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shirebound!
I'm sorry to say that I haven't written any Halloween stories this year (that may change, as I so, so love Halloween), but I'm going to repost one I wrote last year that's very silly and well, full of utter fluff.
Author: Lily Baggins
Title: The Goat-Man of Chetwood and Other Evils
Rating: G
Author's notes: I read somewhere that pumpkins shouldn't have existed in Middle-earth. But Peter Jackson had them there, so that's good enough for me.
Author's additional note: No hobbits were actually frightened during the writing of this fic.
****
Frodo expressed no small amount of surprise when Sam informed him, just around supper time, that they were both expected in Gandalf’s quarters. Secretly, Frodo wondered if another meeting was to take place, and he fervently hoped not. Tonight he longed to be a simple hobbit again, without thinking about the Ring or the quest before him. And he was hungry, too. With his appetite steadily returning, delaying supper was not a pleasant prospect.
“What do you think Mr. Gandalf wants with us?” Sam asked as he steadied Frodo a bit on their trek to the wizard’s room. “Probably some lesson or other for our journey, I’d reckon, but I do hope we get a bite to eat there. I’m fair starving, and I know you are too, Mr. Frodo.”
“More than starving, Sam. Famished. Ravenous.” Frodo’s stomach rumbled loudly just as they arrived at Gandalf’s door. Strangely, he could hear Merry and Pippin laughing inside. He’d just raised his hand to knock when the door sprang open to reveal Legolas. Frodo sniffed curiously as the spicy aroma of apple cider wafted into the hallway.
Legolas bowed slightly, putting a supportive hand on Frodo’s back and ushering the hobbits inside. “We were about to come look for you. Come. The others are all here.”
Sam’s mouth nearly dropped open as they entered the room. “Well, for goodness’ sake.”
“Oh, my.” Frodo gazed in wonder at the spread set out before them.
Two enormous linen-clad tables stood side by side in the middle of the large room. Upon them, a number of carved pumpkins flickered softly, casting and otherworldly glow upon the faces of all already there: Bilbo, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir, Legolas, Merry, and Pippin.
The tables seemed to stagger under the sheer weight of that which is dearest to the hobbit heart: victuals. Frodo saw a stack of sausages baked inside a lovely golden dough, two gigantic hams adorned with cloves, a hammered metal bowl of what appeared to be butter-rich mashed potatoes, roasted ears of sweet corn, apples coated in caramel and rolled in nuts, pastries topped with currants and spices, several large pumpkin pies with fresh whipped cream, a platter of fluffy white balls quite foreign to Frodo, tea-cakes frosted with a thick, sugary orange icing, glass bowls of taffy and assorted sweetmeats, a tray of black marzipan candies in the shape of spiders, and to Frodo’s utter delight, mushrooms resting in a light, creamy sauce and studded with garlic and chives. In the hearth, above a hissing, crackling fire, hung a black kettle from which rose the tempting odor Frodo had smelled earlier.
To his intense embarrassment, Frodo’s innards growled audibly.
Aragorn, nearest the tables (probably to guard them from Pippin, Frodo figured), laughed. “It appears that someone is quickly regaining his appetite.” He approached Frodo and steered him to sit next to Bilbo upon a comfortable, overstuffed settee close to the fire. “Have a seat, Frodo, and I shall bring you and Bilbo each a plate. Or two.” He grinned. “Only the first of many, I am sure.”
“Naturally. Thank you, Aragorn.” Without further ado Frodo got settled, hugging Bilbo briefly and greeting everyone in turn. The other hobbits had already begun to heap their plates, Pippin digging into the sweetmeats with aplomb and incurring Merry’s wrath.
Frodo chuckled at the sight, turning to Gandalf. “This is just splendid . . . how did you all know? The pumpkins, the apples . . . it’s so very much like All Soul’s Eve, I nearly feel I’m back home in the Shire.”
“I have not been friends with the Shire-folk all these long years without picking up on a few of their habits, Frodo,” Gandalf answered with a familiar raise of his bushy eyebrows. “And then I mentioned it, in passing, to Arwen, who of course immediately decided to arrange a party for you. Bilbo provided the particulars.”
Frodo nodded. “It was a lovely thing for the Lady Arwen to do for us.”
“And she sends her regrets that she could not be here,” Aragorn said, returning with two plates piled high. “But she felt we should have this time for bonding before we set out, and so went ahead with her original plans to ride out into the valley with her brothers. She will not be back until tomorrow sometime.”
Frodo accepted the food eagerly and found it delicious, even as he wondered exactly how long it had taken the elves to master the concept of mashed potatoes.
“So,” Boromir said around a bite of food, “please tell me again what custom we are celebrating?”
“Today, all hobbits of the Shire celebrate All Soul’s Eve,” Merry answered. “It’s held on the last day of October each year to honor loved ones who have passed.” He paused a moment. “Well, that was its original intention, and in centuries past our ancestors held vigils or other ceremonies in graveyards and such to reconnect with the spirits if they could. Now, it’s a more festive occasion . . . we eat a lot, dress in costume, play pranks—and some of the youngsters go trick-or-treating from smial to smial.”
“Trick or treating?”
“Give me a treat—candy, etc.—and I’ll not play a trick on you,” Pippin said as he cleaned the last bit of mashed potato from his plate and rose for seconds. Or was it thirds? “And then we also bob for apples and roast hazelnuts on the hearth and sometimes even go from place to place singing songs. I do miss it this year . . . but this makes up for it. It’s a fine celebration.”
The others agreed, enjoying the bountiful provender and chatting and making lighthearted talk as the evening sky darkened outside.
About an hour and thirty plates later (two each for the big folk, four and counting for each hobbit) everyone sat or lay—satiated or merely filling up the corners—sprawled around the fire. Frodo curled against Bilbo, with Sam and Merry and Pippin on the floor at his feet upon thick velvety cushions. Aragorn and Gandalf shared the settee opposite, while Boromir and Legolas had drawn up large armchairs. Gimli sat as far from Legolas as possible in a hardback chair on the other side of Aragorn.
Frodo’s belly was full and getting fuller by the minute as he casually tossed sweetmeats into his mouth. But he didn’t feel tired at all . . . no, he felt wonderfully wicked. Sitting up straighter, he glanced around, eyes gleaming. “Well, Aragorn and Legolas have graced us with a song . . . and Gandalf has told us a tale of the First Age. But now we hobbits have another ritual, you know.”
Gandalf took a puff of his pipe and blew a smoke ring in the shape of an arching cat. “Do tell, dear Frodo.”
“We must have some scary stories. It just isn’t right to have an All Soul’s Eve celebration without them.”
“Scary stories?” Gimli grunted. “As in stories of otherworldly things? That should not be too difficult for a dwarf. Strange things dwell in the deep places of the earth.”
