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.

Important note: A trillion thanks to Dear Abbie who very kindly translated something into elvish for me. I highly recommend that you read her fic "I Fae", which is one of the most enjoyable stories I've ever had the honour of reading.

English translation of Elvish phrase: "Under dark shadow of despair alone is seen the light of the heart."

Sweet chocolaty cookies to all those who have reviewed so far:

Obelia Medusa: Me? An idol? Oh that won't do at all! I think you'll find I'm on the bottom of the evolutionary ladder where idols are beyond our capable thought processes. Besides, you can actually write, which is not something I can claim to do unfortunately. It has been difficult trying to maintain or even determine Lobelia's thought patterns, but in the end I just boiled it down to one simple fact:  she's a hobbit version of Shelob. But you don't have any problems with it. In 'The Making of a Ring bearer' I simply love Lobelia's arrogance as she just waltzes in, takes the spoons, emotionally damages Frodo and then swans off again ^-^. Frodo wasn't unconscious for very long at all, perhaps an hour or so. Sam, Merry, and Pippin reappear in this chapter because they've got nothing better to do. You may notice they have swapped personalities and that Pippin believes himself to be the guardian of all shiny things…I'll be quiet now. But thank you very much for your review. I really am so happy that people like this fic ^-^

Tathar: Hello again, me dear! I would have liked a bigger accident myself but it would mean making the S.B.s out of character. I don't think they'd ever intentionally injure someone. You guessed it was the Ring? Curse your intelligence! I do beg you to let me know if the characters start slipping. To be honest I don't know what Frodo looks like either- I don't think Tolkien actually described him at any point in the books.  I must admit that I mix book and movie verse Frodo into one here, having grown quite fond of both for differing reasons. All in all I prefer book-verse Frodo for his personality and movie-verse Frodo for his angelic looks, though I have definitely adopted some of Elijah's interpretations in the fic where possible.

A Elbereth: You are one of the nicest people I know. I'm afraid that my writing actually worsens by twenty-fold this chapter. Be warned. You want to write like I do? Are you delirious with fever? Well, if you insist: all you do is ignore every grammatical rule in the book and slap together a few sentences that really don't make any sense. Mix with shelobs for seasoning. Me dear, you are an excellent writer all to yourself. I've been trying to read a bit of everyone's work who has reviewed and am startled by the caliber I find within. You are no exception. I only hope this chapter lives up to your expectations in thanks to your kind and caring words. : )

Fool of a Took: Ah the tea cosies….where would the fellowship be without them? Up a proverbial creek without a paddle, I think. I'm glad I'm not the only one who hates movie-verse Faramir- It ruined the film for me when I first saw it.  I'll set Shelob on them when she manages how to work door handles. So Frodo is your son? Um, sorry about the whole setting Shelob on him thing…quite an accident…thought he was a postman…you know how it is…(Ice begins rocking). Tell his young friend Sam that Shelob would like her claw back and that she will pay him with shiny pennies of death. Much obliged

Bookworm 2000: Awww, blushing now :) Thank you very much for your review. I hope you like this chapter as much as the last one. But just out of curiosity how did you become afraid? For me it was when I was five and waking up to find a big black mother (in Britain a big black mother is about 3cms big) next to my head. But Shelob doesn't count. She's funny, what with her hissing fits and all.

Shirebound: You know I completely forgot about that aspect of the ring. I was trying to play down its importance and completely forgot about that in the process. Again, I can't thank you enough for pointing this out- I really do appreciate it. As I said before I'd rather know when I'm going wrong than not. Frodo's injury is going to be more relevant than you may think and than I originally planned. Besides, I'm not done torturing poor Frodo yet, and it's going to get worse before it gets better. Hee hee…I am evil… (Ice goes off to write the ultimately evil chapter six)

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Chapter Five: Light of heart

The panic that had governed all reflexes and thoughts drained away with the passing of time from the Sackville-Bagginses, dwindling insignificantly into the forgetful recesses of their minds where it could no longer serve as a beacon for the unwelcome foreigners of guilt and shame. Though their self-confidence and surety had trembled upon the sky-high structures they had built in a synthetic but successful attempt at social elevation the apparent success and escape from accusation had steadied their nerves more quickly than the steaming cups of tea they had since brewed, and the celestial body that made up their arrogance was quick to restore and expand at the reassuring silence of an autumn night. The incident in the smial had been scrubbed and blurred into a distant memory they would soon force themselves to forget, a meaningless event that would do well to be filed amongst cobwebs where it was not to be disturbed by any prodding or probing.

