Title: The Siege of the Lonely Mountain 1/3
Author: Angie
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. I mean, if I did
own Frodo the RSPCH would soon take him away from me!
Frodo stumbled again as he made his way down the dimly lit tunnel. This was it. One way or another, Frodo knew he was reaching the end of his long journey. He was weak with hunger and in the clutches of the enemy. He could hardly stand anymore, let alone crawl forwards.
He had been captured by the orc two days ago and since then existence had been a nightmare of starvation and torment. His stomach rumbled all the time in hunger and the smells from the orcs' kitchen up ahead had driven him to a final act of desperation. He must have food or die, and if the orc caught him in its kitchen he would be killed anyway.
The orc was a hideous creature with grizzled hair about its ugly face; it was shapeless and bloated under its garments. Since it had caught the hobbit it had taken delight in tormenting him, starving him and locking him away, only to let him out to torment him with potential freedom, then to snatch it away again.
How Frodo longed for his friends and family; to be rescued - taken home, safe and warm. But he was alone, torn from his companions and from safety, to fend for himself. He had been grabbed so many days ago now and forced to journey the vast distance to the orcs' dwelling deep under the mountain. He would die here - and never see sunshine or loved ones again. His quest had failed, to the ruin of all!
He crept stealthily forwards in the semi-darkness, one hand out to the curved wall by his side. He was so weak with hunger, he knew he could not carry on for much longer. He was going to die here, in the dark, far from home and in despair.
The orc had its back to the wooden table and was stirring a cook pot. Frodo shuddered in revulsion as to what the cook pot might contain. It smelt like rabbit but for all the hobbit knew, cooked elf smelled like rabbit.
Between Frodo and the huge ugly orc was the table, laden with fresh baked bread and some kind of orcish cakes. Frodo summoned all his courage and crept out into the fire-lit kitchen on stealthy feet. Hardly daring to breathe he edged forwards, eyes on a loaf of bread which seemed to be calling directly to his empty belly.
He reached out. Stretching forwards and was just about to grab the loaf when the orc brought its club down in a crushing blow upon his hand.
"Frodo Baggins!" scolded the orc. "If you are not the naughtiest hobbit in all the Shire I don't know who is!"
Frodo yelped and jumped back from the table. The wooden spoon his Uncle Bilbo had rapped his knuckles with was rather hot still from the stew pot. The orc, well, the older hobbit, planted his hands on his hips and glared at his youngest relation.
"Are you this much trouble to your mother?"
"I was hungry!"
"You're always hungry, Frodo!" Bilbo gazed at the little hobbit sternly. "Well, lad, no need to sneak around. Though I haven't finished my baking yet. How about a nice crisp apple?"
Frodo, ten yeas old, pouted.
"Your stomach is as over active as your imagination," Bilbo sighed, fighting the smile which was teasing at the corners of his mouth. "And you might stand there looking like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, but you'll grow up to be a troll at this rate and no mistake!"
Frodo, as well practised in getting him own way as any hobbit child, looked up through his long eyelashes at his cousin. Bilbo was a pushover where food was concerned and Frodo had been well stuffed for the last two days. Even his imagination was having a hard time pretending to be a starving prisoner of orcs.
"I will do you a trade, Frodo son of Drogo. My fire is getting low. You fetch me a log from the pile and I will let you have one cinnamon roll."
"What if I bring two logs?" asked Frodo, ever the opportunist.
"Shoo!"
Frodo scampered off back down the corridor and out the back of his cousin's neat smial. The log pile was stacked up next to the back door just under the eves and Frodo gathered up a log and turned to run back. And stopped.
He turned round again. Where he had taken the log from the neat pile he had left a jagged hole. It looked almost exactly like a dragon with a tooth knocked out. Or an arrow slit in a castle wall. Hum. Frodo's imagination began to race. He put the log down and pulled out another. If he rearranged the walls of logs.
Half an hour later Frodo Baggins was sitting within the caverns of the Lonely Mountain planning his battle strategy. And Bilbo had given up on that extra log. If the orcs attacked from the South then he had an impenetrable wall between them and him, and there was no way they were getting in from anywhere else!
