A Little Adventure

by Winter's Frost

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...

4. The Feast Of Bag End

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.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far:

Shirebound: Hello, me dear! Yes, I'm back, and this is the chapter where I'm really grateful for all the resources we Frodohealers have at our disposal. Again, not saying anything more….mwa ha ha. I would like to have Shelob in this story, I really would, even if it meant that she was just handing peoples coats back in the Green Dragon with a farewell hiss. Lobelia won't be turning into her any time soon, although the way she is acting all ready rivals the evil of the Spider Queen. Thank you so much for reviewing. I feel really honoured--and somewhat baffled, to be honest-- that someone as successful at writing as yourself can put up with this. You are a rare gem indeed. Wait…you're not a ring of power, are you? : )

Tathar: Yep, I'm back. I've had a very trying six months which has kept me away from the internet and writing in general. I didn't realize how much I missed it until recently and thought it would be best to start where I left off. During my dry period, Shelob very kindly tried to continue this story. Unfortunately after two days of pure concentrated effort she returned with a singular piece of paper that had "hiss" written on it, and even that was barely legible. Poor Shelob… we can't blame her for trying, can we? As with the S.B.s I beg you to tell me if they seem out of character to you. I can't learn from my mistakes if I don't know they're there.  I didn't know you were a Frodohealer…hee hee….hopefully you'll like the little accident at the end. It's not much, but I quite enjoyed writing it; and next chapter….well, I'm going to love writing that!

Fool of a Took: Aragorn's flea circus comes to every town in the end. I would have watched it myself had I the time and if Shelob hadn't wanted to eat people. I hear Gandalf and his party of magical tea cozies is winging its way here. I don't know about you but that makes me fell a little ill….I can assure you that the sky is blue, or at least from what I hear; In England we just seem to have a permanent quilt of stormy grey. You can just imagine Frodo and Lobelia being all lovey-dovey with each other: ("to the marriage-mobile Lobelia!") Shudder….Hmmm…I'll trade you some sharp items if you let me beat up Boromir with the skillet, and movie-verse Faramir, who makes me physically ill…(why, PJ, WHY?!) Perhaps even Shelob may reward you? She makes spiffing tea.

A Elbereth: Aw, thank you : ). I rewrote that chapter about four times until I was at least pacified by its "quality". I'm currently exploring a side of Frodo that I have never done before. It's actually quite hard to imagine him as anything else but the blue eyed, gorgeous, gentle hobbit we all know and love, but he certainly won't win this battle by being nice. He's going to have to beat the S.Bs at their own game.

Chapter four: The Feast of Bag End

Bag End was at that moment dark and unwelcoming. No light dwelt within the smial nor did any moonlight fall through the many windows; everything was wrapped in shadows, thick and gloomy, and the very air, still and stale, was filled with evil whispers and the silent screams of trespass to any that dare enter.

Lobelia was such a hobbit but no doubt or hesitation could find guilt in which to take root. The darkness did not irk her and she wrapped it around her bony frame to darken her appearance against any eyes that may watch. She could not see well, but she daren't light a candle, and she clumsily followed a mental map that was proving fast out of date. She collided with a few objects that were disguised to her in the darkness, each rattling woodenly as she quickly silenced the offending item, but all in all she was feeling wonderful. Finally, after much turmoil, she would finally get what was hers.

A warm feeling exploded within her heart and seeped to the very ends of her fingers and toes as she clambered off the window sill. Oh how Frodo Baggins would rue this day! No better revenge could she think of nor any reward more deserved. She would collect what was hers from her enemies, delivering a delicious but unseen blow to that which she hated most, and he, ignorant and foolish, would be left to weep at the chaos she was due to cause. She could almost hear the incessant proclamations of confusion at the suddenly emptier smial, could see the baffled look on his face as he stroked the empty shelf that one held so much, could feel the satisfaction of knowing she had finally got one over the irritating little worm. Oh, how she would love to see his face when he found out…

"I'm in," she whispered; a gloating statement she could not resist.

In her mind she had all ready won. She had barely entered the smial and all ready she considered the mission complete and a success. Adrenaline had ripped the controls out of reason's hands, holding at bay the fear that she had moments before been feeling. With a swift smirk she stepped forward, arms outstretched, fingers groping the darkness, when her knees collided with something, knocking her off balance. Fear once again became her pilot and it commanded her to try to do everything at once: grab the chair that had tripped her before it fell and made a noise, and regain her own balance and confidence that her been shattered in that moment. With one hand being instructed to do one thing, and her right arm circling in a desperate attempt to restore stability, she ultimately failed to accomplish either task, and she fell with a thud just as the chair clattered to the ground.

