Hey, everyone!
This story is about Gandalf curing the boredom and low spirits of the
Fellowship by telling funny stories about their youth. You get a different
character in each chapter. I tried to stay away from fluff, but failed a
little in chapter 2 (coming soon). PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!
Rating- G (nothing offensive here).
Archive- sure.
AN: Because many of the races in Middle Earth age differently, I'm going to put an age equivalency in the authors note. For example, in this story, Frodo is twelve, which is equal to about a seven-year-old human.
****************************************************************** Fellowship Tales to Cure Boredom and Raise Spirits
The sky was aglow with bright colors as the sun set in the west, her diminishing rays warming the shoulders of nine weary travelers in the abandoned land of Hollin. They were climbing up a hill toward a clearing in the trees, the oldest by about 18,000 years in the lead. He wore gray robes and a large pointy hat, and he looked back on his fellow hikers with impatience.
"Come now," Gandalf said to the others. "We will camp on the top of this hill tonight."
The company reached the hilltop a moment later, save the four hobbits, who lagged behind like tired children. They approached the campsite only a few minutes behind the others, collapsing to the ground.
"Well, that's it," said Pippin. "Everyone can just continue without me, because I am never moving from this spot again."
"And what a terrible loss it would be," joked Aragorn. "Who would we have to complain?" He was in a good mood, as he usually was at the start of a journey, but he was one of the few.
"Now that wasn't very nice, Mr. Strider," Sam said. "Well, I suppose we'll all feel better after a nice dinner. Do potatoes sound good to everyone?"
"NO!," they all exclaimed. Sam was a good cook, but everyone was rather sick of potatoes. He looked back at them with a hurt expression.
"I'm sorry Sam," Frodo apologized, "We all like your potatoes, but it would be nice to have something different tonight."
Sam nodded. "I'll see what I have."
After a hot dinner (that did *not* include potatoes), the travelers sat back to relax and smoke their pipes in the cheerless backdrop. Gandalf looked around. Frodo sat with Sam, cleaning off the dishes in silence. Boromir was sharpening his sword on a rock and staring out into the darkness, his face lined with worry. Must be thinking of Gondor Gandalf thought. Aragorn sat next to Gandalf, deep in thought as well. Gimli was starting a fire, and Legolas was working on staying as far away from Gimli as possible. Merry and Pippin were the only ones talking-that is, Merry was talking. Pippin was listening with wide, frightened eyes. Gandalf tried to catch a bit of their conversation.
"I'm serious, Pip," Merry spoke gravely. "I've heard about the wild creatures that live beyond Rivendell. Wolves, with teeth as big as your fingers, ready to rip you in--"
"That will be enough of that, Merry," Gandalf scolded him. "There's no use in scaring your cousin like that."
"I wasn't scared!" Pippin protested from his hiding place under the blanket.
Gandalf bent down and lifted the corner of the blanket, reveling Pippin's face. "Even so, there is no need to talk about such creatures." He glanced up at Merry. "Although, you may have had the right idea." Gandalf turned back to the rest of the Fellowship. "Everyone! Let's gather round the fire and tell stories to pass the time."
His suggestion was met with lukewarm enthusiasm. Boromir and Aragorn argued that they had things to think about.
"There will be much time to think all you want while we hike tomorrow. This should be a time to relax. Now get over here!" The Fellowship, not in the mood to argue, reluctantly obeyed. "Good," said Gandalf. "Now which story should I tell first?"
"Tell about the time Frodo went looking for a dragon!" Pippin exclaimed. The group turned to look at him. There was no escaping the fact that hobbits of all ages love hearing stories, and four sets of excited eyes watched Gandalf speak.
Gandalf laughed. "Oh yes, *that* story." He turned to the rest of the group. "You will all soon learn that these hobbits never grow tired of hearing stories about themselves. Now let's see, how did it go? Oh yes, I remember. This story took place when Frodo was a young hobbit lad of twelve. I had come to Hobbiton to visit Bilbo and I had brought some old friends--"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Frodo, you should have seen your uncle Bilbo!" the dwarf thundered, his wildly expressive arms seeming to shake the walls of Bag End. "Why, he charged in to that dragon's lair with Sting drawn and ready, prepared to slay the beast and recover the treasure!"
