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Hard Cider
A Frodo's Harem fic. |
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December 18, 2003 ~*~ HARD CIDER ~*~ It is your night. The thought alone normally makes you tingle with anticipation, catches your breath in shallow hitches throughout the day whenever you allow yourself to wallow in your eagerness for the evening's pending...activities. Usually by this time on your night, you are sated and spent, snuggled up to a warm body and drunk on the sensation of being well-loved and well-...er...tended. So why is it that you find yourself staring at the rounded ceiling and wanting nothing more than to corner Bilbo and set about his ears with a hickory switch? Apple cider, you remind yourself and growl. Hard apple cider and you growl again. How lovely you thought it when you had spotted Bilbo steering his cart up the path. The bed of the trap had been laden with casks of the stuff and the sweet scent reached you even before the pony ambled to a stop at the end of the walk. Frodo had been delighted when he caught sight of the treasure his cousin had brought, having a particular fondness for mulled cider by the fire with a pipe on chill autumn evenings. He gave you a broad smile and dropped a wink to you as he made his way to the cart to unload and your heart had done a little flip in your chest as if you were a tweener lass being flirted with for the first time. You watched the flex of muscle and sinew as he lifted the casks onto his shoulder one by one and carried them into the cold cellar of the smial, heat spreading through your limbs and settling in your center to smolder in slow-burning cinders. Oh, the thoughts that had run rampant through your wicked mind at the sight; shirt pulled taut across the firm chest, biceps corded and straining. Bugger! If you had only known! Bilbo had insisted that the last three go directly into the kitchen - had further insisted that Frodo tap in a spout and slake his thirst immediately, pish-poshing the idea that it should be poured into a pot and heated over the fire with cinnamon and clove. 'Why wait for afters, my boy?' he had said, the very voice of reason. 'It's still chill and you look as though you could use a spot.' Bilbo had clapped Frodo affectionately on the back and Frodo, being Frodo, naturally acquiesced to the elder hobbit. You, yourself, had retrieved the mugs for them - an act you could kick yourself for now. Very hard. You can see the twinkle in Bilbo’s eye as if the scene were playing itself out before you. Frodo handed him a mug full and then filled one for himself. You hadn't thought it odd at the time, but in hindsight, you remember how Bilbo had watched in rapt attention as his younger cousin first clinked his cup with Bilbo's then brought it to his lips and took a swallow. A soft choking sound; a twist of brows. Frodo swallowed, then whistled in a sharp breath between his teeth and blew it out slowly. He had snapped a startled glance to Bilbo but the old hobbit only chuckled and took a long pull from his own mug, licking his lips and grinning at Frodo. Frodo lifted an eyebrow at him for a moment, a calculating smile teasing his lips before growing into a grin to rival Bilbo's. They laughed together, clinked their mugs again, and drained them in a single draught. Frodo then poured more. And now... You sigh. Now you lay here surprised at the sudden knowledge that Frodo Baggins - Hobbit of the Shire, former Master of Bag End, current Master of Bag End West, Elf Friend, Prince of the Halflings, Frodo of the Nine Fingers, Bronwe athan Harthad, Iorhael, indeed, Saviour of the World - Frodo Baggins...snores. It would almost be comical if it weren't for the fact that this is your night and you are spending it staring at the ceiling and listening to the grumbling cadence of snuffles and snorts where there should be breathy moans and murmured endearments. It has never happened before, to your knowledge, and you once again curse Bilbo under your breath. You are certain that the old hobbit is not aware that his charm and endearing ways are the only things saving him from being rousted from his bed by an irate hobbit lass in her night shift (that she should not, by rights, be wearing at the moment in the first place) and beaten soundly for every, 'Nonsense, lad! You've only had five. I've seen you drain an entire cask all by yourself, before. You're not going soft on me, are you, my boy?' You have resigned yourself to a night of no...activity, and that would not be so bad if you could at least sleep! You've tried everything you could think of - you've pinched his nose (which only served to make him snort still louder), rolled him onto his side (which worked for possibly thirty seconds before he rolled right back over and flopped bonelessly onto your arm and good heavens, but you had a devil of a time loosing yourself from underneath his dead weight), yanked his pillow out from under his head (which released slurred words and even a snicker or two that may have at least been interesting had you