There was a sudden burst of light and a short lived fizz, and the shadows that had betrayed her ran and hid behind the furniture. She looked over her shoulder, amazed to see that Otho had entered the smial without her knowing, and even more amazed at the flickering candle within his hand. In the light she realized how stupid she must have looked and she did not like the feeling this brought.

"You idiot!" she hissed, covering the humiliation of her position with rage. "Put it out! They will see!"

"And so shall we," Otho retorted, bending down to pick the chair that had tripped her, twisting it until it appeared undisturbed. "There is much I wish to take and I will not be denied by silly shadows."

Lobelia grumbled as she picked herself up. She lightly slapped her hands against the hem of her dress.

"Come," Otho commanded.  He took another candle and lit it, then passed it to the still grumbling Lobelia. "Skulking in shadows will not avail us. Light any room you need to, but make haste! We can not stay for long. And remember to get the will."

She accepted the candle with out a word. Otho did not waste any time and he marched to the kitchen table and began perusing its contents with a critical eye. Lobelia, however, had her own quarry to gain.

There were many trinkets and treasures of fancy that Lobelia hastened to, prioritizing their capture over the less ornate assortments that faded as the candle drew past them in her haste around the smial. Being of picky nature she had not taken much on her initial circuit (a few small vases, the odd pieces of cutlery, a couple of ivory figurines and pictures of great beauty so far dominated her arms and pockets) and still she had much room to fill. She always stopped dead when the candle light caught the rim of some gold artifact, or the shimmer of silver that demanded immediate examination.

Otho was favouring more practical things, though he subjected them to his scrutiny before he pushed them into his pocket. Occasionally she would hear him tut from the other room, obviously unhappy with the deterioration of an object he would have otherwise taken, then a series of clangs as he swept the shelf clear of all the things he didn't want. But while he had much to ascertain, Lobelia was getting more and more frustrated; she could not find a good deal of things that she had wanted, and the will still hadn't been found.

It had been Otho's idea to take the will. Somehow he had known that she had lied about Frodo losing it and he had ordered her to find it above all else. He had yet to explain his actions but Lobelia did not question them; she trusted him enough to get an explanation when they returned home.

She didn't know where Frodo may have stored it though, and randomly she went to the library and inspected the large amount of paperwork she found there, one hand patting blindly, pausing only to slide her fingers down the spine of a book that looked like it had something to hide. She placed the candle upon the tiles and knelt down beside it. She began digging at the lower shelves, hurling the books over her shoulder, not caring too much when they crashed against the opposing wall. But she did not find the will.

She retraced her footsteps into the main corridor, and sat down on what looked like a bench to decide which doorway looked most likely to give her what she wanted. By accident her hand struck the wood as she sat, and before she cursed and popped her smarting knuckles into her mouth to dull the throb, she stopped dead, and looked down at the bench with excited suspicion. Gently, she rapped her knuckles against the side of the bench-- once, twice, three times--until her smile was so big her face was in danger of splitting.

"It's hollow."

Like a whippet she leapt off the bench and began searching the overlapping rim of the cushions on the wood. Her fingers fumbled against some form of catch, and with a triumphant smirk she pressed it and heaved open the lid.

On retrospect it was an anticlimax. She had expected this to be the home of countless riches, of legendary treasures that had supposedly slept within the walls of the Baggins' home, but instead it was mostly filled with scrolls and documents; only the faintest glimmer of gold seemed to wink at her amongst the papers. 

Never the less she piled into the contents, shoveling the parchments out from their home and throwing them to one side with but a perfunctory glance at their content. She tossed scrolls and parchment to one side, fingers searching the bottom of the chest as they struck it, desperately seeking something of worth that would explain why this chest was so well disguised as an ordinary bench.

Her fingertips finally faltered onto an envelope, tucked away into the very corner of the chest, its suspicious position and seeming heavy weight telling her it was worth investigation. She picked it out and inspected it, sliding her fingertips over the slick surface of a red wax seal she did not recognize. Perhaps this was the will? Curious, she slid her finger nails under the seal, then, with a quick snap, opened it.

