HAPPY BIRTHDAY darling Mews!
How to pick my favourite bit of a Mews story? An impossible task. I love
so many of her tales. Most people who know we share a certain delight in
Eomer/Frodo stories might expect me to pick one of them but actually just
beating them by a foot hair is the Frodo Lad series which are so delightful.
and if I have to pick just one bit it has to be this one from "Frodo Lad; Lullaby".
http://mews1945.livejournal.com/83218.html
"Bilbo would have liked to go back to his own bed, where he could be most comfortable, but he would not chance waking Frodo. To hear that heartbroken crying again would break his own heart, of that he was sure. He settled himself as well as he could into the comfort of the pillow and the featherbed. He murmured again, and stroked the soft curls when Frodo's breath caught with a hitch and then released with a sigh. When he was sure that Frodo was soundly asleep, he closed his own eyes and fell asleep, holding his lad in his arms to keep him safe from the shadows of the night."
and of course I had to write a little something for her - another bit of the
'Anti Lavender Oil challenge' in which Frodo and Sam are plagued with the
smell of burning fan girl underpants.
Part 2
It was some little time before Frodo felt able to come out of his bedroom
and face the world again. The smell had not decreased at all. It really
was awful; like a singed wafting which seemed to permeate everything about
him. It floated like a miasma about the smial; cotton and burnt elastic
with the occasional hint of smouldering lace.
Bag End was silent around him, even the usual cheery sound of Sam whispering
or singing softly as he went about his duties was gone. The smell hung like
something tangible, suppressing sound.
Frodo made his way to his study and came to a dead halt in the door somewhat
startled to see Sam sitting at Bilbo's old desk, a quill clutched between
fingers more used to wielding a spade or fork, and the tip of Sam's tongue
sticking out between his tightly clenched lips. Sam was writing, a look of
fierce concentration on his face.
"Sam?" Frodo asked. "What ever are you doing?"
Sam jumped guiltily and looked up. He sighed when he saw Frodo in the door.
"For one awful moment I thought one of those fangirls had got in again. I
remember the last time they broke in and stole all your underwear from the
press."
Frodo cleared his throat, clearly not wishing to be reminded of that
incident - or other worse ones.
"But what are you doing Sam?" He made his way over to the desk.
"I had an idea," the loyal gardener said. "Thought I'd give them fan girls
a taste of their own medicine so to speak."
Frodo leant over Sam's shoulder.
"I'm writing a story in which the whole sorry bunch of them get sent to
Rohan."
"Why Rohan?" Frodo frowned.
"Stands to reason," said Sam. "If they don't have no reading and writing in
Rohan I'll sent them where they can't do no harm. If there's no one to read
the written stuff they write down then no more pants will be set on fire."
Sam sat back, pleased with his logic - if not with his spelling.
"But Sam!" Frodo protested, his voice rising. "Remember they have Ballard
singers, and orators in Rohan. They can speak or sing to whole roomfuls of
people at a time. It could be even worse!"
"Bugger me!" said Sam with dismay. "I didn't think of that. I am a
ninnyhammer and no mistake." He groaned and set his head into his hands.
"Not to mention that Eomer King. I never did like the way he did look at
you. Recon they'll be setting fire to his underpants too. What have I
done?"
"Let loose a marauding bunch of fan girls in Rohan. At least two of which
have the hots for Eomer and are likely to give him not a moments peace,"
Frodo said with despair. "You had better write them out of there again.
Divert them down the Paths of the Dead and then have a cave in."
"But... " Sam protested. "That would be killing them. They may be sad,
sick women with over active imaginations, too much time on their hands and
the moral standards of Ted Sandyman but it don't seem right just killing
them all like that."
"Remember the time they wrote about you and me.... " Frodo leant over and
whispered at length into Sam's ear. Sam turned an awful shade of puce.
"Not to mention," Frodo straightened up to deliver his final blow. "The
smell has wilted your prize winning aspidistra." Frodo pointed to the sorry
plant in its corner. What leaves were left had gone brown and it was
clearly well on its way to expiring.
"Right!" said Sam grabbing up his pen again. "How about an earthquake and
six tons of rock followed by a flash flood?"
"No more than they deserve, my dear Sam," said Frodo with satisfaction.
"Then we can go down to the Inn for a little celebratory drink."