been able to understand what he was saying) and poked him in the side (which was promising at first since it caused him to jolt, release an echoing snort then quiet, giving you a moment's peace before picking up right where he left off). Nothing has worked. You look out of the window, trying to gauge the light in the sky. You determine that it is bloodygodawful in the morning and resume your fuming. Have you cursed Bilbo recently? You decide you should do it again now, just in case and indulge in wicked thoughts of stuffing him into one of his own casks and re-enacting his escape from the elves of Mirkwood. You know it isn't fair to blame Bilbo entirely. So you decide you should blame Frodo as well. You imagine the satisfying 'thud' of his boneless body hitting the floor should you roll him off the bed and you chuckle maliciously to yourself. He is a grown hobbit after all and it's not so much to expect that he should know his own limitations when it comes to hard cider. It was thoughtless of him to allow himself to get into this condition when he knew you were so looking forward to this evening. You again imagine that 'thud' and decide to keep the option open. All right, so you're not being fair - the realization of which does not serve to improve your mood. Yes, you are miffed and even a little hurt, but you understand that this is not a deliberate thing perpetrated against you for the sole purpose of depriving you of your evening's pleasure. It is rare that Frodo indulges so and you grudgingly remember the carefree smile and appled cheeks he wore as he sat across from Bilbo by the fire, drinking hard cider and telling old tales. It must have seemed like a night back in the Shire for him and you feel shamed that you would even think of begrudging him of it simply because you wanted him to yourself this evening. It should be enough for you to lie here beside him, accept the heat of his body, the beat of his heart, and yes, even his (and here you roll your eyes and sigh) snores. But, oh, bloody hell, those snores! You don't know whether it's the silence of the rest of the smial or the fact that you've been concentrating so hard on not hearing them that they are now all you can hear, but you truly believe that you have never heard anything so loud in all your life. And to make matters worse, his head has turned your way and they are currently being aimed directly into your right ear. You close your eyes and smash your pillow over your head, determined that if you are not asleep within the next few moments, you will concede defeat and slink off to your own room. There is only a cold, empty bed to welcome you there, but at least it's quiet. The sound easily penetrates the pillow and enough is enough already. You clench your fist, tense your arm and elbow him sharply, directly into his ribs. There is a great, loud snort, a confused, 'mmrph...hmm...wha...?' and then he is lifting himself onto his elbow. Heh. Erm... Whoops? ~*~ All right, perhaps that last poke wasn't one of your better ideas. You hadn't meant to actually wake him - you only wanted a moment's quiet. But now he is awake and, furthering your current streak of bad ideas, you quickly close your eyes and feign sleep. Now why on earth would you do that? You have no idea but now the deed is done and you're caught. You know he's looking at you - can feel his eyes searing a path on your skin. You should be looking back, allowing your gaze to burn its way through the cider-haze and encouraging the progression toward...well, anything other than a cider induced stupor. Instead, like a dolt, you pretend to sleep when he's sitting right there! Awake!! Bloody hell! Should you pretend to wake? Smile sleepily at him and throw your arms wide in invitation? Can you pull it off convincingly? The way your night has gone thus far? You most sincerely doubt it. You are quite certain that admitting that you are not only awake but that you have just given your love a bruised rib would only serve to cause you sink right through the mattress in a puddle of embarrassment. Bugger! BUGGER! Bloodyhellbollocksbugger! You decide you are well past due for that arse-kicking you promised yourself earlier. You wonder if he would notice if you got up, kicked yourself in the backside then strode out of the room with what little dignity you have left. What is wrong with you? First you lament that you will be doing nothing of any prurient interest whatsoever this evening then, when a sparkling opportunity presents itself, you feign sleep! And acknowledging that you are feigning sleep would now be no less embarrassing than that kick in the arse you've been meaning to give yourself. But wait just a moment, here. He's fairly well sotted with cider, isn't he? You practically had to pour him onto the bed. And the wrestling match you engaged in when you tried to undress his limp body for bed convinced you that a pair of breeches was perfectly suitable sleeping attire and you thus had decided to save yourself the trouble of trying to relieve him of them. So what are you worried about? You