Title: A Little Walk 2/?
Author: Ancalime
Rating: PG, for wee hobbit misery
Summary: Frodo becomes lost in Minas Tirith after deciding to take a late- night stroll
Disclaimer: Once again, I'm definitely not a dead English guy! :p
But I *do* claim the tavern "The Angry Bull" and its ornery proprietor, though I would really like to be able to say the hobbit is mine... :D
Feedback: Most welcome. :) The hamster muses love encouragement, though they don't really need any at this point...
A/N: The hangover *won't* be the only thing wrong with Frodo; just give it time to develop. ;) Shoot, I was going to say something else, but I forgot what it was. If I think of it, I'll put it with the next chapter. :p And thank you to everyone who has reviewed! :)
__A Little Walk, chapter 2__
Frodo was startled awake when a door tried to squash him against the wall. The person behind the door shoved it a few times, cursing at it when it wouldn't open all the way, then finally looked to see why. "Hey, kid!" the surly man growled. "Git outta the way! This is a doorway, not an inn!"
Frodo stood up and scurried out of the way, his absolutely dreadful headache superseding any insults thrown at his person. He stumbled down the street, past many small shops as they were being opened for the day, trying not to run into anything, even though he had his eyes closed against the glare of the morning sun. When he saw a dark alley, he ducked inside, and sat down against the wall of a building, sincerely wishing he hadn't had so much to drink the night before. In addition to his headache, it felt like a troll was standing on his chest, keeping him from taking full breaths, and forcing him to resort to shallow gasps instead. The gasping unsettled his stomach, so he was thankful he had no food even though he realized he should be hungry by now.
He was still very damp from the rain overnight, and the chill in the shade soon made him shiver. The desire for warmth won over the desire to avoid the light, and he stepped back out into the sunlit street. Many people were now passing up and down the street, going about their shopping and their everyday routines, completely oblivious to the halfling standing forlornly by the alley. Some children ran by, yet even they did not notice him, intent on their make-believe games.
Frodo sighed and randomly picked a direction to go, trying to avoid being trampled by the Big Folk unused to watching for smaller beings. He was swept along amidst the crowd until he spotted what looked like a tavern across the way. It took some doing, but he managed to extricate himself from the flow and cross the street, hopeful of getting directions back to the upper levels of the city from the proprietor of the establishment. He could look up and see the White Tower, but had no idea where the entry to the next circle lay, and he was not in the mood to traipse from one end of the city to the other looking for it.
He went in on the heels of a large, unkempt man, and narrowly avoided being slammed in the heavy door. The rowdy noisiness of the place made him wince, though it reminded him of the Prancing Pony in Bree. He found the towering main counter, which was taller than he, and tried in vain to attract the attention of the barkeep. It wasn't until some of the patrons began whispering and pointing that the man even noticed he was there. He glanced over the counter at the short, dirty being, and said, "Beat it, kid. I don' serve beggars."
Thoroughly offended, Frodo crossed his arms indignantly and retorted, "I am not a child, and I am certainly not a beggar!" True, he was rather dirty from sleeping on the stoop while being soaked through, but he didn't think he looked *that* bad!
Growing angry, the man replied, "Look. Leave now, an' no harm'll come to you. But if you insist on giving me cheek, you'll be sorry."
Trying not to become angry himself at this treatment, Frodo answered carefully, "All I seek is directions to the White Tower. If you would but point me in the right direction, I will leave and trouble you no more."
By now the entire tavern was quiet, listening to the conversation between the venerable barkeep and this ragged urchin. Frodo's words drew such uproarious laughter as to leave some of the patrons breathless and unable to attend their drinks for some minutes. The stern barkeep, however, took the cautious statement as blatant impertinence. "Oh, so you're going to visit the King, are you? If he really expects a visit from a little runt like you, he can come and fetch you from the gaol house himself." He made a motion, and two men stepped out of the shadows, each one grabbing an arm. As he was dragged -no, carried- from the tavern, Frodo wondered how in Middle-Earth he had gotten himself into this mess.