The treasure they had gained lay in crowded clusters around their kitchen, the more delicate and appealing items sleeping soundly beside the tea pot and the wondering gaze of husband and wife. The return of their confidence had expelled the fear of the items they had captured, and no longer were they afraid to touch them lest they cry out in alarm and warning. Lobelia had appointed herself the sorter of their treasures, and she ruffled through them now with an approving smirk and comments more fitting to her usual persona. Otho delved into the age old ceremony of gentle-hobbitly self-congratulation: the smoking of the finest pipe weed he had in store, the prized leaf freed from the tedious rationing he would normally enforce in tribute to and in recognition of the exceptional victory.

 "Here," Lobelia said, pushing over an excessively ornate candle holder from its resting place, and then returning to the shelf and arranging a few of her newly acquired goods in height order shortly after. "We can put that in the main room: It would go perfectly with the curtains."

"These pictures would do well to go along side it," Otho offered, pointing at them with the stem of his pipe. "And those figurines. They were completely wasted in that hole."

"They were Primula's, I think," Lobelia told him, pivoting a small clay house left and right until its position met her satisfaction, "but then they do look mighty foreign."

"Which is why we'll put them in the deeper set rooms," he answered. "We can not yet risk having the more obvious ones on noticeable display."

Lobelia stepped back from the shelf, her gaze raking and judgemental at the arranged quality of the miscellaneous articles upon it. To Otho the arrangement was more than adequate, but Lobelia stepped back with an "hmm" and started swapping the places of a few. After a few more inspections she became pacified, and she returned to sit at the table with her husband to decide which items she would assign places to next.

"Did you get anything else?" he enquired.

Lobelia nodded, but did not look away from her scouting. She dug into her pockets, throwing the last few things onto the table: a few more figurines, a few pieces of crystal cutlery, and then two envelopes; one with a green wax seal, the other a red.

"What are those?" Otho asked.

"The one with the green seal is the will," she informed him.

"And the other?"

"See for yourself."

He looked at her through the meandering wisps of smoke from his pipe before he conceded, picking up the envelope with an identifiable edge of annoyance that her lack of explanation had birthed. He plucked the red seal from the paper and peered inside at the contents, the knitting of his brows indicating the resulting mood of his discovery.

"It's a ring," he stated blandly, It running from one corner of the envelope to the other in Otho's hopeful exploration.

"I can't wear jewellery without the jewel," Lobelia stated flatly. "I thought you might like it."

"I don't."

Lobelia spared him a look. "You won't know for certain unless you try it on."

Otho puffed on his pipe, the sweet strands of smoke like velvet as it slipped gracefully from his mouth and into the air in a jagged imitation of a circle. "Where did you find it?" he enquired, peering at the golden band in a loathsome manner. "In some horrible ditch?"

"In the chest with the will," she answered with a shrug. "Horrid thing, I think, but it seems to be of some worth to him."

"Indeed." Otho answered, but he tossed the envelope back onto the table with readable dislike, filling his hands with a fine china bowl before Lobelia could command him to retake it.

"You're not going to keep it?" Lobelia noted, her question and annoyed tone promoting Otho's suspicion into reality. "It is unmarked. Only him and us know it belongs to him, though he can't prove it. It may unsettle him to see you wearing it so openly."

"It is not to my liking," he reiterated, pushing the envelope away in reinforcement of his words, "though it seems to be to his."

 "Exactly," she declared, peering at him from over the vase she was wiping with one of Frodo's handkerchiefs. "It is of some worth to him, you said it yourself. We could use this against him. If you wear it when he is near he will surely be most shocked!"

