Larrkin's Nest

Foster Father of The Heart - part VII- fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 19:44:02 GMT

How do I thank thee, let me count the ways . . . . Honestly, your kind comments and words of support during this difficult time meant a lot to me. I really am very touched. Things are beginning to ease up a bit now and I find I have a moment to breath normally again. I feel badly about failing to respond to your wonderful comments. Biggest sorries. But I thought that rather than waiting for several days while I backtracked and caught up with my replies, you'd rather I posted the next part. So here’s Part 7 along with some biggest thanks for your amazing feedback. I hope I’ll still hear from you, for I truly can’t express how much your support means to me.

And now, when last we left our brothers, they were awaiting certain dooooooom . . . .

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

Previous parts archived here.

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part VII
by Larrkin

So I prayed he chose to spank Faramir first, not because I loathed the idea of my little brother watching me shatter over Damrod’s knee, although I did indeed loath it – and, alas, that was going to happen regardless of my desires or the order in which Damrod chose to spank us – but to ease Faramir’s suffering first and to end this anguish between them with no further delay.

And just what was Damrod thinking, making him wait this long? Blast the man! Where was he?

************

Bless my big brother. Trying so hard to distract me from brooding, even going so far as to suggest the notion of me being spanked by either Halbarad or Garrick, then trying to make me squirm by talking about how interesting it would be to see that and how he wouldn’t mind it at all! Heartless man, my brother. Ah, how I loved him!

I longed to tell Boromir that he needn’t try so hard to save me from suffering my own dark thoughts. Having practiced the finest of strategies all my life I was now well accomplished in contending with hurts. I banished them to an inner bog so black and deep that they disappeared, no longer haunting my every waking moment. I knew those hurts were there, but they served no purpose save to cause me harm, so they were best left buried.

That’s where the hurtful breach between Damrod and I now remained. If I started to dwell upon that hurt I might give the dark enough power to pull me down into that bog, as it had when I thought I had lost Boromir – both times I thought I had lost him. I was determined to never again visit that place.

So I didn’t think about that breach. It didn’t affect me. It was no longer . . . real. And as for Damrod and I . . . well . . . all was as it should be. It was. We were . . . . We were fine. Just fine.

That was why when Boromir suggested our adventure today I was able to give that unresolved breach no more than a cursory mental glance to make sure it was still buried in that dark bog. It was, and I wanted to do what I wanted to do, breach and consequences be cursed! As I told Boromir, I knew certain doom awaited us if we chose to go adventuring, and I’d chosen it anyway.

So now I wished that I could save him this effort he felt he needed to make to distract me, tell my fretful, protective big brother, “Peace, Boromir. I have this well in hand.”

But, how could I tell him how unnecessary his efforts were? It would serve no good purpose for me to point out that I knew what he was trying to do, and it would embarrass Boromir to know that I saw through him and that he was being so obvious. I could never do such a cold, ungrateful thing. My brother had ever put my needs first, even now, during what was surely a most anxious moment for him. Damrod was about to spank him for the first time since he was twenty-one years old – and in front of me. For mercy’s sake, Boromir had enough to fret about! Humiliated in front of his little brother – oh!

I ached for him. And I longed to help him. And the only help I could give my brother was to offer him the comforting sense that he was helping me, successfully diverting me from my dark foreboding. So I would do all I could to give him that comfort, accepting his aid whether or not I needed it. And I wasn’t totally humoring him; Boromir was helping me, filling this strained period of waiting with our fond back and forth banter. It had always served to ease our tension. That, coupled with his subtle touches of solace, truly were helping.

That solace began right after the battle when Damrod finished glaring at us. With all the charm of the dead orc at his feet, my lieutenant snarled, “Gentlemen, come with me.” Then he turned and stalked off, Boromir and I dutifully following.

At once Boromir had begun his reassuring, nudging me and flashing me a wink and one of his ‘be-brave-little-brother’ grins. I reassured him right back, flashing him a return wink and one of my ‘don’t-worry-about-me-big-brother’ grins, and off we trudged after our horribly, calmly livid lieutenant. I vow I felt every eye following us. I knew how this must look, and didn’t want to actually see these men watching our exit, but some perverse need to do just that made it impossible for me to keep from glancing back. So I did, and I was glad I did, because, in truth, the men weren’t watching us at all. They were too absorbed in their own duties to care about my brother and me – all save one.

The moment I turned back, Valerian lifted his head and shot me a startled look. Innocent that he is, the lad would never have imagined what Damrod was about to do to Boromir and me. Bram knew, though. Dropping a glance to Val, he followed the boy’s gaze to me, then he muttered something to him that snapped the lad’s attention back to his duties.

I was strangely shaken. I knew that when Valerian asked Bram where we were going – and of course Val would ask – Bram would not tell him that Lieutenant Damrod was taking Captain Faramir and the Steward of Gondor off to spank them. Still –

“Don’t look back, little brother,” Boromir had whispered beside me. I turned to him. Amazing that Boromir always said I had sad eyes. He didn’t look in the glass much, my big brother. At that moment his gaze was drenched in such guilty melancholy it near broke my heart.

So I gave him another ‘don’t-worry-about-me-big-brother’ grin, as the first one had clearly failed to work, and I followed it up by telling him something that I hoped would cheer him, something to help him see that I truly was managing all this with mature grace and my typical exceeding good will:

“See?” I murmured in a sly tone. “Told you I could fight. Fragile indeed! I expect an apology at your earliest possible convenience, Master Steward sir.”

Boromir stared at me for a moment, then he burst out laughing. Silently of course. Rather amazing to witness, as he looked ready to rupture something in the effort to keep from attracting Damrod’s attention. It was wicked of me to do that to my own brother at a moment when he dared not be heard enjoying himself. But his silent laugh had reached Boromir’s eyes, making them crinkle wonderfully at the corners, and, in that moment I saw that my brother’s fears for me were at last calmed.

“Faramir,” Damrod had said without turning around.

I flinched and answered him as my brother and I had ever answered our lieutenant when we were in disgrace: “Yes, sir?”

“Not another word.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I antagonized him, sir,” Boromir fibbed in an admirable show of brotherly unity and self-sacrifice. Ever the hero.

“Boromir.”

“Aye, sir?”

“Another lie like that shall find you visiting my bar of soap.”

We’d exchanged a look of dread. It must’ve been near to twenty – twenty-five years since Damrod last soaped out Boromir’s mouth, but our lieutenant was horridly thorough at it. The memory of it was evidently still vivid for my brother, who paled at once.

“Pardon, sir,” Boromir had said in haste.

Damrod had never demanded, nor had he ever needed to demand that “sir.”

He led us out of the sewers, through Osgiliath and straight to our horses, then we rode in silence – and at an intolerably moderate pace – back to Minas Tirith where Damrod marched us directly up to Boromir’s chamber and left us with specific orders: We were to bathe, change, eat and wait for him to return. The first two tasks completed I then won a glorious battle with Boromir over the third – my untouched dinner:

“MY untouched dinner?” I’d exclaimed, yanking the cover from his still-full tray. He didn’t bother to look.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Nor was I. You cannot demand that I eat when you – ”

“I can afford to leave mine untouched, little urchin. I’m in perfect health. You, however, are still healing and – ”

“Oh, no. No more ‘you’re still fragile’ talk.”

“I wasn’t going to – ”

“Good. Because when it comes to choking down food at this moment, I shall repeat your words to me from earlier today – you first, big brother.”

“This is a little different – ”

And we had been off once more on our distracting squabbles. Yes, those untouched trays had provided us with as nice a bit of diversion, as had Boromir’s clever, ‘I don’t mind imagining you over Halbarad’s knee, little urchin’ device.

Now, however, during this lull, I watched my brother searching his mind for something to distract me, the poor man gripping the arms of his chair to keep from jumping up and pacing. I was at the point of blurting out, “For the love of all that’s sacred, brother of mine, feel free to pace!”

Then, suddenly – !

I jumped up. “Boromir!” He nearly exploded from his chair. Awful thing to do to a man strung tight as my bowstring. “Sorry,” I said with a wild little laugh. “But I just got a brilliant idea! It’s perfect!”

He shifted himself around, resettling his dignity, and casting me a highly dubious look. “There are no garden walls to climb outside my window, Faramir.”

I rushed to the desk in the far corner, too excited to scowl, saying, “Come! Hurry! We should start making notes now! Share ideas! Start preparing! There’s no time to waste!”

“Share wha – prepare for wha – ?”

I grabbed up such an enormous armful of parchment that I had to fight to keep it in my arms. It shifted and slipped, but I won the battle of balance, then I peeked around the wildly overflowing papers for writing materials, muttering, “Ink, ink, ink . . . and quills, and . . . . Ah! I’m so stupid! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

“Think of wha – ?”

“The time we’ve wasted! We could’ve been doing this all along!”

“Doing wha – ?”

“Even if we don’t know the exact topic, we could have guessed, readied some basic replies, helped each other – oh, where are the cursed quills?”

“Faramir.”

Boromir’s surprisingly deep and gentle tone jarred me. I turned to him, struggling with the slipping, shifting papers in my arms and the inkwell in my hand. He was softly laughing, studying me with sympathetic affection.

“The treatise, yes?” he said, getting up and strolling across the room to me. “You’re thinking we can share ideas, maybe even begin preparing the treatise Damrod’s probably going to make us write as he has in the past. Ten pages apiece, yes? With a title like, ‘Reasons Why Climbing the Tower of Ecthelion Is a Dangerous Enterprise, and Why I Shall Never Again Attempt Such an Asinine Deed,’ or, in your case . . . what was your treatise entitled, little brother?”

“‘Reasons Why Climbing Vines Up High Garden Walls Is a Dangerous Enterprise and Why I Shall Never Again Attempt Such an Asinine Deed.’” I muttered, wincing. “Ten pages.”

“Which he made us read aloud to him – ”

“– and then throw in the fire.” I sniffed a rueful little laugh. “And then . . . .”

“Spanked.”

“Extremely.”

Boromir slowly shook his head, giving me his ‘isn’t my brother adorable’ grin and saying, “Ah, little urchin. ‘Tis indeed a fine idea to work out our pages now. Your typical brilliance. Nicely devious. I wish I’d thought of it myself. But – ”

“You know he’ll make us do it,” I said. “I can hear him now: ‘Each of you will write me a ten page treatise entitled, ‘Reasons Why Exploring Potentially Orc-Infested Sewers Is a Dangerous Enterprise, and Why I Shall Never Again Attempt Such an Asinine Deed.’”

Boromir burst into such a roar of laughter it made me laugh, too. It was a while before he could speak. “Aye!” he exclaimed, chuckling and wiping his eyes. “You have it! That sounds just like him!”

“And you agree. We’re going to be reading essays to him tomorrow.”

“In all likelihood, aye. But, sweetling, if Damrod does make us write one of his essays I doubt he’ll give us the same topic. He knows my clever little brother would devise some way for us to share the work and lighten our load.”

I thought this over, then: “I suppose you’re right.”

“Suppose?”

“You’re right.”

“Mmm.” Boromir grinned softly at me, then ruffled my hair. “I suppose I am.”

Now wholly deflated, I scowled and grumbled, “That man really is a most detestable lieutenant.”

“Oh, indeed, little urchin. He is that.” We exchanged a look of mutual fondness for the detestable lieutenant we both loved, then Boromir’s gaze fell to the papers in my arms. “Faith, little brother!” he exclaimed with a smirk as though suddenly noticing my predicament, “hand me some of those.”

He reached out to help, but I’d grabbed up such an enormous stack of papers and they were still so wretchedly slippery that they were hard to move without dropping everything. We stood there, huffing, fighting the cumbersome mass.

“Faramir, by all that is blessed . . . !” Boromir muttered under his breath, wrestling the load, “What were you thinking?”

“No idea,” I honestly replied. “But I say we let loose the lot and then pick it all up.”

“‘We?’” Boromir snorted. “Ha! What do you mean ‘we,’ little urchin?”

And we both started chuckling then at how ridiculously we were bungling such a silly task, and in those brief moments of our struggles the door opened and there stood our detestable lieutenant, his big, solid frame filling the entranceway.

We froze, instantly sobering, arms full of parchment, staring at him. Damrod took one look at us, closed the door, then said, “Surely you do not suppose that I would assign both of you the same essay.”

End part VII
Foster Father of the Heart to be continued

Foster Father of The Heart - part VI- fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 14:54:32 GMT

Greetings, all! Many thanks for your patience, gentle readers and special huggles go out to Laura who posted the announcement for me last week and to all those who reached out with words of concern and encouragement. RL is, unfortunately, still coming down hard on your author, leaving it near impossible for me to do much more than keep my attention focused there. So although I’m looking forward to, and love responding to your comments, it’s likely I won’t be able to answer you in anything resembling a timely manner. So I beg your pardon, and I ask that you continue practicing your most excellent and stellar patience until I can respond – for I assure you that I, eventually, will reply.

And now, picking up where we left off, Boromir and Faramir were in the midst of being rescued --

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

Previous parts archived here.

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part VI
by Larrkin

My brother glared at me for another moment, then he turned and charged down the tunnel into the fray. In less than a minute he’d made himself very clear. I was to Stay. Put. I rubbed my backside, watching Boromir swing his immense sword with lethal efficiency and poetic grace, cutting down one orc after another. Breathtaking, the sight of my magnificent brother in action!

I watched, admiring his skill. Then I drew my sword and charged down the tunnel into the fray with him.

*************

“Do you think he can do it? Spank us one right after the other?”

“Did he say that he intends to do just that when he returns?”

Faramir winced and gave a nod.

“And have you ever known Damrod to lie?”

“No.”

“Then I reckon he can. In fact, little brother, I’m certain of it, and I vow you are too.”

Heaving a sigh, Faramir mumbled, “Given the degree of effort he puts into it you’d think the man would tire after one victim.”

“Given the degree of his fury I think we’ll be lucky to get only one spanking a piece.” I paused to lift a brow at him. “Mayhap someone told him about the ‘every other night for a week’ strategy, Aragorn perhaps, or Legolas. Maybe even Halbarad.”

“Do you think . . . ?”

I shrugged. “'Tis possible. Aragorn said that Halbarad was the first to introduce the practice and he’s become friends with Damrod.”

Faramir groaned.

“Even if Damrod hasn’t learned of it yet, they could decide to enlighten him when they return. Knowing Aragorn and Legolas, they might even offer to share in the – ” I heard my words and paused, instantly imagining a reunion I didn’t care to imagine.

“– share in the . . . spanking?”

I grimaced.

“I’d sooner not envision that, thank you, Boromir.”

“Nor would I, little brother.” I glanced at him.

Fidgeting in the chair across from me, all clean and glowing after his bath, Faramir looked like a little boy, the firelight warming his skin and bouncing off his bright locks. Fresh shirt and breeches, no more black orc blood-splattered clothes and nary a scratch on him, the infuriating brat. He’d flouted my orders to stay put, and when the battle was over he had emerged, thank the mercies, completely unscathed. And, in true Faramir fashion, he’d even emerged a hero.

Racing straight into the battle just moments after I had ordered him to stay behind, my infuriating brat of a brother burst from the tunnel, sword slashing, battering back two orcs who had young Valerian down and were moving in for the kill. I’d spun, seen the boy’s plight and was racing his way when I heard Bram’s roar and saw him nearly at Val’s side; but Faramir was already between the orcs and the boy, running the first orc through, hurling him off his sword and then running the second orc through just as Bram reached Valerian and hoisted him to his feet.

His stalwart face tight with emotion, Bram clapped a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, shoved Val behind him and they turned back to the battle, the little one staying well in Bram’s shadow. Faramir whirled, saw me, and with unashamed joy he flashed me one of those enormous smiles he used to give me when we would be fighting alongside each other, the immortal sons of Gondor, spurring each other on. I wrestled with my anger. But Faramir’s eyes glittered and danced and he looked beautiful and delighted and just like his old self. So I had to smile back. Infuriating bratling! I gave him a nod and a wink and we returned to the fight.

It was brief. The orcs were seriously outnumbered. With his typical efficiency Damrod had swiftly mustered what looked like at least a hundred warriors, then stealthily hurried them through the sewers and up to the very edge of the orc nest, those odd noise-deadening air currents working to Damrod’s advantage. The orcs, being their thick orcish selves, had posted no watch. So Damrod’s bellowing soldiers were well into the orc nest when Faramir and I scrambled around the corner.

I had to join that fight! Had to! But – ! Faramir! Nooo!

Absurd of me to expect of my brother what I could never have done myself. Faramir had to join in, too. He had to follow me. And I had to permit that. What choice did I have? And the instant he’d appeared he saved Valerian’s life. So typical of my little brother.

The two of us were instantly well into the fight, as many of the orcs, frantic to escape, began charging the tunnel where Faramir and I had been hiding. We were the only two blocking that opening and we could have been quickly overwhelmed, but Faramir’s six Rangers, including a ferocious-looking Damrod, now mysteriously formed around us.

The orcs, desperate and hunted on so many fronts that they’d been forced to trespass in this risky place, were now crazed. Which was perfect. Faramir and I felt a bit crazed, too. Sitting in the dark, trapped, helpless and forced to wait for a rescue had been harrowing, so hacking into the creatures responsible for that was highly satisfying.

And then it was over. Quite suddenly it seemed. I glanced around. Every orc lay slain, but not a soldier had fallen. Astonishing. So incredibly fortunate. Had a single man been killed or maimed whilst rescuing us from this foolishness . . . well, no one had, thank the Valar. Even the wounds were small and superficial, the kinds of battle tokens warriors enjoyed bragging about and comparing. I shuddered with relief, unable to keep from imagining what could have happened.

But then I turned, and there was Faramir, and we looked at each other, and we couldn’t help it – we broke into instant beaming smiles, and then burst out laughing. He was stepping around the carcasses towards me, and I held out my arms and grabbed him up in a fierce embrace, and we held on tight, still laughing, both of us splattered with black ooze and neither of us caring. I was so proud of him I could scarce draw breath!

I pulled him back and kissed his forehead and cried, “Well done, little brother! Well done!”

“You, too, big brother!” Faramir beamed at me with that familiar gaze of adoration.

We stood staring at each other, savoring our thankfulness. Rescued! We were rescued! Undamaged! And for that precious instant all was perfection. Separating then, we glanced around. The soldiers were milling about, some starting to drag the bodies into a pile, some sauntering back after chasing down the orcs who had tried to escape, all of them moving with calm and casual certainty. I recognized these men, of course. They were either Minas Tirith soldiers or men attached to Osgiliath. Seasoned warriors. And it was more than plain that, whether or not this skirmish should have taken place, the men had truly enjoyed it. Their robust, lively faces were relaxed and full of easy humor, and they called to each other, nodding to grinning comrades, chuckling and sharing the pleasure of victory. Faramir and I delighted in some happy backslapping with his six Rangers who had stayed nearest us during the battle.

“Thank you for saving my life, my lord,” young Val said, staring up at Faramir with the same familiar look of adoration that Faramir had just given me.

Faramir tousled the boy’s curls and grinned sheepishly, then he glanced at Bram, and my brother’s grin faded. I followed his gaze, seeing that the big warrior’s face had begun to cloud. In fact, the manner of Faramir’s other Rangers now shifted. The men seemed to withdraw from us, almost shyly removing themselves, as though a shield slammed down between us, but instead of wandering away to walk off their post-battle energy and help the others drag bodies, the Rangers lingered, shifting their weight from foot to foot and regarding us with a respectful, yet somehow distant attentiveness.

Odd. I looked at Faramir and he returned my bewildered glance, and all at once, I couldn’t say why, I had the uncanny feeling that Faramir’s men were following orders to keep us under guard. Absurd notion. But I didn’t feel the least bit inclined to put these men into an awkward position by testing it, for such an order could have come from only one source.

I looked over at Damrod, my stomach fluttering. Since the battle ended he had been standing with his back to us a distance off across the sea of carcasses, talking to several of Minas Tirith’s corporals. They were listening and nodding, and then Damrod whapped each man on the shoulder, pivoted, and headed our way. He flashed Faramir and me a brief glance, as though making sure where we were, then he turned his attention elsewhere, sweeping his gaze over the small field of battle, advancing toward us like a consummate commander. Everyone knew that I was the highest-ranking officer there, yet everyone understood who was in charge.

My stomach’s flutter turned into one big knot. Unable to look away, I watched Damrod coming nearer, and from the corner of my eye I saw Faramir also standing at rigid attention, gazing at the man we knew all too well. After years of intense study, my brother and I spoke fluent Damrod and that first glance our way had been a calm glance. Damrod still looked calm. Thunderously, ominously calm. Nothing boded more ill than a serene Damrod. Faramir whispered our elvish curse before I could, but I whispered it anyway. Excellent word. I loved that word. I practiced it several more times under my breath until Faramir whispered, “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Staring at our approaching lieutenant, my brother stepped closer to me and said in a hushed voice, “Boromir, hav-have you ever seen him this horribly calm?”

“Never quite this bad.”

“Neither have I.” Silence, then: “We should make a run for it.”

“You first, little brother.”

Nearing the Rangers, Damrod bestowed an easy word and commendatory grin upon each one. He even ruffled Val’s locks as Faramir had done and gave the boy a wink, saying, “Well done, youngling.” Then Damrod nodded at Calder and Bram and the men wordlessly drifted apart and wandered away, melting in amongst the other warriors. Aye, we’d been degradingly under guard. My post-battle thrill vanished as I was again struck by the impact of my foolishness and the lives I’d carelessly put at risk simply in a desire to please my little brother.

I felt wholly deserving when Damrod, his gaze downcast, halted before us, rested his big paw on the pommel of his sword, then lifted his eyes and looked back and forth between us with his forbidding stare of absolute wrath. Few beings can make me quail with just a look. Damrod was one of them.

“Boromir?”

I jumped, yanked from my musings, and looked at my brother, sitting quiet and golden in the glow of the firelight.

“Sorry. Were you back at the battle?”

“Aye.”

He cocked me a patient smile. “You were brooding again.”

“Sorry,” I said quickly, winking at him. “Sorry, little one.”

A shadow crept into his gray eyes. Ah, here it came again, that ‘are you sure you’re not angry with me for joining the fight’ question. The Wrath of Damrod was about to descend upon him and what occupied Faramir’s worries? Whether or not I was upset with him for disobeying me.