could probably jump up and down naked on the bed and he wouldn't remember it in the morning...although you file that juicy little activity away in your mind for future reference. You have just decided that you will throw caution to the wind and open your eyes when the mattress shifts and you feel him leaning over you. The jewel skates warm and smooth across your shoulder as he stretches across and there is moist heat on the side of your throat. Oh... His mouth sets to work beneath your ear and you feel a hand wander beneath the quilt, slide over your breast and down your stomach. His mouth has progressed to your collarbone and while you were distracted with that, his hand progressed to... Oh... It slides across the surface of your nightgown to drag teasingly over your thigh. His palm is warm and his arm now lies across your hips, pressed firm against your... Oh!... His fingers tickle your hip as he creeps the fabric of your gown up your leg. You feel it sliding past, exposing you with each sensual stroke. The slow, unerring progress raises goose bumps on your skin and as the fabric drifts teasingly over your sensitive down, you gasp. A space of cooler air on the warming flesh makes you feel suddenly vulnerable; trembling and elated, fearful and glorious, and then his hand drifts lower. OH!... His fingers plunge deep inside you and flex, seeking. A storm of tingles race through your body as he burrows deeper, unerringly questing, until he reaches... There. The fingers curl and press and a flame erupts from the touch. You inhale sharply and involuntarily rock your hips into his hand. He smiles against your throat. "I trust you are awake now, my love?" he chuckles, a warm chuff of his breath tickling your well kissed skin. His mouth blazes a moist path to your breast and his fingers begin a measured stroke; firmly, not too fast, not too slow, deep inside you. Sotted or not, he has certainly enough coordination remaining to drive you into a frenzy. You cannot answer him; speech is a power you no longer possess. You no longer have control of your body, for as his slurred kisses encircle your nipple, his hand commands an eager dance from your hips. A tingling fire burns in your limbs and you begin to shake uncontrollably. He pushes more firmly against you and the sweet pressure is now both within and without. Ohhhh..... Your deep, open-mouthed moan seems to spur him and his stroke speeds slightly. Your rocking hips match his movement of their own volition. You can feel his smile against your wet breast, can feel him lay his head heavily against your chest, but the tingling fire from below is subduing any other conscious thought. You respond to him with a desperate eagerness that obliterates even the memory of your previous pique. His leisurely advance has used naught but hands and lips and yet he is still satisfying you. Your mind reels to think what he will do when using the full measure of his skills. Faster and deeper the fire builds, driving you towards a precipice of ecstasy. You feel you are rushing headlong to the edge and then - you are over it - floating free with nothing beneath you but a wave of passion. It holds you up, sustains you, on a swell of boundless joy. You ride it, writhing with delight. Somewhere outside you, but still immediately close, you hear your own fervent cries. They are deep, visceral, animal in tone and intensity. Your head is crushed back into the pillow and your hips dance energetically, willing slave to his touch. The lazy weight of his chest traps your bucking body down as he bends you to his will. His other hand, almost unnoted, touches your cheek, stroking your fevered skin with a languid tenderness that you barely register. The rise of your climax is upon you and engulfs your mind in a blanket of light. It manifests itself as a tensing shudder that ripples uncontrollably through your entire body. You know he can feel it from where he lays and you rejoice that he is aware of both your pleasure and his own ability to bring you to it. Sensation overwhelms you as you float on the undulating culmination. Time means nothing as surges of rapture cradle and fill you with their golden light. Slowly the rocking calms and you sink into a crimson afterglow, sated, spent and unbelievably fulfilled. You don't even notice that he has released you until he lifts his dark head to gaze with half lidded eyes into your dazed and astonished ones. He puffs a mass of dark curls from his face and forces himself to focus on you. He looks self satisfied, almost smug, and still a bit tipsy but at that moment he is the loveliest creature you have ever beheld. You shudder and draw his face to yours. You had begun to expect nothing this evening and he has given far beyond even your wildest hopes. Each time he holds you it is better than the time before – even with mitigating circumstances. You don't know how he does it, but suddenly you are filled with an ache to give him back some measure of the contentment he has given you. You find his lips and are surprised by their warm wetness. Softer than