He wished he had a bow and arrows, but he would just have to make do with some small stones from the rockery - um, armoury - to hurl down on his attackers. Boiling oil would be good. And in case of a long siege he would need.. Food!
Frodo climbed back over his battlements, retrieved the log and ran back into the house.
"I thought you had been carried off by eagles," Bilbo said, almost as though he were quite disappointed that this had not come to pass. He handed over a fragrant roll in payment for the errand, no matter how tardily completed. And Frodo ran off again.
Bilbo shook his head. Of all the strange hobbit children, Frodo really must be the strangest. While his parents were away visiting, Bilbo had stepped in and said he would mind the lad for a few days. Admittedly Bilbo had little experience of children let alone this blue eyed changeling.
So it was that the two days he had been at Bag end mostly seemed to have consisted of Frodo vanishing for long periods and reappearing at mealtimes, punctuated by Bilbo telling him not to do this thing or that thing.
Frodo was, in short, driving Bilbo a little crazy, unused as he was to children, let alone a hyperactive ten year old bent on mayhem and destruction. Not, Bilbo had to admit, that he did it deliberately. It just seemed that Frodo was born to get into scrapes, and accidents were attracted to him like a cat to the morning's warm cream.
Frodo had been in Bag end for less than 48 hours. But already Bilbo felt as though his existence had been reduced to shouting "Frodo, no!" at intervals, with maybe, "Frodo, stop!" or, "Frodo - put that back!" for variation. While accepting that the only serious damage he had done was to Bilbo's nerves, he was just about into everything. Nothing was sacred. He had stuck his nose, and often his hands, into every nook and cranny, investigated every chest and drawer, sampled just about everything in the pantry, and developed an irrational fear of the big oak clothes press which stood in the corridor outside Bilbo's bed room.
The lad had taken to running by it full tilt with his eyes closed, claiming that there was a troll living in it - and usually colliding with the umbrella stand with an almighty crash in his flight.
May be it was a generational thing, Bilbo told herself. At this age he would have been expected to amuse himself quietly with a book, or helping his mother in the kitchen, not charging around headlong into one mischief after another. But then, in Bilbo's day, hobbit children were brought up properly, to respect their elders, and to be occasionally seen and almost never heard.
The umbrellas went crashing in the hallway once again.
The lad had permanently scarred elbows and knees already from the amount of falling over he did, but he still would not "simmer down" or "go slow". He was at the age where life was something you had to run after at full tilt. Bilbo was at the stage where life was something you sat behind your curtains in a comfy chair and watched your neighbours doing. Although, the older hobbit had to admit to himself, there was still the occasional call of the road, especially at certain times of the year.
An hour later Frodo arrived at the tea table and sat himself down. Bilbo had very strict ideas about meal times and content.
"Did you wash your hands?" he said automatically as he brought out a steak and kidney pudding to put on the table and almost dropped it. He stared at Frodo, aghast.
"Frodo lad! What happened?"
Frodo sat at the table with his clean hands presented for inspection, half a spiders web on his left ear, a large chunk of dried moss stuck in his curls, and a face which looked like it had seen the business levels of not just one, but several dwarven mines.
"How do you do it?" asked Bilbo in despair - before a spider swinging from its ruined web and onto the table galvanised him into action. He hauled Frodo up under the arms and deposited him onto the wooden draining board where his feet hung over a cupboard.
Bilbo did like things neat and tidy, most especially in the kitchen. He applied soap to a sponge about as big as his head and proceeded to wash the boy while Frodo protested as volubly as a face full of sponge would allow.
Frodo kicked and squirmed as best he could. Water was running down his shirt collar and he was surely going to be drowned. It was to no avail. Bilbo was a lot stronger than he was. Soon, red faced from scrubbing, and with rather damp hair, Frodo was again sat at the table - glowering darkly.
An earwig dropped onto the table half way though the meal and by the time corners were filled with carrot cake the cousins were glowering at each other.
"I think," announced Bilbo. "That you had better have a bath and then sit quietly in the parlour till supper."
"A bath!" Frodo wailed as thought Bilbo had just suggested he walk all the way to Mordor.
