So sorry it has taken me so long to finish this or update anything else.
My editor got a new contract and my house got flooded. I have also updated
'Mother Love' on ff.net – where Frodo is coming down with a nice case of
something (
Title: The Siege of The Lonely Mountain3/3 Author: Angie Rating: PG (little hobbit hurting himself) Warnings: None
Summary: While staying with his cousin Bilbo a ten year old
Frodo gets into a scrape.
Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. No kittens! No
squirrels! No drunken little hobbits!
Frodo lay in the semi darkness of his bedroom. His head was feeling a little clearer, though things still seemed fuzzy and he preferred to keep his eyes shut. He knew Bilbo would not be long. He closed his eyes and snuggled back into the big soft pillows beneath his head and reached out to pull the quilt up under his chin as he liked it. When his mother put him to bed she would pull the quilt right up over his head and then pretend to wonder where he had gone.
Unfortunately the movement caused the quilt to brush against some of the more sensitive areas of his body and Frodo gave a whimper as fresh pains suddenly sprang up from a dozen places. Worst of all a throbbing and a sharp smarting was starting to make itself felt in his right leg. Ow! But it was really starting to hurt. Frodo lifted up the cover a little to peak under. What was wrong with his leg? He pulled the coverings back with an effort and pulled his leg out from under the foot stool to get his first good look at his injury. There was a bandage over it that was dark with the blood underneath that was starting to seep through. It was not really so very bad, nor bleeding freely, the darkness was really just the raw flesh but to a ten year old attached to the limb it looked like the most awful battle wound.
Frodo stuffed a fist into his mouth in horror and realised that he was about to be sick again. He twisted round to reach for the chamber pot Bilbo had set out for him, knocked the foot stool over, jerked round trying to escape the new pain in his leg – and fell out of bed with a crunch in a tangle of bed clothes. The chamber pot tilted over with what he was sure was malicious intent and hit him squarely over the head and Frodo lost consciousness again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air was cold around him and the silence oppressive. It should not be so quiet. There was a feeling of space around him and hard rock beneath his cheek. His head hurt, a low throbbing behind his temples. He lay still.
Hands were lifting him. Easing him up. But he wanted to stay still against the throbbing in his head. A voice cried: "He's alive!" far too loudly. Frodo found himself with a large rock at his back against which he leant as the pain in his head increased ten fold. He must have fallen onto something because his right side hurt too, over his ribs.
A few feet away from him lay the body of some strange creature. Its mouth was frozen in a ferocious snarl and there was blood around its mouth and lolling tongue and a great quantity of broken teeth. The air smelt horrible, of stale dust and blood.
"There's more to this than meets the eye," boomed a new voice.
Frodo blinked and rubbed his hands across his eyes trying to see more clearly. Dust was still settling around him in the gloomy chamber. How had he come to be here and who was this hairy faced giant leaning over him and opening his shirt!
"Mithril!"
Frodo closed his eyes and leant back against the cool stone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There were voices, hands lifting him, softness and a cool cloth on his head.
"…should not have left him…"
"There, there, these things happen," a female voice.
"… blame myself,"
A soft little laugh, "I blame myself whenever one of mine so much as sneezes." Soft hands. "There's not so much harm as time won't soon put right. Hobbit lads bounce. Why Ham fell right down the hill once and got up to walk home afterwards with out a flinch. Mind you he could 'ardly walk the next day and was that covered in bruises."
"I could not face his mother if anything happened to the lad. Frodo is their only child and they dote on him."
"I can see why." A cool hand pressed to his cheek. It smelt of cinnamon bread.
Frodo opened his eyes. A strange lady with a kindly face was leaning over him. "There my poppet. Nothing much wrong with you now is there?"
Frodo sniffed and blinked a few times. "Who are you?"
"This is Mrs Gamgee," said Bilbo. "How do you feel, my lad?"
"I fell out of bed," Frodo complained.
"We noticed," said Bilbo ruefully.
Bell was busying herself with a bowl of water and a flannel which she laid on Frodo's head. "There lad, close your eyes." The water smelt of lavender and felt wonderfully cool as Frodo noticed for the first time the headache he had. Her fingers brushed hair back from his forehead and soothed the ach there with a mother's touch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late on a summer's afternoon, a whole two days before expected, Primula and Drogo Baggins drove up to the front gate of Bag end. "What will Bilbo say to seeing us back early?" Drogo smiled at his wife as he came round to help her from the cart.