A soft whisper came from Legolas’s direction. “Your entire race, you mean.”
Aragorn quickly interrupted the would-be feud, ignoring Gimli’s harrumphing to glance sideways at Gandalf. “You were correct about the resilience of hobbits, Gandalf. After the events of the past few weeks, Frodo still wants to hear scary tales.”
Frodo chuckled. “I certainly do. Just . . . no stories of the . . . well, the Enemy, please. Stories about strange creatures and ghosts and haints and creepy happenings. It wouldn’t be a proper All Soul’s Eve without stories to frighten Pippin to death.”
“Me?” Pippin took umbrage. “I’ll not be the only one frightened, I’ll wager. But you’re right, Frodo—we must have them. Who wants to start? I want good stories—not child’s tales or silly stories. Truly hair-raising tales, please.”
Scratching his chin, Boromir nodded. “All right. A tale you shall have, though admittedly I know not hobbit ways and you mayn’t find this frightening at all. Nevertheless, I shall start.”
Five sets of hobbit eyes fastened on him eagerly, and all settled back to listen.
“When my brother, Faramir, and I were quite young,”Boromir began, “we accompanied my father for the very first time to Osgiliath, the abandoned, ancient capital city of Gondor before Minas Tirith. Father had ideas about eventually rebuilding the city and traveled there periodically.
“Of course, Father and the guards cautioned us strongly to remain with them at all times. We were forbidden to go off alone amidst the ruins. But I was a bold youth, and Faramir would follow me anywhere. Stray we did . . . and got quite lost among the old, crumbling remains of the King’s House.
“We ascended a spiral staircase and ended up in a dark, crumbling room lit only by the light of a single, high window. We became frightened at the rats scuttling about and called out for Father—or anyone—to come find us.
“And that was when we saw it: a shadow, it seemed, or a specter of some sort, come to life. It took the vague outline of a man wearing a high crown, and he beckoned to both of us and crooned, ‘My sons. Come back to me.’
“Faramir and I both heard him clearly, and we ran—ran for dear life, down the spiral staircase, falling and skinning knees, and right back into the arms of our guards, where we received a proper talking to. Father did not believe us at first, until he looked at a map to see exactly where we had been. For only one wing leads off that spiral staircase, and it used to be the royal nursery.
“The very last children to use that nursery belonged to Gondor’s twenty-sixth king, Telemnar. Telemnar’s reign was very short and tragic; both he and his small sons succumbed to the Great Plague that swept across Gondor during that time. His nephew Tarondor succeeded him and moved the capital to Minas Anor. No children ever used that nursery again, and for years the house was kept sealed off and quarantined.
“Faramir and I had seen what a few others have also seen, but rarely spoken of: the ghost of King Telemnar, searching for his dead sons. He had never spoken to anyone else, but he called to us because of our young age. He thought we were his sons. It seems that in recent years others have seen him, as well . . . and his calls are getting more fretful and angered and are heard more easily.”
Silence reigned, and Frodo could veritably feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He unconsciously edged closer to Bilbo and could see his companions huddling together, as well.
Legolas cleared his throat and spoke up. “I think I might have something that will suffice, if you all are willing.” At the eager responses, he went on.
“The Eldar know that after our bodies are slain, our spirits inhabit the Halls of Mandos. And so we have few ‘ghost stories,’ if you will. But a legend long told in Mirkwood tells of two mortal twin brothers who entered the forest intent on malice and thievery of my father’s halls.
“As legend has it, they strayed off the path in the deep of the night—an extremely unwise thing to do. Very soon the giant spiders—the same Bilbo encountered—surrounded and captured them. The spiders sucked their blood dry and left the bones to rot. Wild animals discovered the bones and carried them off to different parts of the forest, scattering them about. Now, the bones are a part of Mirkwood’s black, rich soil. But if you enter the heart of the forest in pitch darkness, you can hear the twin brothers’ voices carried on the wind as they cry out, attempting to find one another again in death.”
Outside, the wind howled.
“I think I need some sustenance,” Pippin announced. “Marshmallow toast, anyone?”
To Frodo’s surprise, the puffy white sugar balls he’d spotted earlier, known as marshmallows (Sam nearly refused to eat them, equating them with the Midgewater Marshes) tasted delicious when stuck on a stick and toasted over the open fire and drunk with lots of cider. Then, feeling quite merry, the younger hobbits appointed Bilbo as the next storyteller.
Frodo thought Bilbo might tell a familiar tale of his Great Adventure, but such was not the case.
“When I was a mere tween,” Bilbo said, licking his fingers free of sticky marshmallow, “we often visited Tuckborough, the childhood home of my dear departed mother, of course. As most tweens do, I quite enjoyed stealing mushrooms from Farmer Flyspeck’s fields near the Great Smials, and I was also quite proud of myself for never having been caught.
“It was on one such visit, during the month of October, that I sought my usual field and noticed Farmer Flyspeck had erected a new scarecrow. Quite the ugliest, most wicked looking scarecrow was he, but I am a hobbit, and nothing could keep me from my mushroom thieving.
“That evening, tired from my escapades, I went to bed expecting a sound, restful sleep. But instead, lightning and thunder woke me up, and rain began to fall. Curious, I rose and peeked out my window . . . and thought I saw a hobbit-like figure in the distance. I stood there watching for some time.
“And that’s when I saw him: the scarecrow. He stood about twenty feet from my window, staring at me. I blinked, and he was gone . . . but the rain made it difficult to see, and so I kept scouring the area with my eyes.
“When suddenly, Flyspeck’s scarecrow stood at the very verge, glaring at me with eyes glowing red as hot coals. He reached one wispy arm right through the window and wrapped straw fingers about my neck. I screamed, choking . . . and at that moment my father burst through the door, and the scarecrow released me and disappeared.
“I never did steal another mushroom.”
Frodo gulped. To make himself feel better, he skewered another marshmallow and burned it to a nice, golden crisp.
“Well,” Bilbo continued, idly petting Frodo’s hair, “the Dunedan hasn’t told us one yet. Aragorn? I know you are adept at telling stories, just as you are at poetry.”
“Yes, Strider, let’s have one!” Merry said as he tortured his own marshmallow.
“Well, let us see . . .”
Aragorn sat scratching his head for a moment in thought. “I do have a rather brief tale. For many, many long years have I roamed the wilds about Eriador. During that time, I have seen my share of odd and sinister things, but have heard about even more. And I will tell you what is the most terrible.”
He leaned forward, gazing at each hobbit in turn.
“The Goat-Man of Chetwood. An evil creature . . . formed from dark forces in Middle-earth that we cannot comprehend. He sports the legs and hooves of a goat, the upper body of a man, and short goat-like horns.
