I fancied, after a while, that I could separate Frodo's exhalations from the others. And then suddenly---was I mistaken, or had a tiny cough emitted from those fragile hobbit lungs of his?
Moria was a nasty, damp place---not good for anyone susceptible to pulmonary difficulties. Nosirree. I certainly hoped Frodo did not become ill (okay, just a leeeetttle cold) but if he did . . . what would we do? Aragorn would have to make teas and we'd have to keep him well-wrapped and of course hold him carefully and remove his clothing and monitor his temperature---damn, why had I not put a rectal thermometer in my pocket before going to the gym? If only I had known, I could have been prepared.
Leaning up a bit, I peered at him as he lay curled up, admiring the way his fanny rounded out nicely in sleep. Oh---the poor thing was shivering. I YEARNED to crawl over to where he was and draw him to me . . . maybe it would get REALLY cold and then I'd have to warm him up with skin-to-skin contact---
All right, enough wishful thinking. I lay back down and squirmed, pulling at my jog bra, which was chafing quite uncomfortably under my t-shirt. Why had I been transported wearing this thing? Why, it made my breasts as flat as pancakes. How come I hadn't dropped into Middle-earth wearing a chiffon nightgown and a Miracle Bra?
Never mind that I owned neither of those things. Just wait until I got to Lothlorien and pushed these babies up with some kind of fancy Elvish corset. THEN Frodo would want to rest his head against them.
Don't say it's impossible. I know he fancies tall women---"Fair lady Goldberry! Oh slender as a willow-wand! Oh clearer than clear water!" and all such sweet-tongued talk. If old Tom Bombadil hadn't been in the picture . . . and you know, when he descended the steps to Galadriel's Mirror, he looked rather like he was thinking, if you'll pardon the crude expression, "I'm fixing to get laid."
However, I am neither Goldberry nor Galadriel, and God forbid, not Arwen. I do have light hair, thanks to L'Oreal Frost and Tip. Don't ask me what clearer than clear water means---I have no idea, but I'm quite certain it would not apply to me anyway.
"Why are you staring at Frodo?"
I must have jumped ten feet. Unbeknownst to me, Pippin had been watching me out of curiosity and had crawled over. I was surprised---surely he had been warned to stay away from me? But then I remembered this hobbit's penchant for not heeding his elders' advice.
"I am not staring at Frodo. Shouldn't you be asleep?"
"I'm too hungry. And you *are* staring at my cousin---are you after the Ring?"
"No. Of course not."
"I thought not. Your eyes do linger over parts of his body that aren't close to the Ring. You must be sweet on Frodo."
"I am not."
"Better not let Aragorn or Sam find out."
"I won't."
"So you do want my cousin?"
"No, no, for the last time, no! Gracious." I was going to lie---lie through my teeth.
"Well . . . I heard you showed him your private parts and gave him a terrible fright."
"My priv---now look here----" I was becoming exasperated and now really just wanted to go to sleep. Contrary to popular belief, this hobbit's cuteness wears off after five minutes of intense questioning.
Suddenly Gandalf's voice rang out in a very loud stage whisper. "Peregrin Took, you will CEASE this mindless chatter."
Frowning, the hobbit went back to his sleeping spot next to the others, lying down and purposely burying his face in Frodo's shiny curls with an evil little grin at me.
***
ANOTHER SIX HOURS OF MARCHING IN SILENCE EXCEPT FOR GIMLI'S GRUMBLINGS . . .
I marched blearily onward, at the back of the Fellowship with Legolas and Gimli, ready to clock the dwarf on the head if I heard the phrase "red meat off the bone" one more time. There was only one sort of meat I was interested in, and it . . . never mind. Anyway, all those two did was argue, and since I was immune to Legolas's handsomeness---well, for the most part---it just served to make me seethe inside. We had to be reaching the Chamber of Marzarbul soon, I knew. The Fellowship was only in Moria for four days or so and had spent some time there before I dropped in on them.
