elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2009-09-23 08:22 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2009-09-23 08:22 pm
Oh, my!
*glances about the smial with a bit of surprise*
I guess it has been awhile, hasn't it? *trails a distracted finger through the dust on the end table*
Well, enough of this! Time to re-post a few of the fics that are currently only elsewhere.
This one was for the August![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
waymeet challenge, in which we chose a quote from FOTR.
Title: A Very Unexpected Party
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 4452
Quote: A draught of cooks, from every inn and eating-house for miles around, arrived to supplement the dwarves and other odd folk that were quartered at Bag End.
Summary: That particular quote, to me, very nearly sounded like something out of The Hobbit, which immediately sent me into the Land of What If. So this, as goes without mention, is absolute crack-fic and extremely AU, and not part of any series.
Bilbo had gone on a walking expedition that had seemed to be a little more lengthy than usual when, after a fortnight or so, Frodo Baggins received the first of three short notes.
Having a lovely time, it read. The fall colours are especially nice this year. Your loving uncle, Bilbo.
After another few weeks, the second note arrived. This one was written in Elvish.
Elrond just told me he’d have a smial dug out just for me, he finally managed to decipher. Can you imagine? All my best.
The final note arrived not a week later, this time in high Elvish. Frodo had to puzzle over it for a good part of a day, before it finally made sense.
Frodo, my dear, I don’t suppose I’ll be coming back. A rather tallish chap, Gandalf by name, may be showing up, but have a care with him, my love. He’s a wily old buzzard, and may even be the wizard he claims to be. Oh, and needless to say, Bag End is yours. You may do with it as you see fit. Yours, etc., etc.
Samwise Gamgee was promptly moved into Bag End on the following day.
&&&&&
Life continued on in a tranquil sort of way thereafter, for a couple of years, until the bright autumn morning on which Sam went out to sweep the front doorstep. “Here, now!” came the sudden yelp, and Frodo went to investigate the cause.
It was not at all hard to determine, for he found his friend glaring at a intricate white marking of some sort apparently chalked on the round front door. “What young scamp would do such nonsense as this?” Sam’s normally peaceable round face was stern as he glared at the offending mark.
Frodo stared at the door as well, but then suddenly his face cleared. “Ah, young Boodle,” he laughed indulgently. “Probably should have given him that bag of boiled sweets no matter what his mother thought. Never mind, Sam, the tea is ready, second breakfast is on, and I’m famished. Besides, this gives you the perfect chance to paint it that cheery red that you had been talking about.”
“Well, now, it does at that,” Sam agreed happily, and followed him inside, closing the door firmly behind them. The matter was promptly forgotten by both inhabitants of Bag End.
&&&&&
Morning wound into afternoon, as the days tended to do, and the warmth of the midday sun was turning into a bit of a chill by early evening, so Frodo was gratified to smell the delectable scent of baking apples wafting through the smial along with the more common aroma of scones. “Hmm,” he thought dreamily, giving a quick cat-like stretch from the settle where apparently he had taken a bit of a nap. “Scones for tea, and apple dumplings for afters later tonight. I must be sure to thank Sam thoroughly.”
As he pushed himself upright on the settle, his abandoned book falling from his lap to the floor with a muffled thump, and was looking forward to the prospect of doing just that with a sense of delicious anticipation, his reveries were abruptly interrupted by a resounding thunk on the front door. He frowned at this disturbance, still blinking a trifle sleepily, and grudgingly began to make his way to the front door. Sam was obviously, by the snatches of song he could hear from time to time, busy in the kitchen, and blast if he wanted the lad to be interrupted when he was on a roll.
Just before he reached the door, there was a second thunk, equally as resounding, and he began thinking a bit more harshly regarding the apparent visitor. Surely, it couldn’t be the Boodle lad. A bit of mischief was one thing, but assaulting a perfectly innocent front door was another matter altogether.
The last thing he expected, however, was what he saw as he unceremoniously jerked the door open. It wasn’t a hobbit; that he knew right off, but it took a moment or two before he realized, thanks to Bilbo’s more racy volumes, that the personage standing on his front door mat was a dwarf. Frodo was one of the taller hobbits about, but this creature stood a good half a foot higher, and what was more immediately noticeable, was extraordinarily bushy. A great flowing ginger beard, which Frodo had never seen on a living being before, engulfed his face, extending down nearly to his knees, and underneath the dark green cape, his equally gingerish hair was nearly as long as the beard, but was twisted together in some sort of intricate manner. Sharp black eyes peered out at him from behind the, needless to mention, bushy and gingerish eyebrows, and the most alarming thing of all was that this apparition was looking at him with an unmistakable air of expectancy.
“Well?” it finally boomed, clearly beginning to get peeved. “Is this any sort of a welcome, I ask you?”
“Ah, well, that is to say,” Frodo unmistakably squeaked to his dismay. “Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he added automatically, with a polite bow, not knowing in the slightest what else to say.
“Dwalin, at yours,” the dwarf bowed in return.
There was a rather strained moment of silence after that, but the late afternoon breeze was chilly, and the occasional flurry of leaves was blowing briskly by, so Frodo did what was only the courteous thing to do under the circumstances, and invited the stranger in. “We were only just having tea,” he opened the door a bit wider, and vaguely wondered when his voice had gotten quite so high-pitched. “Won’t you come in?”
The dwarf gave a satisfied harumph at the invitation, and swept his cape off. “More like it, my good fellow. Lead the way.”
Frodo had the presence of mind to realize, as he led the dwarf down the front hallway, that the study, where he and Sam normally took their tea, might be somewhat a tight fit for the company, so he turned into the less used front room, and politely indicated the sturdiest chair in the room. “If you don’t mind,” he cleared his throat a bit, “I’ll just let Samwise know to add another cup to the tray.” And before the dwarf had a chance to seat himself, he scuttled from the room, in search of the ever solid and sensible Sam.