“Every few years, someone spots him in the Chetwood, the large woodland that lay to the north and east of Bree. Wielding a rusty axe, he always seeks for fresh meat to dine on. Goats will consume nearly anything, and the Goat-Man is no exception. He sometimes enters troll caves looking for leavings. But his favorite food is hobbitflesh, for it is sweet and tender and easy on his old, rotten teeth.
“The last I heard anyone speak of the Goat-Man was about five years ago, when Old Knobbyoak went missing. Easily the plumpest hobbit in Bree, Old Knobbyoak probably proved an easy target, for he often wandered out into the Chetwood alone looking for wild nuts. It is not wise to enter the Chetwood alone, or to travel along the East Road without a weapon. If you ever do, and hear the slight thud of the Goat-Man’s hooves . . . run.
“My kinsman Halbarad and I embarked upon a fruitless search for the Goat-Man a few years ago, to no avail. We found evidence of him . . . unlike trolls he can go about in complete sunlight and sometimes leaves the chewed bones of his kills behind. I believe he must still be out there.”
The hobbits shuddered. Boromir looked rather pale. Legolas’s mouth twisted into an uneasy line. Finally Sam spoke up, his voice a mere whisper. “Is that . . . is that tale true?”
“Completely.” Aragorn did not laugh, did not smile, and no one in the room knew whether or not he was bluffing.
***
The celebration lasted another couple of hours before finally, the four youngest hobbits (for Bilbo had retired earlier) staggered off, yawning, with stuffed bellies, to their beds.
Or at least, to two beds—Frodo’s and Merry’s.
“Sam?” Frodo, clad in a soft cotton nightshirt borrowed from Bilbo, lay amidst his pillows and nearly burned holes in the carved beams on the ceiling with his eyes. Sam lay next to him, and beside Sam, on the bedside table, burned a bright lantern. Neither Frodo nor Sam entertained any plans of sleeping in the darkness this night.
“Yes, Mr. Frodo?”
“I’m very glad you’re here beside me. I don’t believe I could get to sleep on my own, after those stories . . .”
Sam cringed. “Those giant spiders of Mr. Legolas’s . . . Mr. Frodo, I hate spiders. Even little garden ones. I can’t imagine coming face-to-face with a monster spider bigger’n a cow . . . I’d just get eaten real quick.”
“You wouldn’t, Sam. You’d call on that inner strength you possess, knowing you. I, on the other hand, am extremely grateful that Bilbo never told me the scarecrow story. I would never have gotten to sleep or ever visited Tuckborough again, that’s for certain.”
“Did you ever raid Farmer Fly-what’s-his-name’s field?”
“That’s a secret. Let’s just say, er . . . well, his son had taken the place over by the time I was a tween, and he grew the most lovely button mushrooms. But I must remember, it’s just a story. Just a story. I asked for it.” Frodo shuddered, scooting closer to Sam.
Both hobbits nearly jumped out of their skins when the bedchamber door opened unexpectedly.
“Frodo? Sam?”
Frodo breathed a huge sigh of relief to see two hobbits enter, instead of a scarecrow with glowing eyeballs and wispy straw fingers. “Pip! Merry! You nearly gave me an apoplexy. What are you two doing awake? It’s much past time for you two to get some sleep.”
Merry and Pippin crossed to the bed, Merry noting the lit lantern on the bedside table with amusement. “Pippin can’t sleep. He just keeps tossing and turning. I’m afraid the stories frightened him too badly.”
Pippin put his hands on his hips. “I’m not the one who keeps imagining the Goat-Man of Chetwood bursting out of the water-closet to murder us, thank you. Frodo, can I sleep beside you?”
Glad for the company, Frodo and Sam made room for two more.
***
Hobbits, when accustomed to sharing the same sleeping quarters on a somewhat semi-regular basis, usually find contentment and the most relaxed, fulfilling rest in numbers. Snores, yawns, loud breathing, mumbling, kicking, squirming—all go unnoticed and ignored in favor of the warmth and security of the hobbit pile.
And no exception to this general rule were these four—on a normal evening. But every time Frodo closed his eyes, he saw the flaming red eyeballs of Flyspeck’s scarecrow or heard the thud-thud-thud of the Goat-Man’s hooves. Outside, a full moon shone brightly, and strange noises seemed to reverberate. On the bedside table, four lanterns now burned.
“Did you hear that?” Frodo asked, sitting up slightly.
“Hear what, Frodo?”
“That scratching noise from outside on the porch.”
“It’s just a tree branch, Mr. Frodo.”
“I certainly hope that’s all it is.”
***
“Eyes! Eyes!”
“My heavens, Pippin!” Frodo veritably jumped, grimacing as his left shoulder knocked into Sam. “What in land sakes is the matter? I’d just nearly gotten to sleep!”
“I swore I saw something glowing outside! Like a lantern . . .”
“Pippin, go to sleep.”
“I can’t. I keep thinking of that poor king searching for his dead sons and crying out, ‘My sons, come to me . . .’”
“Well, the former king of Gondor isn’t going to come after you, Pip,” Merry said. “You’re too old to be one of his sons. Don’t worry about him—spend your time worrying about worthwhile things. Like the Goat-Man and the scarecrow and giant spiders and haints and ghosts and Gimli’s tale of great big worms digging holes---”
Pippin sat up abruptly, threw his blankets off, and hopped out of bed. “That’s it! I cannot stay here one moment longer. I’m going somewhere else to sleep. Someplace safer, with someone who understands these nefarious things and who can wield a weapon and fight off beasts and monsters, should I need it. Good night.”
With that, he stomped out. Merry sighed and rolled his eyes before slowly following. “You know Pip. I’d best make sure he doesn’t get into trouble somehow.”
Frodo and Sam glanced at each other briefly before rising with some alacrity. Oh, no, they weren’t staying in that room alone.
***
Merry found Pippin standing outside Aragorn’s chambers, just beginning to nudge the door open. “Pippin, be careful. You know how Strider can be when woken abruptly . . . he’s like to cut your head off as much as look at it!”
“No, no, Merry. Don’t you remember? Strider said Rivendell is the one place where he sleeps soundly, without a dagger under his pillow. I’m sure he won’t mind at all. This is partially his fault anyway. And if he does mind, we’ll go to Boromir. If that fails, Legolas. I’ve watched him practice with his bow. If Legolas doesn’t sleep, because I’m not sure if elves do, then we’ll go on to Gandalf. Wizards bear a powerful magic. And on down the line.” Pippin finally opened the door and tiptoed inside.