usual too. He tastes of cider and cinnamon, warm skin and passion. The sweet and gentle touch spurs you on and you eagerly drink him in, attacking his unresisting mouth with a fervor you did not know you had in you. You want to fill him as much and as tenderly as he has filled you, and he seems open to your enthusiastic arousal. You rise, still clinging to his face and roll him onto his back. His arms encircle your body gently and you wrap your own around his neck, kissing him deeply and wildly, holding him as if you could never be parted from him. He kisses you back but cannot match the fierceness of your attack and so lets you fill him with your boundless energy. At last, you break away, needing breath and desiring to look upon your sweet lord. He is smiling, but looks almost uncharacteristically sleepy. His bright eyes glitter from beneath half closed lids and he is somnolently licking his reddened, well-kissed lips. He looks almost like he would welcome dreams more than a passionate tryst, but your appetite is keen and you are still tingling from the skill of his fingers. You release him and sit up; slipping the revealing gown you still partly wear up over your head. You gaze down at him provocatively; hoping the sight of your completely naked body will stir him. He smiles and trails tender fingers along the point of your hip; it is enough to start the sparks racing along your spine again. You pull at the dressing gown you placed him in, tugging it up till you have his soft woolen breeches at your fingertips. You have always loved his clothing, and these lovely trousers are no exception. There is a flap of fabric in the very front that buttons closed on both sides near the waist. Underneath this is one button in the center that holds the opening together around his trim hips. You love the complexity of this garment and how, when he is aroused, you can feel the hard mystery concealed by it. You cannot count the times your fingers have delighted in prying these prim and proper buttons from their accustomed guard - and no matter how many times you do it; the act still fills you with delighted anticipation. You begin to flick them open and glance up at him with daring. His smile grows slowly wider, and he reaches for your hand. You are surprised to feel how soft his touch is, how gentle... especially after... A shiver runs down your spine but you settle back, allowing him to finish his own disrobing. His hands move slowly, deliberately, and, if you hadn't been so consumed with lust you might have also noted, somewhat clumsily. At last, he has the pants undone and you eagerly pull them from his hips, stripping them off his lean legs with delighted gusto. You toss the trousers to the floor and turn back to your impassioned lord... .... And the sight before you is not what you expected. You register several facts in swift succession. First, that this evening isn't going at all as planned. Second that hard cider has many effects on a hobbit lad, and, for your purposes, none of them are beneficial, and third, that you are going to hunt down that rascal Bilbo and boil him in oil... You slump onto the bed, defeated, and the last of the tingling fire fizzles out of you. The situation is so absurd you can find no words. You stare at the half naked hobbit in front of you and at last see the signs that your hungry eyes refused to note before. The flush on his cheeks, the slower and more deliberate movements, the bloodshot eyes and the lazy droop that his eyelids still have, and, of course, there is the most glaring evidence of his state right in front of you. Frodo tries to sit up… though his movements betray his condition. He is more sober than he was when you put him to bed, but is still feeling the effects of Bilbo's cider. You, you think ruefully. Here you have a wanton, naked lass in your bed fair ready to ravish you, and all you really want is a lie down. The predicament strikes you as so comical you can't help but laugh out loud. “See here.” His cultured voice is still slurred but sports a touch of indignation. He has managed to rise onto his elbows and again puffs at the hindering curls. “I don't think I've ever garnered that reaction before.” This, of course, sets you to a fresh batch of giggles and you curl, snickering against his side. He tucks an arm behind his head and lays back, his other wrapping protectively around you. “Ah,” he sighs. “I should have remembered my old uncle's fondness for drink. I could never outmatch him - and I think he takes delight in seeing his bookish nephew stumbling about the smial.” He is silent for a long moment, and then you hear him whisper, almost apologetically, “I… I like seeing him happy…” You pause at the hitch in his voice and your irritation at Bilbo sooths. You often forget how dearly he loves his cousin. You two will have the rest of your lives together, but even as spry as Bilbo is, you know he is aging still. The elves cannot prevent the eventuality of any of your deaths. Perhaps it is selfish of you to begrudge one night to the kindling of old and familiar