Before he had a chance to do no more than leave the room, however, there was another heavy thump on the front door, and with a sudden alarmed drop of his stomach, he had the unmistakable feeling that the quota of dwarves at Bag End was just about to double.
As indeed was the case. The dwarf on the doorstep this time was an older specimen, but aside from the hair being snowy white, and the hood a bright scarlet, was in all other aspects exactly the same. Frodo bowed courteously again, with a little more rapidity this time around, and introduced himself once again.
“Balin,” was the deep response, and Frodo lost no time asking him in as well, and headed down the hall once again, the second dwarf in tow. It had just crossed his mind that he really should clue Sam in on what was going on about the smial when a sudden clatter and crash of crockery announced that that was going to be quite unnecessary. Sam was standing in the hallway, the tea tray in shambles at his feet, and his normally roundish hazel eyes absolute orbs of astonishment.
“Yes, yes, my dear, no matter, let’s go back and get some more cups, shall we?” he muttered, shoving a wordless Sam ahead of him back into the kitchen.
“Frodo, what in the name of all that’s good, are they a’doin’ in here?” Sam hissed, clutching Frodo’s shoulder frantically, once they had reached the sanctuary of the kitchen.
“Well, Sam, they’re dwarves, you see,” Frodo stammered, still trying to put the pieces together himself, and beginning to realize that Sam’s grip was becoming uncomfortably tight.
“I know that,” Sam replied impatiently. After all, Frodo belatedly realized, Sam was also familiar with that racy volume of Bilbo’s. “What I’d like to be knowin’ is what dwarves are a’doin’ in our front room?”
“Well, you see, it was getting chilly out of doors,” Frodo tried to start again, feeling that he was repeating himself, “and somehow they seemed to be expecting me to ask them in.” Any further explanation, though, was brought to a sudden halt by another hearty thump on the front door.
“By the Lady,” he breathed, staring in horror at a still flummoxed Sam. “There’s more of them.”
&&&&&
Frodo’s prediction proved to be all too correct, for less than an hour later, the front room was positively wall to wall dwarf. “How many are there, now, d’ye think?” Sam questioned Frodo urgently, as they passed in the hall, Sam heading in with another platter of scones, Frodo heading back with an empty tea pot in each hand.
Frodo shook his head despairingly. “I have no idea, Sam. I’m sure I lost count at ten.”
“But why are they here?” Sam quite nearly wailed, plaintively. “And what’s more, how long will they be here?”
“That last question is most definitely the heart of the matter, my dear.” Frodo’s chin shot upwards at that last comment, and Sam was most gratified to recognize the stubborn look Frodo got from time to time. “Very well, then, I’ll take the scones and you refill the pots. It’s past time to answer a question or two, I should think.”
Sam gave a hasty nod, and sped off to take care of the refilling of the tea with all possible speed. He didn’t want to miss a moment of this.
Frodo re-entered the front room, platter in hand and trepidation, despite all he could do, in his heart. “This is perfectly ridiculous,” he instructed himself firmly. “This is my smial, after all. Now that they’ve all been fed, it’s only reasonable that I should ask for some particulars regarding this sudden invasion.”
“So.” He placed the platter on the table at the center of the room, and with a scone clutched in one hand, stood with his back to the brisk fire, trying his very best to bring off a sort of casual air. “What brings you good dwarves to the Shire?”
What he did not expect, however, was the general snicker, if dwarves could be said to do such a thing, that ran about the room. “No better place to find a burglar, as well you should know,” one of the younger dwarves – Kili, was that the name? – chuckled.
“Indeed,” Frodo murmured, feeling suddenly that this was all considerably murkier than he had first imagined.
“Can’t very well be expecting us to do anything in that line,” laughed the young dwarf’s apparent twin – Fili, Frodo vaguely thought, was the unlikely corresponding name. With the greatest of relief, Frodo saw Sam entering with a steaming pot in each hand, which he placed on the cozies on the table.
“What are you planning to have burgled, then?” he asked politely, still failing to see what this might be all leading towards. “I’m afraid I really don’t know of anyone to whom I could recommend you.”
There was a general guffaw at that innocent remark. “Gandalf told us you were a modest chap,” Dwalin shook his head in amusement. “But Gandalf knows his stuff, the old scoundrel, so if he says you’re the best, then that’s good enough for us.”
“Gandalf?” Frodo quavered, desperately searching his memory for such a name. It did have a familiar ring, and in a moment, he got it. The “old buzzard” Bilbo had referred to in his last letter. He seemed to remember the word “wily”, as well. But these were all unmistakably dwarves, and he still was at a total loss.
It was then that there was a final thump on the door, and upon both Frodo and Sam scrambling to answer it, equally grateful for the excuse to flee, there proved to be one last dwarf, clearly of great importance from his regal dress and haughty air, and one other who was much taller and was neither dwarf nor hobbit. “Gandalf, my dear fellow,” the latter murmured, cordially extending a hand of greeting. “Very glad to meet you. Good friend of Bilbo’s, you know,” and Frodo visibly paled.
&&&&&
Two hours later, Frodo and Sam were no more enlightened as to the nature of this incursion than they ever had been. Frodo had tried to have a private word with Gandalf, since the dwarves seemed to consider him the reason for selecting Bag End as their destination, but Gandalf had waved him off with a chuckle and a brief comment of, “Not right now, dear boy. Business goes better with this lot when their bellies are full, and I don’t believe we’re quite there yet. A word of warning on that score, my lad.” He turned his attention to his pipe then, and that had been that. But Sam had been watching everything he had baked for the upcoming week and more vanish, with growing alarm.