Moonlight streaming in through slightly open drapes illuminated the murky outline of Aragorn lying on his side with his back to both hobbits. His room, well-appointed with a large, cushiony bed, still felt comfortably warm from the glowing embers of a burned-out fire. Aragorn appeared to be sound asleep, clad in nightclothes and breathing softly. Pippin searched for any shiny flashes of metal indicating a weapon nearby and found none.
“Strider?”
Aragorn woke immediately, answering with a rather groggy voice. “Pippin? Is that you?”
“Yes. And Merry.”
“Is everyone all right? Is Frodo—”
“Frodo’s fine. I, however, cannot sleep.”
Aragorn sighed. “Why am I not at all surprised?”
Choosing to take those words as encouragement, Pippin wasted no time and climbed up on the bed, snuggling into the covers behind Aragorn and pressing against the man’s warmth. Merry followed, slipping in beside Pippin, and soon enough, all three fell into slumber.
***
Outside in the chilly hallway, two more hobbits crept on silent feet, as only hobbits can do. Stopping before Aragorn’s door, Frodo turned to Sam.
“Now look, Sam . . . perhaps we should give Pippin and Merry some time. You know, let Aragorn get used to the idea so that he isn’t overwhelmed by hobbits. If that fails, we’ll go to Gandalf, and barring him, Legolas. Going to Boromir’s room is a last resort, and I’d rather not go to Gimli unless absolutely necessary.”
“All right, Mr. Frodo. You go when you’re ready and I’ll follow.”
Frodo nodded, cocking a pointed ear as he listened to Pippin’s snores through the heavy carved wood of the door. The chill from the floor seeped into his very bones, and it didn’t take long until Frodo deemed it appropriate to knock. He stuck his head inside the room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Aragorn?”
A pause, then the largest figure of the three in the bed stirred. “Frodo? Is that you?”
“Yes. I hope it’s all right. I can’t sleep.”
“Come here, Frodo,” Aragorn said in a low voice to avoid waking the others. “Do not catch your death of cold out in the hallway.”
Gratefully, with Sam following discreetly a few paces behind, Frodo padded to the empty side of the bed, letting Aragorn hold the blankets away and offer a hand up. Frodo often still had a bit of trouble getting into bed, given his recovering left shoulder.
Aragorn grimaced as he felt Frodo’s chilly skin. “You are freezing! Here, climb in quickly and lie against me.”
Shivering, Frodo crawled into the cozy space and offered no resistance as Aragorn pulled him close. Frodo nestled against Aragorn’s broad chest, sighing as the man tucked the quilts around them and tenderly rubbed Frodo’s back to instill heat. “Thank you, Aragorn. This is . . . quite comfortable.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Aragorn yawned, the movement stirring Frodo slightly. “What is one more hobbit, anyway, when I have two sleeping here already?”
“Two hobbits, actually.”
“That is what I said.”
“No, two hobbits coming to get into your bed.”
“Two? There are now three hobbits in my bed.”
“But there will soon be four, if it’s all the same to you. Er, Sam?”
“Coming, Mr. Frodo.” Sam climbed in beside Frodo, providing even more warmth, and Aragorn pulled the blankets higher about all of them---after surreptitously glancing about to make sure no more hobbits appeared out of thin air.
“Four hobbits,” Aragorn said softly, his breath stirring Frodo’s hair. “I shall go to sleep not counting sheep, but hobbits.”
***
Aragorn woke slowly, realizing two things: it was still dark outside, and he felt rather too warm. That wasn’t surprising in the least . . . hobbits covered nearly every square inch of his bed. So, he’d not dreamed up the small specters seeking him out in the middle of the night, after all. He felt Pippin’s bony knees poking into his backside, and of course, Merry lay behind Pippin. And Frodo slept nestled against his chest, curls tickling Aragorn's chin and neck.
Gently, Aragorn slipped a hand into the front and then the back of Frodo's nightshirt, feeling the bare back and shoulder to make certain Frodo kept warm enough. Satisfied, Aragorn withdrew the hand and stroked Frodo's cheek as Frodo sighed in his sleep. Sam lay pressed up against Frodo. All four hobbits slumbered peacefully, their faces revealing none of the turmoil that must have gripped them earlier that evening.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Aragorn briefly wondered if his room had morphed into The Prancing Pony of Bree. Perhaps it was Bilbo . . . Aragorn craned his neck gently to avoid disturbing Frodo or Pippin and realized that no more room existed in the bed for a fifth hobbit, unless Bilbo slept at the very end . . .
“Aragorn?”
Definitely not Bilbo, then. “Boromir?”
Sheepishly, Boromir stepped into the room, looking particularly more vulnerable than usual barefoot and clad in a long sleeping shirt. “Yes, well, I . . . I went looking for the hobbits, to make certain they had not become frightened. And I became alarmed when I saw they were not in their rooms.”
“Of course,” Aragorn whispered, nodding. “I am afraid we have little room to spare, but you may take your rest upon the couch there by the side of the bed. You will find a blanket draped over the chair beside it.”
Boromir edged toward said couch, retrieving the blanket and shaking it out. “I truly was frightened for the hobbits’ welfare, Aragorn. I am not here because of fear over a few children’s tales. I am a warrior of Gondor, after all.”
“Of course, Boromir.”
“Aragorn . . . er . . . is the story you told the hobbits true? About the Goat-Man of Chetwood and his rusty axe?”
“Go to sleep, Boromir.” Aragorn relaxed, breathing in the pleasant Shire-like scent of those about him, and closed his eyes.
Finis
shirebound! I'm sorry to say that I haven't written any Halloween stories this year (that may change, as I so, so love Halloween), but I'm going to repost one I wrote last year that's very silly and well, full of utter fluff.
Author: Lily Baggins
Title: The Goat-Man of Chetwood and Other Evils
Rating: G
Author's notes: I read somewhere that pumpkins shouldn't have existed in Middle-earth. But Peter Jackson had them there, so that's good enough for me.
Author's additional note: No hobbits were actually frightened during the writing of this fic.
****
Frodo expressed no small amount of surprise when Sam informed him, just around supper time, that they were both expected in Gandalf’s quarters. Secretly, Frodo wondered if another meeting was to take place, and he fervently hoped not. Tonight he longed to be a simple hobbit again, without thinking about the Ring or the quest before him. And he was hungry, too. With his appetite steadily returning, delaying supper was not a pleasant prospect.
“What do you think Mr. Gandalf wants with us?” Sam asked as he steadied Frodo a bit on their trek to the wizard’s room. “Probably some lesson or other for our journey, I’d reckon, but I do hope we get a bite to eat there. I’m fair starving, and I know you are too, Mr. Frodo.”
