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, Tolkien enterprises, and New Line Cinema. I make no money from this Fan fiction and do not claim to own anything except a bettered sense of self esteem.
Shirebound: Your comments always bring a smile to my face and I love you so much for it! As for Frodo being home during the robbery… I'm in the Frodohealers group just as you are and it would just be wrong if I didn't have some form of accident happening within the smial. It's not going to be anything serious of course, but I just couldn't resist putting it in. Frodohealer to the core, lol!
Tathar: We can all be ill! Everyone here dislikes Lobelia at the start of the books, don't they? Horrible woman! I'm trying to keep the S.Bs in character as much as possible, but it is quite hard considering what they are all ready doing. I'm a bit concerned that the characterization will go out the window (as it usually does with my fics) but I will try to keep them as accurate as possible. You'll tell me if I don't, right? I need criticism, and possibly chocolate cakes.
LOTR Sparkling Pippin: Yay! Blessed by Shelob? Great! Does that mean she will stop hiding in my slippers and scaring the Hell out of me when I put them on? Maybe I could use her against my enemies? Go, Shelob! Go! No, not towards me! Bite someone else! Thank you for your comments, but again it was Nicole Sabatti who actually had the idea. I really wish that I could say I have my own plot ideas which are decent, but I can't because I don't. Hmmm…can I steal some from you? Pretty please with Shelobs on top? Okay, perhaps minus the Shelobs…
Fool of a Took: My sharp objects! Mine, I say! I had to break several people's backs to get these! The psychiatrist says that I should give them back but I'm happy with my crayola scissors as weapons. Besides, it keeps Shelob in check when Sam isn't around. Lobelia was "ill" in the last chapter for the reasons discussed in this chapter. You may find they don't make any sense, or that they don't actually relate to the story at all, i.e, the sky is blue, or Aragorn runs a flea circus…(Ice looks around)silence Ice, you've said too much…(Ice rocks back and forth with her scissors)
Elven Pickle: Shelob is great and I won't hear a word said against her! I do know about Lotho (I mixed him up with Otho at the beginning) but I haven't really thought of a way to put him in. To be honest, he might not show up in this fic at all because he's just not important to the plot as it stands at the moment. Once more, Nicole Sabatti is the one who had this idea, or at least the most important part to the plot which we haven't got to yet. I won't say anymore lest I ruin the surprise….tee hee hee…thanks for your kind words. I reward you with biscuits! (Ice rams biscuits into the computer) Come on, you! Hmmm….fire…
Chocoholic: I hope it wasn't another GCSE down the pan, unless it was a pan of A+s! When I was at school I always found relating topics to obsessions (did I say obsession? I meant mild interest) always helped me to revise. In fact, I think my entire maths exam was just Link going around saying "Now, if I have three arrows and shoot two, how many am I left with?" Ice then wrote "Down with Ganon" as her answer so maybe it isn't a good thing after all. Come to think of it, my entire religious education exam was a Harry Potter lecture with Snape, and oddly I got full marks for that. But you said GCSE which means you're British doesn't it? Yay! Another person stuck in a rain drenched country! We are kindred spirits! Lol.
LOTR Sparkling Pippin: Hello again, me dear! I'm really sorry that it took so long to actually get this chapter up but I've had other fics that I've had to concentrate on (You know who you are!). I can actually concentrate on this one now so there shouldn't be any more distractions or delays. Shelob will eat me if there are.
Tiggovon: Hmmm, I'm not sure you should be glad that I've started to write another story…I can't write, you see? Maybe Shelob should come and sit on them? She has to do something in between torture time. Frodo is definitely not going to have any fun with this fiction; in fact this is going to be a nightmare for him. You'll find out why in chapter four/five, or at least that's the plan.
Tiggovon: Hello again! I think Shelob could come to the shire if she really wanted to and if she wasn't busy lurking in shadows (she has a busy shadow-lurking schedule, don't you know?). As for Frodo realising it's the S.Bs…read on! Thank you very much for your wonderful comments. It makes it all worth while!
Chapter three: Justified Suspicion
Acting was not a common practice within the Shire and the demand for those who displayed talent (those few being too small in number to ever consider comprising their own society) usually lived their life without ever sharing the gift that they were born with, usually confining their uncountable skills to the rare plays that happened annually to celebrate some great event. However, Lobelia Sackville Baggins was not a good actress, but from the way her husband praised her as they catapulted from the Green Dragon, you'd think that the fiery maiden could convince a Balrog to give her its whip or for a dragon to relinquish its gold without question or attack.