"A bath!"
"I'll just go and put my things away then," said Frodo and ran for it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sunset over Erebor was lovely. The sky was swept over with orange and red, punctuated with light edged clouds.
Frodo sat in his fortress, quite comfortable on a moss-covered log, and planned his campaign. He had driven off the attacking orc army and he would need to send out a scouting party under cover of twilight to make sure all signs of the enemy were gone. Then he would return to the magical halls of Rivendell for a celebratory banquet hopefully avoiding the necessity of a bath before hand. Maybe he could get Uncle Bilbo to tell him one of his wonderful stories or show him one of his maps again.
He yawned. Single handily defending the fortress against all the armies of darkness was tiring work. He got to his feet and attempted to shake as much wood dust as he could from himself. He didn't like that big sponge.
He stuck one foot into a crevice in his fortress wall and made to pull himself up and over his crenellations.
The log pile, unused to the clambering of a ten year old hobbit lad, and weakened by its structural rearranging, gave a groan of protest and collapsed inwards taking the lone defender of the Lonely Mountain with it and burying him under a pile of logs.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bilbo raised his head to listen. There was a sound like summer thunder from the back of the house. He frowned. Going to the front window he checked the sky. The sun has set and the shadows were gathering but there was no sigh not a storm.
"Frodo!" he called. "Where are you lad?"
Childless though he was Bilbo had developed a kind of sixth sense over the last few days where hobbit lads and trouble were concerned. He frowned disapprovingly, sure he had never caused his parents this much trouble when he was a boy.
He made his way out to the back door. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling as thought there were indeed a storm of its way. The small square of kitchen garden at the back looked peaceful enough. Bilbo was just stepping out into the main garden to conduct a search when he sneezed.
The air just outside the back door was dusty. Frowning, and reaching for his pocket handkerchief Bilbo took a careful survey - and noticed at once the disarray of the previously neatly stacked log pile and the small fur and dirt covered food sticking out from the pile. A glint of red caught his eye. In utter horror Bilbo moved closer. There was a dark patch of spreading blood running down a slender ankle and running through the dirt.
Frodo stumbled again as he made his way down the dimly lit tunnel. This was it. One way or another, Frodo knew he was reaching the end of his long journey. He was weak with hunger and in the clutches of the enemy. He could hardly stand anymore, let alone crawl forwards.
He had been captured by the orc two days ago and since then existence had been a nightmare of starvation and torment. His stomach rumbled all the time in hunger and the smells from the orcs' kitchen up ahead had driven him to a final act of desperation. He must have food or die, and if the orc caught him in its kitchen he would be killed anyway.
The orc was a hideous creature with grizzled hair about its ugly face; it was shapeless and bloated under its garments. Since it had caught the hobbit it had taken delight in tormenting him, starving him and locking him away, only to let him out to torment him with potential freedom, then to snatch it away again.
How Frodo longed for his friends and family; to be rescued - taken home, safe and warm. But he was alone, torn from his companions and from safety, to fend for himself. He had been grabbed so many days ago now and forced to journey the vast distance to the orcs' dwelling deep under the mountain. He would die here - and never see sunshine or loved ones again. His quest had failed, to the ruin of all!
He crept stealthily forwards in the semi-darkness, one hand out to the curved wall by his side. He was so weak with hunger, he knew he could not carry on for much longer. He was going to die here, in the dark, far from home and in despair.
The orc had its back to the wooden table and was stirring a cook pot. Frodo shuddered in revulsion as to what the cook pot might contain. It smelt like rabbit but for all the hobbit knew, cooked elf smelled like rabbit.
Between Frodo and the huge ugly orc was the table, laden with fresh baked bread and some kind of orcish cakes. Frodo summoned all his courage and crept out into the fire-lit kitchen on stealthy feet. Hardly daring to breathe he edged forwards, eyes on a loaf of bread which seemed to be calling directly to his empty belly.
He reached out. Stretching forwards and was just about to grab the loaf when the orc brought its club down in a crushing blow upon his hand.
