TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 5/?
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: R (likely won't be more than PG-13, but I want to be on the safe side. Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex.)
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.
***
Trying to put my feisty side forth might have been a mistake. I see that now.
Frodo turned toward me, his dark eyebrows knitting together in a bit of fright and irritation before turning back to Sam. Uh oh. I think I made him a-n-g-r-y. But better an angry hobbit than a full-blown case of pneumonia. Who knows what horrible creatures were infiltrating his tender lungs and making their way all into his small hobbity system. It simply must be headed off at the pass with lots of tender loving care from Aragorn and the others, and of course . . . me.
I could LIE LIE LIE and tell them I was a healer and be allowed, perhaps, to treat Frodo---to bathe him and do all sorts of things to him in the name of medicine. Oh, I *could.* I could remove his clothing, sponge him down with nice tepid water, insert herbs and creams and lotion onto him and into his various openings, and then let him lay in my lap for only Sauron himself knew how long. It would be blissful.
But no. A Mary Sue wouldn't lie about *that.* So I would not . . . I would not . . . but at least my fever announcement had worked. At the mention of the word, "fever," Aragorn was on it like an Orc on a rotting carcass. A bad analogy there, of course . . . Frodo was hardly a rotting carcass. Oh no . . . but I digress. Our ranger immediately went to the hobbit and laid his hands ALL OVER Frodo's face and neck.
"You have a fever, Frodo. I have some herbs in my pack that will help lower it. How are you feeling?"
"All right, really . . ." I'm quite certain he said this with his lovely blue peepers narrowed in my direction---I, after all, was the one who had gotten him sick in the first place by unwittingly flashing my bottom end.
Dipping a rag in cool water, Aragorn wiped the hobbit's soft, delicate complexion down a bit. I was HOPING he'd take Frodo's clothes off. . . shouldn't I be granted at least a little peek after all I'd been through? But no, that mean ranger did not unclothe the hobbit---even though I could tell, by the way he gently sponged the pale brow, that he wanted nothing more than to take my Frodo off to a dark, cozy corner of Moria and have his way with him.
"Let us move on quickly, Aragorn," Gandalf told him. "We have lingered here already too long."
The ranger nodded and dosed Frodo with a hastily stirred herbal drink before taking a spare blanket and wrapping it about the hobbit tenderly. Very tenderly. Oh. A. Bundled. Up. In. A. Blanket. Frodo. With just a few stray curls and his flushed---if scowling---face peeking out.
"Aragorn, it's too hot with this on," he complained, but the ranger shook his head. Oh. A. Stern. But. Tender. Aragorn. Concerned. For. Naught. But. Frodo's. Health. "It will get rapidly cooler as we climb up, Frodo . . . you shall need the wrappings. Now, allow me to carry you for a bit---you do look exhausted."
Aragorn was going to CARRY him!! Hobbit toting . . . gimme gimme hobbit-toting. I wanted to carry Frodo, too. Oh, I so wanted the chance. So wanted it. But at least I would get to see Aragorn carrying him, their bodies pressed together . . . and let my imagination run wild . . . so very wild . . .
Not waiting for an answer, our Longshanks carefully picked Frodo up---I could tell the hobbit was red with embarrassment---and cradled him close against his own firm chest. His very firm leather-clad chest that *I* would not mind running my hands over.
"Will someone carry Frodo's pack?" he asked, picking said pack up off the stone floor.
Now was my chance. My chance to steal Frodo's braces.
"I will carry it," I tried to speak up, deliberately intonating my voice to sound innocent, just as Frodo had when he'd declared he'd take the Ring to Mordor. But alas . . . either no one heard me or I was ignored, and the pack was given to Sam. Wonderful . . . even getting close to a piece of thread falling off the pack would be impossible with the guard dog taking charge of it. Damn Samwise Gamgee.
Frodo started to protest, but a fierce---and extremely sexy---look from Aragorn caused him to shut his mouth quickly. Resigned, he leaned his head against the ranger's shoulder and we set off again, but I could hear his slight voice as we walked.
"Aragorn, what is that pendant you wear? I don't recall seeing it about your neck before we arrived at Rivendell."
So Frodo had been staring at the ranger's neck, eh?