"Wonderful performance dear!" he praised, clapping strongly as they paced quickly but surreptitiously towards Bag End. "Honestly, I was blown away by such a magnificent performance! Brilliant! Excellent!"
"I was good, wasn't I?" Lobelia admitted, fanning herself with her hand to lessen the exertion of her performance, Otho nodding so hard in agreement that he looked like he was suffering from continual stomach cramps. "But Otho, was it really necessary? All of those people were glaring at me. Could we not have just left the tavern?"
"I dare say we could have," Otho agreed, glancing over his shoulder towards the lantern lit doors they hurried from. "But it was too much of a risk. That good-forsaken hobbit and his horrible friends have unknowingly given us an opportunity we can not miss! With Frodo out of the smial there is nothing to stop us getting what is rightfully ours!"
"That was no reason for my never the less astounding performance, Otho. We could have just turned on our heel and left." She wiped her mouth with her gloved hand in mild disgust, grimacing at the germs her discrimination had created. "I hope never to kiss such an abused hand again!"
"That was a little too much, Lobelia," Otho replied in an oddly stiff voice. "I never asked it of you."
Lobelia's mouth formed a horrible grimace that she liked to call a smile. "I had to make my sentiments look genuine, dear. People were watching and it would do us no good to give them reason to suspect us."
She looked over her shoulder. Refusing to compromise her walking speed for the important surveillance, she stumbled a little, side stepping as she tried to discern if they were being followed. Otho copied her motions, occasionally dropping so he walked at a right angle, his face pressed as close to the ground as he could get it.
"We must appear on good terms with the scoundrel," she continued, her tone indicating how she felt about doing such a thing. "People may assume our involvement if we do not."
"Still, it was a little much."
"Jealous, Otho?" She asked innocently, battering her stubby eyelashes at him. "Of a dirty orphan?"
Otho jumped up from his semi crushed position, springing from the ground with a suddenness that looked both stupid and suspicious. "Course not!" He promised her, shaking his head furiously, but he grabbed her hand anyway, wrapping it within a grasp that tightened when he checked the tavern over his shoulder.
"What other reason were there for my excellently acted illness? I got the impression there was more than one," she said after a moment of awkward, stumbling silence.
Otho nodded. "As perceptive as usual, my dear. Dimple Shallowdown was at the bar and what with your, er, introduction to our relative, he had seen us."
He hesitated, stealing himself for some rampant repercussion for daring to offend her wife, but Lobelia only answered his words with a swift nod, concentrating more on her hurried pacing than an opportunity to start an argument.
"He would not have let us leave until he'd bragged to us about his family's insignificant wealth."
"Vulgar man," Lobelia expressed. "Completely horrid."
"Your illness was our escape clause," he explained, pointlessly dipping down again as they approached the path that led to Bag End. "It was also a very good opportunity to spread the news."
"Indeed," Lobelia agreed, smiling grotesquely. "Very convenient."
They stopped at the very bottom of the path, both their heads swivelling on their shoulders to check for any signs of life which may thwart their plan, but as they expected it was only the darkness of the night which met their worried gaze.
"The whole of Hobbiton is aware of the robberies now," Otho said breathlessly, a smile growing as he stared at the darkness that lay undisturbed within the smial. "It would be a shame to leave their paranoia unsubstantiated." He tutted, shaking his head with counterfeit concern. "They all ready expect a robbery. Did you see them? OrangeBlossom Sandbanks kept looking at the window as if expecting someone to leap through it and steal her pearls!"
But Lobelia narrowed her eyes at his words, and her hands balled into worried fists. "Frodo wasn't fooled."
"No," Otho agreed. "But you certainly derailed and stunned him with confusion, dear." He squeezed her hand, once again expressing his pride and protection over her being. "By the time he figures it out we will be long gone. Besides, it matters not whether the unwanted orphan believed us or not. The mayor believes us and we have all the witnesses we need."
"Of course," Lobelia agreed, her gaze fixed upon the round green door. "No husband would dream of leaving his wife when ill."
"Ah, hobbit customs," Otho sighed, planting his fists upon his hips in silent gratitude. "We could not have done this without it."
"Tradition can be an excellent tool when one knows how to use it," Lobelia agreed, her own eyes roving over the smial as if it were a long yearned for luxury finally found within her reach.
"Aye, an ill wife would be bed-ridden, and her husband chained to her command."