“They’ll be expecting dinner, likewise?” he muttered to Frodo as they stood just inside the doorway of the crowded room, ignored by their guests who were trading uproarious tales of old times.
Frodo eyed the tall wizard in a chair that he could have sworn had never been as large as that before. “They don’t seem to be in the mood to go anywhere,” he admitted. “Surely they can’t be expecting to stay the night, but dinner definitely appears to be on.”
“Well, I don’t know how, as there ain’t a thing left,” Sam stated flatly, with a dour air. “Can’t say much for their manners, nohow, dropping in like this with no notice a’tall.”
“Oh, dear,” Frodo spun around, giving him a look of alarm. “Couldn’t you run down the Number Three and borrow something? We can’t just refuse them dinner!”
“Aye, I’d not be likin’ that option much myself,” Sam had to admit. They were, after all, very largish and fierce in appearance, without a doubt, and he had noticed as well the immense and very sharp axes some of them had left behind in the entryway along with their cloaks. “I’m not sure how much the gaffer has to spare, as tomorrow is generally market day for him, but I’ll go see as what can be done.”
“Good,” Frodo sighed with relief. “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, mind you. I think quantity is more the thing, Sam.”
Sam gave a grim nod and was gone.
&&&&&
Sam had rarely seen his father at a loss for words (one of the previous such occasions was one upon which he did not like to reflect very often), but this was one of them. Sam having to ask for some provisions, and such a very large quantity of them as well, required an explanation, and that brought up the theme of dwarves. “And a wizard, as well,” Sam helpfully added, but the gaffer was still stuck on the “dwarves” end of it.
“Mr. Bilbo would never have allowed such goings on at Bag End!” he spluttered, entirely overlooking the fact that if there ever had been an unconventional hobbit in the vicinity of Hobbiton, it would have been Bilbo Baggins.
“Well, Mr. Frodo didn’t ask ‘em here, no ways! But the fact of it is that they are here, you see, and they need to be fed. And I’ve naught left t’be feedin’ them with!”
“You can rummage around if y’like, lad, but you know that tomorrow’d be my marketing day. There ain’t much, no how,” grumbled the older hobbit, but the initial shock had passed, and curiosity was beginning to take its place. “What would they be lookin’ like, now, Sam-lad, anyways?”
“I’m sure I don’t have time to be chattin’ w’you, Da. If you want t’know, come have a look,” his son distractedly muttered, dismayed by the meager stores he was finding about the small kitchen. There was a ham, and a small sack of taters and another of onions, a bunch of carrots and a small dish of plums, but that was it. He could have made a fine feast out of that for a group of hobbits, but he had seen the damage of which the present company was capable, and he knew that that was not nearly enough. “Well, I’m takin’ this back, and then I’ll be off to the Cottons. An’ Da, would you be able to pop by the Widow’s and see if mayhap she was bakin’ today? All my bread’d be gone, t’be sure!”
His father perked up considerably at that thought, for providing a piece of news such as this to the Widow promised to be a fair treat indeed. “Aye, me dear, that I will. Now don’t you fret none, we’ll feed this lot, or our name ain’t Gamgee, right, lad?”
&&&&&
The Cottons provided what they could, and Old Tolman sent Nibs off to Ned Proudfoot for more, and May Gamgee, who had been visiting her sister Marigold Cotton, promptly headed off to her friends in Hobbiton, Iris and Pansy Burrows, and from there on, there was just no telling how the word spread. The upshot of the whole thing was that in the matter of a couple of hours, a draught of cooks, from every family and inn and eating-house for miles around, arrived to feed the dwarves and any other odd folk that were quartered at Bag End. Sam was gaily shooed out of his own kitchen, as only befit one of the co-hosts, and Jolly Cotton found the key to the wine cellar, and promptly hauled out the barrels of beer and bottles of good wine that Frodo had been setting aside for Yule. Without any doubt, the Yule-time festivities couldn’t possibly match up to this event, so he certainly saw no need to keep them tucked away. And, of course, those who had contributed could not be expected to be turned away without their curiosity being satisfied or their stomachs filled, so it ended up being a very grand affair indeed.
Since there was no possible way to fit all of the hobbits into the room where the main attraction was located, they came through in shifts, while the rest either labored mightily in the kitchen, or sat about the smial elsewhere and ate and knocked back a cool drink or two and generally agreed that this was the best evening anyone could ever remember having happened in the Shire, at least since Old Bart (who was, indeed, very, very old) had been a wee lad.
The two hosts, however, sat together on a small bench in the front room, with untouched plates of food before them. Frodo was, by this point, in very nearly a state of shock, although one small portion of his mind was finding the tales the dwarves were merrily trading to be fascinating indeed. Sam was trying his very best not to consider the condition in which his poor kitchen that must currently be, and was becoming gloomily positive that he would be finding crumbs, not to mention the odd mug or fork, in the most unlikely of places for the next several weeks. But gradually, the conversation began to come around again to the burgling thing and, to Frodo’s alarm, himself.
“So, this is the lad we’d be wanting for the burgling?” asked Balin, giving Frodo a skeptical eye. “Doesn’t seem the daring sort, no insult intended, of course, my good hobbit.”
“Our Frodo, a burglar?” laughed Ned Proudfoot, tickled no end by that quaint notion. He was wedged in a corner next to Bombur, but was following the conversation with a great amount of interest. “I’ve no idea why you’d be wanting a burglar, but if you do, Ted Sandyman’d be the hobbit you’d be after.”