She had expected some document of great importance, or at least some map that promised to lead to greater treasure than she could dream to own; perhaps some glittering giant that held such pure beauty and expense  it had to be concealed by the grubby paper she had found it locked in. But there was nothing in the envelope but for a solitary golden ring, jeweless, dully tarnished and completely unimpressive.

She opened the mouth of the envelope wider to check the corners. Nothing.

"A ring?" she asked in mild disgust once she was sure the envelope was bereft of any other treasure. "And not a nice one either! No jewel at all! Hideous!"

She closed the envelope, prodding the wax seal back into place. She sat in contemplation for a few moments, pondering whether to throw the dismal thing back into the chest and to resume her search for items more appealing to her taste. She shrugged and slipped it into her pocket, thinking that she could probably find a use for it later.

Her mission in mind she returned to ruffling the papers on the floor, and finally found another envelope, this time with a green wax seal. She snapped it up, and again sawed into it, breathing a deep sigh of relief when she saw twelve signatures, and the tell-tale title of "Will". Relieved at her discovery she popped the envelope securely in with the other one, her hand on her heart in pure blissful relief. She sighed, and began throwing things back in the chest.

Unlike Otho who seemed to be enjoying making a mess, Lobelia's tidy nature demanded that she return some of the things she had evicted. She bent down and picked up one of the scrolls, curiosities making her unroll it and look more in depth at the content. She had enough time to gather that it was a map and to notice some of the queer sounding towns that were marked on it when a clatter of keys just outside Bag End's front door made her stop.

Frodo had come home.

Fear returned full force, reminding her none too gently that she was breaking all sorts of laws, whilst common sense and reason prompted her to find, preferably quite quickly, a better hiding place than the corridor immediately in front of the main door where anyone could find her, light or no.

It was primal instincts that finally broke her free from the paralysis of indecision. She flung herself into action, pinching out the candle just as the door unlocked. Again she froze for a moment, unaware of what to do next. She could run to the kitchen, warn Otho and then…?

Primal instincts kicked in again. She flung herself into the nearest doorway, landing ungracefully into the swallowing darkness with nothing more than a few dull thuds. The door opened, allowing a cold breeze to tumble into the smial, and then The Master of Bag End entered his home.

"Thieves!"

Lobelia froze. She daren't move, even to curl against the darkness of her hiding place, which suddenly seemed quite insufficient.

"Thieves, they say!" The Master of Bag End walked past her doorway without even a glance, stopped, and then paced back the other way. "Honestly!" He stopped directly in front of her room. Lobelia crushed herself further into the wall, waiting for the outcry when he noticed the mess the smial was in.

 "Thieves…" Frodo continued to grumble, his feet thumping lightly as he paced back and forth in the corridor. "Honestly, what will they think of next?"

Lobelia breathed a silent sigh of relief. From what she could gather he was continuing a conversation with himself, and about them, if she was right. He really was an idiot. Even with all the mess she had made he still hadn't cottoned on.

He began pacing again, and Lobelia noticed too late the trail of figurines directly underneath his feet…

His foot struck, and the tiny hobbit figurine skimmed across the floor, stopping with a clank as it hit the open chest.

 "What the…"

Her heart gave a painful palpitation. In her hurried escape she had had no time to try and dim the evidence that stood out like the moon in a starless night, her instincts catapulting her into safety before she had time to even think about doing what her body had all ready done. The way the figurines had fallen had done nothing to blur the direction in which she had gone. She may as well have left him a giant arrow.

She could see him in her minds eye, head tilted as realization made itself known, deep blue eyes skipping from corner to corner to locate anything out of the ordinary. From the sound of his footsteps he was slowly retreating towards the door, and mentally she told him to run, to flee to get aid as most normal hobbits would, giving her and Otho time to escape. She waited to hear the telltale creak of the hinges as the door was opened.

She heard nothing. Then light flared within the corridor, and something wooden was plucked from the wall.

He reappeared again, candle trembling in his hand, something long flung over his shoulder, and face set in grim determination. Lobelia had enough time and vehemence to curse his bravery, before he dawned in the doorway, eyes probing the darkness.

He walked right past her hiding place without even a glance.

Lobelia gave a huge sigh of relief as he padded away to a more comfortable distance. She shuffled forward, wincing at the barely audible rustle as her dress slipped over the floor, then carefully peeped into the corridor.