The idea seemed to become more appealing to him, but still he did not reach his long, probing fingers into the envelope to retire the bounty, preferring to lightly scratch one fingernail over a strange mark on the china. Lobelia's gaze bore holes through him, but he had long since grown immune to its effects.

"It would not suit me," he told her when her gaze failed to drop from boredom or defeat. "I don't care how much he likes it for I will not wear it I do not."

"Oh for goodness sake!" Lobelia huffed, nearly breaking the vase as she thumped it on the table in her annoyance. She stretched her hand out to him, the palm facing upwards. "Give it here! I'll put the wretched thing on if I must!"

"I thought you didn't like it," he reminded her.

"I don't, but I'm not letting it go to waste! He likes this ring, that at least is clear, so he'll hate it when he sees one of us wearing it."

Otho retrieved the pipe from his mouth. He looked her up and down, assessing the threat behind her words. "Go on then." He challenged. "But don't blame me when you catch something off it. Who knows where it's been."

She said nothing at his jaunt, and he picked up the envelope and passed it to his wife without further warning. She snapped it from his grasp with a crisp swipe, and dipped her fingers into the envelope.

~~~~~~~~

Frodo had often locked his imagination on adventures when he was young, forcing it to create Orcs and Dragons out of trees, and dungeons of tables or closets, until his heart raced and a synthetic fear tickled the edge of his stomach. On many days at Bag End he would assign himself a heroic duty that needed fulfilling, and his imagination would set the world in which he desired it to take place. The party tree had been his favourite place to melt away into his adventures for he knew the surrounding locality so well that he could transform the towering tree into any monster or village he desired, bending it to his will with but the faintest trace of effort.

The adventures often took the same form and followed the same schedule. Bag End, of course, was the castle, and his uncle the honourable King that betrothed him with the sacred quest; and he in turn would be the daring hero, renowned throughout the land for his keen blade and his inexplicable skill, cunning, and overall fantastic abilities.  After the initial warnings of grave danger given by the King ("Dress up warm, Frodo, and try not to scare Hamfast by leaping out at him again") he would ready himself with his magical blade (a half broken twig he happened to stumble across one day), his iron shield (a china plate), and a magic staff (a slightly longer, less bent twig) and leap into the world his mind had created. He would circle Bag End many times, applying dangers and traps where there were none, assigning poison to puddles, spiked pits to minimal jumps, and enemies of any hobbit that happened to walk uninvited into his realm of fantasy. He defeated them all of course, his blade cutting down the Orcs that surrounded him, swinging his blade with magnificent skill as he fought his way bravely to Smaug's liar. And he would always win, breaking free from the bracken of his hiding place and slaying whatever evil monsters he happened to create on the day to the deafening applause and cries of thanks from Lake Town. As he had stood there, twig upraised in a gesture of victory, sweat trickling down his glowing face as the sun sank below the horizon, casting him a fiery blaze of splendour, he would be invaded with a sense of wonder and happiness so strong he would carry it with him the rest of the day, like a splendid trophy gifted to him for his heroic efforts. Then King Bilbo would magically appear, and together they would enter the great hall to feast and dine and discuss his glorious victory.

It had not been like this.

Bilbo had told his own tale of adventure many times to the delight of his heir. Dark, Frodo had described it as, but somehow Bilbo's bravery had shone out more because of it. And now here he was, thrust into the bosom of defeat just as his relative had been all those moons ago, and it was only now that Frodo learned the bitter taste of failure, the intoxicating effects of fear and despair. For long minutes Frodo stared at the portrait of his uncle, searching the lines of his face and the curve of his smile for an answer as to what he should do, or for an explanation as to why Bilbo had never fully conveyed how miserable adventures could be. But the portrait remained silent, the smile frozen upon the face, and the eyes dull and lifeless in the aged face, and no answer or explanation did it give to quell the emotions that sloshed inside of him. His gaze sunk with the weight of shame and guilt, stopping when it caught on a white scrawling inscription upon the portrait that he had not noticed before. He leant forward, fingers brushing over the elvish script that alone stood out in his darkening world.