“Aye, to be sure,” cackled the Widow merrily, sitting very nearly in a nonplussed Nori’s lap, and currently a very rosy shade indeed. “That hobbit’d whisk the shirt off your back, whilst you’re a-puttin’ on your jacket, as the sayin’ goes. But our Frodo Baggins? Never a bit of it, dearie!”
“No, it’s Frodo Baggins you need and none other,” the wizard insisted, a bit testily. “I told you to trust me on this one, and indeed you shall. Besides, you need your fourteenth, do you not?”
“Fourteenth?” giggled the Widow, who was indeed in an uproarious mood. “’Tis fifteen you’ll be havin’, and not a doubt about it. Why, just take a look a’the pair of them!” And there was no mistaking the fact that Frodo and Sam were indeed sitting very close together, with tightly entwined hands. “Lady love you, m’dears,” she continued, leaning forward and patting Sam’s knee with unmistakable affection, “ ‘Tis glad we all are to see the both of you happy, but I thought t’would be best to mention, facts being as they are.”
Gandalf, however, gave an almost imperceptible start, and gave the pair a careful look. “This may not be wise,” he murmured reflectively to himself, and then added, in a slightly louder voice, “But certainly Master Gamgee will be staying at Bag End to take care of the place while his master is gone?”
The burst of laughter from the hobbits in the room, at that statement, left him looking about in surprise. “Oh, aye, and the moon should be a’coming down my chimney any night now, likewise,” hooted Old Tolman Cotton. “ ‘Tis every bit as likely, you know!”
But to Frodo and Sam’s great relief, Jolly burst into the room, just then, with an announcement that a pair of the ponies, property of some of the visitors, had broken into the pumpkin patch, and all else was promptly forgotten in the rush out into the night to salvage that irreplaceable autumn crop. From there, the party began to break up, although not without a certain amount of threats and persuasion on Sam’s part, until the two residents of Bag End were left alone with the travelers from beyond the Shire.
&&&&&
Frodo was staring out of the bedroom window, when Sam had finally completed a last inspection of the damage wrought upon their smial, and had picked his cautious way through the snoring dwarves, who seemed to be everywhere, to the bedroom to join him. There had been no sign of the wizard, a fact which concerned Sam not a bit. He had prudently thought to lock their bedroom, early on in the tumultuous evening, so there was no sign of the disorder that was to be found everywhere else in the smial. He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching a heedless Frodo, and then entered quietly, quickly locking the door behind himself once again.
“Well, me love,” he murmured in Frodo’s ear, approaching Frodo from behind and wrapping his arms around him. “Whoever could have imagined?”
“Why me, Sam?” Frodo asked softly, and then glanced to his side with a small smile as his hands rose up to clasp Sam’s arms. “Or, should I say, why us?”
“More like, dearie,” Sam responded a trifle gruffly, tightening his embrace slightly. “Summat to do with Mr. Bilbo, if I ain’t mistaken. But I suppose we won’t be knowin’ any answers to that any time soon, if ever.”
Frodo’s gaze turned back out through the window to the moon, hovering just over the distant trees, hugely round and golden, the very picture of a harvest moon. “Our life here is so peaceful, Sam. I’ve had enough turmoil in my earlier years to know how much of a treasure I have in my days here with you. And yet. . .” and here he faltered for a moment, but Sam gave him a light kiss on the back of his neck as encouragement, and he continued on. “And yet, I’ve always wondered what a dragon looks like. Or what, for that matter, lies just beyond that ridge to the east.”
Sam smiled slowly behind him. He had known, for several hours now, what Frodo’s decision would be, even if Frodo himself had not yet realized it. “I’ve always wanted to see an Elf,” he murmured, lightly resting his chin on Frodo’s shoulder. “Or an oliphaunt. Do you think we’ll see oliphaunts, Frodo-love?”
Frodo spun about, then, and lifting his hands to the sides of Sam’s face, caught his mouth in a passionate kiss. “Shall we follow these dwarves, then, Sam my beloved?” he asked afterwards, his eyes dark in the moonlight but glinting with excitement. “Shall we go where they lead us, even if we never return to the Shire again?”
“To the moon and back again, should you wish,” breathed Sam, an answering joy in his own eyes.
“I’m not sure about the burgling bit, mind you,” Frodo’s smile broadened, “although I’ve been known to pilfer some mushrooms from time to time in my day.”
“Why, Frodo! Never!” Sam laughed happily. “That wizard must a’known. I think Mr. Bilbo’s right, sure enough. That one bears watchin’ and no mistake.”
“Very well, dearest, you do just that. And now, since it’s likely to be our last night in a decent bed for some time to come, I would suggest we discuss the rest of this mad scheme in the morning.”
Sam had no objections whatsoever to this, and the entire company ended up, the next morning, leaving rather later than Gandalf had hoped. That was because the Gaffer stopped by, with a last bit of fatherly advice, which took some time and at least one pot of tea. Then Marigold intercepted the party, just as they were setting off, with a well-wrapped loaf, freshly made, a hearty kiss on the cheek for Sam, and a sly wink for Frodo. The Widow, whose smial they happened to walk by, was out early that morning and gaily waved them on their way, and a whole party of excited hobbit youngsters showed up near the intersection of the path from Bag End to the Great Road East, madly waving their pocket handkerchiefs and shouting out shrill farewells. “Bring us back a dragon’s tooth, Sam!” one especially daring fauntling yelled, which made Frodo laugh and Sam blush. And at the head of the procession, Gandalf strode fiercely on and, his brows sternly drawn together, began to suspect that hobbits might not be quite as malleable as he had once thought them to be.
I guess it has been awhile, hasn't it? *trails a distracted finger through the dust on the end table*
Well, enough of this! Time to re-post a few of the fics that are currently only elsewhere.