Frodo was not to be seen.

She got up, gently, very gently, and softly padded her way into the corridor, light footed as an elf as she tip toed towards the door and sweet blessed freedom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anyone normally caught in felonious activity usually had the decency to feel either ashamed at their actions or panicked at their possible capture. Otho felt neither of these, for all he felt was pure annoyance as he heard Frodo mumble in the corridor. He snuffed out the flame of his candle between thumb and forefinger, the flame dying with a lingering, spitting hiss, wondering how it was that Frodo could have the cheek--no, the audacity--to return to his home when they were busy robbing it. Most people would have felt rather silly thinking such thoughts, but Otho had nurtured his hatred and contempt for his relative from the first moment he had met him, and he was downright insulted that Frodo had once again managed to materialize exactly when and where he had least wanted him. It was one of the many things that Otho hated about his relative, the other things mounting beyond memorable number. He had a good mind to bend him over his knee, adult or no, but he caught himself from leaving the shadows and beginning his tirade when he remembered that he, in the eyes of the law, was in the wrong. He was trespassing on land that apparently he had no right to, and it could be dangerous for his and Lobelia's position if they were caught.

He peered around the corner, snapping back as deep blue eyes turned in his direction. Frodo's shadow grew in his vision, the head giving birth to shoulders now, and he heard his relative give a suspicion riddled and slightly frightened "hello?".

Otho pressed himself further against the wall, eyes fixed on the ever growing shadow. It slipped closer to him in fluid yet measured paces. He could see the shadows caused by his legs now. Two more steps…

Frodo stepped fully into the light. He was armed, if a chipped walking stick could be considered armed, and he held it slightly elevated over his right shoulder. However it was not the walking stick that worried Otho, for as promising a weapon as it could be he knew all to well that one as clumsy as Frodo had no power to successfully wield it. No, it was the candle holder and its carry cradled in the open palm of the hobbit's left hand that stirred fear within him, that tiny flame that threatened to strip away the shadows of his disguise. If Frodo but turned one way, or stepped a little to his left, the shadows would dissolve under that simple spark, and Otho, undisguised save for the darkness, would be caught.

Frodo turned, and the dome of light that Otho feared slunk towards him. The shadows began to melt away. Frodo shuffled his walking stick on his shoulder in anticipation…

Suddenly there was a clatter, and Frodo's head snapped to look down the corridor just as the light fell onto Otho's face. The candle swung towards the corridor, jerking from side to side as he struggled to illuminate everything with its now feeble glow, and Otho was once again lost in the welcoming darkness of shadow. There was another clatter, and the desperate scraping of hands against a door knob that caused Otho to curse and Frodo to grip his walking stick more tightly. There was only one other person in the smial who could make that noise, unless any one else was hiding within the darkness. Otho did the only thing he could think of: he followed Frodo as he went to meet the intruder.

The sight he saw would have normally made him laugh had it not been the too close proximity of his relative. Lobelia had obviously made a dash for the door, and in doing so the things she had thrust into tiny pockets had fallen and cried as they struck the ground. She was now desperately fumbling with the door latch, from what he could tell of her faint outline, and was meeting little if no success.

The bravery that had prevented Frodo from leaving earlier was flickering now, for The Master Of Bag End hesitated at the scene. But not for long. He stepped forward confidently, candle outstretched as if it was his weapon and not the walking stick. The light rushed forward with him; all ready it was illuminating the pink fabric of her dress…

Otho had no choice but to act.

"Push it up, not down!"

It all happened at once: The door flung open just as Frodo spun on his heel, eyes wide with panic, walking stick descending unnoticed towards him...

But it hit thin air.

Otho rushed forward with a speed his aged bones normally would not permit, arm covering as much of his face as he could. Even though Frodo had missed him (unintentional though the swing may have been) he still blocked the corridor, barricading the only escape feasible in the circumstances. It was too far to run to get to the window, and even if he did make it he would not have the time to get through it before Frodo caught him. It was only a moment before realization dawned, before Frodo fully turned and saw the truth in the light of his candle.

Otho didn't remember thinking this through-- he just acted, adrenaline giving him the power and the will to push forward, and fear gifting him the blessed relief from all reason and common sense. He charged forward, shoving Frodo with a mighty elbow in the side, and pushed on, ignoring the startled cry and then its demise as flesh struck wood. He leapt over the doorstep, grabbed a hold of Lobelia who was fretting beside him, and together they sped into the welcome dark of the night, treasure clinking together as they ran. They looked over their shoulders regularly, half expecting to see the Master of Bag End in hot pursuit, walking stick flashing in a forecast of future punishment. But Bag End was an indistinct speck now, and no creature had it bore into the night save for them.