Meanwhile, my hobbit was on up ahead, walking with Aragorn and Gandalf. Ever since we'd risen that morning he had kept his distance, merely looking at me a bit fearfully when he'd caught me staring at him as he chewed his breakfast of dried fruit. He is quite a doll when chewing, I must say.
I had to stop this staring or I'd be outed. Pippin was watching me all the time. Seriously, I wouldn't call myself a hobbit fancier, per se---there was only one hobbit I fancied. And I definitely would not have kicked Aragorn out of my bedroll, either. The ranger's long legs were quite a treat to behold.
"Everyone, careful," Gandalf suddenly cautioned. We had apparently come to another crumbling stairway and had to crawl on our hands and knees in single file to scale it. I tried to get behind Frodo in case he needed steadying, but to no avail---Aragorn was there. Well, if I got to see Aragorn place his hands on Frodo's rump, it would all be worth MY not getting to, I suppose . . . maybe it would give Aragorn ideas. Hmmmm . . .
In fact, the thought so disquieted me that I lost my balance on the stairs momentarily and slid downward, feeling my knee scrape painfully as a pair of firm hands caught my bottom, keeping me from falling. I looked around---oh dear. It was Gimli---Gimli had his dwarven hands on my rear end. I mouthed a small thanks, realizing I SHOULD be thankful, but dang it, I am sure he was able to see right up my shorts. Lovely. Just lovely.
As we ascended the rocky stairway to solid ground I looked around, making sure no one else---meaning Frodo---was injured---and found them all in one piece. But my knee was burning quite miserably and bleeding, to boot. I'd managed in my clumsiness to scrape a good patch of skin off it.
Looking around at everyone, Aragorn noticed my bleeding leg and, reaching into his pack, pulled out some clean cloth and tossed it my way. "Clean it, but do not use the water here---it may be contaminated. Use water out of the canteen, sparingly."
And that was that. Hot fury welled up in me. I had been cheated! Aragorn was supposed to sit me down and gently dab at my knee while shaking his head in sympathy, murmuring tender reassurances, dang it. And Frodo might at least offer to hold my leg steady as it was treated, gazing at me with big blue eyes every so often in wonder.
Then, after seeing how sore my leg would be, Aragorn was supposed to suggest that he carry me. Of course I would refuse---until I gave out and he was forced to cart me about. I realize I weigh MUCH more than a hobbit, but hey---he and Legolas could tote me together. That would meet with my approval, as long as Frodo was there to stroke my forehead.
THAT was the way it was supposed to be. Hmmmmph.
I quickly cleaned my knee, wishing at least Frodo would kneel down and blow on it softly to ease the pain, and then we were off again.
Soon, I started alternating thoughts of Frodo with thoughts of food. Ah . . .I would have killed for chocolate. Or even fresh milk, despite my lactose problem. Sonic onion rings and Outback Steakhouse's cheese fries with "crispy bacon." Or buffalo wings. Yes, buffalo wings with that spicy red sauce coating him, er . . . them, I mean . . .
We finally took a break in which I made absolutely positively certain I found an isolated spot to relieve myself. I had already ruined one hobbit for life; no need to scare the others as well. After dripping dry, I made my way back to the Fellowship---but not before I heard soft hobbit voices. Hiding, I listened.
Merry was talking. "So, Frodo, are you quite recovered after your ordeal of yesterday?"
The dark-haired ADORABLE ONE nodded and grimaced, reaching up to rub his shoulder. "Her buttocks did cause my wound to ache a bit---but it is better now."
My eyes widened. The stress of viewing my unclothed backside had caused his Nazgul injury to flare up. Oh dear. The least I could do was remove his clothing and wash his shoulder with athelas, but I had a feeling he would not go for that . . . clearing my throat, I entered the camp again, studiously not looking at the others, waiting for my lovely lunch of rations.
Dried meat and cheese. The Atkins Diet of Middle-earth. I sat eating---gnawing would be more like it, trying not to stare at Frodo's pink lips enclosing a piece of bread. And then---oh dear---he actually licked his fingers when he was finished, his tongue flickering over the tips lightly. This was going to kill me.
And then it happened.
He sneezed.
To be continued