This one was for the August
waymeet challenge, in which we chose a quote from FOTR.Title: A Very Unexpected Party
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 4452
Quote: A draught of cooks, from every inn and eating-house for miles around, arrived to supplement the dwarves and other odd folk that were quartered at Bag End.
Summary: That particular quote, to me, very nearly sounded like something out of The Hobbit, which immediately sent me into the Land of What If. So this, as goes without mention, is absolute crack-fic and extremely AU, and not part of any series.
Bilbo had gone on a walking expedition that had seemed to be a little more lengthy than usual when, after a fortnight or so, Frodo Baggins received the first of three short notes.
Having a lovely time, it read. The fall colours are especially nice this year. Your loving uncle, Bilbo.
After another few weeks, the second note arrived. This one was written in Elvish.
Elrond just told me he’d have a smial dug out just for me, he finally managed to decipher. Can you imagine? All my best.
The final note arrived not a week later, this time in high Elvish. Frodo had to puzzle over it for a good part of a day, before it finally made sense.
Frodo, my dear, I don’t suppose I’ll be coming back. A rather tallish chap, Gandalf by name, may be showing up, but have a care with him, my love. He’s a wily old buzzard, and may even be the wizard he claims to be. Oh, and needless to say, Bag End is yours. You may do with it as you see fit. Yours, etc., etc.
Samwise Gamgee was promptly moved into Bag End on the following day.
&&&&&
Life continued on in a tranquil sort of way thereafter, for a couple of years, until the bright autumn morning on which Sam went out to sweep the front doorstep. “Here, now!” came the sudden yelp, and Frodo went to investigate the cause.
It was not at all hard to determine, for he found his friend glaring at a intricate white marking of some sort apparently chalked on the round front door. “What young scamp would do such nonsense as this?” Sam’s normally peaceable round face was stern as he glared at the offending mark.
Frodo stared at the door as well, but then suddenly his face cleared. “Ah, young Boodle,” he laughed indulgently. “Probably should have given him that bag of boiled sweets no matter what his mother thought. Never mind, Sam, the tea is ready, second breakfast is on, and I’m famished. Besides, this gives you the perfect chance to paint it that cheery red that you had been talking about.”
“Well, now, it does at that,” Sam agreed happily, and followed him inside, closing the door firmly behind them. The matter was promptly forgotten by both inhabitants of Bag End.
&&&&&
Morning wound into afternoon, as the days tended to do, and the warmth of the midday sun was turning into a bit of a chill by early evening, so Frodo was gratified to smell the delectable scent of baking apples wafting through the smial along with the more common aroma of scones. “Hmm,” he thought dreamily, giving a quick cat-like stretch from the settle where apparently he had taken a bit of a nap. “Scones for tea, and apple dumplings for afters later tonight. I must be sure to thank Sam thoroughly.”
As he pushed himself upright on the settle, his abandoned book falling from his lap to the floor with a muffled thump, and was looking forward to the prospect of doing just that with a sense of delicious anticipation, his reveries were abruptly interrupted by a resounding thunk on the front door. He frowned at this disturbance, still blinking a trifle sleepily, and grudgingly began to make his way to the front door. Sam was obviously, by the snatches of song he could hear from time to time, busy in the kitchen, and blast if he wanted the lad to be interrupted when he was on a roll.
Just before he reached the door, there was a second thunk, equally as resounding, and he began thinking a bit more harshly regarding the apparent visitor. Surely, it couldn’t be the Boodle lad. A bit of mischief was one thing, but assaulting a perfectly innocent front door was another matter altogether.
The last thing he expected, however, was what he saw as he unceremoniously jerked the door open. It wasn’t a hobbit; that he knew right off, but it took a moment or two before he realized, thanks to Bilbo’s more racy volumes, that the personage standing on his front door mat was a dwarf. Frodo was one of the taller hobbits about, but this creature stood a good half a foot higher, and what was more immediately noticeable, was extraordinarily bushy. A great flowing ginger beard, which Frodo had never seen on a living being before, engulfed his face, extending down nearly to his knees, and underneath the dark green cape, his equally gingerish hair was nearly as long as the beard, but was twisted together in some sort of intricate manner. Sharp black eyes peered out at him from behind the, needless to mention, bushy and gingerish eyebrows, and the most alarming thing of all was that this apparition was looking at him with an unmistakable air of expectancy.
“Well?” it finally boomed, clearly beginning to get peeved. “Is this any sort of a welcome, I ask you?”
“Ah, well, that is to say,” Frodo unmistakably squeaked to his dismay. “Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he added automatically, with a polite bow, not knowing in the slightest what else to say.
“Dwalin, at yours,” the dwarf bowed in return.
There was a rather strained moment of silence after that, but the late afternoon breeze was chilly, and the occasional flurry of leaves was blowing briskly by, so Frodo did what was only the courteous thing to do under the circumstances, and invited the stranger in. “We were only just having tea,” he opened the door a bit wider, and vaguely wondered when his voice had gotten quite so high-pitched. “Won’t you come in?”
The dwarf gave a satisfied harumph at the invitation, and swept his cape off. “More like it, my good fellow. Lead the way.”
Frodo had the presence of mind to realize, as he led the dwarf down the front hallway, that the study, where he and Sam normally took their tea, might be somewhat a tight fit for the company, so he turned into the less used front room, and politely indicated the sturdiest chair in the room. “If you don’t mind,” he cleared his throat a bit, “I’ll just let Samwise know to add another cup to the tray.” And before the dwarf had a chance to seat himself, he scuttled from the room, in search of the ever solid and sensible Sam.