"Frodo Baggins!" scolded the orc. "If you are not the naughtiest hobbit in all the Shire I don't know who is!"
Frodo yelped and jumped back from the table. The wooden spoon his Uncle Bilbo had rapped his knuckles with was rather hot still from the stew pot. The orc, well, the older hobbit, planted his hands on his hips and glared at his youngest relation.
"Are you this much trouble to your mother?"
"I was hungry!"
"You're always hungry, Frodo!" Bilbo gazed at the little hobbit sternly. "Well, lad, no need to sneak around. Though I haven't finished my baking yet. How about a nice crisp apple?"
Frodo, ten yeas old, pouted.
"Your stomach is as over active as your imagination," Bilbo sighed, fighting the smile which was teasing at the corners of his mouth. "And you might stand there looking like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, but you'll grow up to be a troll at this rate and no mistake!"
Frodo, as well practised in getting him own way as any hobbit child, looked up through his long eyelashes at his cousin. Bilbo was a pushover where food was concerned and Frodo had been well stuffed for the last two days. Even his imagination was having a hard time pretending to be a starving prisoner of orcs.
"I will do you a trade, Frodo son of Drogo. My fire is getting low. You fetch me a log from the pile and I will let you have one cinnamon roll."
"What if I bring two logs?" asked Frodo, ever the opportunist.
"Shoo!"
Frodo scampered off back down the corridor and out the back of his cousin's neat smial. The log pile was stacked up next to the back door just under the eves and Frodo gathered up a log and turned to run back. And stopped.
He turned round again. Where he had taken the log from the neat pile he had left a jagged hole. It looked almost exactly like a dragon with a tooth knocked out. Or an arrow slit in a castle wall. Hum. Frodo's imagination began to race. He put the log down and pulled out another. If he rearranged the walls of logs.
Half an hour later Frodo Baggins was sitting within the caverns of the Lonely Mountain planning his battle strategy. And Bilbo had given up on that extra log. If the orcs attacked from the South then he had an impenetrable wall between them and him, and there was no way they were getting in from anywhere else!
He wished he had a bow and arrows, but he would just have to make do with some small stones from the rockery - um, armoury - to hurl down on his attackers. Boiling oil would be good. And in case of a long siege he would need.. Food!
Frodo climbed back over his battlements, retrieved the log and ran back into the house.
"I thought you had been carried off by eagles," Bilbo said, almost as though he were quite disappointed that this had not come to pass. He handed over a fragrant roll in payment for the errand, no matter how tardily completed. And Frodo ran off again.
Bilbo shook his head. Of all the strange hobbit children, Frodo really must be the strangest. While his parents were away visiting, Bilbo had stepped in and said he would mind the lad for a few days. Admittedly Bilbo had little experience of children let alone this blue eyed changeling.
So it was that the two days he had been at Bag end mostly seemed to have consisted of Frodo vanishing for long periods and reappearing at mealtimes, punctuated by Bilbo telling him not to do this thing or that thing.
Frodo was, in short, driving Bilbo a little crazy, unused as he was to children, let alone a hyperactive ten year old bent on mayhem and destruction. Not, Bilbo had to admit, that he did it deliberately. It just seemed that Frodo was born to get into scrapes, and accidents were attracted to him like a cat to the morning's warm cream.
Frodo had been in Bag end for less than 48 hours. But already Bilbo felt as though his existence had been reduced to shouting "Frodo, no!" at intervals, with maybe, "Frodo, stop!" or, "Frodo - put that back!" for variation. While accepting that the only serious damage he had done was to Bilbo's nerves, he was just about into everything. Nothing was sacred. He had stuck his nose, and often his hands, into every nook and cranny, investigated every chest and drawer, sampled just about everything in the pantry, and developed an irrational fear of the big oak clothes press which stood in the corridor outside Bilbo's bed room.
The lad had taken to running by it full tilt with his eyes closed, claiming that there was a troll living in it - and usually colliding with the umbrella stand with an almighty crash in his flight.
May be it was a generational thing, Bilbo told herself. At this age he would have been expected to amuse himself quietly with a book, or helping his mother in the kitchen, not charging around headlong into one mischief after another. But then, in Bilbo's day, hobbit children were brought up properly, to respect their elders, and to be occasionally seen and almost never heard.