"Arwen gifted me with it, Frodo. I wear it in her honor and as a symbol of our love."
I sighed. Way to go, hobbit. What a way to ruin the mood. Hmmmph.
AFTER MANY MORE HOURS OF ENDLESS MARCHING IN THE HELLISH PITS OF MORIA . . .
Well. Aragorn was now walking behind me as he carried Frodo. Apparently so that others could defend the both of them better if necessary. Unfortunately, I found myself craning my neck about several times just to get a glimpse of the hobbit, but all I could see was a blanket-covered bundle with several dark curls sticking out . . . snugly ensconced by the ranger's arms.
After stubbing my toe more times than I can count and nearly falling into a chasm, I learned my lesson and kept my eyes ahead---oh dear, only Gimli's rear was there---by the strictest of disciplines.
Moreover, I was growing tired walking at this fast-moving pace. I mean----I had to save my strength to carry Frodo eventually. Aragorn could certainly not keep him forever----could he? *Well, you stupid idiot, Lily, if *you* were carrying him, would *you* give him up? I pondered this thought for a moment, then decided they'd have to put a tractor beam on the ADORABLE ONE to pry him out of my grip.
Maybe I was out of luck.
It was finally decided to call a halt for the night. The hobbits were dead on their feet and we were all hungry. I for one was greatly looking forward to my bit of sausage, hard bread, and cheese----no, visions of t-bone steaks and steaming baked potatoes loaded with sour cream and bacon never entered my mind . . . nor did the thought of a moist chocolate cake bearing rich creamy frosting . . . or a huge baked lasagna with melted cheese dripping down its sides, along with a nice Greek salad with black olives and . . . better not to think about it.
We all gathered round on our respective boulders, trying to remain as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. Sam laid some blankets out on the ground and Aragorn lay Frodo down on them---the Ring-bearer was a bit drowsy and looked fever-flushed, but not in a dire condition. In fact, he looked edible, and still managed to knit his perfect eyebrows together when Aragorn brought him some hot tea and rations.
"I'm fine, Aragorn . . . really . . . I don't need it."
"It will prevent the cold from developing into pneumonia or worse, Frodo . . . drink it."
"All right." Obediently Frodo imbibed the concoction and then lay down on his bedroll, curling up and closing his eyes. Oh, how I wanted to crawl over to him and cradle him to my chest . . . . but no, I would have had to fight Aragorn off with a stick to even get close to the hobbit. Hmmm . . . was that such a bad thing? No. I decided not.
We were all tired and spread out our blankets to lay down. I, however, kept my eye on Frodo. And his pack, which was now on the ground by Sam's bedroll.
Ah . . . I had to get that pack. I was seeking it . . . all my thoughts were bent upon it. And the braces inside.
Now, you're probably thinking I want to steal these things because they're FRODO'S . . . right? You think I'm planning to get some strange vicarious thrill out of tying something that he's worn around my waist and my crotch, right?
Let me assure you that is *not* true. Not really . . . no . . . I simply want to secure this piece of cloth in my shorts, because right now it feels as if it's going to fall out any minute. In fact, I'd steal any of the hobbit's braces . . . but I don't know if the others brought extras. We'll see. For that matter, I would steal something from Aragorn---but quite frankly, I'm concerned with how clean it would be. I'd likely steal a belt or some such and it would be spattered with Orc blood or mud. And Gandalf? Don't even go there.
So, as soon as I heard Sam's soft snores, I began to inch my way over to the pack. Aragorn was on watch---*not* a good thing for me---but he was sitting next to Frodo, keeping an eye on the hobbit, and I hoped that would divert his attention for a time. It would certainly divert mine.
Stealthily I crawled . . . we wants the braces, precioussss . . . yes, we wants them . . . and my fingers touched the edge of the pack. I made a slight noise and Aragorn stirred a bit, but then settled.
Now I had it. Very, very carefully, I eased open the case and stuck my hand inside . . . great---it was chock full of stuff and I was not certain how in the heck I would find what I was looking for in the darkness by feel. But try I must.
I felt something very soft and slowly pulled it out---what in the hell *was* that? In the dim light, I could barely see---and then I realized---I was holding Frodo's underwear of all things.