"Oh I know, I am silly, but I can't stand to be away from Frodo for any longer."
"Hush, lass, no need for apologies. I understand." Drogo set his wife onto the ground and she was through the gate and up the path before he could return to the pony's head. "I miss the lad too." Frodo's father stroked the pony's soft nose. "Though if I know anything of our Frodo he has probably driven Bilbo mad by now."
"Bilbo! Frodo!" Primula called as she pushed open the lovely round green door of Bag end. "We're home!"
There was the unmistakable sound of a cup being dropped. Unperturbed Primula followed the sound until she reached the airy kitchen and came to a sudden halt. Bilbo was standing at the sink – looking like he had been holding a cup a moment before. Frodo sat on the kitchen table – a bandaged leg stuck out in front of him and a strip of gauze on his forehead half hidden behind his unruly curls.
"The log pile fell on me!" said Frodo proudly just as his father walked in the door.
"He's fine. Really." stuttered Bilbo.
"Oh, Bilbo, I am so sorry. I never should have left him with you. He is always having accidents and falling over. I should never have given you the responsibility of looking after him."
"Oh I don't know," said Bilbo. "Of all my adventures this has probably been the most eventful."
Frodo giggled and wiggled in his mother's arms as she hugged and tickled him lightly.
"Young hobbit my lad, what did I tell you about playing up your Uncle Bilbo?" Drogo asked sternly.
"Not to do it, or the trolls would get me," recited Frodo.
"And what do trolls do to hobbit lads?" Drogo's eyes were twinkling.
"Make them into pie crusts!" laughed Frodo in delight.
Bilbo went to get a pan and brush to sweep up the broken cup. He would never, ever, even if he outlived the Old Took, understand children. From his hands and knees he looked up at Frodo, still giggling, sandwiched between Primula and Drogo's loving arms, and he caught a look between the couple, over their child's head, so full of love and tenderness and shared understanding that he quickly looked away ashamed to have witnessed it. He felt warm in the presence of the little family group.
The end
Title: The Siege of The Lonely Mountain3/3 Author: Angie Rating: PG (little hobbit hurting himself) Warnings: None
Summary: While staying with his cousin Bilbo a ten year old
Frodo gets into a scrape.
Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. No kittens! No
squirrels! No drunken little hobbits!
Frodo lay in the semi darkness of his bedroom. His head was feeling a little clearer, though things still seemed fuzzy and he preferred to keep his eyes shut. He knew Bilbo would not be long. He closed his eyes and snuggled back into the big soft pillows beneath his head and reached out to pull the quilt up under his chin as he liked it. When his mother put him to bed she would pull the quilt right up over his head and then pretend to wonder where he had gone.
Unfortunately the movement caused the quilt to brush against some of the more sensitive areas of his body and Frodo gave a whimper as fresh pains suddenly sprang up from a dozen places. Worst of all a throbbing and a sharp smarting was starting to make itself felt in his right leg. Ow! But it was really starting to hurt. Frodo lifted up the cover a little to peak under. What was wrong with his leg? He pulled the coverings back with an effort and pulled his leg out from under the foot stool to get his first good look at his injury. There was a bandage over it that was dark with the blood underneath that was starting to seep through. It was not really so very bad, nor bleeding freely, the darkness was really just the raw flesh but to a ten year old attached to the limb it looked like the most awful battle wound.
Frodo stuffed a fist into his mouth in horror and realised that he was about to be sick again. He twisted round to reach for the chamber pot Bilbo had set out for him, knocked the foot stool over, jerked round trying to escape the new pain in his leg – and fell out of bed with a crunch in a tangle of bed clothes. The chamber pot tilted over with what he was sure was malicious intent and hit him squarely over the head and Frodo lost consciousness again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air was cold around him and the silence oppressive. It should not be so quiet. There was a feeling of space around him and hard rock beneath his cheek. His head hurt, a low throbbing behind his temples. He lay still.