"Now don't be making things up, Thorin," Bilbo warned him. "I did nothing of the sort. I sneaked in past the dragon and prayed he wouldn't wake up. There was no slaying on my part. You'll give Frodo the wrong idea."
Gandalf glanced at the young hobbit. It was already quite clear that Frodo had the wrong idea, his big eyes fixed on the dwarves. Frodo may have heard the correct version of the story many times, but it no longer mattered. From now on he would remember it with Bilbo charging in the cave, Sting in hand. Gandalf sighed. "I think perhaps Frodo has heard enough stories." He turned to Frodo. "Why don't you run and play while we talk?" The adults left for the dinning room.
After a story like that, Frodo was so full of energy he could hardly think strait. I'll go see if Sam can play. We could go dragon hunting! he thought. He ran off to get his coat. On the way to his room, Frodo noticed something hanging on the wall. It was Sting, his uncle's sword and prized possession. Frodo had seen it many times, but today-it seemed to shine extra bright. He licked his lips greedily. I'll just borrow it for a little while. Bilbo will never know He looked around carefully before lifting the weapon from its resting spot. Quickly, he escaped out the door.
Once outside, Frodo knew he'd have to get some place he wouldn't be seen. If he was caught with such an item, it meant certain and severe punishment. He looked off to the west and saw that the wood's edge was not far away. It would be perfect.
"I am Frodo, brave warrior and slayer of dragons!" Frodo cried once he was in the safety of the trees. "I rescue fair maidens and recover lost treasures!" He took a few jabs in the air with his sword, skewering some imaginary foe. "Now I shall hunt a dragon." He began walking north through the thick bushes underfoot.
He walked for a long while along a brook, humming an elvish song about the elf warriors that lived in Mirkwood. Naturally, the woods around Hobbiton looked nothing like the dark forest of Mirkwood, but that didn't stop Frodo's overactive imagination from conjuring tall, twisted trees and thick fog. Every so often, he would play at fighting a dragon or an evil knight bent on attacking a town. It began to dawn on him, however, that he might not find any dragons in the Shire-well, at least not in this part of the Shire. Perhaps they lived near Tuckbourgh.
Suddenly he heard a rustle in the bushes. Frodo quickly drew his sword and prepared himself to fight a dragon of enormous size. "Show yourself, you fire-breathing fiend!" he shouted bravely. It did just that- out of the bushes emerged the biggest dog Frodo had ever seen in his life.
For a moment, the dog and the hobbit simply stared at one another, Frodo's big, blue eyes locked onto the dog's brown ones. Then, playfully leaping, the mangy mutt barked and trotted towards Frodo.
With a shriek, Frodo panicked and dropped his uncle's prized sword as he darted away through the trees. The dog, rather disappointed, ran off in search of a friendlier playmate.
Certain that the very hounds of hell were on his heals, Frodo flew through the trees in a blind panic. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeking his pursuer. Before it registered in his mind that the dog may have given up, his foot hit a rock and he went flying head first down an embankment and into the deep brook.
Splash! He hit the water with a painful impact, only made worse by the icy temperatures stinging his skin. Struggling with all his might, he kicked hard and propelled himself to the surface. "Help! Help!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Few hobbits have the ability to swim, and Frodo certainly wasn't one of them. Fighting to stay at the surface, he looked around frantically for anything that might become a handhold, a tree limb, a rock, anything. "Help!" he shouted one last time in vain, before slipping under the water, waiting to meet a similar fate as his parents.
Just as he thought his lungs might burst from holding in his breath, he felt a hand grasp his and pull him from the freezing brook. "Hang on, I got ya," he heard a voice say. Frodo looked up to see Farmer Cotton pulling him ashore. "My goodness, son!" he said to the frightened, shivering young hobbit. "You must be chilled to the bone! Come back to my house and we'll get you dried up."
