1. Hobbit Tart
He bats those sky blue eyes of his and the whole company jumps to attention (an attention having little to do with feet and everything to do with legs if you get my meaning).
It always starts out innocently enough I suppose – with this long journey and all – and his emotions running amok most of the time. Any particular moment could find him, so sad and sweet, sitting quietly on a grassy tussock or bare rock, maybe breathing a heavy sigh or two. Pretty soon one of the fellows would approach and offer him some comfort or a kind word or two. Then those eyes get busy with their puppy dog sadness and BAM! before you know it they’re hooked!
Of course, as one might guess, he’s had Sam under his spell for years.
Imagine if you will, him calling so sweetly from the shaded doorway of Bag End. “Ohhh Samwise…” Bat…Bat… go the eyes. “Could you cut some of those lovely roses and take them into the sitting room for me? It’s ever so hot and I’m feeling a bit tired or I’d do it myself you understand?”
“Why yes, Mister Frodo.”
“Oh Sam…” Bat…Bat… “Would you be so kind as to carrying this big bag of potatoes into the cellar for me, you being so strong and all?”
“Yes, Mister Frodo.”
“Oh Sam…” Bat…Bat… “Would you like to take a bit of a rest and let me handle your garden tool for awhile?”
“Oh yes Mister Frodo!”
Oh, you just know it has to be that way! A fellow – even one as well styled and educated as dear cousin Frodo – is not getting the hired help to go on a deadly quest like this one unless some sort of shameless shagging is going on. And most everybody in the Westfarthing knows that Samwise Gamgee does more planting at Bag End than meets the eye.
Kind of makes you wonder about Mister Bilbo and the old Gaffer…
“Ohhh Hamfast…” Bat…Bat…
Ewww….no, I think that may be a thought best left unimagined! Besides, you’d never catch the Gaffer following Mister Bilbo on some foolish quest, goodness no! And if he had been present at the infamous burgling incident, you can be sure one of those Dwarves would have been wearing a pair of pruning shears by the end (or in the end, as the case may be) of the adventure.
So…what about the Men in this fellowship – what’s up with them anyway?
Oh, what willing victims they’ve turned out to be so far. It’s laughable how easily they’ve fallen before the onslaught of Frodo’s not so subtle seduction and sweet but wily Hobbity ways. Who says they’re so knowledgeable in the ways of the world and we Hobbits just innocent little Shirefolk.
Now you take this Ranger fellow (and mind you, Frodo has a time or two already or my name isn’t Peregrin Took). What’s up with the whole name thing? Is he Strider or Aragorn or Estel or what? I tell you, even after all these days traveling of with him, I still don’t know what we should be calling him. I’ll have you know, in case of an emergency or orc attack or any other moment of imminent danger, I think I’ll just holler something unintelligible and he’s likely to come running thinking I’m calling him.
Actually, I think that the whole name thing really points to some delusion of grandeur he’s been spoon fed all his life by those Elves at Rivendell. Hey, but don’t tell him I said that, I’m in enough trouble with this Fellowship without getting him mad at me too.
Just remember though, sometimes the bigger they are the quicker they fall, and that little Hobbit Tart of a cousin of mine found out early on that the man’s ego was easy prey. Healing hands of a king…indeed!
How innocently Frodo contrived during one star speckled night during our long journey, to sit sighing by the fire, his eyes all red and teary. You’d have thought the worldly Ranger would have suggested… ”Move out of the smoke Mister Baggins and it won’t cause you such grief.” But no, that would require too much knowledge of subtlety, and overall Men really aren’t famous for their subtlety.
My cousin on the other hand is a master on the subject and never ceases seeking opportunities to show it.
“Ohhhh Strider,” he calls in his most piteous voice, a strategically planned tear trickling down his pale, smooth cheek at just the opportune moment. Attention gathered, he flutters those long lashed lids. Bat…Bat… “My shoulder’s been hurting me something awful. Would it bother you terribly to share some of your kingly powers with a poor, wounded Hobbit?”
“I live to serve the Ring-bearer, but I’m afraid, Frodo, that I have no Athelas.”