And so, after a series of events that left Frodo completely baffled, he was sitting in a barred cell, huddled in the corner on a warped wooden bench, trying to avoid the drafts that seemed to be coming through every crack in the stone walls. The gaol was dim, dank, and dreary, and smelled like something that Frodo didn't think he wanted to identify. There were a few bedraggled drunks in another cell, but he was mercifully alone. Now the men who brought him and a couple of guards already there were sprawled on a bench against the wall opposite the cells, lazily watching the prisoners. Their eyes were especially drawn to Frodo as they argued amongst themselves over what he was.
"I'm telling you, that's a kid, of no more'n 12 summers," one maintained, waving his pipe in Frodo's general direction.
Another insisted, "No! Look at his feet, man! That ain't no kid."
The first one laughed and said, "All right, so he's a deformed kid!" This assertion won the laughs of everyone else present, including the other prisoners, and the conversation was settled for the time being. Completely humiliated, Frodo rested his forehead on his knees and tried not to cry. He shivered, and hugged his knees even closer to his body. How was he going to get out of this mess? Sam probably missed him by now, but he would never think to look *here* of all places. Frodo wondered miserably how long it would take for someone he knew to figure out where he was. Wearied by worry, and still suffering from a hangover, Frodo dozed off, shivering in the cold drafts.
~~~~
When dawn had broken with still no sign of Frodo, the remaining members of the Company grew quite concerned. They had looked in every building of the seventh circle, even climbing to the upper rooms of the Tower, but with no success. Following a brief conference, they set out to search the rest of the city for him, hoping to find him quickly, unharmed. Sam was elected to stay behind just in case Frodo returned on his own. While Sam understood the need for *someone* to stay behind, he didn't think it should be him, so once the others were safely gone, he slipped out and set off on his own, confident that he would be able to find Frodo more quickly than any of the others. He even brought Frodo's cloak with him, for he knew it was likely Frodo had been caught in the storm and would still be damp and cold.
Every so often he would ask the passersby if they'd seen his friend, about his height with dark hair and pale skin, but without fail they answered in the negative. Sam began asking at shops and taverns, hoping Frodo had stopped for shelter or directions, but still to no avail. The afternoon was waning as he trudged up the stairs of yet another tavern. He'd already decided this would be his last stop before heading back, knowing the others would soon be returning as well and would be upset if he were not there. Sam caught sight of the swinging wooden sign, proclaiming the tavern to be The Angry Bull, with a drawing of an enraged bull illustrating it for those who could not read. He could not help but feel that the name was rather ominous.
The heavy wooden door defied his attempts to open it, and he would have had to admit defeat if some patrons had not chosen that moment to leave. Barely escaping a crushing death behind the door, he scrambled around before it slammed to and found himself in a noisy bar, teeming with unsavory-looking characters. Sam wondered if perhaps he'd gotten in over his head, but had no time to carry that thought through before an impatient voice boomed, "What d'you want, little runt? I haven't time to deal w' children."
Deciding to ignore the insult and stick to what he came for, he asked timidly, "I'm looking for my friend. Did you happen to see someone about my height, with dark hair and pale skin, come in here today?"
The barkeep laughed, as did most of the patrons, though they did not know why they were laughing. "So you're looking for that scrawny little fella, huh? Oh yeah, I saw him." Sam's hopes rose with this bit of information. "D'you wanna know where he is? C'mere, fellas, and show this runt where he can find his little friend!" The same two men as before advanced out of the shadows and carried Sam out the door.
He was rather confused by this turn of events, but also happy that he was being taken to Mr. Frodo, so he didn't give much thought to just where they might be taking him.
So Sam was more than a little surprised when the two men escorted him into the gaol house. They dropped him on the floor outside of a cell, and he could see Frodo huddled on a bench against the wall, shivering with his head buried in his arms. Sam was ever so grateful for his foresight in bringing the cloak, but was unsure how to go about asking to be allowed to go in to him.
The guards were watching him with great amusement as he held a short mental debate. The other runt had proved to be quite boring, but perhaps bringing this one in would liven things up a little. Finally one of the men asked, "So d'you wanna go in with your friend, runt?"
Sam had decided that going in there would probably be best, so he nodded slowly. The guards were more than happy to comply and soon opened the door, threw him in, and closed it with a clang.