“More than starving, Sam. Famished. Ravenous.” Frodo’s stomach rumbled loudly just as they arrived at Gandalf’s door. Strangely, he could hear Merry and Pippin laughing inside. He’d just raised his hand to knock when the door sprang open to reveal Legolas. Frodo sniffed curiously as the spicy aroma of apple cider wafted into the hallway.
Legolas bowed slightly, putting a supportive hand on Frodo’s back and ushering the hobbits inside. “We were about to come look for you. Come. The others are all here.”
Sam’s mouth nearly dropped open as they entered the room. “Well, for goodness’ sake.”
“Oh, my.” Frodo gazed in wonder at the spread set out before them.
Two enormous linen-clad tables stood side by side in the middle of the large room. Upon them, a number of carved pumpkins flickered softly, casting and otherworldly glow upon the faces of all already there: Bilbo, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir, Legolas, Merry, and Pippin.
The tables seemed to stagger under the sheer weight of that which is dearest to the hobbit heart: victuals. Frodo saw a stack of sausages baked inside a lovely golden dough, two gigantic hams adorned with cloves, a hammered metal bowl of what appeared to be butter-rich mashed potatoes, roasted ears of sweet corn, apples coated in caramel and rolled in nuts, pastries topped with currants and spices, several large pumpkin pies with fresh whipped cream, a platter of fluffy white balls quite foreign to Frodo, tea-cakes frosted with a thick, sugary orange icing, glass bowls of taffy and assorted sweetmeats, a tray of black marzipan candies in the shape of spiders, and to Frodo’s utter delight, mushrooms resting in a light, creamy sauce and studded with garlic and chives. In the hearth, above a hissing, crackling fire, hung a black kettle from which rose the tempting odor Frodo had smelled earlier.
To his intense embarrassment, Frodo’s innards growled audibly.
Aragorn, nearest the tables (probably to guard them from Pippin, Frodo figured), laughed. “It appears that someone is quickly regaining his appetite.” He approached Frodo and steered him to sit next to Bilbo upon a comfortable, overstuffed settee close to the fire. “Have a seat, Frodo, and I shall bring you and Bilbo each a plate. Or two.” He grinned. “Only the first of many, I am sure.”
“Naturally. Thank you, Aragorn.” Without further ado Frodo got settled, hugging Bilbo briefly and greeting everyone in turn. The other hobbits had already begun to heap their plates, Pippin digging into the sweetmeats with aplomb and incurring Merry’s wrath.
Frodo chuckled at the sight, turning to Gandalf. “This is just splendid . . . how did you all know? The pumpkins, the apples . . . it’s so very much like All Soul’s Eve, I nearly feel I’m back home in the Shire.”
“I have not been friends with the Shire-folk all these long years without picking up on a few of their habits, Frodo,” Gandalf answered with a familiar raise of his bushy eyebrows. “And then I mentioned it, in passing, to Arwen, who of course immediately decided to arrange a party for you. Bilbo provided the particulars.”
Frodo nodded. “It was a lovely thing for the Lady Arwen to do for us.”
“And she sends her regrets that she could not be here,” Aragorn said, returning with two plates piled high. “But she felt we should have this time for bonding before we set out, and so went ahead with her original plans to ride out into the valley with her brothers. She will not be back until tomorrow sometime.”
Frodo accepted the food eagerly and found it delicious, even as he wondered exactly how long it had taken the elves to master the concept of mashed potatoes.
“So,” Boromir said around a bite of food, “please tell me again what custom we are celebrating?”
“Today, all hobbits of the Shire celebrate All Soul’s Eve,” Merry answered. “It’s held on the last day of October each year to honor loved ones who have passed.” He paused a moment. “Well, that was its original intention, and in centuries past our ancestors held vigils or other ceremonies in graveyards and such to reconnect with the spirits if they could. Now, it’s a more festive occasion . . . we eat a lot, dress in costume, play pranks—and some of the youngsters go trick-or-treating from smial to smial.”
“Trick or treating?”
“Give me a treat—candy, etc.—and I’ll not play a trick on you,” Pippin said as he cleaned the last bit of mashed potato from his plate and rose for seconds. Or was it thirds? “And then we also bob for apples and roast hazelnuts on the hearth and sometimes even go from place to place singing songs. I do miss it this year . . . but this makes up for it. It’s a fine celebration.”
The others agreed, enjoying the bountiful provender and chatting and making lighthearted talk as the evening sky darkened outside.
About an hour and thirty plates later (two each for the big folk, four and counting for each hobbit) everyone sat or lay—satiated or merely filling up the corners—sprawled around the fire. Frodo curled against Bilbo, with Sam and Merry and Pippin on the floor at his feet upon thick velvety cushions. Aragorn and Gandalf shared the settee opposite, while Boromir and Legolas had drawn up large armchairs. Gimli sat as far from Legolas as possible in a hardback chair on the other side of Aragorn.
Frodo’s belly was full and getting fuller by the minute as he casually tossed sweetmeats into his mouth. But he didn’t feel tired at all . . . no, he felt wonderfully wicked. Sitting up straighter, he glanced around, eyes gleaming. “Well, Aragorn and Legolas have graced us with a song . . . and Gandalf has told us a tale of the First Age. But now we hobbits have another ritual, you know.”
Gandalf took a puff of his pipe and blew a smoke ring in the shape of an arching cat. “Do tell, dear Frodo.”
“We must have some scary stories. It just isn’t right to have an All Soul’s Eve celebration without them.”
“Scary stories?” Gimli grunted. “As in stories of otherworldly things? That should not be too difficult for a dwarf. Strange things dwell in the deep places of the earth.”
A soft whisper came from Legolas’s direction. “Your entire race, you mean.”
Aragorn quickly interrupted the would-be feud, ignoring Gimli’s harrumphing to glance sideways at Gandalf. “You were correct about the resilience of hobbits, Gandalf. After the events of the past few weeks, Frodo still wants to hear scary tales.”
Frodo chuckled. “I certainly do. Just . . . no stories of the . . . well, the Enemy, please. Stories about strange creatures and ghosts and haints and creepy happenings. It wouldn’t be a proper All Soul’s Eve without stories to frighten Pippin to death.”
“Me?” Pippin took umbrage. “I’ll not be the only one frightened, I’ll wager. But you’re right, Frodo—we must have them. Who wants to start? I want good stories—not child’s tales or silly stories. Truly hair-raising tales, please.”
Scratching his chin, Boromir nodded. “All right. A tale you shall have, though admittedly I know not hobbit ways and you mayn’t find this frightening at all. Nevertheless, I shall start.”
Five sets of hobbit eyes fastened on him eagerly, and all settled back to listen.
“When my brother, Faramir, and I were quite young,”Boromir began, “we accompanied my father for the very first time to Osgiliath, the abandoned, ancient capital city of Gondor before Minas Tirith. Father had ideas about eventually rebuilding the city and traveled there periodically.