“Oh…” here the clever little Hobbit Tart brings his soft and pouty lips into play, “That’s all right. I’m sure your healing touch will be just fine on its own.” Bat…Bat… “Here, let me just ease out of my mithril shirt and lay back on this fragrant patch of heather…”
Hmmmm…funny, I thought my dear cousin Frodo had sustained a shoulder injury on Weathertop. Seems to me that the Ranger’s attention was focused a bit more south than that. Well, I must admit, men do have strange ways of going about things. Besides Frodo didn’t really seem to mind at all, his pain at once forgotten. Perhaps there is some healing to be had from the Ranger’s nimble hands after all…
As for the other one, sigh, that Boromir fellow, he’s a man of a different sort to be sure. He’s been dogging after Frodo since Rivendell, and Frodo, bless his heart, has been happily letting him. Mind you, I suspected all along what Frodo was up to and it came as no surprise when I see him spring the trap he’s been laying for the unsuspecting Captain of Gondor.
“Ohhhh Boromir,” he whispers one dusky evening just after supper, putting on his most secretive and seductive voice. Again with the lashes …Bat…Bat… “So do you still fancy my golden ring, even after all these miles and an oath to protect me from any and all harms?”
“You know I do Frodo, I’ve made very clear to you my best intentions. If you would but lend me the Ring…”
But dear cousin Frodo is oh so smooth in his manipulation.
“Well, I’d like to help you out, good Captain of Gondor, but this particular ring is a family heirloom and my Cousin Bilbo would be ever so cross if I gave it away, even to such a noble lord such as yourself.” Bat…Bat… “However, I’ve another ring – an even more secret ring and you could fondle that one if you’d like. It’s even sure to make at least parts of you disappear, that is if you slip it on right the way.”
“Another ring you say?”
“Oh, yes,” Bat…Bat. “If you’ll just step over here to my bedroll, we can pull it out and see if it fits…”
Ooohhhh…nasty little Frodo, putting his Secret Ring on there. Makes me all squirmy just to think about it.
Merry says that’s just jealousy talking and that I really want the son of Gondor for my own. But I told him he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You see, he’s already been corrupted by our sweet older cousin though I venture he’d deny it for sure if pressed about the matter.
The Fellowship hadn’t even left Rivendell yet when Meriadoc Brandybuck, future Master of Brandy Hall fell to those beautiful blue eyes and butterfly lids.
Frodo was feeling well at last after his near deadly brush with the Witch King on Weathertop (no success with the eyelash batting with that one). Additionally he was filled with more than his fair share of mischievous fun. Believe you me, no gentlefolk were free from his reckless gaze and he eventually made his way around to Meriadoc.
“Ohhh Merry, my dear, my sweet. Come and give your Frodo a kiss,” the Hobbit Tart ordered, lips all pouty and eyes a flutter. “I’m ever so lonely and Sam, that scamp, is playing hard to find and even harder to get. I think the Elves have captured his attention, and you can be sure this fact has made things hard for me.”
“Frodo, I can’t…we’re cousins and such affection would be unseemly. What would our Elven hosts think?”
“But Merry, certainly they’ve heard of kissing cousins even here in Imladris.” Bat…Bat… “They wouldn’t mind a little, harmless peck I’m sure. But just in case, we could slip behind this monument, that way no one needs to be the wiser.”
“Well, I suppose that one little kiss wouldn’t hurt…”
Ah, my silly Merry what an innocent fool you are.
I must admit, I didn’t have the heart to tell this to my dear Master Brandybuck, but I don’t think that phrase in any way refers to kissing him there.
I tell you, none of them seem invulnerable to those wicked orbs! I even have my doubts about Gandalf, noble wizardly fellow that he is. Though I’ve no proof to speak of, the wizard being subtle and quick to anger especially where I am concerned, there are things that pass between the two of them that just make you wonder.
Why even the other day they set themselves apart from the rest of the group at the midday rest, feigning deep and breathy conversation. I won’t say that I was eavesdropping, knowing how Gandalf hates that – just ask poor Sam. But I’m sure I caught the unmistakable batting of eyes from Frodo’s sweet little face and a wistful sighing lament referring to Gandalf’s fireworks and missing them something terrible.