I truly wasn’t. I wasn’t angry with him in the least. I’d reconciled myself to the fact that it was unrealistic of me to think that Faramir could simply stand down and watch such a battle. And I certainly didn’t blame him for any of this. Oh, he’d set things in motion this morning by trying to play on my sympathies; he wouldn’t be my urchin if he hadn’t done that. But I’d meant what I told him earlier – I made the decision to do this, I came up with the plan and the responsibility was mine alone. And now I deserved the humiliation about to come.

But, right now, sitting here contemplating being spanked in front of my little brother, and knowing all Damrod was going to wring from me before I would be allowed up from his lap had sent me scurrying for any kind of mental escape, even drifting back to memories of the skirmish. I regretted leaving Faramir alone with his own brooding, though. In truth, it was taking nearly all my effort to sit still and at least appear calm. I longed to jump up and pace. Movement might have helped steady my inner quivering, but Faramir was unnerved enough without having to watch me pace like a caged warg.

“Are you sure you’re not angry with me for joining the fight?” was right there on his lips, and when it came out it would be the fourth time that he had asked me that question. I decided to intercept him: “No, little brother. I’m not angry with you for joining the fight. It was unfair of me to expect you to hold back.”

He looked mildly startled. Impressed to silence by my insight again, no doubt.

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

“Oh.” I darted him a rueful smirk. “Sorry.”

“Well . . . .” Little mischievous laugh. “Maybe, I was.”

I shook my head at him. “Aren’t you in enough trouble? Does provoking me help you feel less anxious?”

He grinned. “Yes. But thanks to you, and something I just remembered, I hereby pledge to never ask you that tiresome question again. I’m surprised you didn’t think to tell me this straightaway, since you’ve won several arguments with it.”

He watched me figure it out and start to chuckle. “Ah,” my brother said, much too delighted with himself. “One last time then: Boromir, are you angry with me for joining the fight?”

“Of course not,” I replied. “It’s what I would do.”

And when our laughter slowed, Faramir said, “So, is this what you would do, too?”

I gave him a vague look.

“If you were in Damrod’s place and I was in this position with someone else, that is to say, if you were going to, well –”

“If I was going to spank you and some other unruly bratling who had caused a bit of disastrous mischief?”

Delightful fond scowl from my little brother, then: “If you were going to unjustly discipline me and some other innocent soul after we became involved in an accidental accident that simply wasn’t our fault.”

“Ha!”

“Is this what you would do, too? Would you make us wait like this, agonizing for hours and hours?”

I snorted, certain that he knew we’d only been waiting here for no more than one, albeit very long, hour. “Most likely. And ‘twould be a mercy, little brother, because if this so-called ‘accidental accident that simply wasn’t your fault’ proved typical of my urchin I would be greatly in need of some calming down time ere I laid hands on you.”

“So, all things considered, we shouldn’t resent Damrod for making us wait.”

“I didn’t say that.” We chuckled, then I said, “At least we’re waiting together. If you and Gwinthorian were the ones in trouble and Halbarad was seeing to your discipline, he would no doubt be inclined to make the two of you wait in separate chambers, without the benefit of each other’s company and comfort.”

Faramir peered at me wide-eyed. “He’d do that?”

I gave him a grim look and a nod. “No matter, though. Gwinthorian would surely be poor company. I reckon that little one is right moody when waiting for a spanking.”

Faramir snickered.

“Devon wouldst probably be growly, too, were the two of you waiting for Garrick.”

“Umm.” Faramir now narrowed his eyes and studied me closely, a sudden glitter of perception in his gaze. “Let’s talk about something els – ”

“So I doubt you’d want to await certain doom with either Devon or Gwinthorian.”

“As opposed to your cheering company.”

“I’m just saying, little brother, that if you were about to go bare-bottomed up over Halbarad’s knee – ”

“Boromir, enough! Please!”

“ – or if Garrick was about to spank you – ”

“I don’t care to imagine myself in that predicament with either Garrick or Halbarad, thank you.”

“Nor do I.” I grinned. “But I find that I don’t mind imagining you there, little urchin.”

“What?!” Faramir scowled at me, then snarled a new and quite filthy-sounding elvish word. “And I’m not telling you what that one means,” he said.

I chuckled. Fine sport, watching Faramir glower at me with feigned annoyance and fidget as though feeling the effects of what I’d planted in his unwilling imagination.

Perhaps it might be considered bad form to plague my brother with such talk, but it was diverting him from his own brooding and, aside from a few slips wherein memory had distracted me, I’d been trying to comfort Faramir in any way I could. For although the dread I felt involved my loss of dignity in front of my little brother, his dread involved facing the breach that festered between him and Damrod.

Our lieutenant would be arriving any moment now to take Faramir over his knee for the first time since that breach was torn. So a dark melancholy hovered in this room with us, and although we both knew it was there, neither of us chose to give it notice. I knew my brother didn’t want to talk about it and I wasn’t going to drag him kicking and screaming into some conversation that would do little to help ease his anxiousness.

So, distract, distract, distract, aye, that I could do. Bad form or no, I would resort to whatever might keep him from sinking into some dark place where I didn’t know how to reach him and couldn’t bear to see him dwell. There wasn’t much else I could do for my little brother. He had all the big brotherly love and comfort I could give him. Faith, how I loved him! But, in this instance what Faramir needed most could only come from Damrod. And that was as it should be. That was just. Damrod had exceptional powers to heal, and at this moment, his was the only healing that could help my urchin.

So I prayed he chose to spank Faramir first, not because I loathed the idea of my little brother watching me shatter over Damrod’s knee, although I did indeed loath it – and, alas, that was going to happen regardless of my desires or the order in which Damrod chose to spank us – but to ease Faramir’s suffering first and to end this anguish between them with no further delay.

And just what was Damrod thinking, making him wait this long? Blast the man! Where was he?

End part VI
Foster Father of the Heart to be continued

************

Attention Larrk Fans

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 14:48:46 GMT

Hi everyone!

This is Larrk's pal Laura here. She has asked me to give y'all a head's up about Foster Father of the Heart. Unfortunately, RL has been kicking our beloved author's badunkadunk recently and so, between that and the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, I must sadly inform you that there will be no chapter posted this week.

She hopes all celebrating have a lovely turkey day and to look for the new chapter possibly next weekend. *sneaks off before she gets spanked* ^_^

Foster Father of The Heart - part V- fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 19:24:45 GMT

When last we left our story an undisclosed number of slathering orcs had Damrod’s boys pinned down in the sewers where the brothers were busily pondering which would be the less dire fate – becoming orc fodder or Damrod fodder. Journey on, my brave, intrepid readers!

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

Previous parts archived here.

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part V
by Larrkin

“Then settle down, unless you are choosing to join them for second breakfast as a side dish.”

“I’d make more than a side dish, Boromir.”

He snorted another soft laugh. “Not much more. Hush, little urchin. We need do nothing now save wait patiently.”

I sighed and hushed and patiently tried to wait and not listen.

It had all gone so well until Boromir and I reached that Y in the sewers. We didn’t even see the Y until we came around a blind bend and there it was, the Y. Well, who could have known that was going to be there? More to the point, who could have known that there would be evidence of orcs having taken up residence in the middle of the Y, none of them, thankfully, there at the moment.

What a mess! Horrid piles of white broken bones, non-human, thankfully, but savaged, licked clean, even the marrow sucked out. Revolting. The blind bend must have somehow mysteriously blocked the foul aroma of this orc nest, because until we rounded the corner we smelled only the naturally dank-ish odor one would expect to find in an old unused sewer.

Had either of us any sense we would have turned tail then and there and hied it back to Osgiliath with all possible speed. But, alas, Boromir was the only one of us whose sense had been somewhat intact this morning and I’d made short work of that for him, grumbling over my sorry state.

We had been following the sewers for what seemed like several hours, but what was more likely about three quarters of one hour, when I began to get an odd feeling. Glancing my way, Boromir had stopped short and locked me in an anxious stare.

“What?” he said. I peered at him in the ragged torchlight. “What is it? Is it the Sight?”

“The Sight?”

“You have a feeling, little brother?”

“Yes. Boredom.”

He gave me a ‘that’s not funny’ look and we headed on.

“And hunger. I’m feeling hunger. Tell me you brought second breakfast, Boromir.”

That made him laugh, as I’d hoped he would. Best to keep Boromir distracted because I wasn’t yet prepared to hazard a guess about this peculiar feeling. I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t the Sight, but it wasn’t good. I supposed I should have told him at once that something was wrong. Boromir might have refused to let me do anything risky or overly strenuous but he respected my insights and he would have listened to my apprehensions.

I was enjoying this too much, though. I loved it in fact, Boromir and I, off on an adventure together like old times! A common adventure it may be, but it was nevertheless splendid because it was ours to share. And of course I wasn’t bored! I was striding along beside my big brother, the Steward of Gondor, entirely unashamed of my excitement about that, even at my age. I didn’t want this to end just because of my queasy inner tremors. What if I was mistaken? Surely there wasn’t anything to fear up ahead.

Yes, I probably was mistaken. I hadn’t been myself of late. Being shot full of arrows and nearly dying had likely played havoc with my Dúnedain sensibilities. Ere the final march Legolas had been able to sneak up on me in the Houses of Healing and catch me in the act of contemplating going out the window and escaping up the vine-covered garden wall. I know elves move silently, but I should have sensed his approach.

So I hadn’t been inclined to confess my uneasiness and have Boromir call a halt to our common, splendid adventure. If I said something, and we went back, and then Aragorn found nothing when he sent a detachment through, I would have brought our fun to an end for nothing. Even worse, if I told Boromir he would insist we return, and then he would feel bound to tell Damrod and they would needs form a detachment to go through without delay, all of which would lead to questions of how Boromir knew this. And that’s when things would have become tricky.

I might be able to convincingly claim that I’d just sensed it, that, no, we hadn’t gone anywhere near those sewers – but that I’d simply felt there was something vile within. But one glance at my brother’s truthful face and Damrod would drag me off to wash the blatant lie from my mouth. Boromir could try his hardest to look believable, but my brother would simply exude the discomfort of dishonesty. What a handicap to be unable to tell a plausible innocent falsehood! It would likely earn him a mouthful of soap as well for being in league with my fibbing self.

All that raced through my mind seconds after I sensed that vile ‘something,’ and so I said nothing to Boromir. And now, here we sat, trapped by a foul company of renegade orcs who had made an untimely and shockingly rapid reappearance.

We’d had no warning. The sewer’s odd air currents distorted sound as well as smell and we didn’t hear the orcs approaching until they were nearly upon us. We’d come around that blind bend, reached the Y and encountered their nest only minutes before. Boromir had become oddly engrossed:

“They could have left here long ago,” he’d said, circling, staying close to the wall, and studying the orcish debris. “Perhaps these are just their remains.”

I was right behind him, gazing warily around, trying not to gag. “Yes,” I said. “You know orcs. They never clean up after themselves.” Boromir paused to glance back at me with another, ‘still not funny,’ look. Fidgety and anxious, I cast him a distracted smile.

When we reached the left branch of the Y, he held his torch up, peering into the darkness. I added my light to his. Nothing down that branch, save another sharp bend.

Then – I felt it – a sudden, thick, menacing quiet . . . .

“Boromir,” I breathed.

He froze, shot me a look, his eyes flew wide . . . .

They were coming! Fast, silent but for the clank of metal weaponry; they were almost upon us! I grabbed for my sword. “No!” Boromir growled. He shoved me ahead of him into the left branch and we tore down the passage, dousing our torches in the dirt and diving ‘round the corner seconds before the orcs came thudding and huffing and snarling into their nest. No cry of alarm; they hadn’t spotted us.

We stumbled further along in the darkness a little ways then Boromir grabbed my arm and drew me against the wall and we flattened our backs against the surface and slid down next to each other, stunned and silent, both of us breathing heavily, both of us trembling, though not from fear, no, certainly not from that. From shock. From the narrow escape. And I could feel Boromir struggling to hide his panic over the fact that his little brother was now in the direct path of some very grave danger.

No question of trying to find our way down the left branch to a possible opening in the woods. A faint light from the orc torches drifted ‘round the bend to where we sat, enough so that we could see each other, but that glow ended just a few feet down the passage where all went to pitch black. How far might we need to blindly grope until we reached the forest? And what other surprises might await us on the way? We didn’t even know if this branch did open into the forest. Perhaps only the right one did, the one the orcs had come through. Or maybe the opening had been sealed off for some reason.

So here we sat, trapped. Entirely trapped. And my protective big brother wasn’t going to allow me to help fight our way out of this. Which left me feeling useless. Useless and accursedly fragile as he kept calling me. I dearly loved my big brother, but at times he could be woefully big brotherly.

Lifting my head, I peered off into the shadows, recalling what he’d said a few moments ago: “We need do nothing now save wait patiently.” I looked over at him. Boromir’s eyes were closed. He appeared to be asleep. A sudden, fierce rage slammed into me!

“This is absurd!” I snarled under my breath, pounding my fist on the ground. Boromir flinched and opened his eyes. “Sorry,” I said in a sneerful tone. “Did I disturb your patient waiting?”

He blinked, turning to me with faint surprise and the look of a big brother prepared to practice indulgence. “Faramir – ”

“Boromir, we’re warriors! Captains! Leaders of men! And we’re waiting to be rescued! Cowering here in the dark like two frightened halflings! No. Wait. That does a disservice to halflings. They’d show more courage right now than you and I put together!”

Marvelous how one can yell without speaking above a whisper. Boromir remained obnoxiously calm.

“Faramir – ”

“Pippin would show more courage!” I fumed on. “So would Merry! So would Frodo! Even recovering as he is wee Frodo would be drawing his sword and fighting his way out!”

“Not if wee Sam had anything to say about it.”

I ground my teeth and regrouped. Boromir stepped into my silent pause with some idiotic common sense about how this had nothing to do with courage and everything to do with survival. But I ignored all that and said, “I’m not some fragile, tragic excuse of a once-functional warrior, sir! I’m Captain of the Ithilien Rangers! I’ve gone into many battles still wounded from previous ones!”

“I’m sure you have,” he said. “But you’re not going to this time. And it isn’t because you’re something less than Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. You know that isn’t it, sweetling.”

Calling me by that endearment in the middle of my raging was just about the lowest blow Boromir could’ve delivered. I felt my frenzy start to deflate and he struck again.

“Come here, little urchin,” he murmured, and he swept his big arms over and around me, stubbornly gathering me close, despite my rigid unyielding.

“No! Boromir, don’t do tha – let me g – I don’t want – stop – !”

“Shhh, sweetling,” he purred. “I know.”

Ever the brilliant tactician my brother.

I sat quietly, swallowing down the sharp pain lodged in my throat, my stiff limbs slowly melting against him. Finally I muttered, “You never intended to let me draw my sword, did you?”

He sighed. “I didn’t think we’d need to fight. If I had believed there was any possibility of danger I wouldn’t have suggested this little adventure. Nay, Faramir. I never intended you to draw your sword.” I stared at him, crushed, and he turned to me with those kind eyes. “It was selfishness, sweetling. I wanted to please you, but it was selfish of me to suggest this without first making sure it was safe. I knew what Aragorn said, and what the Warden said, but I still put you in harm’s way. I never should have done so.” He kissed my brow. “Seems I’m ever wanting to play hero for you, little urchin.”

At once I felt embarrassed for him. “Play” hero? Didn’t he know that he already was a hero to me? That, no matter what, he had ever been and would ever be a hero to me? I shook my head saying, “But, you didn’t know you were putting me in harm’s w – ”

“I never should have taken such a risk.” He paused, then: “Faramir, if something happens to you – ”

“Nothing will!” I quickly interrupted. “Nothing will happen to me. As you said, all we needs do is sit and wait.” I burrowed against his big solid body and we sat like that for some time, Boromir petting my hair the way he used to when I was a boy. I shamelessly drank it in. Finally, I said, “It was selfishness on my part, too. I knew what would happen.”

“You knew?”

“Well, I didn’t know these orcs would be here, no.”

“But, like me, you didn’t really think that we might run across something dangerous, did you?”

I thought about that for a long moment. “No. No, I guess I really didn’t. But I knew that, even if we didn’t meet with danger in here, we’d meet with certain doom afterwards.”

“Certain doom?”

“That’s what Devon calls it.”

“Devon?”

“Devon, yes.” I drew back to look at him. “You know. Devon. The Ranger in Aragorn’s troop, fair as an elf – ”

“Aye, Faramir, of course I know who Devon is. But --”

“Gwin calls it Certain Doom, too, I think.”

“Gwinthorian?”

I frowned and studied him. “What’s the matter with you?”

He sputtered a chuckle. “I’m merely shocked by the company you’ve been keeping. Two of the most wayward young rogues in the Grey Company and my little urchin? There’s a fearsome thought.”

I grinned. “I think we’re well suited.”

“Oh, indeed. Add Master Took and we’d need to post an armed guard on the lot of you.”

“Well, I’ve had little opportunity to be with Gwinthorian and Devon, and when we do get together Halbarad and Garrick always seem to be around, too.”

“But the three of you have had occasion to discuss certain doom.”

“I can’t recall how it came up, but yes.”

He chuckled again. “Devon is right. Certain doom is a fine way to describe what awaits us when this business is over.”

“Yes, and that’s what I knew would happen – certain doom. We invited it the moment we entered these sewers.” I rubbed my face against his tunic. “As if the need for a rescue isn’t humiliation enough, Boromir, we’re in unspeakable trouble.”

“We are that, little brother. Unspeakable.”

I uttered a vulgar elvish curse. Boromir was silent for a moment, then he said with feigned disinterest, “What does that mean?”

I smiled to myself. He was ever trying to learn elvish profanity but those who knew it teasingly refused to oblige him. So I told him.

He gasped. “It means that?”

“Foul, isn’t it?”

“Filthy. And I’m certain I’ve heard Frodo say it.”

I laughed. “Oh, no! Not that little innocent!”

“Aye, more than once. Pippin, too. How do you say it again?”

He needed no further instruction. A second later Boromir blurted out that elvish curse perfectly when a deafening roar made us both jump. The din of what sounded like a hundred bellowing men exploded through the tunnels, orcish shrieks and howls joining the clang of colliding weapons!

We leapt up and tore ‘round the bend to the sight of pure chaos. A flood of hacking, slashing warriors poured in upon the panicking orcs, a pitched battle erupting into full swing. We raced forward, drawing our swords, then Boromir froze and shot me a sudden wild look. I froze, too, returning his stare.

“NOOO!” he thundered. He grabbed my upper arm and hauled me back. “Stay here!”

Stay here? Was he mad? I shook free and fled down the passage ahead of him.

“FARAMIR! NOOOO!”

A second later an iron arm clamped ‘round my waist. Boromir yanked me against him and whisked me up and then, WHOOSH! I was flying, my feet sailing in a wide arc as he spun and everything whirled then – slam! My back hit the wall and he held me, pinned, one huge fist knotted in my clothes, pressing firmly at my chest. I struggled, gasping, furious! But a solid shield of Boromir blocked me in. I was missing my chance! Damrod’s soldiers would have slain every cursed orc whilst I was held prisoner by a bulwark of big brother.

“Boro – let me g –!”

Boromir quickly sheathed his sword, then he jerked me forward and I glanced over my shoulder and saw him draw his arm all the way behind his head and SWAT! I sucked a ragged gasp, stunned by the force of that whack. My hand flew back to rub the sting. But Boromir forced me against the wall again and shoved his face close to mine.

“Faramir! Look at me!”

I did, still wincing.

Flushed with fury, eyes bright, he growled, “Sheath your sword! At once!”

I gaped at him.

“Do it!” he grated.

I did, squeezing my eyes shut tight against my rage.

“Look at me, Faramir!” he again commanded.

I obliged, trying to conjure enough humility to satisfy him. Boromir studied me closely, glowered, tugged me forward again, and, oh, no! WHAP!

“AH!” I yelped, my eyes watering as he once more he pushed me against the wall.

“Stay here! DO. NOT. MOVE! Understand?”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

“Say you understand!”

“I-I understand! Yes, sir.”

“I mean it, Faramir! STAY!”

“Yes, Boromir. Yes, sir.”

My brother glared at me for another moment, then he turned and charged down the tunnel into the fray. In less than a minute he’d made himself very clear. I was to Stay. Put. I rubbed my backside, watching Boromir swing his immense sword with lethal efficiency and poetic grace, cutting down one orc after another. Breathtaking, the sight of my magnificent brother in action!

I watched, admiring his skill. Then I drew my sword and charged down the tunnel into the fray with him.

End part V
Foster Father of the Heart to be continued

Foster Father of the Heart Archive

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 13:28:11 GMT

Here's where you can keep track of all the parts in Foster Father of The Heart.

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

[Part One] A restless Faramir and a stoic Boromir disagree over just how able-bodied little brother is.

[Part Two] Boromir proposes “a little adventure.”

[Part Three] Enter Damrod, pondering the brothers’ absence.

[Part Four] Boromir and Faramir deep in a Dire State of Affairs.

[Part Five] Faramir’s musings and the Dire State of Affairs worsens.

[Part Six] Safe once more, but now awaiting Certain Doom, our brothers enjoy their favorite game of Squabble.

[Part Seven] Certain Doom pending, the friendly game of Squabble continues and Faramir comes up with a brilliant notion.

Foster Father of The Heart - part IV- fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:10:54 GMT

Well, Faramir and Boromir have done it now. Damrod is vexed! Shall we see what's happening with his boys? Read on, oh ye brave of heart . . . .

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

part one is here.

part two is here.

part three is here.

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part IV
by Larrkin

“Eastern quadrant,” Bram said, frowning, Val worrying his bottom lip with his front teeth. “They were seen moving fast toward the far perimeter.”

I nodded grimly.

“Aye,” Calder said, his face somber. “A worker saw them taking torches and heading in the direction of – ” He paused at my forbidding look.

“The sewers.”

************

“Why don’t they crawl out and run away?” I whispered.

“And go where?” my brother whispered back.

“Home?”