"*Di vorath en-naeth er tirar aen i ngalad e-gur*."

Frodo blinked, the elvish words like the sweetest honey as they rolled over his tongue and fluttered from his lips in an impeccable imitation of birdsong. He stared at the flowing script, strength and defiance and courage growing like that of a new born star as it spreads its light into the unhappy world. Somehow those words awoke something dormant inside of him, and suddenly the axes of despair that had stripped him to such naked innocence and vulnerability shattered against a shield of resolve that encased his heart. Hope remained banished, but grim determination set his jaw and settled hard and obvious within his eyes. They may have won this time, deceiving even him with their pantomimes of innocence and gaining their treasures under the guise of deceit. But he would not cower under their invisible control. He would go down fighting, if he were to go down at all, and he would show them what it mean to mess with a Baggins.

This was not like the adventure he had envisioned only moments before where victory could be gained without the trial of pursuit. He could not summon a blade into his hand when he had none, or stop the game when hunger or boredom struck. He was a pawn, trapped in a game with no way out but from where the enemy lay, and he could fight it, as Bilbo had, or accept his fate with cowardly approval.

The culmination of their atrocities ran angrily through him, the memories of past occurrences flitting in his mind in an attempt to resemble justification. What was it they feared? That he would stand up to them, and stand up to them he surely would. He would confront them, regardless of whether he was in a fit state of mind or body to do so. He had to act, to prove that they couldn't win, to show they could not crush him with their games. He would show them that he remained unbroken, still whole by their trivial attempts upon his well being.

He pushed himself onto his feet, his shaking legs stabilized by will power alone. The world spun in dizzying torrents, bucking this way and that as it tried to throw him into the realm of confusion and chaos, but he clung to it with a grip that could not be weakened, and the world, exhausted, settled into a trembling tunnel of vision. He pushed back his lightly blood-clotted hair from his temple, the injury losing all importance save for the mild annoyance at the piercing sting it emitted. With a determination that was piercingly bright within the proverbial darkness, Frodo Baggins forced one foot in front of the other, until the mechanical steps formed a steady rhythm and blades of grass tickled his feet and Bag End rolled out of view. No longer did he care that he was injured and weary, and that he wished to sleep until the sun rose and sunk in its eternal ballet. Determination dictated that he should act, that he should do something-anything- and it slaughtered any reason that crept warningly into his mind at his hasty and garbled decision.

And so he marched on, stumbling a little as he forced wearied legs up the slight incline of a hill, and then disappeared, his strong efforts witnessed only by the clouds of fireflies that hung lazily beside his jagged path.

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

It was drawing close to the end of the night. Rosie circled the room, systematically wiping down the table tops with a rag in the closing ritual the hobbits had begun to realise meant closing time was but a short time away. The fire had burnt down to just glowing pale red coals, the whips of heat that once lashed from the flames fading to massaging fingers of enjoyable warmth. The circular windows had long since become dark gateways to the outside world, and only the sickle of the moon that hung high in the sky could be seen through the pane.

The din had gradually died down to a gentle and comfortable hum, the drunken guffaws and the slapping of tankards being tenderly replaced by the warm comfort of treasured gossip. Time had wrung out the alcohol lying within the bodies of the hobbits, and in their growing moments of sobriety they recognised the need to turn home.  Even the most hardcore drinkers were quaffing what was to be their last half-pint of ale.

Merry and Sam sat nursing their drinks, savouring good ale and good company. They lifted their mugs obediently when Rosie reached them and swept a dishcloth over the puddles of ale they had spilt, lowering them only when she winked away, leaning over another table as she scrubbed its surface with practised efficiency.

"Well, I suppose we should get to our beds before they forget who we are," Merry murmured with a trace of reluctance, pushing his tankard away with a tiny scrape. "It has been a good evening."

"That it has," Sam agreed, giving the table top a complimentary sweep with his sleeve. "'Tis a shame about my master though, having to run off like that."