HAPPY BIRTHDAY darling Mews. We would be lost without you.
so many of her tales. Most people who know we share a certain delight in
Eomer/Frodo stories might expect me to pick one of them but actually just
beating them by a foot hair is the Frodo Lad series which are so delightful.
and if I have to pick just one bit it has to be this one from "Frodo Lad; Lullaby".
http://mews1945.livejournal.com/83218.html
"Bilbo would have liked to go back to his own bed, where he could be most comfortable, but he would not chance waking Frodo. To hear that heartbroken crying again would break his own heart, of that he was sure. He settled himself as well as he could into the comfort of the pillow and the featherbed. He murmured again, and stroked the soft curls when Frodo's breath caught with a hitch and then released with a sigh. When he was sure that Frodo was soundly asleep, he closed his own eyes and fell asleep, holding his lad in his arms to keep him safe from the shadows of the night."
and of course I had to write a little something for her - another bit of the
'Anti Lavender Oil challenge' in which Frodo and Sam are plagued with the
smell of burning fan girl underpants.
Part 2
It was some little time before Frodo felt able to come out of his bedroom
and face the world again. The smell had not decreased at all. It really
was awful; like a singed wafting which seemed to permeate everything about
him. It floated like a miasma about the smial; cotton and burnt elastic
with the occasional hint of smouldering lace.
Bag End was silent around him, even the usual cheery sound of Sam whispering
or singing softly as he went about his duties was gone. The smell hung like
something tangible, suppressing sound.
Frodo made his way to his study and came to a dead halt in the door somewhat
startled to see Sam sitting at Bilbo's old desk, a quill clutched between
fingers more used to wielding a spade or fork, and the tip of Sam's tongue
sticking out between his tightly clenched lips. Sam was writing, a look of
fierce concentration on his face.
"Sam?" Frodo asked. "What ever are you doing?"
Sam jumped guiltily and looked up. He sighed when he saw Frodo in the door.
"For one awful moment I thought one of those fangirls had got in again. I
remember the last time they broke in and stole all your underwear from the
press."
Frodo cleared his throat, clearly not wishing to be reminded of that
incident - or other worse ones.
"But what are you doing Sam?" He made his way over to the desk.
"I had an idea," the loyal gardener said. "Thought I'd give them fan girls
a taste of their own medicine so to speak."
Frodo leant over Sam's shoulder.
"I'm writing a story in which the whole sorry bunch of them get sent to
Rohan."
"Why Rohan?" Frodo frowned.
"Stands to reason," said Sam. "If they don't have no reading and writing in
Rohan I'll sent them where they can't do no harm. If there's no one to read
the written stuff they write down then no more pants will be set on fire."
Sam sat back, pleased with his logic - if not with his spelling.
"But Sam!" Frodo protested, his voice rising. "Remember they have Ballard
singers, and orators in Rohan. They can speak or sing to whole roomfuls of
people at a time. It could be even worse!"
"Bugger me!" said Sam with dismay. "I didn't think of that. I am a
ninnyhammer and no mistake." He groaned and set his head into his hands.
"Not to mention that Eomer King. I never did like the way he did look at
you. Recon they'll be setting fire to his underpants too. What have I
done?"
"Let loose a marauding bunch of fan girls in Rohan. At least two of which
have the hots for Eomer and are likely to give him not a moments peace,"
Frodo said with despair. "You had better write them out of there again.
Divert them down the Paths of the Dead and then have a cave in."
"But... " Sam protested. "That would be killing them. They may be sad,
sick women with over active imaginations, too much time on their hands and
the moral standards of Ted Sandyman but it don't seem right just killing
them all like that."
"Remember the time they wrote about you and me.... " Frodo leant over and
whispered at length into Sam's ear. Sam turned an awful shade of puce.
"Not to mention," Frodo straightened up to deliver his final blow. "The
smell has wilted your prize winning aspidistra." Frodo pointed to the sorry
plant in its corner. What leaves were left had gone brown and it was
clearly well on its way to expiring.
"Right!" said Sam grabbing up his pen again. "How about an earthquake and
six tons of rock followed by a flash flood?"
"No more than they deserve, my dear Sam," said Frodo with satisfaction.
"Then we can go down to the Inn for a little celebratory drink."
HAPPY BIRTHDAY darling Mews. We would be lost without you.