“Home,” Boromir said, just a touch impatient. “And where is home, little urchin? They’re renegades. Deserters. They’re hunted now, by both good and evil. My guess is they’re afraid to go anywhere, ‘home’ included.”

I scoffed. “Orcs? Afraid?”

“They do display fear. Otherwise they’d never flee the field. There was plenty of fleeing after Pelennor. Pockets of renegades are laying low everywhere.”

“I know, I know. Even, alas, in the sewers of Osgiliath.”

“Even here. Alas indeed.”

“So they’ve been living off the forest, hunting, then bringing their kills in here to consume. And they’ve been dwelling in here since the battle.”

“And would continue to do so, I vow, until forced to do otherwise.”

“Which is why Aragorn was going to send a detachment through, to clean out any such foul creatures.”

“Mmm.” Boromir nodded.

“Well, they didn’t know Aragorn was coming. Were the stupid things planning to spend the rest of their lives here?”

“Are you truly asking me to guess what goes on in their pea-sized brains, little brother? How should I know what the stupid things were planning?”

I hugged my knees to my chest silently for a moment, then muttered, “There’s no need to bark at me, Boromir.”

“I haven’t spoken above a whisper. How can I have barked at you?”

“You did.”

“Well, I can think of no better time to bark, Faramir! No one knows that we’re here, sitting side by side in the dark, trapped in the sewers by several hundred orcs.”

“That’s something of an exaggeration wouldn’t you say?”

“All right. More like fifty or sixty.”

“That’s still only a guess. We didn’t actually see --”

“Nay. We didn’t see them, so we don’t know exactly how many are out there. Ere we could count their exact numbers we were quick enough to hide down this side channel. And thank the Valar we were, little brother, for if we’d seen them, they would have seen us.”

“But perhaps there are only twenty or so.”

He snorted. Softly. “Does it sound like there’s only twenty orcs out there?”

“I’m just saying --”

“I know what you’re saying, and why you’re saying it. But we can make a good guess as to their numbers by what we saw before they came back and by what we can now hear.” He cast me a shrewd narrow-eyed look. “You’re a clever Ithilien Ranger. You can read the sounds of the air. When you’re out in the wild you don’t need to see the enemy to estimate how many are hiding up ahead. So, come, Captain Faramir, use those Dúnedain insights. How many orcs would you say have us trapped back here?”

I hated it when Boromir became condescending. I silently scowled off into the darkness.

“Twenty?”

He wasn’t going to drop it. I sighed and muttered, “More like fifty or sixty.”

“Indeed. And unless I have no other choice and I’m forced to fight, we stay put and wait. That’s a few too many for me to handle.”

“It’s not too many for both of us to handle.”

“Aye, it is.” He shot me a glare. “And I said no.”

“I am fairly handy in a battle, Boromir!”

“Shh!”

“It’s been too long since my sword was stained with orc blood!”

“It’s going to be longer still.”

“I can fight!”

“I know you can, but you’re not going to fight. No, Faramir. I say again, unless there’s no other option, I won’t permit it. No. You’re still too – ”

“Don’t say it! I vow, Boromir, if you tell me one more time how fragile I am I’m going to stand up and charge the lot of them!”

“Shhh! No. You won’t.”

“We’ll see who’s too fragile!”

“Faramir! That’s enough.” He fired me a smoldering frown. “We are not discussing this yet again. We wait. And unless you want to be the next course at that orc banquet out there you will quiet down.”

“But – ”

“I wouldn’t count on them having the courtesy to kill you before they start hacking you up, by the way.”

I fumed. “Why did you tell me to bring my sword if you weren’t going to let me use it?”

No response.

“To humor me.”

No response.

“I should’ve brought my bow.”

“I wouldn’t have let you use that either.”

I sat quietly steaming for a moment, then snarled, “Do you seriously think they’re all going to fall asleep at the same time? Do you suppose one of them will stand up and announce, ‘Time for a nap, mates! I smell a coupl’a fool men trapped down the side tunnel who’r waiting for the lot of us to conk out so’s they can escape!’”

Boromir slowly turned to me with a long, fierce stare that shook what little composure I had remaining whilst being trapped by fifty or sixty orcs.

Finally he muttered, “There is no need for that kind of cheek, sir.”

I considered asking him what kind of cheek he would prefer, but my brother seemed a mite tense, so all I said was, “Sorry.”

“Damrod doesn’t wash your mouth out often enough.”

“I said sorry.”

He studied me for another long moment, then his expression softened and he said, “Look, we have few options open to us, so to my way of thinking our best plan is to wait until they’ve finished gorging themselves and, I hope, go to sleep so that we can try to steal past them. Or, they might head out again to hunt more. Otherwise . . . .”

“Otherwise we wait until Damrod returns from the wharf, finds us gone, figures out what we’ve done and comes to rescue us.”

Boromir winced. “Aye.”

I rested my head back against the wall. “If it’s all the same to you, big brother, I’d sooner take my chances with the orcs.”

“Fair point, little brother.”

We stared soberly at each other, then burst into snuffling smirks.

“Ahhh, of all the ill luck!” Boromir muttered, rubbing his palm over his eyes. “Aragorn will have my head. And Legolas the rest of me.”

“Nay, Boromir, not at all. Damrod won’t leave them enough of you to bother with.”

A sneering frown, then: “Oh, he positively doesn’t wash your mouth out enough.”

I grinned at him until he grudgingly grinned back, then I nudged him and said, “What happened to ‘Never mind all that,’ and ‘I am the Steward of Gondor?’”

“I suddenly fear Damrod will not be impressed with that argument.”

“And Aragorn and Legolas?”

“Faramir, you are not helping a bad situation.”

“It’s true, though, my brother. You are the Steward of Gondor.” He gave me a press-lipped grimace. “You’re right. Damrod won’t be impressed by that.”

“Nay.”

“He’ll have your head.”

“And yours, little brother.”

“And mine.”

We both chuckled again, despite our peril and despite how ridiculous we felt and despite the fact that we knew that there wasn’t a chance we were going to escape this without Damrod’s wholehearted comeuppance. Poor Boromir. My poor, poor brother.

“Stop that,” he said. I darted him a glance and found him watching me. “Come now, little urchin. Stop looking so guilty. You didn’t cause this.”

There he went again – picking up some Dúnedain insight. “I did cause it,” I said. “I bullied you into this with my sad looks.”

He chuckled. “I know. You’re a perfect bratling at times. And I am the most beleaguered of big brothers.”

“Yes.” I hugged my legs closer to my chest and lowered my forehead to my knees. “Yes, you are.”

“Faramir.” His turn to nudge. “I wanted to do this. If you recall ‘twas my idea. This blunder is all mine, so don’t try taking the credit for it.”

I shot him a look. “I wasn’t trying to take the cred – ”

“No, you were trying to take the blame, which is worse, for there’s no glory tied to it. I knew what you were doing with your sad looks, and, at the risk of crushing your sense of importance, you overestimate your powers of persuasion, sir.”

I was tempted to take exception to that. Boromir noticed and flashed me a wide grin.

“I assure you, little urchin, I did what I chose to do. I’ll grant you credit for creating a desire in me to do something exciting, but that’s all.”

I gazed at him, forgetting to be vexed, struck by his perceptiveness. My Dúnedain warrior brother. Denethor would’ve been thrilled. Calling attention to his insight would embarrass Boromir, though, so I could think of nothing to say. He looked sheepish nonetheless.

“Faith, little brother! Such a stare! Struck dumb by my insight?”

Uncanny. “Yes.”

He chuckled silently. “Impressive, am I not? Comes from living with halflings.”

I grinned, surprised. “Living with halflings makes one insightful?”

“Aye, because, well, as Aragorn once told me, ‘The best way to keep up with a hobbit is to stay ten steps ahead of him and to listen to all that he does not say.’ Makes a body develop some insight.”

I felt a grin of warm admiration spread over my face. He quickly looked away and ran his fingers back through his hair, saying, “Now, were I truly wise I would have taken the time to look through those city plans for a map of the sewers.”

“How could you know the main channel branched off in two directions? I’d never gone all the way through to the forest.” He looked at me. “When I was fifteen a few friends and I explored in here, but we didn’t journey in this far. We became bored and hungry after half an hour and went home.”

“I guess Damrod never found out.”

“I believe I forgot to mention it to him. And you were off on maneuvers.”

Boromir smirked and shook his head at me, then said, “I’m surprised Sam didn’t scold you for not telling them which branch to follow.”

“I wish he had. But Gollum clearly knew how to get out. Whilst crawling all over Middle Earth hunting the Ring I reckon he somehow found this sewer and crept through it into Osgiliath.” Chilling thought. I sighed and thudded my head back against the wall, growling. “Will they never stop eating? Revolting, them devouring those animals raw.”

“At least the animals are dead. Ask Merry and Pippin about the time they were carried away by the orcs. Right after Amon Hen. According to Pippin the hungriest orcs wanted to just hack off their legs and . . . .” He paused to glance at me. “No, I won’t tell that story now.”

“Thank you.”

“Try not to listen to them eating.”

I lowered my forehead back to my knees. “Oh, thank you again. I hadn’t been listening until you mentioned it.”

“Aye, you were. You said it was revolting.”

“It is!”

“Then settle down, unless you are choosing to join them for second breakfast as a side dish.”

“I’d make more than a side dish, Boromir.”

He snorted another soft laugh. “Not much more. Hush, little urchin. We needs do nothing now save wait patiently.”

I sighed and hushed and patiently tried to wait and not listen.

End part IV
Foster Father of the Heart to be continued

Foster Father of The Heart - part III- fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 12:57:54 GMT

And now, part three, wherein we hear from a new voice . . . .

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

part one is here.

part two is here.

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part III
by Larrkin

“No!” he hurriedly exclaimed. “No, no, no! I agree! Never mind to all that indeed! Sound reasoning indeed. You are most certainly the Steward of Gondor, my brother. And, I repeat, as ever, sir, I’m your man.”

I gave a swift nod. “Good. Then come, Captain Faramir. Gather your cloak and your sword. Gondor needs your aid. And for Valar’s sake, little urchin, stop grinning at me like that.”

***************

“When did you see them last?”

“This morning, sir,” Calder replied. “They were here, looking at the plans, just before Val and Bram and I joined you at the wharf.”

“And no one else saw the Steward or the Captain later than that time?”

Faramir’s six Rangers who had stayed behind with us rather than traveling with Aragorn to Ithilien solemnly shook their heads.

“Their horses are here, sir,” Hadden said, nodding at the two mounts standing tethered in a shaded area.

“Mmm.” I gazed vaguely at the horses for a moment. “Aye . . . so they are still in the city. Strange . . . .”

Something felt wrong. I was missing something, a sign . . . . Perhaps it was the abrupt look to this. Wherever Boromir and Faramir had gone, it felt as though they had gone there in haste, as though the decision to leave had been a sudden one, too sudden to even scribble a note . . . .

My gaze returned to the table before me, skimming over the maps and drawings for rebuilding the city. Once again I began shifting papers around. No, nothing. They had likely been called away to supervise a sudden problem, but it had ever been standard procedure to leave a message stating where they would be in case someone needed to find them, someone like their first lieutenant returning early from the wharf.

I had planned to spend the entire morning there, but matters were in such good order that after an hour I decided to return to this central base of operations. So, no, Boromir and Faramir did not expect me back this early, and any number of people in need of help might have come looking for either brother for any number of reasons. And, no, I did not need them for any particular purpose. But I needed to know where they were.

Was there any real cause for alarm? After all, these were responsible grown men, leaders who were due their adulthood and certainly above the kinds of suspicions better allotted to naughty teenage lads.

But I’d known them from birth, and they were still my boys, and given all they had been though, together and apart, I’d be the greatest of fools to believe them beyond any manner of outlandish behavior, especially when Faramir was in such a volatile state. That lad was primed to go off like one of Gandalf’s rockets. And Boromir, much as he loved his little brother, indeed, because he loved him so, was in the perfect position to ignite Faramir’s fuse.

I did trust Boromir’s judgement, though. Had I felt any misgivings about him I would have quietly left behind a few of these discreet Rangers to watch over my boys and to send me word should they begin to act in a suspicious manner – such as mounting up and galloping off towards Ithilien or vanishing without a word to anyone. Nevertheless it was fortunate that all was going well at the wharf, for I now knew that there might indeed be a reason for this vague but keen uneasiness that had drawn me back here. Faramir’s impish voice echoed through my mind:

“You fret overmuch, Damrod.”

“You give me cause to.”

“But, I vow, you are plagued by an inordinate measure of the Dúnedain, sir. This cannot be healthy.”

“Not healthy for whom? Have I ever been wrong when foreseeing your antics?”

“Well . . . uhhhh . . . well, there was that time when . . . well, uhhhhh . . . no.”

“Indeed.”

One of the men gave a polite cough. I glanced up at the Rangers standing patiently but warily before me. Such troubled expressions. None of them should have had cause for concern. But they were all Dúnedain, they all loved their captain and they all knew him too well.

“Divide up and branch out,” I ordered, sharing their growing alarm. “Ask around. Discreetly. Someone must have seen them. Meet back in one quarter hour.”

They had turned to obey ere I finished giving my orders and I dropped my gaze back down to the table, hearing Bram rumble, “Valerian. This way.” I glanced over. Our youngest recruit was already jogging to catch up to the big warrior’s strides. Just reaching Bram’s shoulder, Valerian trotted every third step, his long dark locks flying in wild disarray. A familiar sight that, Val shadowing Bram, reminding me of Faramir as a boy bouncing along beside the big brother he adored. Aye, another Faramir, that little one, right down to the endless prattle.

“Do you think there’s cause for alarm, sir?” Val was asking his stoic companion. “What could have befallen them in the mere hour we were at the wharf? And how could anything have happened with all these warriors and workers moving around? Do you think someone could have slipped in here and maybe threatened – ”

“Valerian,” Bram muttered in a low tone the boy plainly understood. He went silent.

To be fair, little Val’s chatter had merit. Boromir and Faramir should have been thoroughly safe amidst these busy workers and warriors and ordered chaos. What danger could have threatened them here?

What indeed. The greatest danger threatening my boys was, of course, my boys themselves. My boys . . . .

“No need to wince, Damrod,” Aragorn said the first time I had lapsed in front of him and Legolas and referred to the sons of Denethor as ‘my boys.’

“‘Tis understandable,” Legolas had said, sharing Aragorn’s soft grin. “And fitting.”

“You were more father to those lads than Denethor ever was,” Aragorn said. “I saw it at once, when Boromir was four and I was here serving Ecthelion, before Faramir was even born. And when Denethor’s envy forced Thorongil to leave Minas Tirith, I was able to ride away from my weeping fledgling only because I knew you remained, and that you would watch over him. And later, when Faramir began to suffer his own anguish at the hands of his father, Boromir told us that you were ever present, ever counterbalancing Denethor’s tyranny whilst swallowing your own outrage, which must have been terrible indeed.”

“You could not challenge the Steward and expect to remain in his service,” Legolas went on, “so you endured what you had to endure, retaliating in the only way left open to you, by offering your boys what comfort you could. Ai! Such strength, to behold a cruelty you were powerless to stop!”

“Yet for the sake of his sons you stood silent witness to Denethor’s injustices,” Aragorn said. “It must have cost you dear.”

I shook my head, muttering a reply they were both too wise to believe, “Nay. Not at all.”

“Aye, sir,” Aragorn had said in a soft but insistent tone, “and because of your sacrifice Boromir and Faramir became the good men they are, men of compassion and integrity and honor. You have ever been a unique father to them, Damrod, a foster father of the heart. So they shall always be your boys. ‘Twould surprise me to hear you speak of them in any other manner.”

I had stood there studying the ground and trying to keep from squirming like a green recruit called to answer for mischief after a night spent too deep in my cups.

Aragorn chuckled. “And the last time I saw your face turn that shade of red you were a junior lieutenant who had just knocked the illustrious Captain Thorongil on his backside during sparring.”

We laughed, Legolas exclaiming, “The ‘illustrious Captain Thorongil’? Oh, I must hear more about this sparring session, Damrod!”

I had fired Aragorn a wry glance. “Not much to tell, I fear. He let me win.” And Aragorn had chuckled again and vehemently denied it.

What a pleasure it was to find myself once more in the company of the warrior whose companionship I had treasured so long ago! Aragorn was a bit older than I was, but being of true Numenorean blood we had aged with moderate grace, and I vow the man I’d known as Thorongil was even more illustrious now. I admired him as much as I had when he was the valiant mercenary captain and I the younger second lieutenant under his command in the days of my boys’ grandsire, Ecthelion.

Aragorn and Legolas were devoted to my boys, and we had spent much time discussing the sons of Denethor. They understood the brothers, and I was especially grateful for what they had done for Boromir. The change in him since he left Minas Tirith was astounding. Aragorn and Legolas told me of what happened to Boromir whilst he had been in their company, and of what he had gone through during and after the Quest. He’d become a ‘fledgling’ again, and Legolas had claimed him as his ‘little brother.’ Little brother to this Princely elf – how Boromir would have secretly delighted in that!

I had been denied much access to the lad after he had turned a certain age. Denethor had laid claim to his favored eldest son in his young adulthood, and what I had glimpsed of Boromir in those years tore at my heart. So I had listened, transfixed, inwardly blessing these two warriors for the way they had taken Boromir in hand, wrapping him in their devoted care.

And as Aragorn and Legolas told me of the Boromir they experienced, I in turn told them of Faramir, and of what the sons of the Steward had endured in their early lives. Boromir had shared all he could with them, but he was able to see and understand only so much, and indeed there were entire stretches of time he had purposely forgotten, years, in fact, vanished from his memory. But I had observed matters from a close vantagepoint and with the understanding of an adult. And I remembered it all.

Ere he left for Rivendell Boromir’s life had been blending of frustration, and loneliness, triumph and joy and tragedy. He understood well the difference between punishment and loving discipline. He disciplined Faramir lovingly, for the lad suffered such hatred from Denethor that he often sought proof of his worth from either Boromir or myself.

But while Boromir could see and answer his little brother’s needs, he refused to entertain such needs in himself. He had learned to shut away that desperate hunger within at an early age, when Thorongil had been forced to leave Minas Tirith and Denethor had rejected a grieving Boromir. Thereafter the shattered little boy had become whatever his father required him to become, doing anything to escape the anguish of the man’s contempt. Boromir would be perfect, the perfect warrior and the perfect firstborn son of the Steward. And so from his early teens on, Denethor kept close watch over him.

But living within the safe boundaries of Legolas and Aragorn’s authoritative affection Boromir had started learning how to allow himself to be flawed. The first time he made an error during the Quest – and, of course, being Boromir, he made a big life-threatening error – he had been lovingly disciplined in the same way he had always disciplined Faramir.

“How thoroughly astonished my little brother had been when I told him what I intended to do to him,” Legolas had told me.

I do vow. But, starved little boy he still was within, Boromir had quickly learned to hunger for that attention from his two constant warriors. During the Quest and afterwards he had gone on to test his boundaries again and again, finding them intact every time, and every time he was disciplined he discovered that the devotion of Aragorn and Legolas remained undiminished. I vow Boromir spent a good deal of time being thoroughly astonished.

But he had learned that it was safe to be mistaken, to be wrong, to make errors in judgement, to be human. He even allowed himself to be disobedient and willful and to deliberately behave in a manner best summed up in one word he had ever loathed – naughty. And each time he chose to behave in such a manner he was swiftly answered with the kind of attention he had always deserved. Like his own little brother, Boromir would ever need that attention, a legacy Denethor left his scarred sons.

During the long hours that Boromir kept Faramir company in the Houses of Healing I was often with Aragorn and Legolas and we shared what we knew of these two complex brothers. I relished hearing their tales of the Quest whilst we journeyed about the two cities, discussing rebuilding ideas and future plans. We also spent time with Aragorn’s Rangers at their encampment, the Grey Company making me feel welcome and at ease amongst them.

Sometimes the three of us were joined on our journeys to Osgiliath by Aragorn’s first lieutenant, Halbarad, a man with whom I shared an instant kinship, and the exquisite elf Gwinthorian, who was never far from Halbarad’s side.

“Join us today,” Aragorn would tell Halbarad, playfully adding, “I have need of Gwinthorian’s sharp eyes and we all know he focuses better when you are there.” And rather than becoming ruffled by Aragorn’s comment, Gwin simply grinned.

I saw at once what Aragorn meant, though, for this little one noticed everything and he remembered all manner of details, repeating them back to perfection. ‘Twas unlike anything I had ever seen. He also had excellent suggestions to make when asked, and Aragorn plainly valued Gwinthorian’s uncanny judgment.

But it was clear from his behavior that Gwin was plagued by the kinds of torments that haunted my boys, so it was equally clear why he remained in the company of his big Ranger. Halbarad was ever aware of Gwinthorian while not seeming to be so, providing Gwin with a no doubt profound sense of being valued and cared for and worthy of notice. Aye, very soon after we met, Halbarad and I shared an immediate understanding of each other, and Garrick, Aragorn’s corporal, also shared this understanding.

“Oi, Merry! Would you look at that!” Pippin had softly cried one early morning when he and Merry, having joined Legolas and Aragorn and me, were breakfasting around the fire at the Grey Company’s encampment. We all glanced up at the little one’s exclamation. Pippin’s fascinated gaze skimmed back and forth over the gathered warriors.

“Look at what, Pip?” Merry had patiently asked.

“That!” Pippin nodded at us. “Look! Aragorn, Legolas, Damrod, Halbarad and Garrick! All of them together in one place!”

And though Pippin had been not the least bit specific, everyone sitting at the fire began to grin, knowing exactly what the little one meant. Only a hobbit, well, only a hobbit such as Peregrin Took would be so outlandishly outspoken about such a quietly understood condition.

“Yes, Pippin,” Merry had calmly answered, his gaze fastened to his tin. “Very interesting. Now eat your – ”

“But do you understand me, Merry?” Pippin pressed, still gazing at us, spellbound. “I mean, look at the lot of them, five of them, sitting there like a great wall of supreme authority! I mean, do you see?”

Ere poor Merry, now quite pink in the cheeks, could reply Aragorn said softly, “I see a young hobbit who needs to quiet down and attend to his first breakfast.” And Pippin, his wide-eyed gaze flitting over the five of us now staring directly back at him, had plainly seen the wisdom in this.