"And thus is my command," Lobelia said, stepping forward. "Let us get what is ours!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Come on cousin," Merry prompted, shaking Frodo's arm as he sat like a rag doll-still and vacant looking. "It can't be that bad. They've gone now, and we should be celebrating that fact."
"She kissed my hand," he stated, still shell-shocked, the offending limb frozen in front of his face as he stared at it with disbelief.
"Aye," Sam agreed, his index finger circling the rim of his tankard as his mind mapped out possible explanations for what he had just seen within the intoxicating contents of the clay cup. "Perhaps her sentiments were true?" he tried, his finger pausing in its rhythmical circling, his tone spilling uncertainty.
"Honestly Sam!" Merry exclaimed with a depth of exasperation, Frodo now prodding his hand against the table to see if it still worked. "You see good in every body, even if there is none there to see."
"It could be true," he suggested, his gaze flickering from his cup to his companion, his own words weak with denial.
Pippin snorted in response, and Merry cocked an eyebrow; Frodo merely continued to gaze at his hand, twirling it in front of his face as he inspected every cell of offended flesh.
"It may be possible, sirs."
"It's a possibility that Orcs lie in the Shire, too," Pippin argued. "Doesn't mean it's true."
"Or ever will be," Merry added.
"I did not mean to speak out of place, sirs," Sam apologised quickly, a blush creeping over his face, his tone harsh with self incrimination. "I'm rightly sorry! Me gaffer says I'm always muddling me words and speaking out of turn. Why just the other day…"
Merry and Pippin listened to Sam's self criticisms with patience and a hint of amusement, finding the act more entertaining than the hobbits that had burst into song on the table next to theirs. Indeed they let the gardener continue for some time, allowing the criticisms to rain down without ever attempting to stop him, mindless of the way the gardener's denigrations grew more intense after each one was spoken. It was only when Frodo snapped out of his reverie when Sam scraped back his chair, bowing to them as he prepared to leave for his "horrible" and "unjustified" words that he intervened, realising his folly.
"Sit down Sam," Frodo ordered, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder to prevent him from leaving. "You have offended no one with your words, and even if you had we think too much of you to allow it to ruin the friendship we hold."
"But I spoke ill…"
"…of someone who deserves much worse, Samwise." Frodo argued. "Surely you have heard me mutter a thousand curses towards them, even when a memory is all that prompts me. You have forgiven me countless times for my poisonous tongue, and I certainly will not condemn you for speaking the truth as you just did." Frodo removed his hand from Sam's shoulder. Sam did not move, and Frodo took it as a sign that his words had been heeded, penetrating the thick layer of under-confidence that imprisoned a heart of gold. Sam smiled in return, but he shrunk into his chair, obviously now uncomfortable that his words had offended one of the three others.
"You may be right, my dear Sam; she may have been true, but my experience with them whispers that a plot is abroad- a plot that I can not even begin to fathom."
Even as he said it Frodo knew that his assumption was correct. He had experienced too many run-ins with the S.B.s to think any different. It would be like claiming the sky was green and the grass blue; it just wasn't right. He did not tell this to the others, anything he said of that nature now would be taken as criticism by Sam, and Frodo was eager to keep him away from that for as long as he could. Pippin at least was proving useful in that way, prodding Sam into conversation with a bright smile and a tightly wrapped and perfectly co-ordinated conversational lasso.
"Maybe she just wants to annoy you," Merry offered. "She has done little else these two years. Why change now?"
"I don't know," Frodo confessed.
Merry's hand hit his chest pocket, and his face lit up with glee as his fingers plunged inside and withdrew a small pipe, the other emerging with a collection of crushed tobacco leaves. He offered the leaves to Frodo, deliberately ignoring the small exclamation of joy from Pippin at the prospect of more intoxication, who nodded and began to locate his own pipe within his pocket, his brows furrowing as he failed to locate the most important component to his smocking pleasure. Rolling his eyes, Merry offered some of the leaves to Sam, who blushed and looked away, evidently wanting to take the mixture but not daring to affront himself further; but at the look he received from Frodo he relented, and with a barrowful of thank-yous he took a few grains of the leaf for himself.
"I would not worry cousin," Merry said, popping his pipe into his mouth and fumbling with a small match, Pippin now pouting within his chair for being ignored. "After all, in the end what can they really do?"
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Bag End was meant to be an impenetrable fortress according to rumour, but Lobelia and Otho had no trouble accessing the smial. The kitchen window had been left open a crack to allow fresh air to circulate, and Otho's fingers had been just thin enough to be wedged underneath the gap. Lobelia commented, as Otho yanked at the window frame, one foot planted on the wall as he pulled, that Frodo may as well have left them a key to the front door.