Hands were lifting him. Easing him up. But he wanted to stay still against the throbbing in his head. A voice cried: "He's alive!" far too loudly. Frodo found himself with a large rock at his back against which he leant as the pain in his head increased ten fold. He must have fallen onto something because his right side hurt too, over his ribs.
A few feet away from him lay the body of some strange creature. Its mouth was frozen in a ferocious snarl and there was blood around its mouth and lolling tongue and a great quantity of broken teeth. The air smelt horrible, of stale dust and blood.
"There's more to this than meets the eye," boomed a new voice.
Frodo blinked and rubbed his hands across his eyes trying to see more clearly. Dust was still settling around him in the gloomy chamber. How had he come to be here and who was this hairy faced giant leaning over him and opening his shirt!
"Mithril!"
Frodo closed his eyes and leant back against the cool stone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There were voices, hands lifting him, softness and a cool cloth on his head.
"…should not have left him…"
"There, there, these things happen," a female voice.
"… blame myself,"
A soft little laugh, "I blame myself whenever one of mine so much as sneezes." Soft hands. "There's not so much harm as time won't soon put right. Hobbit lads bounce. Why Ham fell right down the hill once and got up to walk home afterwards with out a flinch. Mind you he could 'ardly walk the next day and was that covered in bruises."
"I could not face his mother if anything happened to the lad. Frodo is their only child and they dote on him."
"I can see why." A cool hand pressed to his cheek. It smelt of cinnamon bread.
Frodo opened his eyes. A strange lady with a kindly face was leaning over him. "There my poppet. Nothing much wrong with you now is there?"
Frodo sniffed and blinked a few times. "Who are you?"
"This is Mrs Gamgee," said Bilbo. "How do you feel, my lad?"
"I fell out of bed," Frodo complained.
"We noticed," said Bilbo ruefully.
Bell was busying herself with a bowl of water and a flannel which she laid on Frodo's head. "There lad, close your eyes." The water smelt of lavender and felt wonderfully cool as Frodo noticed for the first time the headache he had. Her fingers brushed hair back from his forehead and soothed the ach there with a mother's touch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late on a summer's afternoon, a whole two days before expected, Primula and Drogo Baggins drove up to the front gate of Bag end. "What will Bilbo say to seeing us back early?" Drogo smiled at his wife as he came round to help her from the cart.
"Oh I know, I am silly, but I can't stand to be away from Frodo for any longer."
"Hush, lass, no need for apologies. I understand." Drogo set his wife onto the ground and she was through the gate and up the path before he could return to the pony's head. "I miss the lad too." Frodo's father stroked the pony's soft nose. "Though if I know anything of our Frodo he has probably driven Bilbo mad by now."
"Bilbo! Frodo!" Primula called as she pushed open the lovely round green door of Bag end. "We're home!"
There was the unmistakable sound of a cup being dropped. Unperturbed Primula followed the sound until she reached the airy kitchen and came to a sudden halt. Bilbo was standing at the sink – looking like he had been holding a cup a moment before. Frodo sat on the kitchen table – a bandaged leg stuck out in front of him and a strip of gauze on his forehead half hidden behind his unruly curls.
"The log pile fell on me!" said Frodo proudly just as his father walked in the door.
"He's fine. Really." stuttered Bilbo.
"Oh, Bilbo, I am so sorry. I never should have left him with you. He is always having accidents and falling over. I should never have given you the responsibility of looking after him."
"Oh I don't know," said Bilbo. "Of all my adventures this has probably been the most eventful."
Frodo giggled and wiggled in his mother's arms as she hugged and tickled him lightly.
"Young hobbit my lad, what did I tell you about playing up your Uncle Bilbo?" Drogo asked sternly.
"Not to do it, or the trolls would get me," recited Frodo.
"And what do trolls do to hobbit lads?" Drogo's eyes were twinkling.
"Make them into pie crusts!" laughed Frodo in delight.
Bilbo went to get a pan and brush to sweep up the broken cup. He would never, ever, even if he outlived the Old Took, understand children. From his hands and knees he looked up at Frodo, still giggling, sandwiched between Primula and Drogo's loving arms, and he caught a look between the couple, over their child's head, so full of love and tenderness and shared understanding that he quickly looked away ashamed to have witnessed it. He felt warm in the presence of the little family group.
The end