Still on the Quest

March, yet

"There are wolves and there are Wolves," said Uncle Isumbras as he passed around the stock of fireworks. "And we think these are the lesser sort, driven into the Shire by weather all the worse beyond the Brandywine and lack of prey. Keep close to the village. Light and noise should frighten them. Fire certainly will, so keep your torches close to hand. That should keep you safe enough while we hunt them."

"And if they're not the lesser sort?" the miller asked, and the Hobbiton folk crowded closer yet to hear the answer.

"Then we won't be the hunters."

Rising April

It wasn't till the first rain came and the snow began to rot that the hunters had any luck. They brought the carcass to the village, and Bungo opened the last barrel of apples to mark the occasion. Bilbo helped hand them around and then went back to the shed to take another look. He'd imagined wolves as large foxes, but foxes were sleek, comfortable creatures next to this scraggly giant. Its matted fur was more yellow than white, and its ribs showed.

How terrible a thing, Bilbo thought, to be hunted down for no worse crime than being hungry.

Mid March

Wolves in Hobbiton! It was like something out of one of Gandalf's tales. Bilbo shivered with excitement as much as cold and settled himself nearer the fire, proud that his parents had allowed him to stay and listen while the adults argued over what was to be done. Already a family along the valley had lost a pony, according to the Shirriff. "Bring the animals inside," said one, and "keep watch on the fields," said another. "Send for the Thain," said his mother, and Bilbo said "Aye" with the rest, and went to bed dreaming of an army of uncles.

Mid-March, continued.

Bilbo stood his watch wearing the helmet his mother had recognized among the mathoms which Holman Greenhand had put on every windowsill and filled with seedlings lest the snow stay too long for a proper spring planting. Hastily emptied and turned to its proper purpose, it proved too small for the adults and too large for any of the children but Bilbo. Even on him it sat around his head like a bell around a clapper, but he took comfort in it. It might not stop a wolf; but it smelled of earth and growing things

It smelled of spring.

December

At first the snows were welcome, a playworld for Bilbo and the other newly-minted tweens. Never had even the gaffers known such deep and glorious drifts. There wasn't a smial in all Hobbiton that month which wasn't thick with the fug of drying mittens and scorched wool; and the lads and lasses scarcely did more than turn up for their suppers before running out again into the changeling world. They built the most marvelous snow forts and refought the Battle of the Green Fields, beheading snowgoblins and squabbling happily over who got to be the Bullroarer for the next round.

January

The sickness started soon after Yule, as if it had been waiting for the visits and gatherings to touch as many folk as possible before showing its colors. Within a week half the village was coughing, and Bilbo was kept busy running baskets of herbs and honey around for his mother and helping his father move the woodpile into an inside storage room to save digging through the snow. He knew that his parents were worried. They'd worried before -- but this time was different somehow, and he sang silly nonsense songs as he worked to keep from thinking about why.

I wrote this for belegcuthalion who could probably use more fluff too, if anyone knows of any.

Distraction

Elanor considered her options. "Drop things on the floor" was beginning to lose it's charm, and while "eat the furniture" was all right when there was a new tooth coming in, and "tickle Daddy's toes" was usually good for making her parents forget about talking at each other and talk to her instead, it didn't always work when her Daddy had a sad face and was sitting at the desk in the book room.

Singing and doing a wiggle dance weren't helping either. Time to fall back on that good old fashioned standby, "baby on the loose".

"SAM, catch her!"

The laments for the fallen are fewer now, from the companies arrayed around us, and from campfire rings I hear voices raised in saucier songs now that their owners are safe to think of home.

Legolas' songs are full of the sea, and when Gimli hums counterpoint I can feel the stones in the earth answering. Gandalf sings into his beard, in a tongue that none but he must know. The hobbits sing of beer and pipes and rest at the end of a long day's work.

But the only song I seem to know is the Lay of Luthien.

101, but my head hurts too much to figure out which one to lose...


Legolas stood in the dark of Moria and listened to the blood beating fast and hard in his ears. He had not often felt such horror as he had before the gate, not in a long life facing the many creatures that plagued the Mirkwood. He had almost forgotten such fears, almost forgotten that Elves could be so stricken. It shamed him to have stood helpless, or should have done had not the others stood equally frozen.

All except Sam, who huddled now on the stones by his master's feet, and wept with grief for a choice he did not regret.

With the Company in place on knoll, and the fire burning steadily, Gandalf told them to sleep if they could. And they could, much to their own surprise. There were miles to go come morning, and a fire was nearly as welcome here as it had been on Caradhras after so many nights without. Not even the howls of the wargs were enough to stave off sleep. Boromir and Aragorn stretched out with their swords in their hands, and fell asleep in moments, still exhausted from the work they'd done that morning in forcing a track through deep snow. Pippin curled up beside Sam, who meant to stay awake and keep an eye on Bill, but soon succumbed to the siren call of the tween's soft snores. Gimli napped like a cat, rousing frequently to look around before he closed his eyes again. Merry stayed on his feet, determined to take first watch with Legolas and Gandalf.

Frodo stretched out as near the fire as he dared, and studied Sting, wondering if the elven blade would warn of Wargs as well as orcs, but he was too tired to ask. He closed his eyes and dreamt of Farmer Maggot's dogs.

ankle biting plot bunny...

this is all rubynye's fault.

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