The umbrellas went crashing in the hallway once again.
The lad had permanently scarred elbows and knees already from the amount of falling over he did, but he still would not "simmer down" or "go slow". He was at the age where life was something you had to run after at full tilt. Bilbo was at the stage where life was something you sat behind your curtains in a comfy chair and watched your neighbours doing. Although, the older hobbit had to admit to himself, there was still the occasional call of the road, especially at certain times of the year.
An hour later Frodo arrived at the tea table and sat himself down. Bilbo had very strict ideas about meal times and content.
"Did you wash your hands?" he said automatically as he brought out a steak and kidney pudding to put on the table and almost dropped it. He stared at Frodo, aghast.
"Frodo lad! What happened?"
Frodo sat at the table with his clean hands presented for inspection, half a spiders web on his left ear, a large chunk of dried moss stuck in his curls, and a face which looked like it had seen the business levels of not just one, but several dwarven mines.
"How do you do it?" asked Bilbo in despair - before a spider swinging from its ruined web and onto the table galvanised him into action. He hauled Frodo up under the arms and deposited him onto the wooden draining board where his feet hung over a cupboard.
Bilbo did like things neat and tidy, most especially in the kitchen. He applied soap to a sponge about as big as his head and proceeded to wash the boy while Frodo protested as volubly as a face full of sponge would allow.
Frodo kicked and squirmed as best he could. Water was running down his shirt collar and he was surely going to be drowned. It was to no avail. Bilbo was a lot stronger than he was. Soon, red faced from scrubbing, and with rather damp hair, Frodo was again sat at the table - glowering darkly.
An earwig dropped onto the table half way though the meal and by the time corners were filled with carrot cake the cousins were glowering at each other.
"I think," announced Bilbo. "That you had better have a bath and then sit quietly in the parlour till supper."
"A bath!" Frodo wailed as thought Bilbo had just suggested he walk all the way to Mordor.
"A bath!"
"I'll just go and put my things away then," said Frodo and ran for it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sunset over Erebor was lovely. The sky was swept over with orange and red, punctuated with light edged clouds.
Frodo sat in his fortress, quite comfortable on a moss-covered log, and planned his campaign. He had driven off the attacking orc army and he would need to send out a scouting party under cover of twilight to make sure all signs of the enemy were gone. Then he would return to the magical halls of Rivendell for a celebratory banquet hopefully avoiding the necessity of a bath before hand. Maybe he could get Uncle Bilbo to tell him one of his wonderful stories or show him one of his maps again.
He yawned. Single handily defending the fortress against all the armies of darkness was tiring work. He got to his feet and attempted to shake as much wood dust as he could from himself. He didn't like that big sponge.
He stuck one foot into a crevice in his fortress wall and made to pull himself up and over his crenellations.
The log pile, unused to the clambering of a ten year old hobbit lad, and weakened by its structural rearranging, gave a groan of protest and collapsed inwards taking the lone defender of the Lonely Mountain with it and burying him under a pile of logs.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bilbo raised his head to listen. There was a sound like summer thunder from the back of the house. He frowned. Going to the front window he checked the sky. The sun has set and the shadows were gathering but there was no sigh not a storm.
"Frodo!" he called. "Where are you lad?"
Childless though he was Bilbo had developed a kind of sixth sense over the last few days where hobbit lads and trouble were concerned. He frowned disapprovingly, sure he had never caused his parents this much trouble when he was a boy.
He made his way out to the back door. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling as thought there were indeed a storm of its way. The small square of kitchen garden at the back looked peaceful enough. Bilbo was just stepping out into the main garden to conduct a search when he sneezed.
The air just outside the back door was dusty. Frowning, and reaching for his pocket handkerchief Bilbo took a careful survey - and noticed at once the disarray of the previously neatly stacked log pile and the small fur and dirt covered food sticking out from the pile. A glint of red caught his eye. In utter horror Bilbo moved closer. There was a dark patch of spreading blood running down a slender ankle and running through the dirt.