"Wait!" Frodo cried. "My uncle's sword! I dropped it! He'll never forgive me!"
Farmer Cotton looked concerned. "In the water?"
"No, when I saw the dragon."
"Sorry-what?"
Less than an hour later, Frodo found himself wrapped in a blanket standing at Bilbo's front door next to Farmer Cotton. "-So I reached into the water and pulled this little guy out. Good thing I was close by or he wouldn't have had a shot." He ruffled Frodo's hair, much to the little hobbit's annoyance. "Oh yeah, and we found this in the woods nearby." Cotton handed Sting to Bilbo. "Frodo says it's yours-something about a dragon?" The farmer looked truly confused.
Bilbo glared at Frodo with a stare that would send the many minions of Moria back to their dark hiding places. "Yes-thank you, Mr. Cotton. Frodo, don't you have something to say?"
"Thank you, Mr. Cotton, for saving me," Frodo mumbled softly. He hung his head, dreading what was certain to be the lecture and punishment to beat all. He was not disappointed.
"Of all the stupid things you've done, Frodo, this one takes the cake!" Bilbo bellowed once they were back in the house. "Do you know what could have happened to you? Wandering alone-and with a sword?! You could hurt yourself! Swords are not playthings, they are weapons, and they are dangerous! And near the brook! Need I remind you how your parents died?" Bilbo grimaced a little at that one. He had gone to far, bringing the boy's parents into it. He saw Frodo's lower lip shake and heard him sniffle. "No Frodo, don't cry," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."
"I'm not crying, uncle Bilbo. I'm just cold," Frodo said with a shiver. Bilbo then noticed that Frodo's lip was not shaking, but his teeth sure were chattering.
"Why, my boy, you'll catch cold! We should get you into some dry clothes, and then into bed." They were walking off to Frodo's room when Gandalf walked in.
"What's all the commotion?" the old wizard asked.
Bilbo sighed. "This little imp," he complained, "not only stole my sword to play with, but he also fell into the brook and will likely catch a nasty cold."
The wizard stared down at Frodo and shook his head, but there was a bright twinkle in his eye. "Tsk, tsk. Frodo, you know better that that. I imagine you have quite a punishment ahead of you."
Frodo glared back at Gandalf with a scowl for reminding Bilbo that he deserved a punishment. Bilbo noticed. "Oh, don't you be sore with Gandalf, you earned a reprimand yourself. Besides," he added, "don't think I forgot about what you did just because you played sick and made a sad face."
"If it's alright with you, Bilbo," Gandalf cut in, "Before I go to meet the dwarves in the tavern, I know an excellent treatment for preventing a cold, that will also linger in Frodo's memory as a harsh reminder not to EVER take anyone else's things."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"What did you make him do?" asked Merry, although he already very much knew.
Gandalf smiled. "After some tea, I made him drink near a quarter of a bottle of caster oil, one spoonful at a time," he said. "And after every swallow, I made him say--"
"-I will never take Bilbo's sword again!" Frodo finished with a laugh. "And what a horrible punishment it was." He wrinkled his nose. "I can still taste the stuff."
Boromir made a face. He was altogether too familiar with Gandalf caster oil cure for colds-and-whatever-else-is-wrong-with-you from his own childhood. "Well," he said, "I'll bet THAT was a lesson that stuck."
"Indeed," laughed Frodo. "From that day until Rivendell, I never even thought of laying my hands on that sword. In fact, when it was finally offered to me, I was a little reluctant to take it."
"Tell another story, Gandalf!" Pippin cried. "Tell the one about--"
"Not tonight, Peregrin. I have things to discuss with Aragorn about tomorrow's journey. Perhaps at tomorrow's camp." Gandalf rose and walked off with Aragorn. As he left the fire, however, he heard Merry say, "Don't worry, Pip. I'll tell you a story." His voice became threatening. "They say a giant, poisonous snake lives out in these parts. Most think he's at least fifteen feet long, just waiting for a hobbit-sized treat to munch--" Gandalf could only shake his head and sigh.