TBC
Author: Ancalime
Rating: PG, for wee hobbit misery
Summary: Frodo becomes lost in Minas Tirith after deciding to take a late- night stroll
Disclaimer: Once again, I'm definitely not a dead English guy! :p
But I *do* claim the tavern "The Angry Bull" and its ornery proprietor, though I would really like to be able to say the hobbit is mine... :D
Feedback: Most welcome. :) The hamster muses love encouragement, though they don't really need any at this point...
A/N: The hangover *won't* be the only thing wrong with Frodo; just give it time to develop. ;) Shoot, I was going to say something else, but I forgot what it was. If I think of it, I'll put it with the next chapter. :p And thank you to everyone who has reviewed! :)
__A Little Walk, chapter 2__
Frodo was startled awake when a door tried to squash him against the wall. The person behind the door shoved it a few times, cursing at it when it wouldn't open all the way, then finally looked to see why. "Hey, kid!" the surly man growled. "Git outta the way! This is a doorway, not an inn!"
Frodo stood up and scurried out of the way, his absolutely dreadful headache superseding any insults thrown at his person. He stumbled down the street, past many small shops as they were being opened for the day, trying not to run into anything, even though he had his eyes closed against the glare of the morning sun. When he saw a dark alley, he ducked inside, and sat down against the wall of a building, sincerely wishing he hadn't had so much to drink the night before. In addition to his headache, it felt like a troll was standing on his chest, keeping him from taking full breaths, and forcing him to resort to shallow gasps instead. The gasping unsettled his stomach, so he was thankful he had no food even though he realized he should be hungry by now.
He was still very damp from the rain overnight, and the chill in the shade soon made him shiver. The desire for warmth won over the desire to avoid the light, and he stepped back out into the sunlit street. Many people were now passing up and down the street, going about their shopping and their everyday routines, completely oblivious to the halfling standing forlornly by the alley. Some children ran by, yet even they did not notice him, intent on their make-believe games.
Frodo sighed and randomly picked a direction to go, trying to avoid being trampled by the Big Folk unused to watching for smaller beings. He was swept along amidst the crowd until he spotted what looked like a tavern across the way. It took some doing, but he managed to extricate himself from the flow and cross the street, hopeful of getting directions back to the upper levels of the city from the proprietor of the establishment. He could look up and see the White Tower, but had no idea where the entry to the next circle lay, and he was not in the mood to traipse from one end of the city to the other looking for it.
He went in on the heels of a large, unkempt man, and narrowly avoided being slammed in the heavy door. The rowdy noisiness of the place made him wince, though it reminded him of the Prancing Pony in Bree. He found the towering main counter, which was taller than he, and tried in vain to attract the attention of the barkeep. It wasn't until some of the patrons began whispering and pointing that the man even noticed he was there. He glanced over the counter at the short, dirty being, and said, "Beat it, kid. I don' serve beggars."
Thoroughly offended, Frodo crossed his arms indignantly and retorted, "I am not a child, and I am certainly not a beggar!" True, he was rather dirty from sleeping on the stoop while being soaked through, but he didn't think he looked *that* bad!
Growing angry, the man replied, "Look. Leave now, an' no harm'll come to you. But if you insist on giving me cheek, you'll be sorry."
Trying not to become angry himself at this treatment, Frodo answered carefully, "All I seek is directions to the White Tower. If you would but point me in the right direction, I will leave and trouble you no more."
By now the entire tavern was quiet, listening to the conversation between the venerable barkeep and this ragged urchin. Frodo's words drew such uproarious laughter as to leave some of the patrons breathless and unable to attend their drinks for some minutes. The stern barkeep, however, took the cautious statement as blatant impertinence. "Oh, so you're going to visit the King, are you? If he really expects a visit from a little runt like you, he can come and fetch you from the gaol house himself." He made a motion, and two men stepped out of the shadows, each one grabbing an arm. As he was dragged -no, carried- from the tavern, Frodo wondered how in Middle-Earth he had gotten himself into this mess.