“Of course, Father and the guards cautioned us strongly to remain with them at all times. We were forbidden to go off alone amidst the ruins. But I was a bold youth, and Faramir would follow me anywhere. Stray we did . . . and got quite lost among the old, crumbling remains of the King’s House.
“We ascended a spiral staircase and ended up in a dark, crumbling room lit only by the light of a single, high window. We became frightened at the rats scuttling about and called out for Father—or anyone—to come find us.
“And that was when we saw it: a shadow, it seemed, or a specter of some sort, come to life. It took the vague outline of a man wearing a high crown, and he beckoned to both of us and crooned, ‘My sons. Come back to me.’
“Faramir and I both heard him clearly, and we ran—ran for dear life, down the spiral staircase, falling and skinning knees, and right back into the arms of our guards, where we received a proper talking to. Father did not believe us at first, until he looked at a map to see exactly where we had been. For only one wing leads off that spiral staircase, and it used to be the royal nursery.
“The very last children to use that nursery belonged to Gondor’s twenty-sixth king, Telemnar. Telemnar’s reign was very short and tragic; both he and his small sons succumbed to the Great Plague that swept across Gondor during that time. His nephew Tarondor succeeded him and moved the capital to Minas Anor. No children ever used that nursery again, and for years the house was kept sealed off and quarantined.
“Faramir and I had seen what a few others have also seen, but rarely spoken of: the ghost of King Telemnar, searching for his dead sons. He had never spoken to anyone else, but he called to us because of our young age. He thought we were his sons. It seems that in recent years others have seen him, as well . . . and his calls are getting more fretful and angered and are heard more easily.”
Silence reigned, and Frodo could veritably feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He unconsciously edged closer to Bilbo and could see his companions huddling together, as well.
Legolas cleared his throat and spoke up. “I think I might have something that will suffice, if you all are willing.” At the eager responses, he went on.
“The Eldar know that after our bodies are slain, our spirits inhabit the Halls of Mandos. And so we have few ‘ghost stories,’ if you will. But a legend long told in Mirkwood tells of two mortal twin brothers who entered the forest intent on malice and thievery of my father’s halls.
“As legend has it, they strayed off the path in the deep of the night—an extremely unwise thing to do. Very soon the giant spiders—the same Bilbo encountered—surrounded and captured them. The spiders sucked their blood dry and left the bones to rot. Wild animals discovered the bones and carried them off to different parts of the forest, scattering them about. Now, the bones are a part of Mirkwood’s black, rich soil. But if you enter the heart of the forest in pitch darkness, you can hear the twin brothers’ voices carried on the wind as they cry out, attempting to find one another again in death.”
Outside, the wind howled.
“I think I need some sustenance,” Pippin announced. “Marshmallow toast, anyone?”
To Frodo’s surprise, the puffy white sugar balls he’d spotted earlier, known as marshmallows (Sam nearly refused to eat them, equating them with the Midgewater Marshes) tasted delicious when stuck on a stick and toasted over the open fire and drunk with lots of cider. Then, feeling quite merry, the younger hobbits appointed Bilbo as the next storyteller.
Frodo thought Bilbo might tell a familiar tale of his Great Adventure, but such was not the case.
“When I was a mere tween,” Bilbo said, licking his fingers free of sticky marshmallow, “we often visited Tuckborough, the childhood home of my dear departed mother, of course. As most tweens do, I quite enjoyed stealing mushrooms from Farmer Flyspeck’s fields near the Great Smials, and I was also quite proud of myself for never having been caught.
“It was on one such visit, during the month of October, that I sought my usual field and noticed Farmer Flyspeck had erected a new scarecrow. Quite the ugliest, most wicked looking scarecrow was he, but I am a hobbit, and nothing could keep me from my mushroom thieving.
“That evening, tired from my escapades, I went to bed expecting a sound, restful sleep. But instead, lightning and thunder woke me up, and rain began to fall. Curious, I rose and peeked out my window . . . and thought I saw a hobbit-like figure in the distance. I stood there watching for some time.
“And that’s when I saw him: the scarecrow. He stood about twenty feet from my window, staring at me. I blinked, and he was gone . . . but the rain made it difficult to see, and so I kept scouring the area with my eyes.
“When suddenly, Flyspeck’s scarecrow stood at the very verge, glaring at me with eyes glowing red as hot coals. He reached one wispy arm right through the window and wrapped straw fingers about my neck. I screamed, choking . . . and at that moment my father burst through the door, and the scarecrow released me and disappeared.
“I never did steal another mushroom.”
Frodo gulped. To make himself feel better, he skewered another marshmallow and burned it to a nice, golden crisp.
“Well,” Bilbo continued, idly petting Frodo’s hair, “the Dunedan hasn’t told us one yet. Aragorn? I know you are adept at telling stories, just as you are at poetry.”
“Yes, Strider, let’s have one!” Merry said as he tortured his own marshmallow.
“Well, let us see . . .”
Aragorn sat scratching his head for a moment in thought. “I do have a rather brief tale. For many, many long years have I roamed the wilds about Eriador. During that time, I have seen my share of odd and sinister things, but have heard about even more. And I will tell you what is the most terrible.”
He leaned forward, gazing at each hobbit in turn.
“The Goat-Man of Chetwood. An evil creature . . . formed from dark forces in Middle-earth that we cannot comprehend. He sports the legs and hooves of a goat, the upper body of a man, and short goat-like horns.
“Every few years, someone spots him in the Chetwood, the large woodland that lay to the north and east of Bree. Wielding a rusty axe, he always seeks for fresh meat to dine on. Goats will consume nearly anything, and the Goat-Man is no exception. He sometimes enters troll caves looking for leavings. But his favorite food is hobbitflesh, for it is sweet and tender and easy on his old, rotten teeth.
“The last I heard anyone speak of the Goat-Man was about five years ago, when Old Knobbyoak went missing. Easily the plumpest hobbit in Bree, Old Knobbyoak probably proved an easy target, for he often wandered out into the Chetwood alone looking for wild nuts. It is not wise to enter the Chetwood alone, or to travel along the East Road without a weapon. If you ever do, and hear the slight thud of the Goat-Man’s hooves . . . run.
“My kinsman Halbarad and I embarked upon a fruitless search for the Goat-Man a few years ago, to no avail. We found evidence of him . . . unlike trolls he can go about in complete sunlight and sometimes leaves the chewed bones of his kills behind. I believe he must still be out there.”
The hobbits shuddered. Boromir looked rather pale. Legolas’s mouth twisted into an uneasy line. Finally Sam spoke up, his voice a mere whisper. “Is that . . . is that tale true?”
“Completely.” Aragorn did not laugh, did not smile, and no one in the room knew whether or not he was bluffing.