In a moment or two they took to their feet and wandered further still from the company – Gandalf resting on Frodo’s arm for support (like the old fellow needs to do that). It was sometime later when they finally returned, with cheeks all a flush and hair askew. And as he passes, I can hear Gandalf muttering about Frodo “having lots of strength in him” and that there’s “more to him than meets the eye.”
To me these seemed strange things to say at such a point in the quest to be sure. And as he slips by me, Frodo, the succulent Hobbit Tart that he is, only smiles in his innocent little way and nods, lazily.
Hmmm, could that be the lingering glow of fireworks I see in his sparkling blue eyes?
Now I tell you, who say’s that this Sauron fellow has the only dangerous eye in Middle Earth? Anyone who does, hasn’t met Frodo, and mind you, Frodo has two of them.
Certainly one would think a Prince of the Woodland Realm, older than all we Hobbits put together, would possess some Elf control when subject to those fathomless pools of molten sky. But even lovely Legolas – a veteran “eye batter” himself I’d wager, if the Ranger’s lovesick devotion to him is any indication – even he is not untouched by Frodo’s relentless lashing.
A day short of Caradhras the elf sits checking the fletching on his arrows unaware that he was being carefully stalked. He makes only casual notice as the wily Hobbit Tart sidles up to him, eyes wide and wondering.
“Master Legolas,” he whispers in undisguised awe, soft lips slightly parted, “you certainly are a marvel with the bow and arrow. So smooth and fast is your delivery I could watch you pluck at your taut strand all day and never tire of the act.”
“I have worked many a long hour to become accomplished in my skills. I thank you Frodo Baggins for taking notice.”
“Maybe, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother,” his light little lashes flutter away, Bat…Bat… “you could give me a quick lesson or two. Then perhaps even I could learn to stroke a slender silken shaft such as this one that you possess. And with some practice I may be able to finger it as skillfully as you can yourself.”
I saw the Elf’s quiver, as he patiently guided delicate hands to stroke the curving instrument. But when at last they headed to find an empty field and a target for their pleasure, the arrows were left lying by his bow, forgotten.
Indeed, I found myself musing as they drifted out of my sight – what then in the tall and grassy loam were they practicing?
It seems, of all the fellows on this quest, that I am the only one untouched by Frodo’s careful trickery.
Even Gimli, our gruff Dwarf companion is finding the slender Hobbit more than he bargained for as we tramp along.
Assigned to gather firewood for supper a night or two ago, the three of us set out to check a stand of trees near the camp for useful deadwood. Now Frodo, not being much inclined to heavy labor was gathering mere twigs compared to the Dwarf’s heavy armload. Blue eyes smoky, he eased to sit on a great felled log and glanced coyly over his shoulder at the bearded fellow.
“Ohhh Gimli,” he breathed, leaning his arms back on the wood and caressing the gnarly bark, “I couldn’t help but notice, as we’ve been wandering along these many days past, that you are possessed of a rather impressively sized ax. Are all dwarves so well endowed as you where such devices are concerned?”
“Yes to be sure, Mister Baggins, and some even more powerfully so if the truth be told.”
“Is that so?” Bat…Bat… “Well forgive me if I seem forward in my thinking. But it would seem we could encourage a fire to burn much quicker,” Bat…Bat… “if you would but take your mighty ax in hand where together we might wield it to its best advantage.”
“There’s truth to be had in that Mister Baggins, now if you’ll just grip it so…”
And as those mighty ax strokes began to ring in the wooded glade, I decide to let Frodo’s chips fall as they may and raced blindly to the camp. Trust me when I say that hairy feet and hairy faces just don’t seem an agreeable combination to me. Yet when the two returned at last their firewood in tow, it can be said that not a one of our company found a hair out of place.
Yes, indeed, what is it about my cousin Frodo that makes him such a little Hobbit Tart so sweet to taste and eager still to eat? Resistant as I am to his ways I certainly cannot say, and yet…
“Ohhh Pippin, my love…” Bat…Bat… “Do you have a moment?”
Opps, sorry gotta go. Cousin Frodo needs me.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.