The little ones did not always join Legolas and Aragorn and me, but sometimes they would accost us on our way to the stables, racing up behind us and trotting along to keep up with our strides – “Where are you going Aragorn? Can we come with you? Can we? Pleeeeeease?”

And Aragorn, being naught but a mere mortal, would relent. He and Legolas would scoop up the halflings, plunk them down on their saddles and swing up behind them, Merry and Pippin wiggling down in their seats, wearing identical grins of smug satisfaction. Smug looked adorable on them. Hobbits. Delightful creatures! They, too, were devoted to my boys. I found myself wondering more than once how I had managed thus far without the company of these charming little ones.

One morning when we were in the stables, mounting up, Pippin suddenly announced, “I want to ride with Damrod!”

I blinked down at him in astonishment. Everyone broke into wide grins, and Legolas, who had been about to swing the little one onto his mount, halted, his hands full of a dangling hobbit, and turned to look up at me. “Perhaps Damrod does not wish to share his saddle with your troublesome chatty self, Master Took,” Legolas said, winking at me over Pippin’s curly head. “I suggest you practice some courtesy and ask the lieutenant for permission to join him, rather than thrusting yourself upon him whether he would have you or no.”

Pippin had looked properly mortified, and I was taken in by his shy glance of tragedy until I saw a sparkle of pure playfulness there that made me chuckle. Imp.

With as much dignity as he could summon whilst hanging freely from an elf’s hands, Pip said in his musical lilting manner, “Beg pardon, Lieutenant Damrod, sir. I dunno mean to be such a presumptuous clot. But may I please ride with you? Please?”

Now everyone chuckled. I raised my hands, clapped once, and Legolas, with perfect elvish aim, flung the squealing, laughing little one up and through the air and into my open arms.

“Ooooo!” Pippin cried, all giggles and squirms as I settled him before me, “Och, Merry! That was grand! You should try it!”

Safely perched before Aragorn, Merry had responded with a long-suffering sigh and an indulgent snort. “Pip, you silly ass.”

Nicely pleased with himself, Pippin wriggled about to reach a position of comfort, sorely testing my own.

“Peregrin, sit still,” Aragorn scolded. “Have a care for the lieutenant’s . . . well-being.”

“Oh!” Pippin cried, grabbing for the small sword strapped to his side. “I’m sorry, Damrod. Am I sticking you with my weapon?”

This was too much for Aragorn and Legolas. They broke into laughter.

“Merciful Middle Earth, Pip!” Merry cried. “Don’t be daft! That’s not what Aragorn means!”

Pip, whom I was beginning to suspect knew exactly what he was about, shot back, “Well, Aragorn’s always told us to take our swords with us when we go out, haven’t you, Aragorn? Drummed it into us, wouldn’t you say, Merry?”

I froze. My memory vanished. And suddenly, everything hit me.

I whirled to where my boys’ horses stood, knowing at once what had been pestering me. No swords. And at the same moment I heard a deep voice, “My lord! Lieutenant Damrod!”

I turned to see Bram striding my way, Valerian jogging at his side, Calder, hastening to join them. I glanced down at the scattered maps, my gaze shooting straight to a certain place, the only place my boys might need their swords. And I knew what the approaching men would say.

“Eastern quadrant,” Bram said, frowning, Val worrying his bottom lip with his front teeth. “They were seen moving fast toward the far perimeter.”

I nodded grimly.

“Aye,” Calder said, his face somber. “A worker saw them taking torches and heading in the direction of – ” He paused at my forbidding look.

“The sewers.”

End part III
Foster Father of the Heart to be continued . . . .

Foster Father of The Heart - part II- fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 19:04:03 GMT

On to part two, wherein our brothers find themselves . . . well, I’ll quietly step aside and let them get on with it.

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

part one is here.

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part II
by Larrkin

“How can you think that I intend to go against everyone’s orders and somehow follow along?”

Ah. Now I remembered why this all sounded familiar. He’d asked me that very question in the Houses of Healing ere the final march, so I replied now as I had then: “Because it’s what I would do.”

He blinked, memory dawning, then, faith what a glare! Poor Faramir. He never had found a workable argument to that answer of mine, though he’d heard me say those words to him more than once. Alas, I had returned to the enemy camp, and all because I understood him too well and loved him so much. What a troublesome big brother I was. Again, I understood. I had two such guardians myself.

Faramir fumed at me for several moments, then he huffed and leaned over his table covered with plans, bracing himself on his fists and his stiff arms, glaring down unseeingly. He was quiet for a long time and I left him to his brooding. I knew he didn’t want to be angry with me, but he was; oh, my, he was.

Finally he straightened and growled, “Is there anything else, Master Steward? As you can see I’m a busy man.”

“Faramir,” I said, my voice suddenly soft, and when he refused to look at me I grabbed him by the upper arm and led his protesting self to a secluded nook of shade behind a broken wall where I gently bullied him back into the corner and stood before him. He yanked his arm loose and cast me a reproachful scowl.

“Faramir,” I said again in the same quiet tone, and I took his stiff body in my arms, hugging him, holding him firmly despite his feeble struggles. “It’s alright, sweetling,” I murmured against his hair. “I know. You and I are used to choosing for ourselves. We are used to command, used to deciding the fate of others. It’s hard, isn’t it, when others decide our fate for us?”

His limbs remained rigid a moment longer, then he relaxed and I felt him sigh heavily and nod. “I am not your enemy, little brother,” I said. “As ever, I seek only to protect you – ”

“I don’t need protecting.”

Muffled, pouty voice against my shoulder. I grinned. He was no longer furious, just unhappily resigned. “Aye, you do. You especially need protecting from yourself. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

“Valar protect me from over-protective big brothers.”

“Aye, little brother. I do understand.”

I drew back to look at him and Faramir raised his sad eyes to me and in those sorrowful depths I saw reflected the same inner battle I’d so recently fought in Lothlorien. I knew there was naught I could do to help him, but seeing my little brother struggle this way brought out a fierce protectiveness in me, a need to make things better for him as I’d always tried to do.

And suddenly I thought of a way . . . . Well, although, was this . . . wise? Hmmmm . . . oh, well . . . yes . . . yes. What could it hurt? Of course. Surely this would be harmless enough. In fact, it was perfect. An interesting little quest with few physical demands and no real danger . . . at least, I think Aragorn had said there was no real danger. I cast back to what Aragorn and Damrod had been saying late last night . . . .

“I can scarce think why anything would remain in those sewers. Sam said that after leaving Faramir he and Frodo traveled through them as quickly as they could. They even kept up with Gollum. Anything escaping the battle through those channels would have likely kept going all the way through to the forest and freedom. But we shall needs be certain. A detachment should be sent in to explore.”

“I trust access to the sewers is forbidden then, my lord?”

“Aye. Not that any wouldst care to enter in there. But, I agree, Damrod; as there seems to be no real danger I think this matter can wait until --”

I narrowed my eyes “. . . as there seems to be no real danger . . . .” Well, that certainly didn’t sound too ominous. And neither Aragorn nor Damrod had been overly concerned. Had they? Why they’d been absolutely dismissive. Hadn’t they?

“Boromir?”

“Mmmm?” I glanced at Faramir’s impatient frown, then I grinned and said, “Sorry. I was thinking . . . .” His withering glare made me laugh. “I mean I was just considering a special little . . . ummm . . . a special task you and I might undertake.”

He brightened at once. “Task?”

“Aye. You know the old sewers, where you released Frodo and Sam?”

“And that sly creature, yes,” he said with disdain. “I hear that until an armed party goes through to make certain nothing foul dwells somewhere within the long span that Aragorn has forbidden anyone access. Not that anyone would choose to wander through there.”

“None save you and me, little brother,” I said.

“Pardon?”

I leaned closer to him and said in an unduly hushed tone, “I think you and I needs form our own two-man armed party. Why bother sending in an entire detachment to do what just a few skillful warriors like you and I can do? I think Aragorn will be pleased that we took the initiative and saved some valuable warriors a few tedious hours.”

Faramir studied me as though considering the state of my sanity, then his eyes lit up with the first gleam of interest I’d seen all morning. I hurried on, heartened by his enthusiasm and more delighted than ever with my daringly brilliant plan. Actually, ‘twas neither daring nor brilliant, but it was at least something.

“You and I aren’t fool enough to be ambushed or to blunder into a party of renegades – ”

“ – if indeed anything is lurking there,” Faramir added.

“– which I doubt. It, or they, would have made their presence known by now.”

“And why would anything linger in those sewers instead of just following them to the end where they could escape clean away as Sam and Frodo did?”

“The way I see it, little brother, if Aragorn truly believed there was something foul in there he would have sent a detachment of warriors in straightaway – ”

“– or, if for some reason he chose to wait, he would have at least posted guards lest whatever ‘it’ was tried to re-enter Osgiliath.”

We stared at each other, Faramir looking like a bright-eyed little boy. I vow at any moment he was going to start dancing up and down with excitement. My poor lad. How hopelessly frustrated he must be to become this thrilled over such a feeble excuse for an ‘adventure.’

“So what say you, little brother? Care for an . . . adventure?” I said.

His flashed me that winning smile, further softening my heart. “As ever, big brother, I’m your man.”

“Then come,” I said, heading for our horses. “Get your sword, although we probably won’t need to use them. This will likely be a right dull adventure, you know, so don’t get your hopes up too hi – ”

“‘Tis an adventure, just the same, whether my hopes are up or not – wait!” I stopped and turned at his sharp tone. Faramir’s smile had melted. “Boromir, what about . . . what about – ”

“Damrod,” we said in unison.

Oh, but we had been wildly swept away to have forgotten about him! I thought for a moment. “How long will he be down at the wharf?”

“For several hours yet, until noon at the latest.”

“But I vow it’ll take us longer than that to travel to the end of the sewers and back again, wouldn’t you say?”

Faramir nodded. “I think so. And when Damrod finishes at the wharf he’ll return here.”

“Expecting to find us where he left us.”

“Or somewhere nearby.”

“And he’ll expect us to have left a note as to where we can be found if needed.”

“Ohhhhh, yes,” Faramir replied with a significant look. “That he will.”

Hmm. I stared off. There wasn’t that much to consider. We both knew how our devoted lieutenant would react should we disobey Aragorn’s orders. Hmm.

“Well,” Faramir muttered on a sigh of exasperation. “That’s that then.”

I glanced at my little brother. He was again staring unseeingly at some point beyond me, that sad-eyed look of his punching a hole in my gut. And all at once I felt hugely exasperated myself!

“What about Damrod, you ask?” I growled. Faramir shot me a startled glance. “When last I checked, little brother, I was Steward of Gondor.”

He studied me for a long moment, then slowly raised a most dubious brow. Even when he said nothing my brother said it eloquently. Suddenly feeling less than fully committed I heard myself mutter, “I know.”

“You recall what our lieutenant has ever said, Boromir.”

I winced. “Aye. ‘There is a fundamental state – ’”

“‘– a deeper truth that eternally supplants rank and privilege.’”

“Aye.”

“You know the rest.”

“By heart.”

“Damrod is right.”

“I know. Faramir, truly, I know.” And for as long as we could remember, Damrod had been there with us, supplying that fundamental state of love, that deeper truth of devotion that had eternally supplanted all rank and privilege, and my brother and I knew how fortunate we had ever been in him.

Faramir made an odd sound. I turned to him and found that he was gazing off again, but with the strangest expression on his face, a stricken, bewildered look I couldn’t quite fathom. Then he gave a small and miserable sigh, and turned away.

Something twisted then exploded within me! Suddenly I wanted to do a little supplanting of my own! Suddenly I wanted to go into those cursed sewers more than anything in Middle Earth! And I didn’t care if a whole family of Balrogs was in there puffing their pipes! Rot all of it! I wanted to do what I wanted to do! And just who dared stop me? My heart galloped and thudded. For the sake of mercy! Was I Steward or was I not?

I straightened and said in my finest authoritative manner, “Never mind all that. We’re going. Now, little brother, ere Damrod returns.”

He turned back with a quizzical gaze. “Never mind all . . . what?”

“Get your sword.”

“Boromir! Never mind all what? Never mind Damrod? Never mind Aragorn’s orders?”

“Countermanded.”

“WHAT?”

“I am the Steward of Gondor, Faramir. I am in charge here. And I hereby officially countermand Aragorn’s orders.”

My brother’s jaw actually dropped.

“Or do you wish to end our little adventure ere we start it?” I said. “If so, that’s fine. We shall just go back to what we were doing. We can spend a peaceful day supervising the work. In fact, you’re right. That’s no doubt for the best.”

Faramir went silently thoughtful, then a slow smile crept over his features and his eyes narrowed and he watched me with a look of amused, indulgent comprehension, as though to say that he knew of how hard I was trying to manipulate him and that I was endearingly bad at it, but since he couldn’t help appreciating my willingness to resort to such devious measures, he would play along. I never was very good at this sort of thing.

“No!” he hurriedly exclaimed. “No, no, no! I agree! Never mind to all that indeed! Sound reasoning indeed. You are most certainly the Steward of Gondor, my brother. And, I repeat, as ever, sir, I’m your man.”

I gave a swift nod. “Good. Then come, Captain Faramir. Gather your cloak and your sword. Gondor needs your aid. And for Valar’s sake, little urchin, stop grinning at me like that.”

End part II
Foster Father of the Heart to be continued

Foster Father of The Heart - part I - fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 18:02:47 GMT

Part one! Last week an anonymous reader wrote a very nice comment and asked if I had any plans to write another story. I answered that ‘I had been working on something for months and that as soon as I had it banged into presentable shape I'd start posting chapters of 15 - 20 pages a piece, but that I was only about two-thirds of the way finished, so look for it in the future.’ Since this was taking place under a post with a different topic and dated, July 8th, I didn’t think anyone else would notice it, so I was surprised when it lead to a small flurry of other very nice comments urging me to start posting now. I’m twitchy about posting WIPs, but, golly, folks were being so sweet! So I thought about it and looked things over and figured out how to restructure the chapters into smaller parts, and well, here we are. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy! And, oh yes – this is a “slow burn.”

A story about Boromir and Faramir that could very well be subtitled: “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted Mentor, Damrod.”

This story belongs to my precious Kat, a birthday present for a dear friend, who also beta’d her own pressie.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

Foster Father of The Heart - part I
by Larrkin

“I do understand,” I said.

“No. You don’t. You can’t.”

“Indeed I can, little urchin.”

Faramir winced and darted a look around at the bustling workers passing to and fro, all of them paying us no mind whatsoever whilst busying themselves amidst the ruins of Osgiliath. None were near enough to hear us, but my brother still growled, “Not that name, Boromir! Please.”

I grinned. “You don’t like me calling you little urchin?”

“Yes,” he replied, almost shyly, “I-I do – ”

“Well, then.”

“Just. Not. Here.”

“Very well, but – ”

“And you don’t understand.”

I sighed. “You seem to forget, little boy, that I also suffered a near-death wounding and spent weeks healing in Lothlorien, so I do understand what it feels like to know you can do more than you’re being permitted to do, but no one is listening to you or ready to believe you. I certainly understand your frustration, but there is naught to be done about it, and I am sorry for that.”

Faramir calmed at my words, his features dropping into a quiet sulk, but I stayed in battle stance. He was regrouping. He’d come back in a moment and argue circles ‘round me until I eventually lost my temper, and although reducing me to a sputter wouldn’t be quite the triumph Faramir was hoping for, he would at least feel he’d won some small victory. With my clever little brother it was always best to avoid verbal sparring and I knew I should do just that. Because this was one battle Faramir wasn’t going to win. I refused to give in to him.

However it could do no harm to let him be thoroughly difficult. It would get him nowhere, but it might help ease his resentment, so I continued on, opening the next skirmish by introducing a little balance:

“Aragorn and the Warden have allowed you far more freedom than Lerin gave me in Lothlorien. Aye, you have some limitations to observe, but you are hardly useless. You’ve been released from the Houses of Healing to help direct this crucial rebuilding of Osgiliath, little brother, and that’s an important task. Aragorn made it clear how much he needs you to be involved in this project. You. He needs you here, Faramir, not following him off to Henneth Annûn on a mere reconnaissance mission.”

“A ‘mere reconnaissance mission?’” He shot me a feral look. “There’s quite a bit more to Aragorn’s purpose than just that!”

Well, that had been the wrong thing for me to say.

“Reconnaissance mission indeed! Aragorn is going to Henneth Annun to reunite his Northern Rangers with my Ithilien Rangers. MY men, Boromir!”

“I know.”

“Two branches of Dúnedain will be meeting for the first time in hundreds of years. That’s more than a mere reconnaissance mission!”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be there.”

“I know.”

“And I can ride that far!”

“No. You can’t.”

“I can!”

“No, Faramir. You cannot. Aye, you can ride, but you are permitted to go no faster than the pace at which we rode here this morning, a gentle trot. You know that Aragorn plans a swift trip there and back again and you heard what he and the Warden said. That kind of vigorous riding would jostle your body too roughly and for too long. Such jarring could tear something open within you. Your wounds are too freshly knit. They’re fragile.”

“Fragile?” He looked horrified.

Definitely another wrong thing for me to say.

“Fragile!” he spat, glowering at me.

“You would most likely re-injure yourself.”

“‘Most likely,’ Boromir?” He fumed. “Most likely is not the same as positively! Most likely leaves room for doubt.”

Typical Faramir ploy. Twist my words around.

“Have it your way, then, little brother. You would positively re-injure yourself.”

“You can’t be positively certain of that.”

“Faramir.”

“There’s no way even Aragorn could be positively certain of that.”

I summoned patience. “Perhaps not, but he did know that they’ll be traveling through areas of Ithilien where there have been reports of renegade fugitives – ” Faramir scoffed, and suddenly I grew tired of this. “You are by no means ready to engage in any battle save a verbal one, Faramir, and I see no point in discussing this further as you are, I assure you, going nowhere. And there’s an end to it.”

He scowled at me as though longing to erupt anew, then he huffed and began to pace a short, furious path back and forth, back and forth, muttering, “Wretched Warden! Wretched man! Wretched, wretched man!”

“It was Aragorn’s ruling, too.”

“Wretched Ara – ”

“Faramir! That is enough.”

He gazed off, grumbling to himself in elvish. Nasty-sounding elvish, too. Would that I could remember some of it to repeat to Legolas and ask its meaning.

I sighed. I truly did understand him. Faramir was delighted when Aragorn and the Warden had released him from the Houses of Healing, delighted with the trust Aragorn showed in him by placing him in command of rebuilding Osgiliath. But he was feeling so much better that he was certain he could do everything, resenting his restrictions. Difficulties arose at once.

“But I can climb scaffolding, my lord Aragorn!”

“Nay, Faramir. You cannot.”

“Well, then, at the very least I can --”

“Nay, Faramir. You cannot and you will not.”

As he had ever been, Faramir was dangerously overeager to prove himself. He couldn’t help being exactly who our father had molded him to be – a young man desperate for approval. He had tried and failed to please Denethor while our father lived and now Faramir was struggling to please a dead man’s relentless voice still haunting him, urging him to do whatever might satisfy a cruel inner entity that was never going to be satisfied.

Somewhere within his heart Faramir understood this. During a ferocious spanking I’d given him not long ago that left his backside sore for days, I’d talked these things over with him and at the end of that wrenching journey my brother realized that he had not been responsible for Denethor’s bitterness towards him.

Faramir had made a good beginning, but his behaviors had formed over many long years and those old habits were hard to break. It would take him some time to free himself from Denethor’s echoing malice – if indeed he ever could – and therein lay our problem. During Faramir’s first two days here in Osgiliath, Damrod, whose word was ever law concerning my brother, had been forced to remind him over and over that his was a supervisory role alone and that he was by no means permitted to share in any of the heavy labor.

But, ahhh, my little urchin. He seemed unable to help himself, unable to keep from ignoring his restrictions. Damrod’s forbearance was wearing perilously thin.

“Faramir,” I had told him just yesterday, “‘tis never a good idea to let Damrod’s forbearance wear perilously thin.”

“Then I suggest you avoid doing so, Boromir,” he replied with a sweet smile.

There was just no reasoning with him. No one knew his state of health better than he did and no one saw matters as clearly as he did and as long as no one would listen to him, he would return the courtesy in kind. His actions spoke those sentiments of his louder than he had verbally dared.

And now, finally, temporary madness had set in. My brother had apparently convinced himself that nobody would find out about his misdeeds, not me, not Aragorn, not Legolas, and not Damrod. Considering the fact that Faramir’s deeply underlying purpose was, as it ever was, to seek attention, I could think of no better proof of his unsound state of mind.

“Ahh, my fledgling,” Aragorn had said with his warm smile, “he is just like you.”

“Aye,” Legolas had said, chuckling. “He insists upon learning things the hard way.”

I’d grimaced at the time, but of course they were right. Yesterday when Faramir had once again climbed high up on some scaffolding to help move some rubble Damrod had caught him in the act, carefully dragged my brother down, then threatened him with the kind of over-the-knee consequences at which our big lieutenant excelled.

“And he threatened to do it here, Boromir! Right here in Osgiliath! In the, in the . . . open!” Faramir had sputtered last evening. Unfortunately, Aragorn, Legolas and Damrod himself had been approaching and overheard him.

“Would that he had done so,” Aragorn remarked, fixing Faramir with a stern look.

“And that he would have waited until we could stand witness,” Legolas said.

Faramir lifted his chin and gazed past them all, sulking like an arrogant juvenile. Given his thoroughly bad attitude I vow he had been simply begging for a spanking from any one of us.

“I remind you yet again, sir,” Aragorn went on, “should you overtax yourself you shall end up back in the Houses of Healing, confined to your bed, and, judging by Damrod’s frown, lying on your stomach.”

My brother’s glance flew to our lieutenant who stood, tall and silent, his muscular arms crossed over his chest and his narrow-eyed stare pinning Faramir in place.

“I have known this man since before you were born,” Aragorn went on. “So be wise, little Ranger, and behave yourself. Damrod is ever vigilant.”

One fact neither my little brother nor myself ever needed reminded of.