Before he had a chance to do no more than leave the room, however, there was another heavy thump on the front door, and with a sudden alarmed drop of his stomach, he had the unmistakable feeling that the quota of dwarves at Bag End was just about to double.
As indeed was the case. The dwarf on the doorstep this time was an older specimen, but aside from the hair being snowy white, and the hood a bright scarlet, was in all other aspects exactly the same. Frodo bowed courteously again, with a little more rapidity this time around, and introduced himself once again.
“Balin,” was the deep response, and Frodo lost no time asking him in as well, and headed down the hall once again, the second dwarf in tow. It had just crossed his mind that he really should clue Sam in on what was going on about the smial when a sudden clatter and crash of crockery announced that that was going to be quite unnecessary. Sam was standing in the hallway, the tea tray in shambles at his feet, and his normally roundish hazel eyes absolute orbs of astonishment.
“Yes, yes, my dear, no matter, let’s go back and get some more cups, shall we?” he muttered, shoving a wordless Sam ahead of him back into the kitchen.
“Frodo, what in the name of all that’s good, are they a’doin’ in here?” Sam hissed, clutching Frodo’s shoulder frantically, once they had reached the sanctuary of the kitchen.
“Well, Sam, they’re dwarves, you see,” Frodo stammered, still trying to put the pieces together himself, and beginning to realize that Sam’s grip was becoming uncomfortably tight.
“I know that,” Sam replied impatiently. After all, Frodo belatedly realized, Sam was also familiar with that racy volume of Bilbo’s. “What I’d like to be knowin’ is what dwarves are a’doin’ in our front room?”
“Well, you see, it was getting chilly out of doors,” Frodo tried to start again, feeling that he was repeating himself, “and somehow they seemed to be expecting me to ask them in.” Any further explanation, though, was brought to a sudden halt by another hearty thump on the front door.
“By the Lady,” he breathed, staring in horror at a still flummoxed Sam. “There’s more of them.”
&&&&&
Frodo’s prediction proved to be all too correct, for less than an hour later, the front room was positively wall to wall dwarf. “How many are there, now, d’ye think?” Sam questioned Frodo urgently, as they passed in the hall, Sam heading in with another platter of scones, Frodo heading back with an empty tea pot in each hand.
Frodo shook his head despairingly. “I have no idea, Sam. I’m sure I lost count at ten.”
“But why are they here?” Sam quite nearly wailed, plaintively. “And what’s more, how long will they be here?”
“That last question is most definitely the heart of the matter, my dear.” Frodo’s chin shot upwards at that last comment, and Sam was most gratified to recognize the stubborn look Frodo got from time to time. “Very well, then, I’ll take the scones and you refill the pots. It’s past time to answer a question or two, I should think.”
Sam gave a hasty nod, and sped off to take care of the refilling of the tea with all possible speed. He didn’t want to miss a moment of this.
Frodo re-entered the front room, platter in hand and trepidation, despite all he could do, in his heart. “This is perfectly ridiculous,” he instructed himself firmly. “This is my smial, after all. Now that they’ve all been fed, it’s only reasonable that I should ask for some particulars regarding this sudden invasion.”
“So.” He placed the platter on the table at the center of the room, and with a scone clutched in one hand, stood with his back to the brisk fire, trying his very best to bring off a sort of casual air. “What brings you good dwarves to the Shire?”
What he did not expect, however, was the general snicker, if dwarves could be said to do such a thing, that ran about the room. “No better place to find a burglar, as well you should know,” one of the younger dwarves – Kili, was that the name? – chuckled.
“Indeed,” Frodo murmured, feeling suddenly that this was all considerably murkier than he had first imagined.
“Can’t very well be expecting us to do anything in that line,” laughed the young dwarf’s apparent twin – Fili, Frodo vaguely thought, was the unlikely corresponding name. With the greatest of relief, Frodo saw Sam entering with a steaming pot in each hand, which he placed on the cozies on the table.
“What are you planning to have burgled, then?” he asked politely, still failing to see what this might be all leading towards. “I’m afraid I really don’t know of anyone to whom I could recommend you.”
There was a general guffaw at that innocent remark. “Gandalf told us you were a modest chap,” Dwalin shook his head in amusement. “But Gandalf knows his stuff, the old scoundrel, so if he says you’re the best, then that’s good enough for us.”
“Gandalf?” Frodo quavered, desperately searching his memory for such a name. It did have a familiar ring, and in a moment, he got it. The “old buzzard” Bilbo had referred to in his last letter. He seemed to remember the word “wily”, as well. But these were all unmistakably dwarves, and he still was at a total loss.
It was then that there was a final thump on the door, and upon both Frodo and Sam scrambling to answer it, equally grateful for the excuse to flee, there proved to be one last dwarf, clearly of great importance from his regal dress and haughty air, and one other who was much taller and was neither dwarf nor hobbit. “Gandalf, my dear fellow,” the latter murmured, cordially extending a hand of greeting. “Very glad to meet you. Good friend of Bilbo’s, you know,” and Frodo visibly paled.
&&&&&
Two hours later, Frodo and Sam were no more enlightened as to the nature of this incursion than they ever had been. Frodo had tried to have a private word with Gandalf, since the dwarves seemed to consider him the reason for selecting Bag End as their destination, but Gandalf had waved him off with a chuckle and a brief comment of, “Not right now, dear boy. Business goes better with this lot when their bellies are full, and I don’t believe we’re quite there yet. A word of warning on that score, my lad.” He turned his attention to his pipe then, and that had been that. But Sam had been watching everything he had baked for the upcoming week and more vanish, with growing alarm.
“They’ll be expecting dinner, likewise?” he muttered to Frodo as they stood just inside the doorway of the crowded room, ignored by their guests who were trading uproarious tales of old times.