Lotho greeted them upon their arrival home, and was then harshly snapped at and ordered to lock the doors, draw the curtains, and then pretend to be fast asleep in his bed. As for them, Lobelia and Otho sat down as their son went about his orders and they did not even speak until the hour hand of their clock had completed one rotation and were sure the danger had passed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo awoke slowly, his eyelids struggling against a foreign sense of fatigue, his body cold where it lay on the floor. His eyelids cracked open, giving him a thin vision of a skirting board and pieces of broken crockery and figurines. He dragged himself up slowly, unable to recall why he had fallen asleep in a nest of treasures and at that moment feeling too ill too care. With an effort he managed to sit up, feet sweeping away a few figurines as he forced them sluggishly to a more comfortable position He was feeling horrible. His body ached from where it had lay prone against freezing tiles, his muscles, particularly his legs, were ruffled with throbbing cramp, and his head felt as if it had been trapped in a vice and squeezed until pain dominated all else. Trembling with the effort he raised his fingertips to a particularly tender spot on his temple, wincing as they sunk into a warm, tacky, substance. He was not at all surprised to see blood on his fingertips when he lowered his hand.

Groggily he slumped against the wall, giving his trembling muscles a reprieve from holding up a body that wanted to do nothing but sag like a sack of potatoes, hands desperately gripping onto a support beam to still the rocking motions the world was making. He tried forcing his thoughts into a more linear pattern, pushing ideas and suspicions until they formed a weak correlation that would explain why he had woken up injured, on the floor, and surrounded by smashed and broken crockery. He hadn't been drunk; he had trained himself long ago to fall into bed regardless of the alcohol level in his bloodstream, and even when he had lost all sense he would not trash the smial in such a way.

He closed his eyes, half tempted to fall asleep and drift in a sea of ignorance a moment longer.

"Push it up, not down!"

The memory smashed into his mind without warning, a mental flash of himself and two others in the smial locked in some conflict he could not recall. He opened his eyes a crack, squinting at the treasures littered broken and chipped upon his floor. The words of the mayor rung hollowly in his head, another fragment of that evening dug up from beneath the layers of confusion.

"Robbed?"

The door was open, wide open, groaning on its hinges as it rocked against then towards the breeze as air currents moved in and out the smial, pulling and pushing flapping scrolls and parchments in its tidal movements.

"Push it up, not down!"

Frodo winced, his temple blossoming with pain as a cold breeze swept into the tender cut. He removed his hands from the beam and spread them on the floor, one hand either side to support him as he tried to figure out where his strength had gone. A cold numbness was beginning to come over him, like the coming of ice as it crept over the surface of a lake.

He had been robbed. Him. Here. And that alone didn't make any sense. Otho's words drifted into his mind. He had known about the robberies in the Shire. Had he expected this? Was that why they were acting so strange? Had they known he was going to be a victim?

Frodo's head lolled to one side, his gaze stopping on an open chest surrounded by scrolls. A thought struck him, cold and cruel.

Had they something to do with it?

He looked again at the broken figurines, at the crockery that had been spilt, at the picture frames dumped onto the floor, at the glints of gold or silver in the light from the one surviving candle.

And that voice….

It had sounded like Otho had given that order. It had been someone wearing his clothing that had shoved him into the cabinet and knocked him unconscious. And Lobelia…she had been wearing a pink dress in the tavern, just like the one revealed by the candle upon the body of the thief he had found scrambling to escape.

Everything fell into place, like a jigsaw that, when completed, surprises you because it doesn't look like you think it should.

That was why they had left the Tavern; that was why Lobelia had pretended to be ill: they had decided to take what they considered theirs. But surely they couldn't get away with it? It was too risky, too…

Otho's voice floated into his head again, his slimy words telling everyone about the robberies in Buckland. Of course everyone would assume that he had been robbed by thieves. How lucky, Frodo mused, that Otho had the opportunity to tell them.

But still Otho could not prove that the items were his? Frodo had his will and an extensive list of the present he had been ordered to dish out on Bilbo's departure. As long as he had those he could prove that they had robbed him, assuming they had kept the things they had stolen.

