Title: A Little Adventure
Author: Ice Princess
Summary: Lobelia, convinced that she's owed more than Bilbo left her, goes to Bag End and takes a few items that don't belong to her…
Rating: PG13 (to be safe)
Disclaimer: all characters and places are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.
Author's note: Many thanks to Nicole Sabatti for ruling the universe.
Author's note: The ages of the characters are: Merry 21, Sam 23, Pippin 13 (and yes he is drunk in this fic), Frodo 35.
Very important: For the purpose of this fic the conspiracy was formed immediately after Bilbo disappeared at the Long Expected Party rather than in the Spring before Frodo left on the quest. However, Merry has not informed Sam and Pippin of the ring; they have only been told to watch Frodo and report any suspicious behaviour. Sam is spying on Frodo but he has not been given a valid reason for it other than Merry's fear that Frodo will abandon them. This will be explained next chapter…
Tathar:**blushes** Thank you so much for your lovely words of support! It means so much to me to get reviews from prestigious writers such as yourself. The S.Bs and Frodo do have a run in but it isn't going to turn out as perhaps you'd expect…read on below! Devious Otho and his plans…
Mainframe: I'm really glad that you liked it! This fic will concentrate on one adventure and it won't leave billions of questions. At least, that's the intention…As for Lobelia, well, I'm trying to keep them in character as much as possible, but I think she's had the last straw where Frodo is concerned.
Shirebound: I can't begin to thank you enough for saving me from a very embarrassing mistake. It has been a while since I've read the books so I couldn't quite remember whether it was Otho or Lotho that was Lobelia's husband. My copy of LOTR has been lent to a friend of mine (why did I do it, why?!) so I couldn't check. Also thank you for your lovely words of encouragement! I'll try not to let you down!
GreyLadyBast: Wow! You love Shelob too? I thought I was the only one!Yay! Let us meet and talk of memories past! lol. Shelob is my third favourite character in the series, beaten only by Frodo, at number one, and Sam, at number two. There will be more to the story, but I haven't got a clue how much more. I'm just making it up as I go along. All the thanks for this fic should go to Nicole Sabatti though, for she actually had the idea. I nicked it when she let her guard down.
Fool of a Took: I do like your nice padded room. Are you allowed sharp objects? I am not without some form of supervision, preferably adult. My walls are also padded and every Thursday they let me rock back and forth murmuring "soon" as I gaze longingly at a calendar that forever sits on December… lol. Thanks for your lovely comments. After you're done with Lobelia, can I have a go? That way we could show her several things! She is going to get more evil in this fic…
P.N.Batgirl: Awww thank you! I love making people curious! Note to self: put loads of questions which never get answered in this fic…wait, that's my other one…As for what happens next, read on down! Let's just say Frodo is soon going to find himself in a nightmare situation.
Chapter Two: An unfortunate run in
The Green Dragon was always a popular meeting place for the Hobbits, drawing more customers than any other business could ever claim to do. Even though it was the month of September and it was getting cooler in the evenings, hobbits still performed their daily ritual, disappearing down towards the Tavern at regular intervals during the day to share stories, gossip and pipe weed over a cool tankard of ale that few denied. It was always busy during the day, filled mostly with a few who had made a pit stop to last them until they arrived later when time would be kinder to the desire for ale, but during the night it was practically bursting with hobbits, the loud yet friendly chatter drawing more towards it like moths towards flame.
It was easy to see why the Green Dragon was so popular: It was a friendly and warm place, a roaring log fire always burning in the hearth during cold nights such as these, and masses of tables to accommodate as many hobbits as possible. The staff were always friendly, and their generous amounts of ale that were served had been many a deciding factor on why people should attend. Yet even for the Green Dragon it was unusually busy that night, with people having to squeeze past large groups of friends, their tankards elevated above their heads to protect the liquor. Tables, though aplenty, were in very high demand. A few odd hobbits were orbiting likely looking parties of people, hinting, without words, their desire to claim the table for themselves. The second that they relinquished it, the chairs were claimed within milliseconds and another group of hobbits who had not been so quick off the mark were left to mumble in frustration and go seek more likely prey. The air was so thick with the smoke from pipes that it was almost as if one was trapped within a silk and sweet smelling cloud, and objects that lay on the opposite side of the room were blurred by the tiny threads of old Toby that everyone was happily willing to inhale.