joys. You stroke your lord's chest tenderly, enjoying the feel of firm torso beneath soft cotton. He shivers. “Carefully my dear,” he sighs. “In this state, I've few inhibitions, but alas, little ability to respond.” His smile grows as your fingers gently encircle his nipple. He closes his eyes and rumbles appreciatively. “Is that why you…” you timidly ask. His brow creases and there is an almost imperceptible nod. “Then I will ask nothing more, beloved,” you assure him. “You have delighted me, and it is enough. Now, let me delight you.” You snuggle up to his neck and begin a series of soft but tender kisses along his throat. They are remarkably chaste, for a naked hobbit lass, but they convey all your deep devotion and love. You squirm against him to reach the tip of his ear, the soft spot behind the lobe, the hard ridge of his jaw line, and finally his lips; still soft and cider flavored. The kiss you leave on them is a feather touch and he licks his own as if to taste it. Down his neck, which he lifts to meet you, to the soft hollow at its base. The gown you placed him in restricts you, but he obediently lifts his arms and you slip it back over his head. Now he lies as naked as you are and you spread your body against his firm, warm one. It is a gesture of supplication, not desire, though the feel of him in your arms stirs your hunger as well. You smile and continue your kisses. Paying special attention to each dark nipple, you chase your kisses down his chest. Your hands rub him with possessive joy, as if he were a gift you had long coveted, and your body lays full and lovingly across his. It is an innocent gesture; for the pleasure you give and take is one of contact, of closeness and of simple warmth. It is the rapture of touch and you both swim in its comforting waters. You tickle his sides with your soft lips and delight in watching his skin ripple in answer. Next you prowl down his belly and Frodo chuckles and then laughs out loud from your merciless advance. He has always been ticklish at his waist and with a sudden, devilish urge, you attack his belly button, blowing a raspberry into the hollow of it. It seems he is even more ticklish when intoxicated, and his quickening defenses send you into a retreat by his hip, where you lay, giggling and breathless, in the warm glow of playful love. He quiets and closes his eyes, a happy smile gracing his lips. You have a good view of his jaw from this vantage and the firm line of it begs to be kissed again, but you lay your head in the hollow of his hip to give him respite instead. He is still not half sober, in that gentle state between intoxication and reason; a state where he cannot be held responsible for his actions. Not be held responsible for his actions. The thought sends a shiver back down your spine and you turn your head into his hip to hide your sudden, wicked smile. You giggle against his skin and the exhalations tickle him again. His twitches are unexpectedly electrifying. Then again you realize there is very little your lord can do that you don’t find stimulating. Still,… if he is sobering… You aren’t one to waste an opportunity. You glance surreptitiously to the side and make a delightful, heady observation. Perhaps this evening is not yet at an end? You blow, softly, into the hollow of his hip and watch as goose bumps rise on his exposed flesh. A wicked thought answers your smile and you lick sinful lips. There is one way that you may still thrill him; a way you may delight him as he has delighted you. It is something he would never ask for...but you know the way his body responds to it, and the way your own body answers his arousal. Yes. For all he has given you this night, despite his incapacity, you will happily give him this pleasure. He doesn't expect it; that is obvious, and his happy sigh strangles into a surprised squawk when your mouth captures him. Though, to be fair, you did not give him much warning. He struggles to his elbows again and makes a small noise of half-hearted protest, but a deep, trembling exhalation, overwhelms it. You glance up,… as well as you are able. His eyes are closed and he looks to be in deep concentration. His full mouth hangs open in a gently frozen 'O' and his body is still, poised as if afraid to move for fear of shattering this spell. His brow furrows and, as you know him well, you realize he is thinking he should not let you do this, that since he was too impaired to pleasure you properly, he has no right to expect this of you. If he could only know how his satisfaction rewards you. Perhaps it is his own humility that prevents him from realizing how loftily you hold him, but you would do far more than this to please him. There is a catch in his sigh and you feel him begin to pull away. But after years of familiarity you know how to tempt him back; you know the touch that will bury his protest and bring him, ravenous and eager, into your hands,… and you do not hesitate to provide it. As he did you earlier, you control his body with this intimate touch. His head falls back and he sinks, trembling