AN: Because many of the races in Middle Earth age differently, I'm going to put an age equivalency in the authors note. For example, in this story, Frodo is twelve, which is equal to about a seven-year-old human.
****************************************************************** Fellowship Tales to Cure Boredom and Raise Spirits
The sky was aglow with bright colors as the sun set in the west, her diminishing rays warming the shoulders of nine weary travelers in the abandoned land of Hollin. They were climbing up a hill toward a clearing in the trees, the oldest by about 18,000 years in the lead. He wore gray robes and a large pointy hat, and he looked back on his fellow hikers with impatience.
"Come now," Gandalf said to the others. "We will camp on the top of this hill tonight."
The company reached the hilltop a moment later, save the four hobbits, who lagged behind like tired children. They approached the campsite only a few minutes behind the others, collapsing to the ground.
"Well, that's it," said Pippin. "Everyone can just continue without me, because I am never moving from this spot again."
"And what a terrible loss it would be," joked Aragorn. "Who would we have to complain?" He was in a good mood, as he usually was at the start of a journey, but he was one of the few.
"Now that wasn't very nice, Mr. Strider," Sam said. "Well, I suppose we'll all feel better after a nice dinner. Do potatoes sound good to everyone?"
"NO!," they all exclaimed. Sam was a good cook, but everyone was rather sick of potatoes. He looked back at them with a hurt expression.
"I'm sorry Sam," Frodo apologized, "We all like your potatoes, but it would be nice to have something different tonight."
Sam nodded. "I'll see what I have."
After a hot dinner (that did *not* include potatoes), the travelers sat back to relax and smoke their pipes in the cheerless backdrop. Gandalf looked around. Frodo sat with Sam, cleaning off the dishes in silence. Boromir was sharpening his sword on a rock and staring out into the darkness, his face lined with worry. Must be thinking of Gondor Gandalf thought. Aragorn sat next to Gandalf, deep in thought as well. Gimli was starting a fire, and Legolas was working on staying as far away from Gimli as possible. Merry and Pippin were the only ones talking-that is, Merry was talking. Pippin was listening with wide, frightened eyes. Gandalf tried to catch a bit of their conversation.
"I'm serious, Pip," Merry spoke gravely. "I've heard about the wild creatures that live beyond Rivendell. Wolves, with teeth as big as your fingers, ready to rip you in--"
"That will be enough of that, Merry," Gandalf scolded him. "There's no use in scaring your cousin like that."
"I wasn't scared!" Pippin protested from his hiding place under the blanket.
Gandalf bent down and lifted the corner of the blanket, reveling Pippin's face. "Even so, there is no need to talk about such creatures." He glanced up at Merry. "Although, you may have had the right idea." Gandalf turned back to the rest of the Fellowship. "Everyone! Let's gather round the fire and tell stories to pass the time."
His suggestion was met with lukewarm enthusiasm. Boromir and Aragorn argued that they had things to think about.
"There will be much time to think all you want while we hike tomorrow. This should be a time to relax. Now get over here!" The Fellowship, not in the mood to argue, reluctantly obeyed. "Good," said Gandalf. "Now which story should I tell first?"
"Tell about the time Frodo went looking for a dragon!" Pippin exclaimed. The group turned to look at him. There was no escaping the fact that hobbits of all ages love hearing stories, and four sets of excited eyes watched Gandalf speak.
Gandalf laughed. "Oh yes, *that* story." He turned to the rest of the group. "You will all soon learn that these hobbits never grow tired of hearing stories about themselves. Now let's see, how did it go? Oh yes, I remember. This story took place when Frodo was a young hobbit lad of twelve. I had come to Hobbiton to visit Bilbo and I had brought some old friends--"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Frodo, you should have seen your uncle Bilbo!" the dwarf thundered, his wildly expressive arms seeming to shake the walls of Bag End. "Why, he charged in to that dragon's lair with Sting drawn and ready, prepared to slay the beast and recover the treasure!"