Frodo and Sam had managed to claim a table through sheer luck for Sam ran into a spare one as he was memorized by Rose Cotton on the other side of the room, and Frodo had been quick to lay claim to the table himself, trying vainly to make the incident look intentional. It was a rather secluded table, scurried away in the corner of the room rather than focused in the centre (for Sam, seeing Rosie, had just sort of veered towards it) and it only accommodated four chairs, which suited Frodo perfectly. They had set up camp there; Merry and Pippin, already with drinks, had arrived only moments later, and since then they had been happily discussing events within the Shire, catching up on news and gossip as their neighbours did beside them. Every now and then a Bracegirdle or a Proudfoot would point towards them, amazed to see Frodo Baggins out on such a day, but Frodo bid them no attention, and he tried to ignore the wild hissing of whispered disbelief coming from them.
As was tradition, Frodo picked up his tankard, his cheeks slightly pink from the ale he had drunk that night, and he bid happy birthday to Bilbo, not caring that he got odd looks from everyone in the building because of it. Merry and Pippin, who had drunk significantly more, were well into the later stages of being drunk, and even Sam, though starting off unsure and bit recluse, had opened up like a flower to spring rain.
"Happy birthday Bilbo!" Frodo said loudly. "Wherever you are!" He took a deep swig from his tankard, slapping it back onto the table when he was done and drying his mouth with his sleeve.
"Here here!" Merry agreed, drumming his hands against the table, Pippin joining in shortly afterward.
"Happy birthday to you too, Mr Frodo, sir," Sam said afterwards, taking a drink himself, his voice raised so he could be heard over the loud banging coming from the two opposite.
"Thank you, Sam."
"Cousin?" Pippin queried from across the table, his voice thick and slurring, his youth and relative inexperience with alcohol making him more susceptible to the liquor. Merry had done nothing to stop his cousin drinking, and Frodo, though feeling responsible, could do little to try and stem that large amounts the youth was drinking. Pippin's drumming ceased, and he leaned onto the table, arms propping up his head, a drunken smile matching his glazed eye sight.
"Yes, Pip?" Frodo asked.
"You're…you're well past it now."
"As are you," Frodo replied, looking towards the tankard, "but it is not the graciousness of age which makes you thus."
Pippin snorted, then his glazed eyes settled upon the small amount of food which Frodo had not been able to finish: a collection of mushrooms, covered in a rich butter and cheese sauce.
"If you give me some food I will be quiet."
"You have food," Merry laughed, taking a deep swig from his tankard. "Look," he said, pointing towards the delicious pie and potatoes that were piled on his plate. "Foood…"
"But they aren't mushrooms," Pippin whined a little, but he picked up his fork and took a huge bite of the sumptuous pie anyway. He gestured towards Frodo.
"Tell us a story cousin," he asked, talking with his mouth full, Merry merely smiling and digging into his own meal. "You're very…very good at telling stories."
"Tell us one about the elves!" Sam pleaded, dropping his own fork in excitement. "Or about Mr Bilbo's adventures!"
"I've told you that one at least three times tonight," Frodo reminded them, looking at each one of them in turn, a smile lighting his face. "I don't want to dull the story by telling it every day!"
"You could tell that story a thousand times a day," Merry said, swapping his fork for his tankard. "And still we would not tire of it."
"Tell us one with dragons!" Pippin suddenly demanded. His elbow slipped, and Pippin was suddenly resting his head against the table, his fork and food forgotten. "I heard," he continued, still not lifting his head, "that there are dragons in the Shire!"
"There are none," Frodo informed him, placing a hand on Pippin's back to make sure he had not hurt himself, but Pippin seemed perfectly content to appear unconscious and started singing softly to the wood he was faced with.
"Are you sure of that, cousin?" Merry asked, his own interest awakened, discreetly elbowing Pippin in the side to get him to sober up.
"What about elves? Are there elves?" Sam added.
"What's it like outside the Shire, I wonder," Pippin asked through the table. Frodo suddenly became misty eyed, and Merry, underneath the table, smacked Pippin rather hard on the leg; Sam blushed deeply, looking away towards the mayor and his advisors, taking a false interest in their discussion about random robberies in Buckland.
"I wouldn't know," he admitted, not noticing Merry's small scowl, Pippin's look of shock, and Sam's sudden interest in a rather bland wall. "Not unless I left the shire mys…"
"More ale!" Pippin cried, lifting his head up from the table.