onto the bed. You wrap your arms around his waist and press your palms flat against his back. His hips dance lightly in your grasp, lifting as you stroke him and pressing deep into the mattress as you plunge down over him. Objection has died unspoken on his lips and his body trembles as he falls into your rhythm. The 'difficulty' you observed earlier has been quite forcefully overcome and you feel a sinful satisfaction that you have helped him to do so. Hard cider or not, perhaps all he really needed was enough incentive. You hold onto his hips, feeling your way, adjusting your movements to chase him to ever increasing heights of excitement. In this highly attuned state, you see the impact the cider has had on him. He is slower than usual, almost sluggish in his response, compared to his usual manner. In a strange way, that thought entices you; it means that he will be slow to culmination, that you could have a long and delightful time bringing him to it. The flame that raced down your back earlier returns tenfold and settles deep and low inside you. The evening that started a seeming bust is rapidly becoming a seductively memorable one. He has grown large and his breath is coming in ragged, panting groans. You recognize the signs. It is time. You rise, clambering onto his chest while he gasps in greedy protest, but as quickly as you descended on him before, you take him into yourself again; enveloping him with your body and keeping your gaze fixed on his treasured face. Never in your life have you seen anything so beautiful; the face of love incarnate, ebony curls touched with amber and alabaster skin lit with the firelight. Blindly he grasps your waist and his slender fingers dig into your side. You can see his rapture, feel it in your heart, and touch it with your soul. The cider has slowed him but also seems to have heightened sensation. His being seems to glow with a luminescence that fills you. His eyes, fully open and staring, astonished, at the ceiling, are as deep as a spring fed pool and as bright as a sunlit autumn sky. He responds to your lovemaking with both animal hunger and deep and abiding love and you revel to see it. 'I would give you anything I had, beloved,' you think. 'For all you have given and continue to give, let me honor and please you.' In the final act of your sensual play, you give him your all. You have loved him for many years and as well as he knows your body and needs, you know and worship his. Your every movement is keyed to lead him to a cherished peak; to take him joyously to the place his hands alone brought you to earlier. You dance on him, watching his reactions closely, guiding him and teasing him onwards. It takes more effort than usual, but at last you feel the familiar stillness in him, the pause that grips him before he fills you. You have worked so hard to bring him to this point that it isn't until that moment that you realize you have also brought yourself to it as well. The anticipation of his climax charges your body and the flame in your loins swells with sudden fury. You were so controlled before, so practiced and familiar with your love, but the sudden onslaught of your own lust destroys your previous composure. Your greedy body slams his, taking as eagerly as you gave before. His face breaks into a rigor of joy and he gives, once, hard; his hips lifting both your bodies off the mattress. You feel the sensation of warmth fill you and it releases an explosion of light behind your eyes. Your second climax of the night is deeper and slower than the first but no less welcome. You cry out once, and he answers with a guttural cry and another bucking thrust. Through the haze of your own fulfillment you see his beloved face. He is come and, as the throe passes, a smile of fierce, unguarded joy lifts his features. The sight brings tears to your eyes and stirs a spark of possessive love. He is generous and selfless with all those he loves. He gave companionship and mirth to his cousin and though tested to provide it, fulfillment and satisfaction to you. Could there ever have been a more perfect, more singular and special hobbit? You collapse on him and snake your arms around his still quavering form. He lets out a deep breath that hitches when a ripple of the afterglow shakes him, and slides a now completely weary hand over your back. Your tears of joy and gratitude mix liberally with the dew of golden sweat that slicks his beloved body. “Now there's something I'd not have expected of the evening…” he breathes wonderingly. The hand drifts over your bare back, stroking you with easy comfort. “But with such an inducement…” You feel him lift his head to gaze over your devoted form. “For how could I refuse one so fair?” You can almost see the gentle smile as he kisses your hair and pulls the cast aside quilt over the two of you. You do not answer, wishing the echo of his lovely voice to be the one carry you into dream. He is your beloved and even though you have filled yourself with him in every possible way, you still want more. You slide to your place by his side