To be continued
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: R (likely won't be more than PG-13, but I want to be on the safe side. Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex.)
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.
***
Trying to put my feisty side forth might have been a mistake. I see that now.
Frodo turned toward me, his dark eyebrows knitting together in a bit of fright and irritation before turning back to Sam. Uh oh. I think I made him a-n-g-r-y. But better an angry hobbit than a full-blown case of pneumonia. Who knows what horrible creatures were infiltrating his tender lungs and making their way all into his small hobbity system. It simply must be headed off at the pass with lots of tender loving care from Aragorn and the others, and of course . . . me.
I could LIE LIE LIE and tell them I was a healer and be allowed, perhaps, to treat Frodo---to bathe him and do all sorts of things to him in the name of medicine. Oh, I *could.* I could remove his clothing, sponge him down with nice tepid water, insert herbs and creams and lotion onto him and into his various openings, and then let him lay in my lap for only Sauron himself knew how long. It would be blissful.
But no. A Mary Sue wouldn't lie about *that.* So I would not . . . I would not . . . but at least my fever announcement had worked. At the mention of the word, "fever," Aragorn was on it like an Orc on a rotting carcass. A bad analogy there, of course . . . Frodo was hardly a rotting carcass. Oh no . . . but I digress. Our ranger immediately went to the hobbit and laid his hands ALL OVER Frodo's face and neck.
"You have a fever, Frodo. I have some herbs in my pack that will help lower it. How are you feeling?"
"All right, really . . ." I'm quite certain he said this with his lovely blue peepers narrowed in my direction---I, after all, was the one who had gotten him sick in the first place by unwittingly flashing my bottom end.
Dipping a rag in cool water, Aragorn wiped the hobbit's soft, delicate complexion down a bit. I was HOPING he'd take Frodo's clothes off. . . shouldn't I be granted at least a little peek after all I'd been through? But no, that mean ranger did not unclothe the hobbit---even though I could tell, by the way he gently sponged the pale brow, that he wanted nothing more than to take my Frodo off to a dark, cozy corner of Moria and have his way with him.
"Let us move on quickly, Aragorn," Gandalf told him. "We have lingered here already too long."
The ranger nodded and dosed Frodo with a hastily stirred herbal drink before taking a spare blanket and wrapping it about the hobbit tenderly. Very tenderly. Oh. A. Bundled. Up. In. A. Blanket. Frodo. With just a few stray curls and his flushed---if scowling---face peeking out.
"Aragorn, it's too hot with this on," he complained, but the ranger shook his head. Oh. A. Stern. But. Tender. Aragorn. Concerned. For. Naught. But. Frodo's. Health. "It will get rapidly cooler as we climb up, Frodo . . . you shall need the wrappings. Now, allow me to carry you for a bit---you do look exhausted."
Aragorn was going to CARRY him!! Hobbit toting . . . gimme gimme hobbit-toting. I wanted to carry Frodo, too. Oh, I so wanted the chance. So wanted it. But at least I would get to see Aragorn carrying him, their bodies pressed together . . . and let my imagination run wild . . . so very wild . . .
Not waiting for an answer, our Longshanks carefully picked Frodo up---I could tell the hobbit was red with embarrassment---and cradled him close against his own firm chest. His very firm leather-clad chest that *I* would not mind running my hands over.
"Will someone carry Frodo's pack?" he asked, picking said pack up off the stone floor.
Now was my chance. My chance to steal Frodo's braces.
"I will carry it," I tried to speak up, deliberately intonating my voice to sound innocent, just as Frodo had when he'd declared he'd take the Ring to Mordor. But alas . . . either no one heard me or I was ignored, and the pack was given to Sam. Wonderful . . . even getting close to a piece of thread falling off the pack would be impossible with the guard dog taking charge of it. Damn Samwise Gamgee.
Frodo started to protest, but a fierce---and extremely sexy---look from Aragorn caused him to shut his mouth quickly. Resigned, he leaned his head against the ranger's shoulder and we set off again, but I could hear his slight voice as we walked.
"Aragorn, what is that pendant you wear? I don't recall seeing it about your neck before we arrived at Rivendell."
So Frodo had been staring at the ranger's neck, eh?