Looking as though he hadn’t a friend in the world, Faramir cast a glance of wounded betrayal around at the four of us as though we were all in league against him. Ah, that sad-eyed gaze of his! When he aimed it at me it was hard to keep from feeling like the meanest orc in orcdom. We were holding him back and getting in his way and disrespecting his opinion and not listening to him or trusting him and oh, how well I understood!

During my stay in Lothlorien’s healing chambers, I was also certain I knew better than my elvish healers. When I decided to prove them all wrong by attempting to escape for a short ride, Lerin, Lothlorien’s elvish version of the Wretched Warden, explained to me with humiliating ease and in a far too thorough hands-on manner that my behavior was unacceptable. Exceedingly large and packed with that staggering elvish strength, Lerin had been most convincing.

When it came to my well being, his opinion was the only one that mattered and he would decide my level of fitness and he would tolerate no further insubordination. Was that fully understood, little warrior?

Oh, indeed it was, sir. Fully. In fact, I couldn’t recall how I had dared to think otherwise. And when Lerin was finished heating my backside and I lay limp and trembling and weeping over his lap, he gathered me up and politely asked if his little warrior had any further desires to steal a horse and attempt a ride when he had been forbidden to leave his chamber. Noooo, moreover, just the thought of mounting a horse sent his little warrior into a fresh torrent of tears. To this day the memory was all too vivid. Wretched elf.

I now feared that Faramir was charging headlong toward a similar lesson, and I felt certain Damrod would be the one to deliver it. When my brother took up his post in Osgiliath our lieutenant had become Faramir’s shadow, all but outwardly laying claim to his care. Of course, it had ever been thus.

“Aye, and ‘tis for the best now as well,” Aragorn had said last night when I mentioned this, “considering what happened when Damrod last tried to discipline Faramir.”

And although it wasn’t something I liked to recall, the memory of what Aragorn had told me about Faramir and Damrod just days after I had been reunited with my brother surged forth again, flooding me with the same sorrow I’d felt when learning of it. Faramir, near-mad with grief over my presumed death, had started to behave in an alarming manner, taking such dangerous chances that it seemed he no longer cared to live. And when Damrod had tried to reach him, tried to discipline him, as he had been all Faramir’s life, my brother in his shattered state of anguish did the unthinkable. After they fought and Faramir naturally lost, he lay passively over Damrod’s knee, allowing himself to be spanked and spanked and spanked and showing no response until Damrod, fearing for Faramir’s safety, was forced to stop and let him up.

To his way of thinking my little brother could not have wounded our beloved lieutenant more. To his way of thinking he betrayed Damrod’s love and devotion, ripping asunder their mutual trust and destroying the precious bond they had shared since his childhood. He had hurt Damrod in a selfish attempt to make his own pain worse, to injure himself and to invite a crippling burden of guilt – which, of course, he had received.

And when the worst of Faramir’s grief eased and his sanity returned, bitter though it was, his guilt over this sad episode with Damrod prevailed. Their usual father-son link had returned to normal, of course. Valar forbid Damrod change his inclinations towards either one of us, sad episodes be hanged. But the injury festered, hidden beneath the surface, unresolved. And there it remained. Damrod had not taken Faramir over his knee since.

So I understood last night when Aragorn said, “‘Tis for the best that Faramir is behaving true to form, trying to prove himself and pushing his boundaries. He and Damrod need to heal this wounding.”

“You are uniquely qualified to help Faramir, little brother,” Legolas had said with a lazy grin. “You can counsel our gwador laes on the finer points of redefining one’s boundaries.”

“Insolent elf,” I muttered with fond irritation, making them both chuckle.

“I am glad you have decided to stay here with him, my fledgling,” Aragorn then said. “Your presence will help soothe his low-spirits.”

At the moment I wasn’t so sure. Faramir looked to be running more foul elvish through his head, creative descriptions, mayhap, of the Wretched Warden who had stranded him here and of everyone else responsible for his plight, including a certain tiresome big brother Steward now following his every move. His scheme to rid himself of Damrod and his watchful eye by sending him to the wharves had fallen with a thud, because instead of simply joining Faramir on his ride here this morning then returning to Minas Tirith, I had decided to remain at his side all day. I felt certain Damrod would have, with all due respect, declined the wharf assignment had I not said, “I have decided to stay the day, lieutenant. I shall keep my brother company.” Meaning, of course, I shall sit watch on the tiresome brat, lieutenant. Be at ease.

Reassured, Damrod had departed, leaving me with one positively livid young Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Ah! Such poisonous looks from my own blood!

Well, fire away, little brother mine! I was indeed staying close, especially in this crucial time when Faramir, lunatic that he was, could possibly mount up, chase off after Aragorn and his Rangers and possibly catch up to them. A truly mad thing to do, but given Faramir’s mood, I could believe he was prepared to be that foolish. He had that defiantly dangerous gleam in his eye that worried me.

Marking when Aragorn left, however, I knew that soon the company would be too far away for Faramir to entertain any hope of reaching them. My brother could read the position of the sun as well as I could, so he was becoming more desperate by the minute, thus his earlier attempts to remind me of my duties in Minas Tirith and now this, “I can ride that far!” argument about his fitness. His temper grew worse at every thwarted turn and I reckoned this had gone on long enough.

I looked levelly at him and said, “Faramir, you are very intelligent, so surely you know that if you try to reach Aragorn and you succeed, your greatest threat will be Aragorn himself.” He gazed at me in his vague, disinterested way. I forged on. “The perils of Ithilien might be merely possibilities, but two self-appointed big brothers, two quite furious big brothers, would be waiting at the end of your journey, and I vow you would find that most unpleasant. Think of that moment when you ride up to Legolas and Aragorn. Think of their faces.”

It seemed he did. Faramir’s eyes widened and I charged through the breech in his crumbling wall of boldness.

“And consider this,” I said. “When Aragorn is finished with you, Legolas will be waiting to get his willful baby brother over his knee. Of course he will also want to spank his gwador laes.” Faramir blinked and stared at me. “Aye, I think you recall the story I told you about when they did that to me, and believe me, sir, you do not want to suffer it. Imagine an elvish spanking on top of what Aragorn will have already done to that little boy backside.”

“Boromir, please!” he groaned, casting another furtive look around.

“Aye, ‘tis a grim prospect, youngling.” And, to be honest, an unlikely one. Legolas would be burning to do it, but I doubted Aragorn would allow him to spank Faramir as well, not while my brother was yet healing. But Faramir didn’t need to know that, so I embellished away: “Imagine mounting your horse to ride onward after two such spankings. Aragorn would demand that, of course. You wouldn’t be able to stay encamped there in Ithilien until your bottom felt better. Legolas would pick you up and slap you down atop your saddle, right on that scalded backside.”

Now thoroughly scarlet-faced, Faramir went silent for a long moment, his eyes downcast. I left him to further consider the dark vision I’d given him. I was rather proud of myself. My own backside tingled after my words. But then, I had actually lived through the experience.

Finally he peered up with a look of puzzled innocence and said, “If I’m as intelligent as you claim, how can you suggest me capable of such an asinine deed? Do you honestly think I’m unreasonable enough to do that, Boromir? To race off after Aragorn?”

I wasn’t fooled. This was one of Faramir’s classic ploys, suggesting I was being absurd and unsuitably suspicious. I didn’t blink. “Aye.”

“Alone? You think I’d ride through the precarious forests of Ithilien alone?”

“Aye.”

He gazed at me in quiet dismay. “I am wounded, big brother.”

“My point exactly.”

“I mean I am offended! Hurt by your insinuations and lack of trust!”

I smirked and ‘hmmph-ed,’ then I paused and narrowed my eyes. This conversation was taking on a familiar quality.

“Boromir, do you truly believe me to be that witless?”

“Oh, I think you have plenty of wits, Faramir. But this has nothing to do with wits and you know it. ‘Tis desire beckoning you on, little brother, and the irresistible need to prove everyone wrong about your fitness. What could be better than that? It might be worth a spanking to show that you were correct all along.”

I smiled at his suddenly guilty frown and said, “You see? I do indeed understand, sweetling, and as far as I’m concerned anyone who’s willing to accept a blistering spanking in order to get his way and prove his point is not in his right mind.”

And I should know, having done so myself many times.

“Such a bratling shouldn’t be allowed to roam about freely,” I said. “Since I’ve stopped you from escaping to join Aragorn you’re likely to soothe your wounded pride by trying some other mad stunt. So, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, little urchin, but you’re staying within my sights today. Best you get used to that fact. Between Damrod and I we might just be able to keep you safe from your foolish self.”

Faramir gasped a strangled sound and glowered at me like Pippin in a foul mood. Suddenly enraged to be facing a day hemmed in by responsible Stewards and tiresome lieutenants who would put an end to any daringly brilliant plans he might hatch, he cast back to the original cause of this suddenly confining day and blurted out, “How can you think that I intend to go against everyone’s orders and somehow follow along?”

Ah. Now I remembered why this all sounded familiar. He’d asked me that very question in the Houses of Healing ere the final march, so I replied now as I had then: “Because it’s what I would do.”

end part I
Foster Father of The Heart to be continued

A little “Heads Up!”

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 03:13:39 GMT

Whad’ya think of the new look? I’ve been on Live Journal for nearly four years and I’ve never updated. So I decided that in honor of my little announcement I’d try something new. What’s the ‘heads up?’

COMING SOON TO LARRK’S JOURNAL – A NEW STORY

*collective gasp!*

Just wanted to let everyone know that I’m getting ready to post part one of a new tale featuring those angsty and (dare I say that word?) naughty sons of Gondor – Boromir and Faramir – in a tale I haven’t yet titled, but could be subtitled as “Wherein Our Angsty Sons of Gondor Act Out and Come Smack Dab Up Against Their Devoted and Unofficial Mentor, Damrod.” :D

Ever hear the description “Slow Burn?” Laura introduced me to it – it’s a phrase used to characterize a story that slowly builds to the big payoff. What a great term! I think my readers will agree that it defines my approach. And it applies to this tale as well, so prepare for a Larrk Slow Burn!

And something else that’s new – I’ll be posting chapters that are shorter in length than my usual 30 plus page monsters. I’ve been advised that a good length for a chapter is anywhere from 3-5 pages. I can’t imagine Le Muse staying within those confines, but we can probably handle chapters that are 5-10 pages long, so I’m aiming for that. I’ve been working on this story for several months, watching it grow and grow. It’s still a WIP, and even though I don’t like beginning to post a story until I’ve finished at least the rough draft, several of you have been so encouraging that I figured I’d go ahead and dive in.

So, to all of you who hungered for a story with Faramir’s first lieutenant (and you know who you are! *wink*) thanks for hanging in there. And to all my gentle readers, thanks, as always, for your patience.

Any trouble nestling in?

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 18:28:09 GMT

Greetings, all! I have a question for you, dear readers - are any of you unable to access the Nest? A few days ago there were some techie problems on this end and my website was shut down for about 24 hours. By yesterday the problem was resolved and, as far as I know, the Nest opened up again. But, whereas I can access my site again no problem, it still won't open for Laura (who's, ironically, my webmistress.)

So, now I'm curious - are there any others out there who can't jump into the Nest? Give a chirp!

If It’s Good Enough for Strider . . . .

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 23:43:09 GMT

What’s this? A . . . a story? Yes, my patient readers! The muse became inspired after returning from our annual business trip and – ta-da! We have a new story! It felt so great to be writing once again, and I’m delighted to have something to post. Maybe now that the muse has been jump-started it’ll stick around for a while and begin producing again. So let’s continue to keep our collective fingers crossed, as it seems to have worked before. I hope you enjoy!

After Frodo and Sam leave the Fellowship at Parth Galen and paddle across the lake, Sam has something to discuss with Frodo when they arrive on the far shore.

Beta appreciation notes to Larrk’s beleaguered betas:
Helen; AKA, HRH Larrk’s Herald – who with sublime skill superbly executes her double duties of beta and Court Appointed Herald, and to my dear Kat, who IM’s with me her instant support, reads and re-reads as is needed, and provides me with her exquisitely encouraging ‘mirror reviews.’ Thanks, Team Larrk!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, and Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

If It’s Good Enough for Strider . . . .
by Larrkin

How was it possible that the lake seemed so much wider now than when Aragorn paddled our elven boat down its length with so apparently little effort, bringing Sam and me to where we and the others came ashore at Parth Galen? I suppose it was because this time Sam and I were the ones paddling the elven boat.

Sam was worse off than I was, though. I felt him behind me, drenched and no doubt shivering, and a flurry of emotions ripped through me, from anger that he’d dared to disobey me and followed me anyway, nearly drowning himself, to relief that, in his typically bull-headed Gamgee manner, he’d done exactly as he pleased despite my orders. I could just imagine what he would say should I dare to scold him about what he’d done. I could hear him in my head, explaining himself with no hint of remorse:

“No, Mister Frodo, I’m not sorry I followed you, and I’m not sorry I ignored your orders, and I’m not sorry I did just as I pleased, even though I nearly drown-ded.”

And now, here he was, soaked and paddling away from safety, my dearest, most beloved gardener whom I’d desperately wished to spare more of this perilous journey and my deadly company. Could what had just happened to Boromir happen to my noble Sam? Of course it could, and it would, and I couldn’t risk it by staying. Nor could I risk anyone else’s safety by asking them to join me on my journey into the heart of darkness. It was going to get hard now, harder. It had already been harder than any of us could have foreseen and filled with staggering loss. I could scarce fathom going on alone, but I knew that was what I’d been meant to do. Hadn’t Galadriel all but told me so?

Still, the notion had so terrified me that I’d shoved away thoughts of it again and again. I hadn’t been able to muster up any additional courage since Galadriel had told me that, “Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.” A heartening assurance, but why, oh, why had I volunteered to be that smallest person? There was no escaping it, nothing to do but go forward. My despair reached such depths at times that I could do nothing but stare off, numb with horror, frantic.

Yet none of that could matter. I said I would do this, so I had to push on. A low hum of anxiousness surrounded me now, my destiny closing in on me at every turn, nagging at me. Again and again I thought, ‘Is this where I should try to escape the Fellowship? Could I manage to get far enough away so that Aragorn couldn’t track me and Legolas couldn’t detect me with those elvish gifts of his?’

I would need to get cleanly away, far away, because if I were caught trying to escape the consequences would be most . . . unpleasant. I could just imagine the humiliating measures Aragorn might feel bound to make use of to keep me from running away again. Perhaps the warriors would take turns holding my hand, as though I were a hobbit child who might wander off if not constantly supervised. Or, even worse, perhaps my walking days would be over and I’d spend the remainder of the Quest riding on a big person’s hip, Aragorn not trusting me enough to even risk letting my feet touch the ground. A bizarre notion, but I wouldn’t put any extreme past a sincerely cross Aragorn.

Which led to thoughts of how that sincerely cross Aragorn would discipline me for this escape attempt. In the past my Ranger had spanked me with intense enthusiasm, but I sensed that nothing from my past would compare to the spanking he’d give me after a failed escape attempt. It was a grim thought. I’d likely never again sleep on my back.

Sam would never sleep again, period. I’d be wrapped tightly in his arms all night and he’d be on full alert, bleary eyed and croaky-voiced, fighting to stay awake, exhausting himself despite Aragorn’s insistence that he could sleep in peace because Legolas, who didn’t need to sleep, was on guard.

And, indeed, Legolas, ever watchful, ever aware, would be perched right beside Sam and me. I’d wake in the night to find him turning to look down at me, his peaceful, steady gaze saying, “Aye, little one. I am here. And I plan to stay here. I am watching. So go back to sleep.” No, once they realized what I had in mind I’d never be out of sight of my guardian warriors, Sam included.

Of course, if I were to be honest with myself, weren’t all these thoughts of leaving merely that – thoughts? Would I ever have the courage to actually escape the comforting protection of the Fellowship? I’d been able to delay the matter as no opening had presented itself. Until now.

And when the moment did come, all those imaginings I’d fostered about what would happen should I try to escape were proven false. Aragorn in his typically wise manner knew what I had to do, and he let me go. He let me go.

It had been dreadfully obliging of him, but I’d been relieved that Aragorn made it easier with his reluctant consent, for I’d truly had no choice. I’d already tarried too long and Boromir, good, noble Boromir, whom I’d come to love, had been taken in by the Ring, the first of the Fellowship to go.

That was horror enough, but the others would soon follow, and I couldn’t let it happen. No, I had to go, now, and Aragorn knew how I felt and his courage in letting me go helped me actually do it. I was comforted in knowing that he would take care of the others, especially my Sam. Sam would be frantic and heartbroken, but he’d also be safe, far away from the Ring and me.

Now, however --

“Almost there, Mister Frodo,” Sam huffed behind me. “Hang on just a bit further.”

“Hang on?” I shot back, ruffled. “I’m fine, Sam. Just fine.”

“Oh. Right. Right you are, Mister Frodo. Sorry.”

‘Hang on’ indeed. I was a strong, sturdy hobbit, for goodness sake! But, of course, Sam was right. My shoulders ached. Merciful Middle Earth but this lake was wide! And I’d thought I could paddle across it all alone? I glanced up again, seeing the wooded shore growing nearer, and the thought of what might be waiting there sent another wash of gratitude through me for my resolute Master Samwise. Whatever lay ahead I wouldn’t have to face it alone.

So I wouldn’t admonish him. Not even a gentle, ‘You shouldn’t have disobeyed me, Sam. You should have gone back.’ What purpose would it serve? I’d known that if Sam caught me, he’d follow me, or try to. He never would have let me leave the Fellowship and strike out on my own the way Aragorn had.

But Sam hated the water and he couldn’t swim, so this really was the only way I could’ve escaped him. When he did show up, full of upset and yelling and waving his arms, I felt certain I’d managed to do it. Sam wouldn’t follow me. He couldn’t. I was too far from shore. He would be safe from the Ring and me. Safe. I repeated that litany in my head to drown out his cries: He was safe now, safe . . . my Sam would be safe . . . .

And then he’d blatantly disobeyed me, marching into the water, ignoring my orders to stop and to go back. Typical obstinate Gamgee! Oh, he’d follow my orders all right, providing what I ordered didn’t interfere with what he wanted. Yes, indeed, I was well within my rights to be angry with him!

But, although I anguished over Sam’s presence, I’d forgive his defiance, because, in truth, I was so grateful to him I could’ve kissed him, over and over again. I could’ve smothered Sam in kisses. And I could’ve done other things to him as well. I shivered, picturing those other ways in which I longed to show my gratitude to him . . . .

Well, surely I was going mad. We were paddling away from our protectors and into the terrifying unknown and I was having lustful thoughts about showing Sam my gratitude? Squirmy thoughts about what I wanted to do to him and have him do to me? Frodo Baggins, what has this Quest done to you?

**********

I looked back and saw Legolas, Strider and Gimli standing on the shore, watching Frodo and me leave them behind. Well, Strider was standing. Legolas paced, back and forth, back and forth, staring after us in his, “Just-wait-‘till-I-get-my-hands-on-you” way. I couldn’t blame him none. And Gimli hopped and bounced and scooped one arm through the air in a big sweeping ‘get-back-here-at-once!’ type of whoosh. I couldn’t blame him none, neither.

But Strider just stood there, still as a statue, his eyes reaching across the water and slamming right into me. I turned ‘round and paddled some more, then I looked back again, sure that I’d see them coming after us in the other boat. They hadn’t moved. They were letting us go!

I couldn’t hardly believe it, and I couldn’t stop to think about the awfulness of being all alone now, with no big folks. Part of me wished I could’ve told Strider I was sorry, that this wasn’t my idea, and that if I could’ve turned our boat around I’d have done it in a heartbeat. But if I know anything, I know my Frodo, and there wasn’t going to be no turning this boat around.

I couldn’t stop to think about the awfulness of Frodo almost getting away from me, neither. But I had to think about that, because if Frodo had tried this now, how could I trust him not to try it again? He sure would try it again. And again, and again, and again. Then one night, after nights and nights of staying awake to guard him, I wouldn’t have nothing left, and I’d just plain fall asleep, and then Frodo would run away and leave me, and he’d be out there, alone.

I sat behind him, watching the sunshine on his dark curls, and I could just imagine the bleak horribleness of what it would be like some morning to wake up alone and find him gone. I wouldn’t know how long he’d been gone or where to start looking for him. And I’d just stand there, shaking, then I’d run and run and run all over, yelling Frodo’s name until my voice gave out and I just fell down and cried.

My Frodo would be gone. He’d have escaped from me the way he’d almost escaped just now. He’d be out there all alone, without me to help him. How the blazes could Frodo think he could do this all by himself? And when that awful thought hit me I turned and looked back over my shoulder one more time, and I looked right at Strider. He still stood there, just watching. And it was like I heard him in my head, saying in his calm voice, “Aye, Sam, you are right to be fretful. Frodo will do what he feels is best for you. He will indeed try again to leave you. What would I do about that, Sam? What should you do?”

But I already knew what to do. Because if ever my Frodo needed me, he needed me now, after he’d done this naughty thing. ‘Course, it could be the Ring was behind it again, whispering to him, making him do things he’d never have done on his own, like those other times when Frodo hadn’t been himself. But running away from us like this and leaving the Fellowship behind so’s we’d be safe, that sounded like some confounded brave thing Frodo decided to do all on his own, without the Ring telling him to do it.

But, whether it was the Ring’s power or just Frodo being Frodo that made him do this, fact was, he’d done it, and there was one thing I was sure about – I’d be jiggered if I was going to wake up some morning and find him gone. I wasn’t about to lose my Frodo to that hunk of poison dangling ‘round his sweet neck.

I dunno if Strider saw me give a nod. But Legolas had stopped pacing and he was watching me, too, and after I nodded he turned to Strider and it looked like he said something, and even from this distance I was sure I saw Strider nod back to me.

“Ready, Sam?” Frodo said over his shoulder.

I turned and saw that we were almost to the shore. Was I ready? More than.

*****************

My lustful thoughts had quieted by the time we landed. I was surprised to see Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli watching us on the far shore. They weren’t trying to follow us, of course. I knew they wouldn’t be.

Halfway across the lake I’d noticed that right in front of me half-hidden by a tarp on the floor of the boat was Sam’s pack. It had never been unloaded at Parth Galen. What luck! In my hurry to leave I’d just pushed the boat from shore, jumped in and set off with nary a thought for provisions. Appalling lack of preparedness.