***
The celebration lasted another couple of hours before finally, the four youngest hobbits (for Bilbo had retired earlier) staggered off, yawning, with stuffed bellies, to their beds.
Or at least, to two beds—Frodo’s and Merry’s.
“Sam?” Frodo, clad in a soft cotton nightshirt borrowed from Bilbo, lay amidst his pillows and nearly burned holes in the carved beams on the ceiling with his eyes. Sam lay next to him, and beside Sam, on the bedside table, burned a bright lantern. Neither Frodo nor Sam entertained any plans of sleeping in the darkness this night.
“Yes, Mr. Frodo?”
“I’m very glad you’re here beside me. I don’t believe I could get to sleep on my own, after those stories . . .”
Sam cringed. “Those giant spiders of Mr. Legolas’s . . . Mr. Frodo, I hate spiders. Even little garden ones. I can’t imagine coming face-to-face with a monster spider bigger’n a cow . . . I’d just get eaten real quick.”
“You wouldn’t, Sam. You’d call on that inner strength you possess, knowing you. I, on the other hand, am extremely grateful that Bilbo never told me the scarecrow story. I would never have gotten to sleep or ever visited Tuckborough again, that’s for certain.”
“Did you ever raid Farmer Fly-what’s-his-name’s field?”
“That’s a secret. Let’s just say, er . . . well, his son had taken the place over by the time I was a tween, and he grew the most lovely button mushrooms. But I must remember, it’s just a story. Just a story. I asked for it.” Frodo shuddered, scooting closer to Sam.
Both hobbits nearly jumped out of their skins when the bedchamber door opened unexpectedly.
“Frodo? Sam?”
Frodo breathed a huge sigh of relief to see two hobbits enter, instead of a scarecrow with glowing eyeballs and wispy straw fingers. “Pip! Merry! You nearly gave me an apoplexy. What are you two doing awake? It’s much past time for you two to get some sleep.”
Merry and Pippin crossed to the bed, Merry noting the lit lantern on the bedside table with amusement. “Pippin can’t sleep. He just keeps tossing and turning. I’m afraid the stories frightened him too badly.”
Pippin put his hands on his hips. “I’m not the one who keeps imagining the Goat-Man of Chetwood bursting out of the water-closet to murder us, thank you. Frodo, can I sleep beside you?”
Glad for the company, Frodo and Sam made room for two more.
***
Hobbits, when accustomed to sharing the same sleeping quarters on a somewhat semi-regular basis, usually find contentment and the most relaxed, fulfilling rest in numbers. Snores, yawns, loud breathing, mumbling, kicking, squirming—all go unnoticed and ignored in favor of the warmth and security of the hobbit pile.
And no exception to this general rule were these four—on a normal evening. But every time Frodo closed his eyes, he saw the flaming red eyeballs of Flyspeck’s scarecrow or heard the thud-thud-thud of the Goat-Man’s hooves. Outside, a full moon shone brightly, and strange noises seemed to reverberate. On the bedside table, four lanterns now burned.
“Did you hear that?” Frodo asked, sitting up slightly.
“Hear what, Frodo?”
“That scratching noise from outside on the porch.”
“It’s just a tree branch, Mr. Frodo.”
“I certainly hope that’s all it is.”
***
“Eyes! Eyes!”
“My heavens, Pippin!” Frodo veritably jumped, grimacing as his left shoulder knocked into Sam. “What in land sakes is the matter? I’d just nearly gotten to sleep!”
“I swore I saw something glowing outside! Like a lantern . . .”
“Pippin, go to sleep.”
“I can’t. I keep thinking of that poor king searching for his dead sons and crying out, ‘My sons, come to me . . .’”
“Well, the former king of Gondor isn’t going to come after you, Pip,” Merry said. “You’re too old to be one of his sons. Don’t worry about him—spend your time worrying about worthwhile things. Like the Goat-Man and the scarecrow and giant spiders and haints and ghosts and Gimli’s tale of great big worms digging holes---”
Pippin sat up abruptly, threw his blankets off, and hopped out of bed. “That’s it! I cannot stay here one moment longer. I’m going somewhere else to sleep. Someplace safer, with someone who understands these nefarious things and who can wield a weapon and fight off beasts and monsters, should I need it. Good night.”
With that, he stomped out. Merry sighed and rolled his eyes before slowly following. “You know Pip. I’d best make sure he doesn’t get into trouble somehow.”
Frodo and Sam glanced at each other briefly before rising with some alacrity. Oh, no, they weren’t staying in that room alone.
***
Merry found Pippin standing outside Aragorn’s chambers, just beginning to nudge the door open. “Pippin, be careful. You know how Strider can be when woken abruptly . . . he’s like to cut your head off as much as look at it!”
“No, no, Merry. Don’t you remember? Strider said Rivendell is the one place where he sleeps soundly, without a dagger under his pillow. I’m sure he won’t mind at all. This is partially his fault anyway. And if he does mind, we’ll go to Boromir. If that fails, Legolas. I’ve watched him practice with his bow. If Legolas doesn’t sleep, because I’m not sure if elves do, then we’ll go on to Gandalf. Wizards bear a powerful magic. And on down the line.” Pippin finally opened the door and tiptoed inside.
Moonlight streaming in through slightly open drapes illuminated the murky outline of Aragorn lying on his side with his back to both hobbits. His room, well-appointed with a large, cushiony bed, still felt comfortably warm from the glowing embers of a burned-out fire. Aragorn appeared to be sound asleep, clad in nightclothes and breathing softly. Pippin searched for any shiny flashes of metal indicating a weapon nearby and found none.
“Strider?”
Aragorn woke immediately, answering with a rather groggy voice. “Pippin? Is that you?”
“Yes. And Merry.”
“Is everyone all right? Is Frodo—”
“Frodo’s fine. I, however, cannot sleep.”
Aragorn sighed. “Why am I not at all surprised?”
Choosing to take those words as encouragement, Pippin wasted no time and climbed up on the bed, snuggling into the covers behind Aragorn and pressing against the man’s warmth. Merry followed, slipping in beside Pippin, and soon enough, all three fell into slumber.
***
Outside in the chilly hallway, two more hobbits crept on silent feet, as only hobbits can do. Stopping before Aragorn’s door, Frodo turned to Sam.
“Now look, Sam . . . perhaps we should give Pippin and Merry some time. You know, let Aragorn get used to the idea so that he isn’t overwhelmed by hobbits. If that fails, we’ll go to Gandalf, and barring him, Legolas. Going to Boromir’s room is a last resort, and I’d rather not go to Gimli unless absolutely necessary.”
“All right, Mr. Frodo. You go when you’re ready and I’ll follow.”