"More ale?" Merry asked, confused. He bent down towards Pippin, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and whispered in an undertone: "Don't you think you've had enough? Are you going to tell him about the conspiracy too?"
"What did you say Merry?" Frodo asked.
"Nothing," he said innocently, pulling away from Pippin with suspicious haste. Sam started whistling in an attempt to look natural, but he didn't seem to realize that whistling was not a common practice in a tavern, and he seemed to stand out more because of it. Frodo looked towards him, confused by the behaviour.
"More ale," Pippin repeated desperately, waving his mug in the air to catch one of the maid's attention. "This mug is dangerously low!"
He continued to wave it in the air, the ale in it splashing onto the table as he did so. Frodo, looking really baffled now, just looked towards Sam to see if he was as confused as he, but Sam suddenly started whistling again. He tried Merry, who was trying vainly to look like nothing had happened. Frodo gave up.
"Pippin," he said finally, noticing that his tankard was far from empty. "Your tankard is perfectly full."
The tankard in Pippin's hand suddenly fell with a clatter, its ample contents washing over the cobbled floor. He froze, his hand still in the air as if the tankard was still in it. He looked down towards the rolling cup, but his arm did not lower. "It's not now."
Frodo cast a look at his companions again: Sam was running out of things to whistle at, Merry was really looking like he wanted to say some harsh things, and Pippin was acting so strangely that Frodo knew something wasn't right.
"Alright," he said simply, dropping his tankard heavily onto the table, his expression deeply serious. "What's going on?"
The others shot each other furtive looks.
"Going on?" Merry asked, his voice slightly worried, some invisible baton being passed to him. "Why, nothing is going on!"
The others nodded and mumbled in suspicious agreement.
"I know you, Merry," Frodo said. "I don't need you plotting things behind my back as well."
"Then you are safe," Merry replied. "We plot nothing."
"More ale!" Pippin cried.
Frodo gave him a long inquiring look. He didn't believe him, but Merry could be as stubborn as he sometimes. "I don't need you scheming," Frodo repeated. "Not when I've got my hands full with the Sackville-Bagginses!"
"Oh good grief, cousin," Merry said, reaching for his tankard again. "They aren't after you again are they?"
Frodo was not sure whether it had been deliberate or not, but the introduction of this new topic set off like a house on fire.
"They were," Sam said, breaking out of his whistling with a relieved sigh. "They seemed a bit upset about Mr Bilbo's instructions."
"They're upset about Frodo getting Bag End, don't you mean?" Pippin said, an annoyed looking maid trying to clean up the mess he had just made. Pippin ignored her. "It certainly took a while for them to do something about it."
"Two years," Frodo confirmed, sighing as if some heavy weight was upon him. "Two years of constant irritation! Honestly, if they come around tomorrow I will throw them out!"
"Oh, can I help?" Merry offered.
"Can I watch?" Pippin asked.
Frodo smiled weakly. "Perhaps you should." He rubbed his temples again, sighing with a deep exasperation that none could match.
"Come Frodo," Pippin said, slurring a little. "They don't deserve to be thought of now! Forget about them!"
"I will," he promised, "when they leave me alone."
The door to the tavern opened allowing a cold wind to seep into the room. Sam shivered from the icy breeze, and he turned in his chair to look at the culprits to his sudden discomfort. Frodo, who was still rubbing his temples, did not notice Sam's face pale, and Merry and Pippin look at each other, a consolatory look flashing between them.
Perhaps it was the darkening of Frodo's mood that prompted another shift in topic, or perhaps Merry was eager to press the constant change in hopes that Frodo would forget their earlier words; either way Merry placed a hand atop of Frodo's and lightly engaged him in conversation about Brandybuck hall. Frodo was no fool, and he knew a cover up when he saw one, but he trusted Merry's judgement and hoped it wasn't anything too important.
"Cousin," Merry said, stopping halfway through a tale about Doderic Brandybuck and his latest punishment, eyes focusing on something over Frodo's shoulder. "You said there were no dragons left in the Shire."
"There are none," he said, noticing his apprehension. "None for over one hundred years."
Merry leaned back in his chair. He looked towards the door and back again. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"It's just there is a dragon heading right for us," he said regretfully. "You'd better get Sting out."
"Wha-?"
He turned around, and behind him he saw Lobelia and Otho, coats being hastened away by a hobbit-lad of 10years. Frodo quickly turned back to face his friends so as not to be seen and he buried his face within his hands. "Oh why didn't I stay in Bag End?" he moaned.