A loose parchment was caught in an up breeze, and it hovered temporarily over its brothers, landing only when it collided with the open chest.

The chest…

Frodo eyes widened, and he crawled forward, suddenly tearing at the parchments that lay littered on the tiles. Maps were tossed over his shoulder in panic, collections of Elvish poetry and stories flung aside in his haste. After the last parchment was inspected with fumbling hands and discarded, landing with a flop somewhere behind him, Frodo plunged his hands into the chest, hands scrambling through the few remaining things that hadn't been disturbed.

The will was gone.

Frodo slumped against the chest and rested his head lightly upon the lip. The parchment that had reminded him of the chest floated upwards and knocked repeatedly against his leg. Frodo stared at it, and as he did a tiny seed of hope was unearthed under the choking sands of despair.

The list!

Bilbo's will contained everything that Frodo had been left when he had departed and, true enough, without it he could not prove that the items had been left to him in the first place. But there were some items that everyone knew lay in Bag End alone (crystal crockery, figurines of finest ivory, painted splendors of Elvish make) and as Frodo inspected the bare walls and shelves he realized with a trembling smile that they had been foolish enough to take them. Of course the Sackville Bagginses would retort that he had given them as gifts, but with this list he could prove that he hadn't, and their relationship was so well known that no one would believe Lobelia if she said he had given them to her as gifts at any other time than Bilbo's departure.

It was a small chance, but at that moment it was all he had. But then Frodo remembered the true nature of the Sackville-Bagginses. They had never allowed him into their home before this, and they certainly wouldn't now, especially with his treasures dotted around the smial. He slumped again, head lolling into his chest. Their home was guarded by dogs as ferocious as Farmer Maggot's, and the ever present wall of neighbours and visitors. They would be extra vigilant after this. There was no way he could even get into the smial to prove that they had his things at all, and by the time the mayor may have conceded to his accusations they would have hidden them from view.

Frodo groaned, his headache returning full force as despair swept over him. There was nothing he could do.

Unless…

Hope returned again, brighter and stronger than before.

He could use the Ring.

Gandalf may have told him not to have done so, but as far as Frodo was concerned he didn't think the wizard would begrudge him using it on this one occasion. Besides, Bilbo had used the Ring without any dire consequence, and the wizard so far hadn't really offered an explanation as to why he shouldn't do the same.

He sat upright, excitement flooding through him. It was almost like this was his own little adventure, a secret tale that he would tell to his grandchildren in the late winter to rouse them into fits of giggles and excited squeaks. The image was so rich that he could almost hear the children's laughter as he told them how he had outwitted his evil relatives, and could see the pairs of shining joyous eyes that looked up at him as he teased their excitement to the very limit. It was perfect! The Ring would make him invisible even to the dogs that prowled ceaselessly around the borders of their home, even to the curious eyes that burned from every window and could notice a leaf fall from a league away…

He scrambled to his knees. He would do it now, while it was still dark and the noise he would make would go lost in the darkness. He pushed himself upright, teetering as a dizzying fog descended thickly upon him. He had to get to the envelop Gandalf had sealed it in, stamping the wax with the G rune to remind him of its content. He had stored it safely, just as Gandalf had told him, hidden in the chest he had painstakingly disguised as a bench…

A cold fear swept over him. His gaze returned to the chest. It was mostly empty now, save for a few gold coins.

"Oh no…"

Frodo rushed forward, unmindful of the pain in his head. He fell to his knees, breathing erratic as he plunged both hands into the open space. The few remaining lodgers of the chest were dug out. He kept telling himself that they couldn't have known about It, that they wouldn't have taken It, that It was still there, temporarily hidden amongst the papers and his blind panic. He continued to dig, a pleading groan escaping his lips as the chest became emptier and emptier.

His hand hit the bottom of the chest with a magnified thud. He skirted the edges without success, then leapt at the few random envelopes on the floor, shaking hands groping for that familiar feel of metal… 

One after another he clutched them, dropped them when they failed to transform into what he sought, eyes already probing the tiles for another to inspect, his heart and mind pleading to see that familiar circle of gold. But there were no more envelopes to inspect, and the realization sent ripples of ice through his body.

"Please no…"

But there was no mistaking the envelopes absence. The G rune was impossible to miss, the content of the envelope heavier than all save for the Will.

It was gone.