“It was right smart of you to bring my haversack, Mister Frodo,” Sam now said lifting it over the side.

“Oh . . . uh . . . well,” I said with a shrug. What Sam didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“It’s alright, a’course. I’m glad you took it.” He hoisted it onto his back, pots clanging. “You not havin’ a pack of your own, you sure would’ve needed mine.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I-I sure would have.”

Having gathered up whatever we could salvage from the boat, we stood there for a moment, a sticky awkwardness dangling between us. Sam shifted from foot to foot, and it suddenly occurred to me that he was waiting to be reprimanded for disobeying my orders. Of course! Sam no doubt thought I was angry with him. I couldn’t let him fret about that, so I blurted out, “I’m not angry, Sam.”

He shot me a wide-eyed look. “Oh.”

“I should be upset with you, I know. But don’t worry. I’m not.”

Sam just watched me in silence, clearly startled. Ah, I’d been right. He’d expected a scolding. My poor Sam.

“It’s all right. I forgive you, Sam.”

His brows shot up. “You do? You . . . forgive me?”

“Yes. I do. I forgive you for disobeying my orders.”

“Oh. Uhh . . . .”

“I forgive you for not turning back when I told you to, and for nearly drowning.”

“You forgive me for near drownd-ing myself?”

“Yes. It’s all right now, Sam. We’ll forget all about it.”

“Um . . . well --”

“In fact, I’ll be honest, Sam – I’m glad you’re with me.”

He blinked, then looked away yet again, back across the water, as though he felt too moved to speak. So I reached out and took one of his hands and kissed his cheek and said, “I’ll likely say that over and over again, because, truly, I’m glad you’re with me, Sam.”

He remained silent, still staring off, and I followed his gaze and saw that Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had now turned away from us and were heading back up into the woods. It was an eerie, lonely moment. I felt severed from our protective Ranger for the first time since the night in Bree when we met him and he saved our lives. No doubt that was the reason for Sam’s sudden pensiveness. It certainly was reason enough to make my stomach clench. Watching our warriors vanish into the forest and knowing how alone we truly were hit us both.

I squeezed Sam’s hand and said, “Come. Let’s move on for a while before we find someplace safe to rest for the night.”

He gave me a firm-lipped glance and we headed into the forest, Sam falling in behind me. It was good, hearing him back there, the familiar sound of his pots clanking. I thought of how Gimli used to turn to him in Moria and grumble, “Can y’make a wee bit more racket, Master Gamgee? I fancy a few foul beasties canna hear ye’.” Oh, how I would miss Gimli! How I’d miss them all!

We hadn’t been walking five minutes before I heard Sam call, “Mister Frodo.”

I turned. He was standing and looking off to one side into a small thicket of pines and fallen logs and heavy, bushy foliage. “I saw it, too,” I said, strolling back to join him, and we stood peering into the sheltered-looking area. “It would be a good place to stay overnight, but it’s too early to stop. We should push on. There’s still a few hours of dayli – Sam?”

He was wandering back into the cocooned space, looking around, paying no attention to me.

“Aye. This’ll do right fine,” he said, swinging his pack down. It dropped with a clank of finality.

“Sam?” I said, following him into the thicket. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Then come. We’re moving on.”

“No, Mister Frodo. We’re staying here.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

Just like that. Without so much as a ‘by your leave, sir,’ or the courtesy of a ‘what say we put this to a vote?’ Hmmmm.

The master-servant boundaries had blurred for us long ago, but Sam and I still found familiar comfort in our old long-standing roles. So, here and now, as far as I was concerned, I was the master and Sam was obliged to obey my orders. I had let one incident go, but enough was enough. Sam had pushed his way into my company, so he could just very well follow my lead.

“Sam,” I said, “I’m sure we’ll find another place just as good as this one after we’ve put some distance between us and the lake. But right now we need to move further inland before it gets dark. Surely you see the sense in that. So, come.”

He slowly shook his head. “Noooo, Mister Frodo,” he said in an overly patient tone, as though indulging me in a debate he felt certain he’d already won. I ground my teeth and watched him glance around, then stroll towards a pile of fallen logs. “Noooo,” he repeated, “like I said, this place is fine for the night. We don’t need to move on right now.”

“Yes, we do!” I clenched my fists and scrambled for a credible incentive. “Aragorn could still decide to come after us, you know. He and Legolas might very well be halfway across the lake as we speak. The farther off we get the better.”

Sam stopped brushing the leaves from a large log, sighed and turned to me with a mildly amused, reproachful look. “Strider won’t follow us, Mister Frodo.”

I bristled. “How do you know? You saw them watching us. Yes, they were turning to go, but they might change their minds and--”

“Strider won’t follow us,” he repeated. “You know that as well as I do.”

“Oh? I do?” I huffed. “I know that, do I?”

“Mister Frodo.” Another long-suffering sigh and look. “If they wanted to follow us they’d have jumped in that other boat right off. And with both Strider and Legolas paddling as fast as they could?” He snorted and turned to finish brushing off the log. “They’d have caught us a’fore we even reached this side of the lake. Then they’d have dragged us into their boat and took us back and, well, you know what would’ve happened next.”

A hot blush shot through me.

“Nope,” he said, removing his cloak and his sword. “Strider isn’t going to follow us, and this is as good a place as we’re likely to find, so we’re staying here tonight, Mister Frodo. And, that’s enough of that.”

I should say it was! I stared at Sam, stunned to silence, not that he noticed. He was too busy shaking out his cloak and draping it over the log to pay me any mind. I watched him, distracted, trying to fathom why he was being so stubborn about this. What harm was there in moving on?

Of course, I could simply ask him that question, but something in Sam’s manner made me uneasy and warned me off doing so. His behavior was just so odd --

Then I understood. Little wonder Sam wasn’t quite himself. He’d almost died today! And I’d been entirely unsympathetic to what he must be going through. All I could think about was pushing onward without giving him so much as a moment to catch his breath after such a shock. My poor Sam. That explained his odd behavior. Humble though he was, Sam had his pride and he simply couldn’t admit how terrified he’d been in that water and how much he needed a little time to collect himself. It was very like Sam to try to shelter me from his discomfort.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m being selfish,” I said, moving closer to him. “Of course we can stay here. Your clothes are probably wet and cold and uncomfortable and I’m sure you’d like to rest.”

“Oh, no!” he quickly said. “Nooooooooo, I’m all right, Mister Frodo. I am. Really. You know how fast these dry out,” he said, sitting down and patting the elven cloak. “And what with that stiff wind and the sun out on the lake, my clothes are near dry, too. So don’t you worry none about me, Mister Frodo. I’m fine. Honest.”

If I know anything, I know my Sam, and he was being truthful. So much for my misplaced sympathies. Clearly Sam wasn’t as shaken by near-death as I had been. That vague uneasiness flew back and I felt flustered again, as though something had shifted around me that I couldn’t quite see but could surely feel.

“Very well then,” said I. “I won’t worry about you. However, we’re back to our problem.” I stood before him and crossed my arms over my chest. “I like this little thicket, too, Sam but we’ll find another place just as good farther on. We really should keep going, even if it’s only for another hour. Not because I fear Aragorn will come after us, but because of what he taught us. Remember? As long as we’re able, we should keep moving. Now, doesn’t that make sense?”

And, all at once I realized something – I did fear Aragorn, but not in the way Sam was imagining. I feared the closeness of him. While Aragorn was just across the lake or atop Amon Hen, the panicky, weak part of me longed to run back to the safety of his protection. I needed to put some distance between that tempting safety and myself. If we traveled on for several hours, that temptation wouldn’t be there because Aragorn wouldn’t be there. He and the others would have moved on, too.

I swallowed hard. Aragorn wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t come thundering up, sword drawn and jump between danger and me. What was I doing? Valar help me, what had I done? How could I make it all stop?

“Frodo.”

I flinched and looked at Sam, really looked at him and suddenly I knew why his manner made me uneasy. When his authoritarian side surged forth Sam assumed an air reminiscent of the very Ranger whose protection I was missing. Aragorn had proven inspirational to my gentle gardener in many ways, and one time when I had pointed that fact out to him, Sam replied, “Thank our lucky stars for that, Mister Frodo, because since you’ve been carrying that Ring around you’ve sometimes turned into a right nasty bratling. And I don’t aim to let that thing hurt you like that.”

Sam is the most sweet natured of hobbits, but when that Rangerly breeze blows through him he becomes a whole nother Sam. And at the moment I sensed that the winds had shifted.

I swallowed hard again and my heart started racing, and yet, instead of having the good sense to begin verbally wrestling Sam for the upper hand, I found myself drifting into a strange, blank void. Sam’s calm, easygoing voice surrounded me and I just stood there in a fog, serene, watching his pretty eyes glitter . . . .

“‘Doesn’t that make sense,’ you ask me, Mister Frodo?” Sam reached for me, uncrossed my arms, took my hands and drew me before him to stand between his spread knees, saying, “Welllll, it’s like this . . . .” And I just gazed at him, spellbound by Sam’s soothing tone, relaxing at the touch of his steady, sure hands moving over me . . . undoing my cloak, unbuckling Sting and putting it aside . . . . In a world turned upside down and filled with uncertainty, Sam was so everlastingly constant and stable . . . .

“Aye, you’re right,” he was saying, “sometimes it makes sense to push on, and I know that’s what Strider taught us. But he taught us lots of other things, too, like it sometimes being best to stop early because extra goings on needed tended to.”

“Extra goings on?” I murmured, watching him bunch up my cloak and set it beside him.

“Sure. You remember those times, Frodo. Strider didn’t mind calling an early halt or taking extra time if he needed to. He knew how important some things were. Like that time I got sick, and the times when Pippin needed some special help and the times when the Fellowship needed extra rest.

“And that’s why we’re going to stay right here. Because you and me have something more important to do right now than moving on. Tomorrow will be there for moving on, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. But what you and me have to do can’t wait. It needs done right here and right now, Mister Frodo, and no mistake.”

And before I could so much as squeak Sam yanked me around to his side and turned me over his knee. My face buried in my cloak, I let fly a panicked wail, little good it did me. I wriggled my head up, gasping, feeling Sam readying me with a speed that would’ve made a certain Ranger proud. He tugged my wrists around to hold them at the small of my back and shifted my bottom up to where he wanted it then closed my legs between his thighs as though expecting a fight. I’d have given him one if I could’ve. But in a matter of seconds I couldn’t move.

“SAM! What do you think you’re – OW!” I yelled, his first swat landing hard on the seat of my britches. I didn’t dare hope they would protect my backside much longer.

“Try to keep it down as best you can, Mister Frodo,” he said, appallingly affable.

“KEEP IT DOWN?! OW! OW!”

“Hush now and listen. See? There’s lots of birds singing on this side of the lake. Remember what Legolas told us about that?”

“NOO! OW!”

“He said that the birds go all quiet when orcs or trolls or dangerous, foul things are about. And Sting’s still plain old grey. It hasn’t been blue since we set foot on shore. So, with that and all these singing birds around, I reckon it’s safe to take care of you right now. And that’s good, ‘cause I sure didn't want to wait to make things clear to you. But, maybe you’d best try to keep it down anyway, ‘cause you never know.”

“Take care of m – what the – OWW!”

“Oh, and ‘what do I think I’m doing,' you ask? Well, Mister Frodo, I think you know what I think I’m doing. But, I’m surprised you don’t seem to know the ‘why.’ So we have us some discussing to do. In a little while, that is. When you’re more ready to listen.”

I gulped, thinking fast, and said, “Sam! No! Please! Can’t we – p-please, Sam, we-we can discuss whatever you like, but-but-but not like this! L-Let me go, and we can discuss whatever --”

“Now you know I can’t do that,” he said, tucking my shirt up under my imprisoned hands. “I need all your attention, Mister Frodo. I have some important things to explain to you, things I guess you don’t remember from the other times I’ve had you like this. That’s all right. Don’t worry. I don’t mind explaining the way things are. And you always listen better when your pretty bottom is nice and hot.” And he pulled my britches down with one big yank.

Cool air swept over my bare backside. “AHHHH! Sam, NOOO! Don’t!” Dreadful sensation! Ohhh! Shocking, awful feeling! I tried to kick and tried to buck and could do neither. “Stop it Sam! I order you to --”

“Nope. Sorry,” he said, tucking my body closer to his. “Like I told you the first time I turned you over my knee, I’m sorry, Mister Frodo, but your orders don’t have a place here.”

“Don’t have a --!” I snarled and gasped. “By what right --”

“What right? What right, did you say?” Sam growled deep in his throat. He actually growled, an ominous sound coming from my peaceful Sam. I swallowed hard and squirmed, my stomach clenching with dread. Oh, merciful Valar! Sam was unhappy with me – very, very unhappy with me. And he’d hidden it with startling skill, probably even from himself. But I knew I was about to feel the full force of his upset, explained to me in detail all over my very vulnerable behind.

Struggling to steady my shaking voice, I tried one more time. “Sam, alright . . . I-I can see that y-you’re upset with me --”

“Oh, no, Mister Frodo,” he said, sounding like his composed self again. “No, I’m not upset with you. But I’m right unhappy about what you did.”

“Right. Right. I-I see. And I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry, Sam. You’re right, of c-course. But, well, can we, please, can we discuss this? Please, Sam? Can we talk?”

“Oh, we’ll talk alright,” he said. “I have lots to say, and you have some things to learn, and we’ll work everything out right here and now. Aye, we’ll talk, little sir.” And he patted my bottom.

Oh, no. ‘Little sir.’ Oh, noooooo. There were times when Sam called me ‘little sir’ and it melted me, those special times when he turned my limbs to jelly and I lay with him, drifting in pleasure, and then there were times like now, when hearing ‘little sir’ spoken in Sam’s resolute tone made my heart race and my limbs quiver for a very different reason.

That was it. I was about to be sincerely spanked. I couldn’t talk my way out of it or escape the hand that was ready to crash down on my defenseless backside. But at this desperate moment, when all is lost and I’m seconds away from a spanking, it always feels good to give way to my temper and roar:

“SAM! Don’t you dare! I forbid it!”

I never see the arm when it ascends in an upward arch over my waiting backside, but I swear I can feel it happening. Then:

“AHHHHHH!”

************

At first I usually just hold him down and paddle away and let Frodo yell and carry on and be as mad at me as he needs to be. Most of the time he’s right furious at the beginning, telling me of how I’m not supposed to be doing this to him and ‘how dare I?’ and other kinds of nonsense like that.

And that’s all right. I just let him keep on yelling and I keep swatting away and after awhile he begins to see that all his ‘forbidding’ isn’t getting him anywheres, so he gives up on that and settles down enough for me to start talking things over with him. Going by the fuss he was making right now it’d be a while before Frodo was ready to do much listening. But no matter. I just kept swatting and Frodo kept yelling and that was how it usually happened ‘tween us.

Even though I’d warned him against getting too loud, I wasn’t all that concerned. I reckoned he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. But Frodo usually has a lot of big, powerful feelings to get rid of, and sometimes it seems he’d like some extra reason to just be mad. So I’ll give him one. Telling him to pipe down when he knew he didn’t have to seemed to work pretty good. He was already fussing Pippin-size.

I was trying to remember how long it had been since Frodo’s last bottom-warming. It was when we were in Lothlorien. All of us Fellowshippers had a hard time getting used to Mister Gandalf being gone, but some felt extra badly about their part in what happened. There were lots of guilty feelings going around about Moria. Pippin had a terrible hard time with it and his bottom got warmed more’n once, and so did Frodo’s.

“He feels he made the choice to go through the mines in the first place, Sam,” Strider had said when he took me aside one morning to tell me that Frodo needed some of his special over-the-knee help. I got upset.

“I know you’re trying to help him, Strider, and I appreciate it,” I told him. “But Frodo didn’t do nothing wrong! He had to decide something right then and there on that cold mountain, and we were all freezing and nobody was helping him make up his mind.”

“That is true, Sam.”

“He didn’t know what would happen! It wasn’t his fault!”

“True again.”

“Then I don’t understand. It doesn’t make no sense, Frodo feeling guilty about Mister Gandalf when it wasn’t his fault!”

“Once again, I agree. But it matters not if the issue makes sense to you and me, Sam. It makes sense to Frodo. It is a question of confused thinking, and a spanking is very effective for clearing up confused thinking.” And Frodo’s thinking sure had needed some clearing up.

But it had been a while since I’d had Frodo over my knee. I’d forgotten how nice this felt, how he was always so small and light and cuddly on my lap, and how pretty he looked, bottom up. I held him right snug so’s he couldn’t do much but squirm, and I watched his round little bottom getting pinker and warmer under my hand and that special fire went bursting through me. And, oh, it was so good.

When I first started doing this to Frodo it didn’t seem right to feel so good. He was upset and crying and hurting, all because of what I was doing to him, and that started to bother me. But I couldn’t never have talked about such a thing with anyone.

Strider has a mysterious way of seeing inside of folks, though, and one time when he’d taken me with him to gather athelas and we were alone, he said, “Are you troubled by the way you feel when you spank Frodo, Sam? It is an enjoyable feeling, is it not?”

My face exploded with heat, and I stammered for a couple of minutes and couldn’t get any kind of answer out. But Strider just smiled in that quiet way of his and said, “No need for concern. It is natural to feel a pleasant sensation when you are spanking Frodo, even though you are causing him physical discomfort. You are too much of a gentleman to ask anyone about this, or to even admit to such feelings, but let me assure you, Sam, all those who have spanked another in love have experienced those good feelings. Love is the guiding force behind a spanking, at least the kind of spanking we engage in. It flows back and forth between the two parties. And what is done in love cannot feel anything but enjoyable and right and natural.”

That was what made Strider as grand as he was. He could see into a person’s heart and calm his troubles just like that. I’d thought about what he’d said, then I said, “But, Strider, in Bree, you had just met us, and you didn’t know us, but you, well, you know, you paddled us all right off.”

“‘Paddled?’” He’d grinned at me. “‘Paddled,’ Sam? Come now, sir; you know that I have never used anything but my hand during a spanking.” And when I blushed again he winked at me and said, “You still cannot bring yourself to say the word ‘spank,’ eh?” I squirmed, making him chuckle.

“Aye, ‘tis true. I spanked all of you in Bree, even though I scarce knew you. However, I knew of you, through Gandalf, and after watching the four of you all evening in the common room I formed a quick fondness for you that surprised even me. I felt protective of you ere we even spoke and I was determined to keep you safe.

“But you were, if you recall, undisciplined, to say the least. I had to make certain you obeyed my orders and that you began to trust me. By spanking each of you I made certain you knew what would happen if you chose to disobey me and by comforting you afterwards I showed that I could be trusted to treat you with compassion and fairness, even if you needed to be disciplined. Afterwards you knew that I was watching out for you and that I would let you come to no harm, nor would I allow you to harm yourselves or anyone else with carelessness or disobedience.

“I would not have bothered to spank you and comfort you that night unless I felt something for you. And I did feel fondness for you, all of you. So, when you spank Frodo you are not enjoying making him suffer, Sam. A spanking is not about suffering.”

Since that talk with Strider I’d stopped fretting about feeling good when I was paddling Frodo. And now I just held him down and swatted away and let those feelings come. He was pretty upset with me, and that wasn’t surprising. He always is when I do this to him. Frodo really does hate to be paddled. But, he must’ve known what I’d do to him after he’d tried to leave me behind. Wouldn’t he think I’d be a little put out by what he’d done? Wouldn’t he have figured he had a good walloping coming?

Well, no. I didn’t hear a single ‘sorry, Sam,’ when we landed, and there wasn’t no, ‘Sam, I can explain.’ He wasn’t bashful and squirmy like he is when he feels guilty, not at all. And I saw that it was because Frodo really didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

Not only did he think he hadn’t done anything wrong, Frodo reckoned I’d been wrong to follow him after he told me to go back. He started right off, ‘forgiving me,’ and all I could do was repeat after him, like I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. I wasn’t. I’d been plain flummoxed.

Did Frodo really think I’d just stand there and let him go to Mordor alone? And where’d he get the idea that I felt badly about following him even though he told me to go back? And he thought I needed him to forgive me so’s I’d feel better? None of it made sense. I’d just stood there, listening to all that forgiveness coming at me, and when he was done I’d been so dumbfounded I couldn’t make a sound. I had to look away and try to think.

My Frodo knows a lot about how people feel deep inside. It wasn’t like him to be so thickheaded. Maybe the Ring had some little part of this after all, filling Frodo’s head with nothing except his own wants and some folly about me feeling guilty for disobeying him. But he really thought I wouldn’t be upset about what he’d done?

Still right baffled I’d looked out across the water one more time. Strider and Legolas and Gimli were leaving now, heading off into the woods, and then I remembered again what Strider told me in Lorien: “It matters not if the issue makes sense to you and me. It makes sense to Frodo. A spanking is very effective for clearing up confused thinking.”

Bless me, but if ever there was a bigger case of confused thinking! I reckoned Frodo’s forgiving me made sense to him. I’d gone and ruined the plans he’d made for me, his plans to keep me safe. The scary thing was, he’d near done it. My insides froze thinking of how close Frodo came.

Well, there wasn’t going to be no more of that kind of confused thinking.

“Go ahead and fuss, little sir,” I told him, not that he’d been waiting for me to say that. He’d been yelling up a storm. “Tell you what, I’ll let you kick, but none of that flailing around too hard like you sometimes do, Frodo, or I’ll tuck your little legs right back ’tween mine again.”

Frodo just sputtered and wailed. He’d started crying early in his paddling this time, and that meant there was a whole lot stirring up inside that needed to get out. This was his, ‘I’m-soooo-mad-at-you-Sam’ kind of crying, but it was just Frodo’s upset talking.

“Never you mind, Mister Frodo,” I said. “I know you’re too mad to take any favors from me right now.” I stopped swatting him and pulled his legs up over my lap, then I snuggled him close again, and said, “There now. That should feel better. Just behave yourself and don’t go getting too rambunctious.” And I started up again with nice steady smacks.

He gave a little roar and started kicking right off. “Saaaaaaam! AHHHHH! Please, S-Sam! Stop! Stop! Enough! Stop!! OWWWWWWWW!”