Sam went to console his master, placing a hand upon his back in a sign of comfort and support, but the shrill voice from earlier that day intercepted any words that he could have given.
"Frodo Baggins!"
Frodo cringed, but in a flash his mask of endurance and polite acceptance was quick to cover up his true feelings. Conversation in the room became hushed, and even the Tavern owner seemed to be paying more attention to the scene than he was to the overflowing tankard in his hand. For the first time that night Frodo cursed the flickering amber light emanating from the fireplace and from the candles above them, wishing vehemently that they would all go out and leave him time to make an escape, or to cloak the burning stares of his neighbours that watched and judged every movement made.
He raised his head from his hands, took a very deep breath, and cemented the well-known and maintained mask upon his face. "Lobelia," he said in what he hoped sounded a pleasant manner. He turned to face her, trying to ignore Pippin's little gagging motions, and walked across the room towards her, his friend's pitying gaze following him. He greeted her in typical fashion, bowing as ever he did, but Lobelia had her own traditions, and her shriek was his only reward for his manners.
"What on Middle-Earth are you doing here!?"
"I was having a drink of course," he said lightly, smiling. He lowered his voice so as some of the more curious hobbits could not hear them. "I hope there are no ill feelings after today's earlier business."
Otho elbowed Lobelia, and she turned to shriek at him, but he mumbled something and she silenced, a grin across her face.
"There are none," Otho said, and Frodo started a little at his kind tone. "I'm sorry that we troubled you."
"Yes," Lobelia added, her voice transforming into the innocent tremble of a child. "I am very sorry about all that business. I beg your forgiveness."
She reached forward and clasped Frodo's own hand, and with the faintest flicker of her eyes towards her husband, brought it to her lips and kissed it.
The Tavern erupted with whispers and exclamations of shock. This was too much even for Frodo to understand, and far too much for his well placed mask to restrain. He stared at her, his eyes as wide as saucers as she performed the act, his mouth open in a silent "oh?". Merry and Pippin were faring less well; Merry, who had been tilting his chair to watch the scene had leant too far and fallen off; Pippin innocently asked why she was being nice as monsters didn't tend to be; Sam's face displayed no emotion, but he gripped onto the table tightly, as if expecting her to swing a table leg at his master at any moment.
She gently dropped his hand so it was free again, but Frodo could not hide all of the shock, and he still seemed surprised and bewildered. Merry was still watching from his place on the floor.
"There are no ill feelings at all, Lobelia," he said, coughing first into a cupped hand to get his voice to work. He silently bought back his other hand, and wiped the back of it upon his breeches so subtly that no one would notice, not that anyone in the tavern seemed to be functioning: The Tavern owner now stood in a gradually growing puddle of ale, and the denizens of Hobbiton looked on as if Frodo had grown an extra head. Even the warmth of the fire and candlelight seemed to have frozen.
He bowed to break the heat of unbelieving stares upon him and to gather himself rather than to be polite. "Perhaps you would care to join us?"
For a worrying moment Frodo genuinely believed they would accept, for Lobelia's eyes lit up like that of an unlawful cat's offered forbidden milk, and Otho smiled grimly, as if thrilled that he had offered.
"Thank you," Otho said loudly, and Frodo mentally cursed, "But I'm afraid we must be going back to our home. I'm afraid Lobelia is not feeling well-" Frodo could not help but wipe his hand upon his breeches again to rid himself of potential germs-"and we must return to the smial."
But Lobelia looked far from sick, and it was only after Otho spoke of her illness that she adopted the look of it. Frodo looked at her, his expression unreadable, and Otho deliberately stepped in his way, draping an arm over Lobelia's shoulder.
"It was all this business this morning," Otho apologized, gently rubbing his wife's back, Frodo looking at him in a calculating way. "She was most distressed, the poor thing, and she does not take well to such treatment."
Sam looked on the verge of saying something, but Frodo, seeing him in the corner of his eye, interrupted his input. "I meant no disrespect, and if I am the one to have caused this, I am deeply sorry."
Behind Otho, Lobelia gave a few show like coughs to the watchers.
"Now now," the mayor said, pushing his way forward through the crowd, stopping beside Lobelia and Otho, hands on his thighs as he leaned down to peer at Lobelia where she slouched. "Are we suffering from ill health, Mistress?"