Frodo eyed the tall wizard in a chair that he could have sworn had never been as large as that before. “They don’t seem to be in the mood to go anywhere,” he admitted. “Surely they can’t be expecting to stay the night, but dinner definitely appears to be on.”
“Well, I don’t know how, as there ain’t a thing left,” Sam stated flatly, with a dour air. “Can’t say much for their manners, nohow, dropping in like this with no notice a’tall.”
“Oh, dear,” Frodo spun around, giving him a look of alarm. “Couldn’t you run down the Number Three and borrow something? We can’t just refuse them dinner!”
“Aye, I’d not be likin’ that option much myself,” Sam had to admit. They were, after all, very largish and fierce in appearance, without a doubt, and he had noticed as well the immense and very sharp axes some of them had left behind in the entryway along with their cloaks. “I’m not sure how much the gaffer has to spare, as tomorrow is generally market day for him, but I’ll go see as what can be done.”
“Good,” Frodo sighed with relief. “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, mind you. I think quantity is more the thing, Sam.”
Sam gave a grim nod and was gone.
&&&&&
Sam had rarely seen his father at a loss for words (one of the previous such occasions was one upon which he did not like to reflect very often), but this was one of them. Sam having to ask for some provisions, and such a very large quantity of them as well, required an explanation, and that brought up the theme of dwarves. “And a wizard, as well,” Sam helpfully added, but the gaffer was still stuck on the “dwarves” end of it.
“Mr. Bilbo would never have allowed such goings on at Bag End!” he spluttered, entirely overlooking the fact that if there ever had been an unconventional hobbit in the vicinity of Hobbiton, it would have been Bilbo Baggins.
“Well, Mr. Frodo didn’t ask ‘em here, no ways! But the fact of it is that they are here, you see, and they need to be fed. And I’ve naught left t’be feedin’ them with!”
“You can rummage around if y’like, lad, but you know that tomorrow’d be my marketing day. There ain’t much, no how,” grumbled the older hobbit, but the initial shock had passed, and curiosity was beginning to take its place. “What would they be lookin’ like, now, Sam-lad, anyways?”
“I’m sure I don’t have time to be chattin’ w’you, Da. If you want t’know, come have a look,” his son distractedly muttered, dismayed by the meager stores he was finding about the small kitchen. There was a ham, and a small sack of taters and another of onions, a bunch of carrots and a small dish of plums, but that was it. He could have made a fine feast out of that for a group of hobbits, but he had seen the damage of which the present company was capable, and he knew that that was not nearly enough. “Well, I’m takin’ this back, and then I’ll be off to the Cottons. An’ Da, would you be able to pop by the Widow’s and see if mayhap she was bakin’ today? All my bread’d be gone, t’be sure!”
His father perked up considerably at that thought, for providing a piece of news such as this to the Widow promised to be a fair treat indeed. “Aye, me dear, that I will. Now don’t you fret none, we’ll feed this lot, or our name ain’t Gamgee, right, lad?”
&&&&&
The Cottons provided what they could, and Old Tolman sent Nibs off to Ned Proudfoot for more, and May Gamgee, who had been visiting her sister Marigold Cotton, promptly headed off to her friends in Hobbiton, Iris and Pansy Burrows, and from there on, there was just no telling how the word spread. The upshot of the whole thing was that in the matter of a couple of hours, a draught of cooks, from every family and inn and eating-house for miles around, arrived to feed the dwarves and any other odd folk that were quartered at Bag End. Sam was gaily shooed out of his own kitchen, as only befit one of the co-hosts, and Jolly Cotton found the key to the wine cellar, and promptly hauled out the barrels of beer and bottles of good wine that Frodo had been setting aside for Yule. Without any doubt, the Yule-time festivities couldn’t possibly match up to this event, so he certainly saw no need to keep them tucked away. And, of course, those who had contributed could not be expected to be turned away without their curiosity being satisfied or their stomachs filled, so it ended up being a very grand affair indeed.
Since there was no possible way to fit all of the hobbits into the room where the main attraction was located, they came through in shifts, while the rest either labored mightily in the kitchen, or sat about the smial elsewhere and ate and knocked back a cool drink or two and generally agreed that this was the best evening anyone could ever remember having happened in the Shire, at least since Old Bart (who was, indeed, very, very old) had been a wee lad.
The two hosts, however, sat together on a small bench in the front room, with untouched plates of food before them. Frodo was, by this point, in very nearly a state of shock, although one small portion of his mind was finding the tales the dwarves were merrily trading to be fascinating indeed. Sam was trying his very best not to consider the condition in which his poor kitchen that must currently be, and was becoming gloomily positive that he would be finding crumbs, not to mention the odd mug or fork, in the most unlikely of places for the next several weeks. But gradually, the conversation began to come around again to the burgling thing and, to Frodo’s alarm, himself.
“So, this is the lad we’d be wanting for the burgling?” asked Balin, giving Frodo a skeptical eye. “Doesn’t seem the daring sort, no insult intended, of course, my good hobbit.”
“Our Frodo, a burglar?” laughed Ned Proudfoot, tickled no end by that quaint notion. He was wedged in a corner next to Bombur, but was following the conversation with a great amount of interest. “I’ve no idea why you’d be wanting a burglar, but if you do, Ted Sandyman’d be the hobbit you’d be after.”
“Aye, to be sure,” cackled the Widow merrily, sitting very nearly in a nonplussed Nori’s lap, and currently a very rosy shade indeed. “That hobbit’d whisk the shirt off your back, whilst you’re a-puttin’ on your jacket, as the sayin’ goes. But our Frodo Baggins? Never a bit of it, dearie!”