“Stop? Now? Oh, no, no, noooo; we have us quite a ways to go yet. We haven’t even started talking things over, and I have lots to say and you have lots to listen to. And, well, I’m sorry iffen you don’t like that.” He growled and gave a way-too-strong kick.

“One more like that, little sir, and you won’t be allowed to kick no more.”

Oh, but Frodo was cross with me! He let fly a whole string of elvish that sounded downright nasty. “My goodness! I reckon that there was some pretty dirty elvish,” I said all praiseful-like. “That sure didn’t sound like something you’d say to Strider or Legolas.” He spat out even more awful sounding words. So I ‘tsked’ and gave him some extra-hard swats, making him squawk. “Funny how such a pretty tongue like elvish can sound so ugly when it wants to. Too bad it’s wasted on me, but saying such things just feels oh-so-very naughty, doesn’t it, little sir?”

Squirmy nipper-talk like that gets under a person’s skin and makes a paddling seem even bigger. Frodo once told me, “Hearing that kind of language at such a time is just . . . well, Sam, it can be very . . . disagreeable talk.” And I just burst out with a quick laugh, because my dear Frodo is so lovably polite.

Sure enough, my ‘disagreeable talk’ made Frodo kick and push his face into the cloak and howl.

I grinned and said, “Oh, and a’fore you share more of those special words I don’t understand, I’d best remind you who it was carried the soap in his pack when we were on the march, and who still has it.”

Frodo flinched and froze; then he lifted his head and yelled, “SAM! YOU-YOU WOULD-WOULDN’T DAR—OWWWW!”

“I wouldn’t?” I cut in. “Just what makes you think that? Maybe I haven’t never done it yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. I sure will, and no mistake. So, mind your sass, little sir. You’re really too much of a good-mannered gentlemanly hobbit to say such naughty things.”

“N-No I-I’m nawwwwwwwwt!”

I couldn’t hold back my chuckling.

“Saaaaaam!”

“Oh!” I choked back my next chuckle. “I don’t mean to laugh. I’m sorry.”

“No-No, you’re n-n-not! You’re n-not s-sorry!”

“Well, I reckon maybe I’m not,” I said.

“Ohhhhhh, S-Sam! OWWW!”

“It’s your own fault I end up chuckling, Mister Frodo. You’re like a little nipper who says funny things and ends up being so cute folks laugh.” I vow I felt his whole body burst into one big hot blush.

“Oh, S-Sam s-stop s-saying – a ni-nip-per! No, I’m not, n-not, nawwwwwwt!”

I left him thinking that over and just went on swatting Frodo’s curvy little backside. At first it didn’t seem all that nice or fair or mannerly of me to chuckle when Frodo was over my knee and at my good mercies. But Strider helped me with that, too:

“Sam, you cannot help enjoying Frodo when he is being adorable,” he said. “You are not taking advantage of your position or betraying a trust. Were you to share your concerns with him afterwards, what do you think Frodo would say?”

I’d thought about it, then grinned. “He’d laugh and tell me that it was alright."

“Aye, he would, Sam. And so it is.”

Well, if it was good enough for Strider it was good enough for me.

“SAAAAAM!” Frodo spat out between his sobbing. “Pleeeease! N-Nooooooo morrre! E-Enough!”

“You know, Frodo, every time you yell that you’ve had enough it just proves that you haven’t.”

“AHHHHHHHH!”

But Frodo’s bottom was getting that very pretty reddish glow to it, so I felt like he probably was ready to behave enough for me to let go of his hands. I’d been holding them behind his back all this time because sometimes Frodo just needs to be held down like that, and this had been one of those times.

“Do you reckon you’re ready to listen, little sir?” I asked him.

“Oh, y-yessss! Yes, S-Sam! Ready . . . r-reckon . . . to lis-listen!”

“And you’re all done using naughty elvish words?”

“Uh-huhhhhhh! D-Done using – was naugh-naughty el-elvish!”

I grinned and said, “Alright then.”

I let go of Frodo’s hands, and he slid them up to either side of his head and he started squeezing and twisting the cloak. I just watched him, so pretty, my Frodo. Those knots that had been all tied up inside me were loose now and I was lots more quiet inside. I had my Frodo just where I wanted him. He was all mine when he was laid out over my lap, safe. He couldn’t get away from me. He couldn’t do nothing but behave himself and listen to me, and it felt so good that I just grinned and grinned.

I started slowing down my swats, saying, “I suppose you were right unhappy when you turned around in the boat and saw me coming after you, Mister Frodo.”

“Oh, S-Saaaam! Uh-huhhhhh! Wanted y-you safe!”

“I know. And I can see how you felt, because I always feel the same about you. I want to keep you safe. ‘Cept the safest place I know of for you is right where you are, over my knee like this, and I suppose you don’t much like that notion, little sir.”

“Noooooooo!”

“But I know what you were thinking. You have this big scary thing to do and you have to go to a terrible place to do it, and that felt like the biggest, scariest thing there could ever be. That was awful enough. But you sure didn’t want me having to go there with you.”

“Noooooo! D-Didn’t! I wanted y-you --”

“You wanted me to be safe, I know. And I wouldn’t be safe if I stayed with you. You know how scary this is and how much more scary it’s going to be, how awful, and you reckoned that I’d feel the same way you did; I’d be just as scared. Right?”

“Y-YESSS! Oh Saaaaaam!”

“But, listen to me, Frodo,” I said. “I don’t feel the same way about things as you do. Whatever’s out there is scary, to be sure, but that’s not what scares me most. What scares me most is what I saw when I ran out of that forest and there you were, leaving me behind. For me, there isn’t no bigger scared than that. No orcish things or Dark Lords are as terrible scary to me as seeing you leave me.”

Frodo’s breathing hitched and he gasped real soft, “Oh, Sam!”

“Remember the first time I took you over my knee, Mister Frodo? I told you then that I wouldn’t have you planning wild stunts and running off anywhere without me, ever. I said that where you go, I go, and I set about to make sure you understood that. Remember?”

Frodo hiccupped and said, “Uh-huhhhhh!”

“Well, I reckon it’s time to teach that lesson again, and that’s alright. I don’t mind. Because nothing’s changed, little sir. I still won’t have you running away from me, not never. And now you’ve gone and almost done it. You almost did, Frodo!”

Something hot went off inside me and I shuddered and tipped up his bottom and started paddling that tender little place that made him squeal and wiggle and wail.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH! SAAMMMMM! AHHH! NOOO! PLEASE,PLEASE,PLEEEAHHHHH!”

“Like I said, nothing scares me more than you leaving me behind. And, seeing you doing it, well, it made my blood go cold, little sir. And in case you were wondering, that’s why you’re over my knee.”

“AHHHHHHHH, Sam! Pleeeeease!”

I gave him one more big swat, then moved back up to his bottom. “But you already know why you’re over my knee, don’t you, Frodo?” I said. “That’s why you haven’t asked me. Deep down inside, you knew all along I wouldn’t want you running off without me, that this was the worst naughty thing you could do, far’s I’m concerned.”

“Oh, S-Sam, I-I-I --”

“Shhh, Frodo. Shhh. No need to fuss. I really do understand what you were trying to do, and I reckon that, at least in part, the Ring was making you do it. But it was your own choice, too, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huhhhhhhh!”

“Fact is, I’m thinking it was mostly your doing. The Ring didn’t make you run away.”

“N-Nooooooooo! N-Not the R-Ring!”

I nodded. “The first thing you said when we landed was that you forgave me, and all that nonsense. That weren’t the Ring talking. That was you, Frodo.”

“Oh, Saaaam!”

“Shhhhh. I know you thought leaving me was for the best. But it wasn’t for MY best, and if I can’t trust you to know that, then this could happen again. You could decide you know what’s best for me again and leave me when I’m sleeping and there I’d be, waking up alone, without my Frodo. And there you’d be, going into that darkness alone, without me.”

“Ohhhhhhhh!”

“Don’t worry. That’s not gonna happen, little sir. You’re going to promise me, here and now, that you won’t never again try to leave me behind on this journey we’re on together. And if you won’t give me that promise I’ll bundle you up in my elven rope and take you right back across the lake to Strider and he can deal with you. You know I can do it, and don’t think I won’t do it, neither, because this is way too important. I need that promise, Frodo, and we’re not taking one step forward until I have it. It’s just you and me now. We have a long ways to go and a big thing to do, and so help me, we’re going to do it together. I can’t be worrying about you trying to sneak away from me every time I close my eyes. I have to be able to trust you again.”

“A-g-gain?” Frodo wailed. “Tr-Trust me a-again? Ohhhhhhh, S-Saam!”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m sorry as I can be to have to say this, Mister Frodo, but when I saw you paddling away from me, well, it felt like a trust was broken between us. A silent trust, maybe, because, well, maybe we never put it in exact words, but that was because we never had to. We both knew it was there, holding us together like one joined person. And when you tried to leave me behind you tore that joined person apart and our trust was broke.”

Frodo busted out into a fresh bunch of tears. “Noooooooooooo!”

I hated hearing him sob in that broken-hearted way, but Frodo needed to understand what he’d done, so I kept swatting and talking in a gentle voice. What I was saying was hard enough; it needed to be said gentle-like. I paddled him more lightly now, too, but I didn’t let up because this was far from over and Frodo needed a steady stream of swats right now to stay with me.

“Like I said, I know you thought you were leaving me behind for my own good, to protect me,” I went on. “But you don’t get to decide what’s best for me, little sir. Only I get to choose the chances I want to take, like when I jumped from the bushes at the Council and told Mister Elrond that I was going with you on the Quest. I got to choose that for me.

“And what you did today, well, it reminds me of the time that, real sneaky-like, I gave you my share of that athelas tea Strider made us drink so’s we wouldn’t get sick, and then I got sick, remember?”

“Uh-h-huuuuuuuuuh!”

“I did what I wanted to do, and even though I thought it was the best thing for you, it wasn’t. So, after Strider made me better, he had to, well, you know . . . .” I cringed, remembering the awful tanning Strider gave me and what a big lesson that had been. My backside had been sore for two days.

“H-He spank-spanked you, S-Sam!”

My face went hot as Frodo’s red little bottom. “Aye, well --”

“Arag-gorn spanked and sp-spanked you!” Frodo cried out. And I suddenly got the feeling he was having just the best time telling me that.

“Aye! He did. Thank you. Now hush,” I said, and I gave him an extra hard swat that made Frodo squeak and hush. “Strider had to remind me what he taught the four of us in Bree – that we were supposed to follow his orders no matter what, even if we didn’t want to and even if we didn’t understand his orders – especially in those times, in fact. It wasn’t for me to decide what was best for you, like how much tea you drank. And the same goes for you, Frodo. It’s not for you to decide what’s best for me, neither. I won’t have it. Understand?”

Frodo went real still and quiet, crying in a shuddery way, and I could feel him hearing me, and I knew that he understood in his deepest place of understanding. “Yessssss! Oh, Saaaam! Y-Yes! Unnersta-stand youuu! I dooo!”

“Good. I think you do. I hope you do. Because now you have a promise to make to me, little sir, and when you make it I want you to remember this: no matter what that lump of poison around your neck might whisper to you, you’re still a hobbit, and no hobbit ever goes so low as to break a promise. Not ever. Do they, Mister Frodo?”

“N-N-Nooooooo, S-Samm!”

“Then I want you to say it in your own words. Right now. Promise me you won’t never again try to run away from me on our journey.”

****************

“I w-won’t!” I wailed. “I-I prom-mise Sam! I-I won’t!”

“Won’t what? Keep going.” SWAT!

“OWW! I-I p-promise I w-won’t ever a-again try to run aw-way from you – won’t t-try to leave you be-behind on-on-on our j-journey. I-I promise, Sam!”

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

And Sam stopped spanking me. Hot quivers ripped through me, my body bracing for more, my legs aching from all the kicking, and I lay there, shaking and crying and trembling, my breath catching and my bottom throbbing with heat. My Sam was the gentlest of hobbits, but he could deliver a spanking equal to any Ranger or elf twice his size.

“P-Promise! I-I-I promise, Sam!” I kept muttering, stuck on the words, my mind sluggish and drifting in that post-spanking fog.

“That’s good enough for me, Mister Frodo,” he said, patting my fiery backside. I hissed and arched and squeaked. “Shhhhhhhhhh,” Sam purred. “Hush now, my sweet Frodo. You gave me your promise, and I trust you enough to take you at your word.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh! Oh, Sam!” I curled my arms under my head and buried my face in the crook of my elbow, bursting into fresh sobbing, “Y-You do? Y-You trust m-me again? Y-You doooo?”

“‘Course I do,” he said. “That promise was for you as much as for me. And that leaves just one more thing you need to say to me --”

“Sorrrrrrryyyyy!” I wailed, lifting my head. “Oh, S-Sam! I-I’m sorry, sorry, s-soorrrrrrr--”

And before I’d finished my ‘sorries’ Sam swept me into his arms, scooping up my limp body with the ease of one who’d worked hard for many years. He gathered me close and I collapsed in his embrace, draping my arms around his shoulders, nestling my face against his neck and breathing in his comforting scent, Sam’s delightful scent of fresh air and woodsmoke and clean, genuine hobbit.

“M-My Saaaaaam, my S-Saaaaaaaaam,” I murmured, my lips against his skin.

“Aye, Mister Frodo. Shhh. That’s right. Your Sam,” he murmured. “Always. Your Sam.” His warm, sweet breath tickled my ear and he held me closely, nuzzling my curls and kissing the side of my face, ohhh, such delicious touches . . . mmmm.

“Sorry, sorry, s-sorry, S-Sam!”

“I know,” he said. “And it’s all right now. Shhhhhhh, hush now. Enough sorries, little sir. Settle down. All over, sweet Frodo. All done. I trust you to keep your promise.”

“Oh, Sam,” I whispered. “Th-Thank you.”

“Shhhhhhh.”

For a while I just drifted in his arms, wishing I could stay there forever and ever, safe. I tried to keep from thinking. I felt too wonderful to think. I couldn’t think, especially about the future. That was too terrible to think about. I wished Sam and I could just walk away from any future.

But no. My Sam was also the noblest of hobbits, and he was right about hobbits and promises. I’d volunteered for this, so there would be no walking away from the future and from what I’d said I’d do, and now there would be no walking away from my Sam. He’d seen to that, no question. But, oh how I wished that I could’ve made this decision for him, and that he was back with Aragorn and the others, safe. I’d chosen to do this horrible thing. I hadn’t wanted it for Sam.

And yet, on a purely selfish note, I was so glad Sam was with me that I was weeping from relief and joy as much as from the sore bottom he’d given me. Just before climbing into that boat I’d stood there on the shore, terrified to move, terrified to think about going on alone, Gandalf’s words about making the most of the time that was given to me finally urging me forwards. My doom was mine alone to bear. I wouldn’t let Sam ruin himself for a vow I’d taken. I no longer had the power to decide my own destiny, but I could, and I would decide Sam’s destiny for him.

Or so I thought.

Sam had made his point well. And he’d been right. That’s why he’d been so silent during all my forgiving. I’d thought he’d been too moved to speak when in truth he’d been too stunned to form words. Had it been Pippin in Sam’s place he’d have butted in with a shocked, “What are ya’ blatherin’ on about, Frodo? ME feel guilty? Are you daft?”

But Sam wasn’t one to argue about things. He figured his actions would speak better than he could and, oh, Merciful Middle Earth he’d been right!

“There are few better places from which to see things in a clearer light than where you are right now, little one,” Aragorn had once said when I was over his knee and he was seconds away from spanking me. So true.

Sam had started rocking, knowing that I loved it. “You’re quieting down real nice, Mister Frodo,” he said. And I realized that I’d stopped crying. “Iffen you turn towards me just a little and rest up on your hip then I can . . . .” I was shifting upwards before he finished telling me what I knew he intended to do. I’d already started purring.

Sam cuddled me to him with one arm and reached down with his free hand to rub my burning bottom. I flinched and squeaked at his first touch, then I quivered and melted against him, shudders washing over me.

“Mmmmmmm . . . ohhhhh, Saaam . . . .”

A sudden thought yanked me from that oblivion. My eyes popped open and I blinked and stared off. Sam paused.

“Alright.” He lowered me down from his shoulder and cradled me across his lap, braced by his arm. I looked up at him, and he said, “Alllllright. What happened, little sir?”

I mindlessly drew a fingernail up to my teeth and Sam grabbed my hand and kissed the almost-bitten fingernail just the way Aragorn used to do.

“Out with it, Frodo. You were all mushy and quiet and calm and then your whole little self went stiff, like you saw something that spooked you bad. But the birds are still singing and Sting hasn't turned blue and there's nothing here that's scary. So, what happened? Tell me. And you know better’n to say, ‘nothing.’ Come on now. What nasty lie is that thing ‘round your neck trying to tell you?”

He was uncanny, my Sam. “Well, I-I was wondering . . . when we landed, well, why didn’t I even think to say that I was sorry for trying to leave you? Why didn't it occur to me to apologize for that, Sam? I never once considered the fact that you might be upset about what I’d done. All I thought about was forgiving you. Actually, I should have been asking for your forgiveness. I know you wondered about it.”

Sam nodded.

“So, maybe . . . well, maybe it was the Ring talking to me, Sam, telling me to keep going and to leave you behind.”

“Nay, Frodo. I think you were doing just what you said you were. You wanted to protect me, that’s all. And, wrong as it was, just like me and that athelas tea, your reasons were good and noble and made sense to you, and like Strider once told me, iffen it makes sense to you, it don’t matter if it makes sense to me.”

“He said that?” I asked.

“Yep.” Sam kissed my fingers again and went on, “He said that such things happen because of simple confused thinking. But don’t you worry none about that, Mister Frodo, because I know just how to handle confused thinking.” And Sam flashed me his quick little smile and a wink. “Don’t I?”

**************
Epilogue

He’s sleeping now. I should be sleeping, too, but even though I’m lying half-draped over Sam and my aching bottom isn’t touching anything, Sam had done a certain Ranger proud. I’m sure that Aragorn’s heart was comforted when he saw that my loyal Sam had joined me. Aragorn now knows that I’ll be all right. And I will be.

Listening to Sam’s calm, even breathing and the steady thrumming of his heart beneath my ear I’m as comforted as Aragorn. For, whatever comes, Sam is with me, watching out for me, caring about me enough to almost drownd-ed himself for my sake and loving me enough to leave me lying awake with a very sore bottom.

He sleeps. My Sam can sleep. And all because of my promise.

end

ta-ta for now!

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 02:56:02 GMT

Yes, dear readers, its time once again for “Larrk’s Annual Business Trip.” Those of you who have been with me for a while might recall that every year around this time my ‘business trip’ takes me to a place that is *gulp* computer-free. Tomorrow I’ll begin two weeks of offline limbo, and, you know, it occurs to me that, since I’ll have no keyboard and no modern means of documentation, well, wouldn’t it be just like LeMuse to wake up and come back online when I’m not there to write things down? After all the silence I can just see it choosing this moment to come out and play.

Well, I might not have access to those modern means, but I will have pen and paper, so if my fickle bratling of a muse starts talking I’ll be listening and scribbling. Let’s keep our collective fingers crossed and I’ll see you in a fortnight!

Best to all and Namarie!
Larrk

a little fun eye candy

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 14:26:22 GMT

For several weeks now the cold has been brutal and the snow very deep where I live. But yesterday dancingkatz sent me a pressie that made me giggle and warmed me up, a juicy little avatar I’d like to share with all of you. I don’t know who made it, so, alas, I can’t credit it. But I hope you enjoy, and thanks, dancingkatz!

By the way, does anyone know, are these the real deal? What say you, my friends? Are these actual screen caps of the actors' . . . charms?

A New Twist on The Twelve Days

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 22:14:57 GMT

Season's Greetings all! Readers have been so kind this year, sending e-cards and holiday wishes - Le Muse and I are feeling downright spoiled and grateful. Something special came my way today from our dear reader Christine aka Dancingkatz. It tickled LMuse and me so that I asked the author if I could share it with all of you, and she graciously agreed. (thank you, Christine!) And so, I present for your enjoyment:

The Twelve Days of Yule (à la Larrkin's Nest)
by Dancingkatz --

1 strong hand
2 mischievous Hobbits
3 stern Rangers
4 weak excuses
5 not-so-smart ideas
6 bottles of Dorwinion wine
7 swordbelts divested
8 exasperating excuses
9 worried looks
10 pranks played
11 eventful episodes (of "certain doom")
12 anxious apologies
*~*~*~*~*~*~*

And a wish for very happy remaining days of the Yuletide season to you all!

Sparrow's song

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 00:18:34 GMT

Greetings my dear readers!

Yesterday a little sparrow flew into my email and informed me that someone over on Adult Fan Fiction.net had “borrowed” rather freely from one of my stories, Attention Deserved. The little sparrow, a stranger to me, was outraged on my behalf and had gone so far as to leave a scathing review for the offending author. I was touched by this unknown little bird’s concern and I was, naturally, curious. So over to AFF I trotted and what I found in the heading gave me considerable pause. Here’s the author’s description of the story:

Genres: Abuse, Anal, Angst, AU/AR, BDSM, Bond, ChallengeFic, D/s, Dom, Fet, H/C, HJ, Humil, Humour, Language, M/M, N/C, Oral, Other, Pedofelia, Rape, Rim, Romance, Slave, SoloM, Spank, UST, Violence, Voy, WAF, WD, WIP, Yaoi

Warnings: Explicit descriptions of sex, graphic violence, strong language, non/con, Rape, Pedofelia, BDSM, LOTR spoilers, Slave, AU
****

To quote Gwin, “Ew.” I mean, pedophilia? With an ‘f’ even? I admit it – I’m a wuss. I could barely get through the warnings much less actually read the thing, and I didn't. But, if the alleged theft was indeed true I felt kinda sullied to learn that this author had possibly taken my setting(s), relationship(s), and god-knew-what-else(s) to such a place. I did skim some of the first chapter, though, looking for what had so scandalized my little sparrow, and lo and behold I came upon this passage, which occurs soon after the story opens. Does this sound familiar to you?