Frodo nodded, cocking a pointed ear as he listened to Pippin’s snores through the heavy carved wood of the door. The chill from the floor seeped into his very bones, and it didn’t take long until Frodo deemed it appropriate to knock. He stuck his head inside the room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Aragorn?”
A pause, then the largest figure of the three in the bed stirred. “Frodo? Is that you?”
“Yes. I hope it’s all right. I can’t sleep.”
“Come here, Frodo,” Aragorn said in a low voice to avoid waking the others. “Do not catch your death of cold out in the hallway.”
Gratefully, with Sam following discreetly a few paces behind, Frodo padded to the empty side of the bed, letting Aragorn hold the blankets away and offer a hand up. Frodo often still had a bit of trouble getting into bed, given his recovering left shoulder.
Aragorn grimaced as he felt Frodo’s chilly skin. “You are freezing! Here, climb in quickly and lie against me.”
Shivering, Frodo crawled into the cozy space and offered no resistance as Aragorn pulled him close. Frodo nestled against Aragorn’s broad chest, sighing as the man tucked the quilts around them and tenderly rubbed Frodo’s back to instill heat. “Thank you, Aragorn. This is . . . quite comfortable.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Aragorn yawned, the movement stirring Frodo slightly. “What is one more hobbit, anyway, when I have two sleeping here already?”
“Two hobbits, actually.”
“That is what I said.”
“No, two hobbits coming to get into your bed.”
“Two? There are now three hobbits in my bed.”
“But there will soon be four, if it’s all the same to you. Er, Sam?”
“Coming, Mr. Frodo.” Sam climbed in beside Frodo, providing even more warmth, and Aragorn pulled the blankets higher about all of them---after surreptitously glancing about to make sure no more hobbits appeared out of thin air.
“Four hobbits,” Aragorn said softly, his breath stirring Frodo’s hair. “I shall go to sleep not counting sheep, but hobbits.”
***
Aragorn woke slowly, realizing two things: it was still dark outside, and he felt rather too warm. That wasn’t surprising in the least . . . hobbits covered nearly every square inch of his bed. So, he’d not dreamed up the small specters seeking him out in the middle of the night, after all. He felt Pippin’s bony knees poking into his backside, and of course, Merry lay behind Pippin. And Frodo slept nestled against his chest, curls tickling Aragorn's chin and neck.
Gently, Aragorn slipped a hand into the front and then the back of Frodo's nightshirt, feeling the bare back and shoulder to make certain Frodo kept warm enough. Satisfied, Aragorn withdrew the hand and stroked Frodo's cheek as Frodo sighed in his sleep. Sam lay pressed up against Frodo. All four hobbits slumbered peacefully, their faces revealing none of the turmoil that must have gripped them earlier that evening.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Aragorn briefly wondered if his room had morphed into The Prancing Pony of Bree. Perhaps it was Bilbo . . . Aragorn craned his neck gently to avoid disturbing Frodo or Pippin and realized that no more room existed in the bed for a fifth hobbit, unless Bilbo slept at the very end . . .
“Aragorn?”
Definitely not Bilbo, then. “Boromir?”
Sheepishly, Boromir stepped into the room, looking particularly more vulnerable than usual barefoot and clad in a long sleeping shirt. “Yes, well, I . . . I went looking for the hobbits, to make certain they had not become frightened. And I became alarmed when I saw they were not in their rooms.”
“Of course,” Aragorn whispered, nodding. “I am afraid we have little room to spare, but you may take your rest upon the couch there by the side of the bed. You will find a blanket draped over the chair beside it.”
Boromir edged toward said couch, retrieving the blanket and shaking it out. “I truly was frightened for the hobbits’ welfare, Aragorn. I am not here because of fear over a few children’s tales. I am a warrior of Gondor, after all.”
“Of course, Boromir.”
“Aragorn . . . er . . . is the story you told the hobbits true? About the Goat-Man of Chetwood and his rusty axe?”
“Go to sleep, Boromir.” Aragorn relaxed, breathing in the pleasant Shire-like scent of those about him, and closed his eyes.
Finis
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 02:43 am (UTC)Oh, I just loved this!
no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 03:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 03:35 am (UTC)Aragorn woke slowly, realizing two things: it was still dark outside, and he felt rather too warm. That wasn’t surprising in the least . . . hobbits covered nearly every square inch of his bed.
“Aragorn . . . er . . . is the story you told the hobbits true? About the Goat-Man of Chetwood and his rusty axe?”
“Go to sleep, Boromir.” Aragorn relaxed, breathing in the pleasant Shire-like scent of those about him, and closed his eyes.
Eeee, love it! *giggles and shivers*
no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 05:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-14 02:43 am (UTC)Shivering, Frodo crawled into the cozy space and offered no resistance as Aragorn pulled him close. Frodo nestled against Aragorn’s broad chest, sighing as the man tucked the quilts around them and tenderly rubbed Frodo’s back to instill heat. “Thank you, Aragorn. This is . . . quite comfortable.”
**
Gently, Aragorn slipped a hand into the front and then the back of Frodo's nightshirt, feeling the bare back and shoulder to make certain Frodo kept warm enough. Satisfied, Aragorn withdrew the hand and stroked Frodo's cheek as Frodo sighed in his sleep. Sam lay pressed up against Frodo. All four hobbits slumbered peacefully, their faces revealing none of the turmoil that must have gripped them earlier that evening.
*loves*
no subject
Date: 2006-12-14 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-14 01:35 pm (UTC)The Fellowship left Rivendell a few days before Yule. What if, out in the wild, Frodo and Aragorn went off from the group at a pre-determined time, and spent a few minutes alone... because Arwen had promised them she would ensure that Bilbo had a merry Yule, and that they would both be thinking of Frodo and Aragorn. And maybe both Frodo and Aragorn at that moment try to sense the images and feelings being directed at them by Arwen and Bilbo, and tell each other what they're experiencing...?
??
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Date: 2006-12-17 05:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 05:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 04:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 05:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 04:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 10:45 am (UTC)Awww! This is terribly sweet :D
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Date: 2006-10-17 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 06:41 pm (UTC)I have to say Aragorn deserves to lose some privacy after telling that story. (Boromir appearing at the end is perfect.)
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Date: 2006-10-17 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 07:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-16 02:31 pm (UTC)And Aragorn being all resignedly accepting that he'll be smothered in scared hobbits for the night was wonderful! *G*
But the best part was when the 'concerned' Boromir showed up...
*giggles*
Thanks for sharing this! =)
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-19 01:56 am (UTC)How can there possibly ever be enough of those scenes?
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Date: 2006-10-19 03:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-01 01:54 am (UTC)*lots of hugs and loves*
no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 04:20 am (UTC)