The window did not need much persuasion to open fully and with a swift leg up Lobelia was clambering most ungracefully through the hole, pampered finger nails scraping paint as she hauled her heavy dress through the space. Otho warned her regularly to be carefully from his guard-point, hands occasionally raised in a blind appeal as he swiveled his head to make sure they were not being watched. He needn't have bothered offering words of advice and support to his struggling wife, for Lobelia answered his request with the breaking of vases that lay on the window sill and unlady like expletives.
"Come on dear!" Otho whispered hoarsely, cringing as another valuable item fell to the floor with a crash that was like the roar of thunder. "We must hurry!"
"I don't see…" CRASH "…you…" SMASH "doing this."
She disappeared beyond the light of the moon, vanishing into the darkness that hung like a fog in the smial.
"I'm in," she whispered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You look a little bothered cousin. Is everything all right?"
Frodo dipped his head in a half hearted nod. Merry's gaze fell onto the meal Frodo had not finished and then at the tankard that had radically not been refilled within the past half hour. He gave a speculative "mmm" and then started sipping at his own beer, eyes fixed on Frodo over the rim of his tankard.
"You are looking a little unwell, Master." Sam added. "Do you feel all right? Can I get you anything?"
"I am fine Sam," Frodo assured, stopping the ascent of his hand to rub his throbbing temples and settling it instead on the table top with a structured grin. "I am well enough to cope."
But from their concerned expressions it was obvious that they didn't think he could. Even Pippin, usually so stubborn when pouting, had broken away from his temporary tantrum to spare him a look of pity. Frodo ignored them, and with an exaggerated sigh he tilted back on his chair, his fingers knitted behind his head as he gazed blindly at the ceiling.
"We should forget about them," Merry suggested, signalling the end of that topic of conversation. "It's not like they can really do anything." His tone changed to a lightly mocking one as he continued. "And you should tell us, dear cousin, why you never come to visit us anymore."
Frodo tilted his head so crystal blue eyes met warm brown. "I mean no offence," Frodo defended, hands returning to roving through fabric to find his pipe. "But I have found myself locked to Bag End recently. Bilbo left me much to do and I fear that my life will not be long enough to complete the tasks he set."
"Did he leave so much?"
"More than you can imagine, Merry. It is not easy being the executor of his estate." He fell into a nonchalant position, sitting with hands entwined and feet propped up against the table leg. "It's probably because of Lobelia," he said after a moment of thought, brows furrowing at the admission. "She's always blathering on about how she's going to break into the smial when I'm not there. She's said it so many times that I'm beginning to think it's true."
He pulled a shaky smile onto his face, displaying it to each of them in turn
"The things she said…" Sam mumbled, shaking himself, unable to rid himself of the occasion as freely as his companions. "What lies! Did you see her, Mr Frodo? That's an odd illness that she's got, if she's got one at all."
"I don't believe she was ill," Merry suggested, a hint of exasperation at the reintroduction.
"Nor do I," Frodo admitted. "It is a strange illness indeed if she can shout down a mountain troll one minute and not be able to speak another."
"She was faking it," Pippin told them, leaning so his chin was balanced upon his folded arms on the table. "I've faked illness before to get out of my chores and I can tell when someone is trying the same sort of thing."
"He learned from the master," Merry said, slapping Pippin across the back with pride. He then turned to Frodo, smiling affectionately, but his voice lightly mocking. "I learned from Mischief himself."
He blew a smoke circle at Frodo who swatted it lightly before it hit his face. "I didn't teach you how to skive," Frodo denied. "You were naturally so good at it that you didn't need to be taught."
"I just mimicked you," Merry countered. "I had plenty of times to study you after all. You made sure of that!"
Frodo smiled fondly at the memory, but quickly discarded it when he remembered that the impressionable Peregrin Took was his dining partner. "I was young," he offered in way of explanation, then cringed, knowing full well that although Pippin didn't appear to be listening you could be guaranteed that he would use that excuse first opportunity he got. "I know better than to shirk my duties now."
Frodo thought he heard Sam agree with him, but the weak words transformed into a cough at the look Merry gave him.
"I don't understand Mistress Lobelia," he said instead, avoiding Merry's gaze, certain he had offended the Brandybuck. "Why did she feign illness at all?"