"As long as he doesn't run far I don't mind," Merry replied. "I don't fancy running to the Lonely Mountain to catch up with him on this particular evening."

"Nor I."

Pippin snored in agreement.

"Will he be all right?" Sam asked, gesturing towards the sleeping hobbit lad. "He did fall asleep all of a sudden."

"He'll be fine," Merry said, dismissing Sam's worry with a frivolous wave of his hand. "Paladin gave me specific instruction to watch what he drunk and to guide him in rationing ale." He beamed at Sam who seemed all but lost in confusion as he gazed at the Took, whose head was pillowed in his crossed arms, fast asleep.

"You didn't do very well if you don't mind my saying so," he said, jerking his head at the Took, who was now dribbling on his shirt-sleeve.

"I did perfectly, I believe." Merry contradicted. "I watched him drink every drop of that ale and the headache he will have in the morning will be lesson enough, even if it is a little late."

"That's cruel," Sam dared. "He'll be feeling right sick if I'm any judge."

"It was how Frodo taught me," Merry told him in a business like tone. "Consider me very kind that I haven't stolen his clothes and thrown him in his mother's room to be discovered in the morning, like he did to me." He pointed the stem of his pipe at Sam, and then popped it into his mouth. He looked sidelong at Pippin, the memory of humiliation becoming more appealing when inflicted on another. "Then again…"

He left the thought unfinished. Sam shook his head.

"On your head be it," he replied. "You were supposed to be looking after him. It's you the blame will fall on, not Mr Pippin."

Proudfoots and Boffins detached themselves from the bar and headed to the coat stands, their voices mixing as they tried to differentiate between the many different fabrics they found there. Relatives clustered together for one final farewell, the families all deciding with an unspoken agreement that it was nigh time to call it a day.

"Mr Merry?" Sam asked, watching as a Hardbottle pulled on a coat that was obviously too small for his frame, and then at a Bracegirdle who looked quite baffled at the inexplicable growth of a garment that had been half the size when he'd originally entered. "Do you think Mr Frodo is really going to leave the Shire?"

Merry pierced him with an intimidating stare.

"I'm sure of it," he stated honestly. "He loved Bilbo dearly. His loss was a wound I had hoped to heal but it is obvious that I do not have the power. You have seen him, just as I have; as if trapped in a dreaming hope that something he lost and is beyond all recapture will be found if he only looks hard enough for it."

Rosie reappeared and swept their table again, a gentle reminder that they too should begin preparations for departure. They shuffled in their seats until she seemed satisfied, and then she disappeared once more.

"Begging your pardon Mr Merry but I don't like all this talk," Sam told him. "My Master isn't going anywhere. He's happy at Bag End."

"Not at the moment," Merry countered, "which is why you need to keep an eye on him. I can't watch him from all the way over in Buckland and Pippin can do little more than follow our lead."

The farewells were finally reaching an end. The groups thinned, and hardy cries signalled the end of that evening's entertainment. Rosie stopped scrubbing the plates in the soapy tub to wave a thankful farewell to a few of them, a rainbow of soap bubbles streaming from her hand and popping silently on the bar in her exaggerated gesture of relief. Merry drained his cup, preparing to follow the example of the others and go home, though he had to face the questions of Pippin's parents as to why they had been so late getting back. Sam went to get their coats after he drained the dregs from the bottom of his mug.

"Wake up Pip!" Merry encouraged, shaking his shoulders lightly. "Come on! It's home time."

Pippin grudgingly woke up, his eye lids blinking wearily against the pull of sleep.

"Whash shup?" He said drowsily, turning his head to find the reason for his awakening. Merry squeezed his shoulders.

"We're leaving, Pip," he repeated.

Pippin ground his knuckles into his eyes. "What? Now?"

"Yes now," Merry said, hoisting him up from the chair and placing the slightly swaying Took on his feet. "You can't expect the floor to house you! What would your mother say?"

"As long as I was quiet I don't think she'd mind," Pippin returned with a yawn.

Sam was meeting a little trouble with attaining their coats. Hammond Banks was currently trying to argue that Merry's coat was his, despite the fact that it was clearly of Buckland make and would cost more coin than the farmer's son could ever claim to own. Merry pondered whether to intervene; he did not need to add a ruined coat onto the list of complaints Pippin's parents were bound to report to his own come sunrise.