Frodo fell onto his backside and crawled away, half expecting Gandalf to rise from the chest and turn him into a toad at his failure. And failed he had, most spectacularly, even after everything Gandalf had made him promise, even after all the warnings the wizard had both hinted and declared, even though all he had to do was make sure he had kept It safe…

And then shame and anger at his own inabilities descended, and the prospect of an angry wizard lost any significance or meaning.

What would Bilbo say if he knew that Lobelia had taken his magic Ring? It had been precious to him. Frodo couldn't imagine what a sacrifice it must have been for him to have given it up, surrendering it into the hands of his careless nephew.

Frodo choked, despair crawling into his lungs, his labored breathing struggling further under the panic of loss.

Bilbo, his dear, trusting uncle. He had trusted him to guard his estate, to become the blue blooded Baggins that he himself had failed to be. He had gifted him with the treasures he had fought so hard to attain-- gone through so much to earn-- and all he had asked for in return was his pure, devoted love, something that Frodo had given him long before he had asked for it. But Frodo had created his own promise in his first night as the Heir to Bag End, though it was stored safely unspoken within his heart: he would not disappoint Bilbo, or waste the many sacrifices that he had made in his name. He would guard Bag End and all Bilbo had left him in tribute to his memory. It wasn't much, but Frodo could not think of a better way to honour his surrogate father.

In his life Frodo had tried to please his uncle, desperately seeking acceptance in a world where he had found none; and Bilbo had given it to him, unquestioningly, taking him as an heir and providing a life he would not have otherwise had. So much had Bilbo done for him, so much had he sacrificed, and so far Frodo had yet to return the favour.

Both Bilbo's and Gandalf's trust had been misplaced. He had failed them both within only a few short years. What would they say if they saw him now, broken and alone in the ruins of the home they had painstakingly created? What good would he be in an adventure if he broke down at the smallest obstacle, shying away from the blunt pain of shame and defeat? He was a failure, pure and simple, just as everyone in Brandybuck Hall knew him to be.

Frodo stared unseeingly at the picture of Bilbo the Sackville Bagginses had left behind. The loss of the Ring confirmed everything everyone had ever said about him: he was useless, untrustworthy, a waste of space, a mathom that was not easy to remove. Only two adults had ever dared to go against the overwhelming tide for Bilbo and Gandalf both seemed certain he was worthy of the seeds of trust they planted in him: Bilbo his magic Ring, and Bag End; and Gandalf the hope that he would keep It safe. But he had failed, and he could feel the ties of trust wither and strain under the disappointment, the light of their love dying under the now validated words of his harsh relatives:

"Useless, completely useless. Even Daisy can do better than that and she's barely above your knee! No don't touch it! You'll only ruin a perfectly good quilt. I'll have to do it now."

"Oh get out of the way Frodo! Go bother someone else!"

"I wouldn't trust him if I were you. Esma doesn't think it's a good idea and frankly neither do I."

And Gandalf…

He could picture the look of anguished disappointment on the wizards face as he stuttered his apologies, the faint shake of his head and the clink of his staff as he left the smial, never to return. He could almost hear the rich, deep voice of the wizard:

"Oh, you lost it? Dear me, perhaps Bilbo was wrong about you? Can't bear the thought that I'm going to have to tell him when I see him. Dreadfully disappointed of course, but then he should have picked better hands to guard his goods."

Through the flames of shame and disappointment the Ring represented all of this: his fears, and the validity of past insults. If only he could get it back, then he could prove that he wasn't as pointless as everyone screamed he had proved himself to be….

He didn't care about the will any longer, and the bare shelves of his home no longer struck a chord within his heart. They had taken Bilbo's Ring, the symbol of the trust that had been placed upon him by hobbit and wizard, and there was no way he could get it back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not long until Shelob now…Did we all hear the oblique reference at the end of The Two Towers? That has to keep me going for twelve months that does! It's all right though; Shelob's day will come and I will be there with my "Go shelob!" flag when it does.

Sorry it took me absolutely ages to write this. I'm afraid I (insert pathetic excuse here). I'm sure you can understand. (Ice looks around shiftily)I haven't the faintest idea when the next chapter will be up so I won't lie to you and pretend that I do. I'm not very happy with this chapter so feel free to give me criticism, preferably of the constructive kind.

Thank you (and well done : -) )for reading!

Lots of love,

Ice Princess