"Now don't be making things up, Thorin," Bilbo warned him. "I did nothing of the sort. I sneaked in past the dragon and prayed he wouldn't wake up. There was no slaying on my part. You'll give Frodo the wrong idea."
Gandalf glanced at the young hobbit. It was already quite clear that Frodo had the wrong idea, his big eyes fixed on the dwarves. Frodo may have heard the correct version of the story many times, but it no longer mattered. From now on he would remember it with Bilbo charging in the cave, Sting in hand. Gandalf sighed. "I think perhaps Frodo has heard enough stories." He turned to Frodo. "Why don't you run and play while we talk?" The adults left for the dinning room.
After a story like that, Frodo was so full of energy he could hardly think strait. I'll go see if Sam can play. We could go dragon hunting! he thought. He ran off to get his coat. On the way to his room, Frodo noticed something hanging on the wall. It was Sting, his uncle's sword and prized possession. Frodo had seen it many times, but today-it seemed to shine extra bright. He licked his lips greedily. I'll just borrow it for a little while. Bilbo will never know He looked around carefully before lifting the weapon from its resting spot. Quickly, he escaped out the door.
Once outside, Frodo knew he'd have to get some place he wouldn't be seen. If he was caught with such an item, it meant certain and severe punishment. He looked off to the west and saw that the wood's edge was not far away. It would be perfect.
"I am Frodo, brave warrior and slayer of dragons!" Frodo cried once he was in the safety of the trees. "I rescue fair maidens and recover lost treasures!" He took a few jabs in the air with his sword, skewering some imaginary foe. "Now I shall hunt a dragon." He began walking north through the thick bushes underfoot.
He walked for a long while along a brook, humming an elvish song about the elf warriors that lived in Mirkwood. Naturally, the woods around Hobbiton looked nothing like the dark forest of Mirkwood, but that didn't stop Frodo's overactive imagination from conjuring tall, twisted trees and thick fog. Every so often, he would play at fighting a dragon or an evil knight bent on attacking a town. It began to dawn on him, however, that he might not find any dragons in the Shire-well, at least not in this part of the Shire. Perhaps they lived near Tuckbourgh.
Suddenly he heard a rustle in the bushes. Frodo quickly drew his sword and prepared himself to fight a dragon of enormous size. "Show yourself, you fire-breathing fiend!" he shouted bravely. It did just that- out of the bushes emerged the biggest dog Frodo had ever seen in his life.
For a moment, the dog and the hobbit simply stared at one another, Frodo's big, blue eyes locked onto the dog's brown ones. Then, playfully leaping, the mangy mutt barked and trotted towards Frodo.
With a shriek, Frodo panicked and dropped his uncle's prized sword as he darted away through the trees. The dog, rather disappointed, ran off in search of a friendlier playmate.
Certain that the very hounds of hell were on his heals, Frodo flew through the trees in a blind panic. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeking his pursuer. Before it registered in his mind that the dog may have given up, his foot hit a rock and he went flying head first down an embankment and into the deep brook.
Splash! He hit the water with a painful impact, only made worse by the icy temperatures stinging his skin. Struggling with all his might, he kicked hard and propelled himself to the surface. "Help! Help!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Few hobbits have the ability to swim, and Frodo certainly wasn't one of them. Fighting to stay at the surface, he looked around frantically for anything that might become a handhold, a tree limb, a rock, anything. "Help!" he shouted one last time in vain, before slipping under the water, waiting to meet a similar fate as his parents.
Just as he thought his lungs might burst from holding in his breath, he felt a hand grasp his and pull him from the freezing brook. "Hang on, I got ya," he heard a voice say. Frodo looked up to see Farmer Cotton pulling him ashore. "My goodness, son!" he said to the frightened, shivering young hobbit. "You must be chilled to the bone! Come back to my house and we'll get you dried up."