"Alas, she is ill!" Otho cried, suddenly dramatic, clinging onto Lobelia like she may faint at any moment. Frodo took the time out of the spotlight to glance across to his friends to express his confusion, and they answered with similar shrugs of their own. "Ill… and she must be tended to."
"Oh my poor back!" she cried, hand suddenly flying to the base of her spine. "Oh, Otho!"
"Hush me dear," Otho soothed, but his eyes were locked onto Frodo, who tried to look sympathetic when all he felt was bafflement and suspicion. He heard Sam ask Pippin, "Why is she coughing if she has a bad back?" and had to struggle not to ask himself. However the tended whisper was almost like a shout within the silence for Lobelia heard it too, for suddenly she was hunched over, clutching her stomach. Frodo had the impression that he and his friends were the only ones to find this at least odd.
"Otho, dear, I don't feel well…the stress you know…"
"Of course," he replied, and the mayor tutted.
"You should take her home," he suggested, scratching his head a bit, the curls bouncing a little at the touch. "She needs bed rest. Perhaps a doctor?"
"No….no doctor…"Lobelia said feebly. "Home…"
"If only she had not been upset so…"
Frodo did not say anything: he did not trust himself to speak lest he say what he really felt. The Mayor looked at Frodo in a strange manner, as if silently pinning blame for the evening's interruption on him, but then he was talking to Otho again, and Frodo felt the need for a very stiff drink, silently promising himself that he would never ever leave Bag End again.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mayor," Otho said apologetically, one arm still around his wife and another making a grab for her coat from the small hobbit-lad from earlier. "I'm guessing that you wouldn't need this, what with the robberies going on at the moment…"
"Robberies?" Daisy Bramblebur who was seated at the door closest to the group asked in a voice filled with disbelief, small drink in her hand frozen in its ascent to her mouth. "Not in the Shire!?"
"I didn't think I'd see the day," Polo Bracegirdle, an aged hobbit who sat in the corner of the room with a pipe, input. "Robberies…"
Like a wave of fire over tinder the news spread, reaching the ones at the back of the room just seconds after the ones at the front. Suddenly the members of each table were huddled together, the heads so close that they formed a single layer of different colour hair.
"Aye," Otho agreed, enjoying the whispering all around him, Lobelia suddenly silent, as if listening. "I heard they have robbed many a family in Buckland, seeking riches and all sorts."
"But surely," Daisy continued, and Otho glanced at her in badly hidden annoyance, "not here? We don't have that sort of thing!"
The mayor came to Otho's rescue, his hands gently fingering the edge of his shirt in hesitation. "I'm afraid there have been reports of robberies," he confirmed, and the hobbits gasped, for hearing it from the mayor solidified the rumour. "Indeed," he said, turning so he saw everyone in the pub. "There have been a few, but nothing we can't take care of. I expect it will be over soon."
"Who knows who they will strike next?" Otho continued. He shook Lobelia a bit who started coughing again, as if she had forgotten that she was supposed to. "Yes, we should all be wary. I myself plan to stay home and protect my own possessions. I suggest," he carried on, and though he looked at several inhabitants in the tavern- the mayor, his advisors, and then, finally, Frodo- the young heir was positive that Otho lingered a little too much upon him. "We should all be wary."
"That is good advice," the mayor agreed, and suddenly Lobelia was coughing again, and Otho stood up straight. "We must be going, mayor. She needs rest. I will not leave her bed side till she is well again."
"As should be," the mayor complimented, pushing his way past Frodo who just stared in disbelief. "Be careful then!"
"Frodo?" Otho said, reaching out his hand. Frodo took it, ignoring the deep urge to physically assault his relative, and gave it a light shake, letting go as soon as it was possible without bringing attention to himself. "We forgive you."
Frodo smiled painfully, and he forced the rude words to the back of his head. "I thank you for it, and I wish your wife a quick recovery."
Otho steered Lobelia away through the door, her form now shaking and her back miraculously healed, and they disappeared into the darkness of the night.
TBC
In the next chapter Shelob becomes queen of Cirith Ungol and all bow down to her. On her horned head she wears a crown of silver and gold…wait…no she doesn't…but she should…(Ice begins to imagine said scene)
I'm really sorry that this chapter just went on and on and on…I meant to actually have Lobelia and Otho going to Bag End in this chapter but that is going to be the next one. The next chapter may be a while because I'm going to concentrate on the last part of my other story rather than this one. I'll try and write it ASAP.
Please tell me what you think about this fic. I'd most appreciate it!
Love you all!
Ice Princess