"Arwen gifted me with it, Frodo. I wear it in her honor and as a symbol of our love."
I sighed. Way to go, hobbit. What a way to ruin the mood. Hmmmph.
AFTER MANY MORE HOURS OF ENDLESS MARCHING IN THE HELLISH PITS OF MORIA . . .
Well. Aragorn was now walking behind me as he carried Frodo. Apparently so that others could defend the both of them better if necessary. Unfortunately, I found myself craning my neck about several times just to get a glimpse of the hobbit, but all I could see was a blanket-covered bundle with several dark curls sticking out . . . snugly ensconced by the ranger's arms.
After stubbing my toe more times than I can count and nearly falling into a chasm, I learned my lesson and kept my eyes ahead---oh dear, only Gimli's rear was there---by the strictest of disciplines.
Moreover, I was growing tired walking at this fast-moving pace. I mean----I had to save my strength to carry Frodo eventually. Aragorn could certainly not keep him forever----could he? *Well, you stupid idiot, Lily, if *you* were carrying him, would *you* give him up? I pondered this thought for a moment, then decided they'd have to put a tractor beam on the ADORABLE ONE to pry him out of my grip.
Maybe I was out of luck.
It was finally decided to call a halt for the night. The hobbits were dead on their feet and we were all hungry. I for one was greatly looking forward to my bit of sausage, hard bread, and cheese----no, visions of t-bone steaks and steaming baked potatoes loaded with sour cream and bacon never entered my mind . . . nor did the thought of a moist chocolate cake bearing rich creamy frosting . . . or a huge baked lasagna with melted cheese dripping down its sides, along with a nice Greek salad with black olives and . . . better not to think about it.
We all gathered round on our respective boulders, trying to remain as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. Sam laid some blankets out on the ground and Aragorn lay Frodo down on them---the Ring-bearer was a bit drowsy and looked fever-flushed, but not in a dire condition. In fact, he looked edible, and still managed to knit his perfect eyebrows together when Aragorn brought him some hot tea and rations.
"I'm fine, Aragorn . . . really . . . I don't need it."
"It will prevent the cold from developing into pneumonia or worse, Frodo . . . drink it."
"All right." Obediently Frodo imbibed the concoction and then lay down on his bedroll, curling up and closing his eyes. Oh, how I wanted to crawl over to him and cradle him to my chest . . . . but no, I would have had to fight Aragorn off with a stick to even get close to the hobbit. Hmmm . . . was that such a bad thing? No. I decided not.
We were all tired and spread out our blankets to lay down. I, however, kept my eye on Frodo. And his pack, which was now on the ground by Sam's bedroll.
Ah . . . I had to get that pack. I was seeking it . . . all my thoughts were bent upon it. And the braces inside.
Now, you're probably thinking I want to steal these things because they're FRODO'S . . . right? You think I'm planning to get some strange vicarious thrill out of tying something that he's worn around my waist and my crotch, right?
Let me assure you that is *not* true. Not really . . . no . . . I simply want to secure this piece of cloth in my shorts, because right now it feels as if it's going to fall out any minute. In fact, I'd steal any of the hobbit's braces . . . but I don't know if the others brought extras. We'll see. For that matter, I would steal something from Aragorn---but quite frankly, I'm concerned with how clean it would be. I'd likely steal a belt or some such and it would be spattered with Orc blood or mud. And Gandalf? Don't even go there.
So, as soon as I heard Sam's soft snores, I began to inch my way over to the pack. Aragorn was on watch---*not* a good thing for me---but he was sitting next to Frodo, keeping an eye on the hobbit, and I hoped that would divert his attention for a time. It would certainly divert mine.
Stealthily I crawled . . . we wants the braces, precioussss . . . yes, we wants them . . . and my fingers touched the edge of the pack. I made a slight noise and Aragorn stirred a bit, but then settled.
Now I had it. Very, very carefully, I eased open the case and stuck my hand inside . . . great---it was chock full of stuff and I was not certain how in the heck I would find what I was looking for in the darkness by feel. But try I must.
I felt something very soft and slowly pulled it out---what in the hell *was* that? In the dim light, I could barely see---and then I realized---I was holding Frodo's underwear of all things.
To be continued