and lay your head upon his shoulder. He sighs and stretches, settling you more comfortably against his body. Contentment. It steals over you both as you drift into sleep. And if Frodo of the Nine Fingers continues to snore, at least this time you are blissfully unaware of it. ~*~ A bold knock and a familiar voice, humming merrily, disturb your slumber. Dawn’s gentle light fills your lord's room and makes you blink as you try and orient yourself. Frodo. His room. Last night. You smile and another cheery knock rings through the room. This time your beloved stirs, but settles back a moment later. He will truly wake if you don’t put a stop to the racket. You slip from beneath his arm and clamber from the bed. It doesn't surprise you that Bilbo is up and about after the evening's libations, you have never seen him in anything but a bright mood, but you are determined he will not rouse Frodo. Your squire will not be in as chipper a mood as his cousin sounds to be, especially considering the state he was in when you put him to bed and the stresses he endured afterwards. You wrap your robe about you and scurry to the door, which you quickly open and close shut behind you. Bilbo has a small tray in hand, a mug of steaming cider and another of tea presented on it. His bushy eyebrows rise in mild surprise to see you emerging dressed as you are from Frodo's room, but his smile merely broadens. "Ah, my dear. And how is my good lad this fine morning?" he asks with a twinkle in his eye. "He's sleeping," you answer with defiant chagrin. "And I'd like to see he remain so! And what is this you've brought him? More cider?" You stand your ground like an indignant hen, a ruffled but vigilant guard on Frodo's door. You are determined his cousin will not lead him astray again. "Indeed it is, sweet lady," Bilbo answers with an amused bow. "There is no finer cure for what ails him than more of the same. A fine mug of mulled cider with ginger and cinnamon for the morning-after head and a sweetened tea of willow bark to chase away any other lingering effects." Bilbo's brown eyes dance with wicked delight. "I may have brought the malady, but I've the remedy as well." He chuckles, glancing down your slim form appreciatively. "Though I dare say, nothing I could provide will help him more than the tender care of you lasses." You scowl at the old hobbit, though you can't seem to summon the ire you felt last night. You curtsey, stiffly, and realize how you must look, defending the Ringbearer from his dearest kin. "Th..thank you,... I think," you answer grudgingly and reach for the tray. Laughing, Bilbo hands it to you. "I'm going out for my morning constitutional after breakfast,” he says merrily. “Would you be good enough to ask him to join me if he is able? It will clear the cobwebs better than even these cures." He winks at you and you hesitate before nodding. As jokingly as Bilbo has spoken, even you can see the warmth in his eyes, the depth of his compassion and the boundlessness of his love. It is the nature of your kind to speak lightly of weighty matters but you know he cherishes Frodo as much as any of you. Shame that you doubted Bilbo's heart warms your face. He is a dear and precious treasure too. You shift the tray to your other hand and dart to give the old hobbit a quick kiss on the cheek. His weathered face flushes and he clucks at you. "Oh, my sweet lass," he asks fondly. "Whatever was that about?" You are embarrassed at your boldness, but look up at him with an apologetic smile. "Because….because you love him too," you answer softly. "Ah..." he sighs, and the warmth in his answering smile sooths even the last remnant of your pique. "He's a good lad; best there ever was." Bilbo's face grows thoughtful and he looks at you carefully. "It's love to be sure, and maybe a bit of guilt as well." His deep voice is edged with sorrow, an element you have never before heard in it before. "I have always been extremely fortunate, you know," he confesses. "In my life and in my adventures. I played foolishly with powers that should have, by rights, destroyed me." He sighs and straightens his age-sloped shoulders. "Dear Frodo paid a price that should have been exacted from me, and that is something I will never be able to rectify." His old eyes seek out yours and hold them long. They are dark with an unshared and deeply buried grief. The sight of it shocks you. "It eases my heart that my dearest boy has you lasses to comfort and care for him. Yes, it gives me ease and great peace. More than you may ever know." The eyes are rheumy, or perhaps they hold tears he will not shed. "I am glad you are here with him." He clasps your shoulder and turns back up the smial. Your own eyes blur as you watch him retreat and you resist the temptation to chase after and wrap your arms around the dear old hobbit. But no, he is all right. He has the child of his heart close at hand and knows the lad is greatly loved. No sorrow can hold him while that joy remains. He is already humming merrily again before he turns the corner to the kitchens. The End | |