“No, it’s Frodo Baggins you need and none other,” the wizard insisted, a bit testily. “I told you to trust me on this one, and indeed you shall. Besides, you need your fourteenth, do you not?”
“Fourteenth?” giggled the Widow, who was indeed in an uproarious mood. “’Tis fifteen you’ll be havin’, and not a doubt about it. Why, just take a look a’the pair of them!” And there was no mistaking the fact that Frodo and Sam were indeed sitting very close together, with tightly entwined hands. “Lady love you, m’dears,” she continued, leaning forward and patting Sam’s knee with unmistakable affection, “ ‘Tis glad we all are to see the both of you happy, but I thought t’would be best to mention, facts being as they are.”
Gandalf, however, gave an almost imperceptible start, and gave the pair a careful look. “This may not be wise,” he murmured reflectively to himself, and then added, in a slightly louder voice, “But certainly Master Gamgee will be staying at Bag End to take care of the place while his master is gone?”
The burst of laughter from the hobbits in the room, at that statement, left him looking about in surprise. “Oh, aye, and the moon should be a’coming down my chimney any night now, likewise,” hooted Old Tolman Cotton. “ ‘Tis every bit as likely, you know!”
But to Frodo and Sam’s great relief, Jolly burst into the room, just then, with an announcement that a pair of the ponies, property of some of the visitors, had broken into the pumpkin patch, and all else was promptly forgotten in the rush out into the night to salvage that irreplaceable autumn crop. From there, the party began to break up, although not without a certain amount of threats and persuasion on Sam’s part, until the two residents of Bag End were left alone with the travelers from beyond the Shire.
&&&&&
Frodo was staring out of the bedroom window, when Sam had finally completed a last inspection of the damage wrought upon their smial, and had picked his cautious way through the snoring dwarves, who seemed to be everywhere, to the bedroom to join him. There had been no sign of the wizard, a fact which concerned Sam not a bit. He had prudently thought to lock their bedroom, early on in the tumultuous evening, so there was no sign of the disorder that was to be found everywhere else in the smial. He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching a heedless Frodo, and then entered quietly, quickly locking the door behind himself once again.
“Well, me love,” he murmured in Frodo’s ear, approaching Frodo from behind and wrapping his arms around him. “Whoever could have imagined?”
“Why me, Sam?” Frodo asked softly, and then glanced to his side with a small smile as his hands rose up to clasp Sam’s arms. “Or, should I say, why us?”
“More like, dearie,” Sam responded a trifle gruffly, tightening his embrace slightly. “Summat to do with Mr. Bilbo, if I ain’t mistaken. But I suppose we won’t be knowin’ any answers to that any time soon, if ever.”
Frodo’s gaze turned back out through the window to the moon, hovering just over the distant trees, hugely round and golden, the very picture of a harvest moon. “Our life here is so peaceful, Sam. I’ve had enough turmoil in my earlier years to know how much of a treasure I have in my days here with you. And yet. . .” and here he faltered for a moment, but Sam gave him a light kiss on the back of his neck as encouragement, and he continued on. “And yet, I’ve always wondered what a dragon looks like. Or what, for that matter, lies just beyond that ridge to the east.”
Sam smiled slowly behind him. He had known, for several hours now, what Frodo’s decision would be, even if Frodo himself had not yet realized it. “I’ve always wanted to see an Elf,” he murmured, lightly resting his chin on Frodo’s shoulder. “Or an oliphaunt. Do you think we’ll see oliphaunts, Frodo-love?”
Frodo spun about, then, and lifting his hands to the sides of Sam’s face, caught his mouth in a passionate kiss. “Shall we follow these dwarves, then, Sam my beloved?” he asked afterwards, his eyes dark in the moonlight but glinting with excitement. “Shall we go where they lead us, even if we never return to the Shire again?”
“To the moon and back again, should you wish,” breathed Sam, an answering joy in his own eyes.
“I’m not sure about the burgling bit, mind you,” Frodo’s smile broadened, “although I’ve been known to pilfer some mushrooms from time to time in my day.”
“Why, Frodo! Never!” Sam laughed happily. “That wizard must a’known. I think Mr. Bilbo’s right, sure enough. That one bears watchin’ and no mistake.”
“Very well, dearest, you do just that. And now, since it’s likely to be our last night in a decent bed for some time to come, I would suggest we discuss the rest of this mad scheme in the morning.”
Sam had no objections whatsoever to this, and the entire company ended up, the next morning, leaving rather later than Gandalf had hoped. That was because the Gaffer stopped by, with a last bit of fatherly advice, which took some time and at least one pot of tea. Then Marigold intercepted the party, just as they were setting off, with a well-wrapped loaf, freshly made, a hearty kiss on the cheek for Sam, and a sly wink for Frodo. The Widow, whose smial they happened to walk by, was out early that morning and gaily waved them on their way, and a whole party of excited hobbit youngsters showed up near the intersection of the path from Bag End to the Great Road East, madly waving their pocket handkerchiefs and shouting out shrill farewells. “Bring us back a dragon’s tooth, Sam!” one especially daring fauntling yelled, which made Frodo laugh and Sam blush. And at the head of the procession, Gandalf strode fiercely on and, his brows sternly drawn together, began to suspect that hobbits might not be quite as malleable as he had once thought them to be.
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I think Frodo and Sam were definitely a little taken aback at first (unlike the Widow and Ned, who have been around the block a few times!). But once they decided they are in on this, look out Gandalf!
This was such fun to write, I just might do a bit more. . . . ;D
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I love your icon. It looks like Ratty.
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It's Ratty, off on a picnic. Toad is quite pleased at the thought of joining him and Mole quite soon.