And so, after a series of events that left Frodo completely baffled, he was sitting in a barred cell, huddled in the corner on a warped wooden bench, trying to avoid the drafts that seemed to be coming through every crack in the stone walls. The gaol was dim, dank, and dreary, and smelled like something that Frodo didn't think he wanted to identify. There were a few bedraggled drunks in another cell, but he was mercifully alone. Now the men who brought him and a couple of guards already there were sprawled on a bench against the wall opposite the cells, lazily watching the prisoners. Their eyes were especially drawn to Frodo as they argued amongst themselves over what he was.
"I'm telling you, that's a kid, of no more'n 12 summers," one maintained, waving his pipe in Frodo's general direction.
Another insisted, "No! Look at his feet, man! That ain't no kid."
The first one laughed and said, "All right, so he's a deformed kid!" This assertion won the laughs of everyone else present, including the other prisoners, and the conversation was settled for the time being. Completely humiliated, Frodo rested his forehead on his knees and tried not to cry. He shivered, and hugged his knees even closer to his body. How was he going to get out of this mess? Sam probably missed him by now, but he would never think to look *here* of all places. Frodo wondered miserably how long it would take for someone he knew to figure out where he was. Wearied by worry, and still suffering from a hangover, Frodo dozed off, shivering in the cold drafts.
~~~~
When dawn had broken with still no sign of Frodo, the remaining members of the Company grew quite concerned. They had looked in every building of the seventh circle, even climbing to the upper rooms of the Tower, but with no success. Following a brief conference, they set out to search the rest of the city for him, hoping to find him quickly, unharmed. Sam was elected to stay behind just in case Frodo returned on his own. While Sam understood the need for *someone* to stay behind, he didn't think it should be him, so once the others were safely gone, he slipped out and set off on his own, confident that he would be able to find Frodo more quickly than any of the others. He even brought Frodo's cloak with him, for he knew it was likely Frodo had been caught in the storm and would still be damp and cold.
Every so often he would ask the passersby if they'd seen his friend, about his height with dark hair and pale skin, but without fail they answered in the negative. Sam began asking at shops and taverns, hoping Frodo had stopped for shelter or directions, but still to no avail. The afternoon was waning as he trudged up the stairs of yet another tavern. He'd already decided this would be his last stop before heading back, knowing the others would soon be returning as well and would be upset if he were not there. Sam caught sight of the swinging wooden sign, proclaiming the tavern to be The Angry Bull, with a drawing of an enraged bull illustrating it for those who could not read. He could not help but feel that the name was rather ominous.
The heavy wooden door defied his attempts to open it, and he would have had to admit defeat if some patrons had not chosen that moment to leave. Barely escaping a crushing death behind the door, he scrambled around before it slammed to and found himself in a noisy bar, teeming with unsavory-looking characters. Sam wondered if perhaps he'd gotten in over his head, but had no time to carry that thought through before an impatient voice boomed, "What d'you want, little runt? I haven't time to deal w' children."
Deciding to ignore the insult and stick to what he came for, he asked timidly, "I'm looking for my friend. Did you happen to see someone about my height, with dark hair and pale skin, come in here today?"
The barkeep laughed, as did most of the patrons, though they did not know why they were laughing. "So you're looking for that scrawny little fella, huh? Oh yeah, I saw him." Sam's hopes rose with this bit of information. "D'you wanna know where he is? C'mere, fellas, and show this runt where he can find his little friend!" The same two men as before advanced out of the shadows and carried Sam out the door.
He was rather confused by this turn of events, but also happy that he was being taken to Mr. Frodo, so he didn't give much thought to just where they might be taking him.
So Sam was more than a little surprised when the two men escorted him into the gaol house. They dropped him on the floor outside of a cell, and he could see Frodo huddled on a bench against the wall, shivering with his head buried in his arms. Sam was ever so grateful for his foresight in bringing the cloak, but was unsure how to go about asking to be allowed to go in to him.
The guards were watching him with great amusement as he held a short mental debate. The other runt had proved to be quite boring, but perhaps bringing this one in would liven things up a little. Finally one of the men asked, "So d'you wanna go in with your friend, runt?"
Sam had decided that going in there would probably be best, so he nodded slowly. The guards were more than happy to comply and soon opened the door, threw him in, and closed it with a clang.
TBC