The door to the Tavern groaned open, the few members of the Hornblower's family finally breaking the string of farewells with decisive action. Chatting happily to their departing neighbours they slipped out of the door and sunk into the darkness beyond it. Like water that breaks through a dam, the others began to follow suit. A mixed collection of Chubbs and Loamsdowns had all ready put one foot outside the door when the cry of alarm was given.

Talk ceased, words falling victim to a scythe of panicked silence. All eyes fixed on the open doorway, ears straining to read the message in the hurried footsteps that approached. A pair of Hornblowers reappeared in the Tavern, appearing flustered and rather irked. They kept glancing at each other and muttering, heedless of the many eyes that were locked upon them.

"Ho! What are ye lot doing?" Rosie demanded, the tankard released from her hand falling back into the tub with a thick, watery gulp. "Go home, I said! And I know this ain't your home, Reeno Hornblower, as much as you may think it is!"

"My pardons, Mistress Cotton," Reeno replied. "But I need to find…"

"Where is she?"

Merry switched his attention to the one who spoke, the interrupting voice sounding horribly familiar even in his drunken state where enemies often became friends. Frodo stood in the doorway, blue eyes scanning the crowds that stared back in shock and bewilderment, their fingers and their eyes fixed on the bloodied gash on his temple. Reeno did not bother to continue his explanation-it was clear there was no longer any need.

"Well?" He said, glaring at them all. "I asked a question."

A collective intake of breath was his answer. As one the hobbits stepped back, a frenzied whispering snapped into being as blood oozed down the pale cheek. Sam's face blanched at the site, and Merry's jaw dropped in shock before he could prevent it.

"Who's here?" Merry whispered.

Something was wrong, and not just because his friend was injured. His cousin's eyes were marred with a grim and dangerous determination, and ice plagued his usually jovial tone. Pippin made to move towards his cousin, but Merry gripped his shoulders tightly within his hands, clamping the young Took in front of him before he had a chance to run off and start his usual prodding and poking at the most inopportune time.

"The Sackville-Bagginses of course," he replied stiffly. "Who else?"

"They left, Frodo," Merry said, slowly sweeping Pippin behind him, stepping forward with the same care as one would when approaching a panicked and injured fawn that might do more harm to itself if not approached correctly. "Don't you remember?"

Frodo's eyes clouded and his expression settled on a light mix of confusion and annoyance.

"They're….not here?"

"No."

Pippin broke forward, his own eyes wide at the sight of blood on his relative. "Cousin," he breathed, "what happened to your head?"

But Frodo did not answer, and he swept out of the Tavern as quickly as he had come. For a while they all stood in differing states of shock and surprise, the only break in the consuming silence coming from the individual chirps of crickets in their midnight song. Merry's head reeled with what had just happened, and by the looks of the others he was probably the least stunned of them all.

Slowly the Tavern unwound itself from the frozen frame, and the hobbits dared to share glances of confusion, bewilderment, and excited yet subdued terror, before breaking out into hissed denial and affirmations. Sam, Merry, and Pippin stood like silent pillars in the crowds, remaining untouched by the fevered whispering of presumptuous guesses. Sam broke from his paralysis before any of them, his body awakening at the confused question he placed in the whispered pronoun of his master's name. He relinquished his grip on Merry's coat to Hammond without further consideration, abandoning the fabric to whatever fate the Bank had in store for it; and he barged his way past the still statues of his kin and friends without apology. He spared Merry a concerned look when he passed him, a question sparkling in the depths of his eyes to which Merry had no answer, even if the gardener had given him time to work the mangled words of explanation around his tongue. He threw open the door and then vanished, his voice strong and pleading as he called his master's name.

Merry stared at the open doorway, mind ceaselessly captured in unending circles that served only to dig him further into bewilderment. A warm hand slotted into his own and squeezed tight, the little Took beside him providing the support he could not locate within himself.

"Merry?"

Merry looked down into twin pools of summer green and a comforting smile that pulled him from his shock. Without further word, Pippin guided him towards the exit of the Tavern, and they too melted unseeingly into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

As a Frodohealer there has to be some, well, healing involved in this fic. At the moment it is looking likely to be the next chapter, but then again who knows? I sure don't. Tra la la la la…

Thanks for reading!

Lots of love

Ice Princess