"Wait!" Frodo cried. "My uncle's sword! I dropped it! He'll never forgive me!"
Farmer Cotton looked concerned. "In the water?"
"No, when I saw the dragon."
"Sorry-what?"
Less than an hour later, Frodo found himself wrapped in a blanket standing at Bilbo's front door next to Farmer Cotton. "-So I reached into the water and pulled this little guy out. Good thing I was close by or he wouldn't have had a shot." He ruffled Frodo's hair, much to the little hobbit's annoyance. "Oh yeah, and we found this in the woods nearby." Cotton handed Sting to Bilbo. "Frodo says it's yours-something about a dragon?" The farmer looked truly confused.
Bilbo glared at Frodo with a stare that would send the many minions of Moria back to their dark hiding places. "Yes-thank you, Mr. Cotton. Frodo, don't you have something to say?"
"Thank you, Mr. Cotton, for saving me," Frodo mumbled softly. He hung his head, dreading what was certain to be the lecture and punishment to beat all. He was not disappointed.
"Of all the stupid things you've done, Frodo, this one takes the cake!" Bilbo bellowed once they were back in the house. "Do you know what could have happened to you? Wandering alone-and with a sword?! You could hurt yourself! Swords are not playthings, they are weapons, and they are dangerous! And near the brook! Need I remind you how your parents died?" Bilbo grimaced a little at that one. He had gone to far, bringing the boy's parents into it. He saw Frodo's lower lip shake and heard him sniffle. "No Frodo, don't cry," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."
"I'm not crying, uncle Bilbo. I'm just cold," Frodo said with a shiver. Bilbo then noticed that Frodo's lip was not shaking, but his teeth sure were chattering.
"Why, my boy, you'll catch cold! We should get you into some dry clothes, and then into bed." They were walking off to Frodo's room when Gandalf walked in.
"What's all the commotion?" the old wizard asked.
Bilbo sighed. "This little imp," he complained, "not only stole my sword to play with, but he also fell into the brook and will likely catch a nasty cold."
The wizard stared down at Frodo and shook his head, but there was a bright twinkle in his eye. "Tsk, tsk. Frodo, you know better that that. I imagine you have quite a punishment ahead of you."
Frodo glared back at Gandalf with a scowl for reminding Bilbo that he deserved a punishment. Bilbo noticed. "Oh, don't you be sore with Gandalf, you earned a reprimand yourself. Besides," he added, "don't think I forgot about what you did just because you played sick and made a sad face."
"If it's alright with you, Bilbo," Gandalf cut in, "Before I go to meet the dwarves in the tavern, I know an excellent treatment for preventing a cold, that will also linger in Frodo's memory as a harsh reminder not to EVER take anyone else's things."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"What did you make him do?" asked Merry, although he already very much knew.
Gandalf smiled. "After some tea, I made him drink near a quarter of a bottle of caster oil, one spoonful at a time," he said. "And after every swallow, I made him say--"
"-I will never take Bilbo's sword again!" Frodo finished with a laugh. "And what a horrible punishment it was." He wrinkled his nose. "I can still taste the stuff."
Boromir made a face. He was altogether too familiar with Gandalf caster oil cure for colds-and-whatever-else-is-wrong-with-you from his own childhood. "Well," he said, "I'll bet THAT was a lesson that stuck."
"Indeed," laughed Frodo. "From that day until Rivendell, I never even thought of laying my hands on that sword. In fact, when it was finally offered to me, I was a little reluctant to take it."
"Tell another story, Gandalf!" Pippin cried. "Tell the one about--"
"Not tonight, Peregrin. I have things to discuss with Aragorn about tomorrow's journey. Perhaps at tomorrow's camp." Gandalf rose and walked off with Aragorn. As he left the fire, however, he heard Merry say, "Don't worry, Pip. I'll tell you a story." His voice became threatening. "They say a giant, poisonous snake lives out in these parts. Most think he's at least fifteen feet long, just waiting for a hobbit-sized treat to munch--" Gandalf could only shake his head and sigh.