"To get away from Frodo, of course." Merry said, taking a puff from his smoking pipe, evaporating Sam's fears with a smile. "Because she thinks he has Sting and would use it against her. Frodo would not put up with such dragons!"
"I almost didn't," Frodo admitted. "I was this close to throwing her out on her ear." He represented just how close with thumb and forefinger, and more importantly the minute gap between the two digits.
"Then you could lay claim to slaying a dragon after all," Merry said, smiling, his chair groaning as he leaned back upon it, feet slapping onto the table top. "Bilbo would have been proud."
"No sword would slay her," Sam input. "But it still seems a bit fishy to me. I mean no disrespect to Mistress Lobelia…"-"why not?" chorused the three others-" but I think she's acting odd. If she wanted to avoid Mr Frodo, why did she come here?"
"She wouldn't have known he was here," Pippin told him, shuffling forward and prodding at what was left of his now cold meal. "Cousin Frodo does not normally come to The Green Dragon on Bilbo's birthday."
Frodo sat in contemplation, allowing his friends to continue without him. After a moment he pushed back his chair, interrupting Sam's further comments about "the madness of relatives" and his own mental laughing that Sam didn't seem to remember that Merry and Pippin could fit into the category he was currently insulting.
"Frodo?" Merry asked, the pipe dangling from his mouth clipping his words. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Home," he answered shortly. "I feel tired and if I don't leave now I will get no sleep thanks to you two." He pushed his chair back underneath the table.
"Old timer," Merry murmured with a smile, propping his feet onto Frodo's vacant seat. "Did Bilbo pass some of his old age onto you to carry?"
"Goodnight Merry," he said, refusing to be drawn into an argument that would see him through the night and probably through several other taverns, and, more accurately, several more tankards of ale. "Goodnight Pippin, Sam."
"Goodnight Mr Frodo, sir."
"Night cousin! Don't let the bed orcs bite!"
Frodo departed, his head slightly bowed under the intense stares of the hobbits that watched his exit until the door closed behind his back. For a while he lingered outside of the door, and only when the drunken banter resumed-- though muffled now by wood and stone-- did he dare to relax, leaning against the Tavern door with a heavy sigh.
After the slightly claustrophobic conditions and stifling, muggy heat of the Tavern, the soft cold breeze of that autumn's night was a blessing against his slightly sticky skin. He tilted his head skywards, eyes fixed on the blinking and flashing of the stars against the deep pool of black that made up the sky. A thin silver sickle hung to his right, its weak light ebbing into the navy waves of the sky in which it swam. He breathed deeply, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His headache temporarily forgotten, he stared into space, but his eyes and mind were locked on the thoughts that seemed to be the cause of the throbbing pain within his head.
He had not been entirely truthful about his departure; he was not tired, and the thought of crawling from one tavern to the next on such a night to drown his worries was definitely an appealing one.
No, it was for the Sackville-Bagginses that he returned home.
Sam had been right about them not expecting him to be there, but turn and run was certainly not their style. Usually they would have made an extreme effort to make him uncomfortable, deliberately hanging around to annoy him until Frodo gave up and went home to get some peace. But today they had surrendered before they had even set the battle flag and that was hitherto unheard of and highly suspicious. Frodo, like Pippin, knew when to recognize a feigned illness, and by all accounts Lobelia's had been a pitiful attempt that should have fooled no one. If he had acted like that when a child no adult in their right mind would have believed him, and he would have been given extra chores along with his existing ones for his punishment. No, Lobelia had not been sick, and she certainly wouldn't run from him, so why had they left?
Frodo frowned at the stars. "Why does everyone keeps scheming?" he whispered tenderly, his words barely audible to him against the drunken din and crash of shattering tankards. He thought of Gandalf and his hurried last words that still made no sense, despite the number of nights he had turned them and replayed them in his mind; of Merry and his friends and the suspicious encounter with them just an half an hour previous; and the Sackville Bagginses, though they at least had the decency to act strange enough for consideration.
He pushed himself away from the door, gaze now lowered towards Bag End. He would worry about the S.B.s when he got home, and only then after a very stiff drink.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next Chapter: Shelob creates her own Ring of Power out of nougat. Meanwhile, Boromir and Faramir have a skipping contest to win their fathers love, and Eowyn learns the truth behind marmalade. Lucky woman….
The next chapter (which will, in reality, finally have the S.Bs in Bag End) will be up on Wednesday the 2nd April if all goes to plan. Shelob may also appear just because I like Her.
Thanks for reading!
Lots of Love
Ice Princess