Title: The Pride of Boromir
Author: Samara
Excerpt from chapter 1:

"You speak of things you do not know," Aragorn growled furiously. "My wanderings have been anything but pleasant. They have been riddled with pain and toil. And as for never helping the people of Gondor, that is a lie. I remember you, little bratling, from my days in the White City. From my days as Thorongil."

Boromir was stunned. No. This man, this usurper of the throne could not be his beloved Thorongil; his mentor, his idol, his friend.

"Th-Thorongil?" Boromir gasped and then before he could stop himself, he was in Aragorn's arms, clinging to the man as though he would never let him go.

"Yes, little warrior," Aragorn said, wrapping his arms around the man. "It is I."

"You've gotten so... so..." Boromir struggled for words.

"Old?" Aragorn supplied with a small smile. "You are one to speak. The last time I beheld you, you were little more than five summers and still flailing about with a wooden sword like the little fledgling you are."

Boromir made an indignant noise and pulled out of Aragorn's arms.

"I was ten! Little Fledgling indeed!" he exclaimed, making Aragorn laugh and ruffle his hair as he used to do during his days as Thorongil.

"You will always be my little fledgling, my tiny warrior," the ranger said fondly. "Whether I am king or mere ranger, naught will change the fact that in my eyes you will always be that impertinent little lad who thought the world revolved around him."
*******

So, gentle readers, what do you think?

EDIT

Vindication!

Huzzah! As you can see in a comment below from MackenzieW - my original sparrow – the little bird who first alerted me to the ‘theft’ is announcing some good news! Our copycat author removed the offending story from the net! Yes, dear readers, it’s gone!

Well, well and well. I returned from a long weekend of Thanksgiving thankfulness to find a good news email waiting from my sparrow and this comment in my LJ. Impossible to be certain whether the author removed the story because of the "MST3K"-ing or because of pressure from outraged readers - both those who read my stories and those who don’t read me, but do abominate the vileness of plagiarism. What matters is that it’s down! And I find that I have yet more to be thankful for – I’ve learned that other eyes are watching those borders of Fair Play, a comforting feeling, and that there can be justice in such cases.

Many thanks to my beloved readers. You’ve been my silver lining within this ugly little black cloud and Le Muse and I are most grateful for your loyal support. Hugs to all ~

~Larrk

Wretched Larrk Alert!

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 17:37:18 GMT

Greetings all! Yes, I’m still alive, and I’d love to be writing, but Le Muse is being elusive and contrary and I’m bored to tears and Royally Fed Up. So it’s bunny call time! Help! Does anyone have a stray bunny or two? A prompt? An idea? Something you’ve been longing to see written featuring your favorite(s)? Send it my way and let’s see if we can inspire the muse to rejoin the living. No promises of course, as I never know what will tickle Le Muse’s finicky fancy, but I just know that somewhere out there is a bunny it can’t resist.

In eager anticipation,
Larrk

The Comfort of Consequences – part IV ; Epilogue

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 12:12:46 GMT

At last, the conclusion to this duel tale, and – *gasp!* – our tricksy little muse jumped up and tagged on an epilogue to seal things off. It likes to surprise me by staging such ambushes. That being said, I admit that I can’t predict when the next story will show up. But my constant hope is that it won’t be long. ‘Till then, thanks for reading, and special hugs to all who have encouraged and delighted the muse and me with your supportive responses!

Two very similar stories – Frodo decides to assert his adulthood, and in the course of stopping him, Legolas recalls a time when Glorfindel stopped him from doing the same thing.

part one is here.

part two is here.

part three is here

Beta appreciation notes to Larrk’s beleaguered betas:
Helen; AKA, HRH Larrk’s Herald – who with sublime skill superbly executes her double duties of beta and Court Appointed Herald, and to my beloved Kat, who IM’s with me her instant support, reads and re-reads as is needed, and provides me with her exquisitely encouraging ‘mirror reviews.’ Thanks, Team Larrk!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, and Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

The Comfort of Consequences – part IV ; Epilogue
by Larrkin

“AHHHHHHHHH! Leg’las pleeeeeease!”

“Hush.”

Another one-word reply. He simply was not going to talk to me. Not until he was ready. Legolas started out spanking in silence. I knew that. He had ever been that way. He still was. Infuriating elf. My efforts thus far had been met with non-word sounds, one-word non-responses, or a stronger swat, which shut me up quite effectively save a hearty, “AHHHHHHHHHH!”

Nevertheless, desperation forced me to try every so often, hoping to prod him out of his silent yet certain attempt to spank me for the rest of my life.

“AHHHHHHHHH! Pl-Pleeease, Leg’las! OWWWW! Please st-stop!”

“Hush.”

“B-But you are going to-to spank me for the r-rest of my liiiiife!”

That made him chuckle. And – miraculously – speak! “I am?” he said.

“Yes!”

“That sounds like a bleak future for us both, sweetling.”

“Uh-huuuuh!”

“Well, rest assured, little one. I am not planning to spank you for the rest of your life.”

“You are tooo!” I sounded ridiculous, but I was over Legolas’ knee and he was spanking me and spanking me with no end in sight. I was simply not at my finest.

“Nay, Frodo, I am not. In truth, you are entirely out of practice,” he said. “Trust me, sweetling. I know. This is what happens when it has been a long time between spankings.”

“But-But, last week, Sam --”

“Sam’s spanking was doubtless unpleasant, but I wager it was lighter than it might have been were you not recovering. He was being more careful with you than he had been when we were together in the Fellowship. Is that not so?”

“Noo!” I eagerly fibbed. “It w-was just as b-bad!”

“Frodo.”

Just how did he know these things? “M-Maybe it wasn’t as bad. But it was still awful!”

“I am certain it was, sweetling. And no ‘big person’ has spanked you since our Fellowship broke apart at Amon He--” Legolas paused, his voice suddenly tight and thick.

I knew what had happened back at Amon Hen when Sam and I were paddling across the lake – Merry and Pippin’s abduction, Boromir’s near death and how the elves had saved him – it must have been horrific for Legolas to still struggle when speaking of it. He really was too sweet. I could save him from his discomfort, though, and I hurried to do so.

“N-No! Faram-mir spanked m-me and S-Sam, Leg’las, ‘member?” I sputtered. "In Ithlee - Ithila - Ith -"

“In Ithilien. Ah, indeed.” Legolas said in a much more comfortable tone. “But I say again, Frodo, you are simply out of practice. So while I know it likely feels as though I have been spanking you for hours and hours --”

“You h-have been!” I cried. “You’ve been spanking m-me for hours and hou --”

“Nay, sweetling,” Legolas said, a smile in his voice. “I have not. I am sorry to inform you that I have been at this only a very small fraction of the time I used to spend spanking you. We have, in fact, just started.”

Oh no. That couldn’t be! “Oh noooooo!”

“I regret that it seems otherwise, however, it is true. I would not lie to you. And while your pretty little bottom is now nicely pink, I prefer to see a rosy red shade covering a naughty backside ere I am finished.”

“Oh noooooooooooooo! Pleeeeee --”

“You know that I wouldst never ever maltreat you, my sweet Frodo.”

I froze, astonished, despite my distress, to hear him voice such a notion. Of all the outrageous --! “Oh, Leg’las! ‘C-Course I know you w-wouldn’t do that!”

I heard him sniff that little grin of his, then he said in a reflective tone, “I know you know. I am watching you carefully, Frodo, not only your pretty bottom. So settle down now. No more fussing.”

“But if I am out of p-practice, then you should build up s-slowly!” Made perfect sense to me. For some reason, though, Legolas found this humorous.

“Why, thank you, sir, for your guidance.”

“Not at all. OWWWWWWWWWW!”

“But it is not your place to tell me how to carry out this spanking. So, hush.”

“AAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! But-but-but, Leg’las, can we talk yet?”

“We have been talking.”

I swallowed my growl and said, “I m-mean ‘bout why I-I’m getting spanked!”

“You do not know?” he asked in a startled voice, a mock startled voice, for he knew very well what I meant, yet he persisted. “Frodo, if you do not know why I am spanking you then I should be quiet and give you a nice long period of time to reflect whilst I continue to --”

“Noooooooo! I do know why! I do! I do! I doooooooo!”

“Ah. I am glad to hear it. Since you do know why you are being spanked, what is there to talk about, little one?”

I kicked furiously. “Legolas!”

“Hush.”

“I hate that worrrrd!”

“I shall stop saying it when you start doing it.”

Then and there I forfeited all sense of perspective. I gave my fury and my frustration free rein and resorted to something sincerely unscrupulous. I waited a bit, then I feigned exhaustion, collapsing over his lap and pretending that I was too unfit to continue.

“Leg’las,” I whimpered, gasping a bit for good measure. “P-Please, I’m weary, so v-very weary, and I f-feel weak . . . and, and . . . unwell.”

Legolas paused, and the moment he did my guilt hit full force. I instantly regretted what I’d done. And it was too late.

Legolas knew what I was about at once. How he knew I’ve no idea. But he hadn’t been fooled. Legolas just knew. He remained still, and I felt him thoughtfully observing me, then he sighed and murmured in a sorrowful tone, “Ah, Frodo. Is that really true, sweetling?”

“I . . . .” And I clenched all over, twisting the coverlet in my fists. “N-N-Nooo,” I said in a small voice, suddenly recalling, too late, something we hobbits had learned about Legolas way back at the beginning of the Quest:

“There’s no use trying to fib to him or to hide something from him,” I’d told Merry and Pippin when they were wickedly contemplating something ill advised. “Legolas will know.”

“He doesn’t always know,” Merry said.

“Most of the time he knows,” Sam said.

“How?” Pip grumbled. “Just how does he?”

“No idea.” I shrugged. “How, for that matter, does Aragorn know?”

“You’re right,” Merry said, “I think Aragorn taught Legolas how to always know.”

“No matter,” Sam said. “They both always know.”

“But howww?” Pip demanded.

“No idea.”

“No idea.”

“Nope.”

So Pip had huffed and summed up our feelings nicely: “If you ask me, it’s right sneaky of them both – all this knowing.”

Sneaky indeed. Legolas recognized my falsehood for what it was and, ohhhh, he did not appreciate my attempt to deceive him! He tipped up his knee, elevating my backside just enough to expose the tender skin beneath the undercurve of my bottom, and I squeaked in horror and began squealing before his first smack fell. I do hate to squeal.

“EEEEEEEE! NOOOOOOOOO! EEEEE – Not therrrrre! Leg’las! Pleeea-not-not down therrrrrrrre!”

“This sweet place ‘neath the curve of your backside stings mightily when spanked, does it not, little one?”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Truly stings. It is very soft. Of course, your pretty bottom is soft all over, but this tender, sensitive fold right under here --”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Leg’laaaaas pleeeeeeea --!”

“You have only yourself to blame, Frodo,” he said. “Feigning infirmity to avoid more spanking? That, sir, was a very naughty thing to do. Very naughty indeed.”

I buried my face in the coverlet and sobbed, so ashamed of myself I could hardly draw breath. He was right. But Legolas was being too kind, because I’d been more than just naughty. I’d lied. I’d taken advantage of his compassionate nature and his concern for my condition. I’d been entirely, utterly dishonorable. And I’d known it when I was doing it and I’d watched myself do it anyway and I couldn’t imagine why I’d done it . . . I couldn’t imagine why . . . .

Well, yes – Legolas was spanking me. There was that. He was spanking me and spanking me and I couldn’t escape and I couldn’t talk him out of it and I couldn’t do anything but lay there and take the next spank and the next and the next and it hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt! It stung and burned and I couldn’t make it stop. And kicking never helps, but I always reach a point where my body seems to take over and I find that I’m kicking anyway. Wriggling and bucking does no good either. Nothing does. And I’d lost my britches again, almost immediately. Not that a bit of added humiliation meant much at that point. This was a very sincere spanking from an elf who had ever been sincerely good at it and had not lost his touch since the last time I was over his knee.

So, all right, there was my ‘why.’ But nothing excused what I’d done. I’d been through quite a few sincere spankings on the Quest, some of them given to me by Legolas, but I’d never tried feigning incapacity in an attempt to escape my fate. That was a line I’d never crossed. Now I had not only crossed that line, I’d bounded over it. I’d betrayed my kind-hearted prince’s sympathies in a most shameful manner. I suppose I could see why I’d done it, but I hated the fact that I had.

“Sorry, Leg’las!” I wailed. “I-I’m so, so sorry! Very sorry! Terrible thing t-to dooo! I lied! Lied to you! Oh, Leg’las, so, so bad!”

“Shhhhh, little one,” he purred. “You had your reasons.”

“Uh-huuuuuuh! But, I’m sorry! Sorry! Very sorry!”

“I know. Shhh. Breathe, Frodo. Settle down now.” And he lowered his knee again and smoothed his hand over my bottom, sending a shiver through me. “You are forgiven, little one. I understand how difficult it is to be good when your bottom is hot and sore.”

Difficult to say the least. A hot, sore bottom and the feeling of desperation that comes with an ongoing spanking not only makes it difficult to be good, today it had made me abandon my honor. My stomach burned with shame, and Legolas, with his ready tolerance and his understanding was actually kindling that fire. I could scarcely bear to hear the forgiveness in his voice, much less allow myself to feel it.

“I-I’m really so very sorry!” I blathered on. “I’m s-so ashamed!”

“Frodo, stop. That is enough. No mor --”

“I-I can’t believe I did that! I’m sooo sorry! I’m so, sooo dishon’rable, Leg’las!”

He released a low growl and abruptly scooped me up and into his arms, fitting my wriggling body to his, and I gasped, so stunned I hardly knew what to do.

“Shh, sweetling. I said that is enough,” he murmured against my hair. “No more fussing now. Hold on to me. Come, just as you used to do, pretty one.”

And I fell back on habit, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and resting my head in that familiar, delicious place at the side of his neck, his silky hair forming a sheltering curtain.

“Gooood,” he purred against my ear, and Legolas began rocking slowly. “Goood. Settle down now, sweetling. Shhhh.”

Mmm, I remembered this cozy spot and the delectable elvish scent of Legolas, his skin and his hair, a scent unlike anything else, uniquely, deliciously, magically Legolas. That, and the feel of his strong arms holding me safe and close – oohh, it was dizzying. I nestled in, weeping softly, my stinging backside half-perched on one of his forearms, and I waited, trembling, listening to those occasional hushed, “Shhhhhh’s.” And when I had calmed enough to begin thinking clearly again, I wondered what Legolas thought he was doing . . . .

Was he finished spanking me? Oh, how I hoped he was! I think. Well, no – of course I hoped he was finished spanking me! I think. But – wait – how could he be finished? After what I’d just done? How could he have forgiven me so quickly for such a wicked attempted deception? And we still hadn’t discussed why he was spanking me in the first place, my so-called ‘escape’ and my so-called disobedience to orders . . . even though I had tried to make it clear that I was an adult hobbit answerable to only myself. Legolas wouldn’t just forget about that. So he couldn’t be finished yet, could he? He must be planning to spank me more, and if so, I’d just as soon he got on with it.

But then, perhaps he really thought I could take no more. Perhaps, having listened to my hearty squalls, he was stopping to spare my backside. Though it made no sense, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that . . . .

I considered my position carefully, and I knew that, although I’d been bellowing wildly, I yet had some stamina left. Yes, he’d done quite a stunning job on my bottom thus far, but to be brutally honest, I knew that I could withstand more. I had in the past. Often. I was not at the limit of my endurance. Not yet. I was however, out of practice, as Legolas had said. He might have taken all my wailing to heart, though. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, either.

I fidgeted and sighed, wanting to say something, but not certain what to say. I certainly wasn’t about to ask for more of this! But, well . . . . I fidgeted some more and --

“What is it, Frodo?”

A flash of exasperation shot through me and I heard myself blurt out, “I’m wondering if you’re finished spanking me, of course!”

He released a quiet laugh and patted my bottom. “You are, are you?”

“Yes!” I shot back. “Of course I am!”

“And you are comfortable taking that tone with me?”

“What tone?”

But I knew what he meant. I sounded like Pippin on the Quest when he was weary at the end of the day’s march and grumpy with everyone and everything until Merry took him off and gave him the attention he needed by means of a ‘settling spanking.’ I sighed. Oh, very well. Yes. I knew what ‘tone’ Legolas meant. I fidgeted anew.

“Aye, you know what tone I mean, sweetling,” he said, making me blink. “And I know you are bewildered by it, as you are bewildered by many of the peculiar things that are roaring about within you. My poor little one.”

I swallowed hard. There was that sweet, sympathetic tolerance again, Legolas returning understanding for my ill-temper, kindling my guilty feelings once more. I squeezed and twisted his clothing in my fists and whispered in a suddenly hoarse voice, “Legolas I --”

“Shhh, Frodo. Enough now. All will be well,” he said, giving me a gentle squeeze. “I have a few things to say and then I shall turn you back over my knee. Do not fret, sweetling. Of course, I am not yet finished with you. You have earned quite a thorough spanking and I do not intend to let you down.”

A sudden sob burst from me and I buried my face against him, and for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom I once again started to cry. Something mystifying gnawed away within me, a vague, frightening sensation that had been coming upon me of late, tearing at my insides and stirring up a precarious, desperate feeling. Legolas still rocked me, and it felt good, too good . . . .

Too good was right, too good for me anyway. I didn’t deserve such goodness. An ugly inner snarl reminded me of what I’d done and I squeezed my eyes shut, listening . . . .

“I know, little one,” Legolas murmured. “There are awful, confusing, unsettling things stirring within you. You are frightened, though you cannot say for certain what is frightening you. It seems to be bigger and stronger than you are, and you sometimes fear it will sweep you away. But, that is not true, sweetling, for you are ever wise enough and strong enough to seek help.”

Wise enough to seek help? Strong enough? Bewildered, I drew back to peer at him.

Legolas flashed me a loving grin and wiped the tears from my cheeks, saying, “Aye. You wisely sought help by means of your first naughty deed - you disobeyed Aragorn’s orders. And when you were caught, as you knew you would be, you claimed you were an adult hobbit and entitled to make decisions for yourself. But, as I pointed out, adult or no, you are ever honor-bound to obey those orders, and I therefore had the right to discipline you, even though you kept bellowing that I had no right. Does this sound familiar?”

“I wasn’t bellowing,” I muttered. I was too shocked to say anything sensible. He knew all this! He knew! Of course . . . Legolas always knew.

Legolas grinned. “You then discovered that you needed more from me. Why you decided that matters not, sweetling. You were simply wise enough to know that you needed more. So you devised a second naughty deed, choosing to do something you had never done before, not in all the times that I, or Aragorn, or Boromir have been spanking you.”

I began to squirm. “Legolas, I-I don’t like – please s-stop! I d-don’t like this!”

“You tried to feign exhaustion,” he said, holding me firmly. “I assume you were trying your best, but Frodo, your skills when it comes to telling a falsehood are positively dismal.”

I scowled at him. “Thank you.”

He chuckled. “And still you felt compelled to seek a bit more. Which brings us to your final naughty deed. You felt so badly about trying to deceive me that you decided you did not deserve forgiveness. You heard me say that you were forgiven, but you were not listening. You said, ‘I am dishonorable.’”

Legolas paused and studied me with a sudden sad thoughtfulness. “Ah, Frodo. Dishonorable? You?” He shook his head. “Nay, I cannot permit you to utter such an ugly untruth. You, noble sir, are entirely honorable.”

I stared at him, wanting to disagree. “I-I --”

But Legolas placed his forefinger against my lips and shook his head again, saying, “No. There is nothing more to say. Frodo, the things you did, disobeying orders and feigning weakness, were indeed naughty, as was calling yourself dishonorable. And so after I finish spanking you for all those naughty things, I shall thoroughly wash your mouth out with soap to cleanse away that ugly untruth.”

I groaned. “Oh, nooooo! Oh, Leg’las, please! Please no, no, no! D-Don’t do that to me! It’s been so-so long since – ewwww! Leg’las – ewww!”

I had to admit, I sounded pathetically nipper-ish. But, ohhhhhh! A soaping! ‘Ew’ didn’t come close to expressing my revulsion.

“Aye. It is nasty. I know,” he said. “However, sir, you feigned exhaustion then you declared yourself to be dishonorable.” He ‘tsked’ and ran his thumb over my lower lip, saying, “Such dreadful lies sullying this pretty little mouth. Frodo, consider yourself fortunate that I plan to wash out your naughty mouth only once.”

Fortunate? Oh, why, yes – the blessing of only one soaping was something for which I was indeed most grateful! In truth, I was a bit thunderstruck, not only by all his sudden shifts in disposition, but by what he’d said, most of which I had yet to fully think over. If Legolas was trying to disconcert me he was doing a splendid job. I could do nothing at the moment but blink and gape at him and struggle to harness my temper.

“Such an adorably defiant pout, sweetling! You look wholly tempted to share some of your vast vocabulary of elvish obscenities with me.”

If ever there was a finer moment!

“Beware, though, little one. I myself am wholly tempted to add a second soaping. And,” he said with a sudden decisiveness and a swift kiss to my brow, “‘tis time we moved on. So consider your position.”

“EEEEEEEEEEEEK!” Oh, I hated to squeal! But Legolas tossed me back over his knee so swiftly I’d had no choice.

Resting his hand on my backside, he said, “Clearly you are still not ready to speak sensibly or to listen to me. So, alas, I shall needs spank your pretty backside for a while longer.”

Alas? His ‘alas’ might have meant more had it not been delivered with such a grin in his voice.

“And Frodo, remember, I intend to give you quite a long and thorough spanking, so you need not provoke me in hopes of gaining a longer one.”

I gasped. “What? In hopes of – WHAT?”

“You need not have added several more naughty deeds to your first one. Your escape attempt was naughty enough, especially since you nearly succeeded. Save for a few quirks of Fate I would not have been here so early this morning and you would surely have left the Houses of Healing and Valar knows what could have happened to you alone out in the city.”

“Stupid, stupid Fate!”

He laughed. “You sound like Pippin at his most belligerent.”

That was IT! Having little left to lose, I let fly some of my vast vocabulary of elvish obscenities.

“Well,” Legolas said in an admiring tone when I was finished. “I would be remiss did I not add another soaping for that impressive little slip in decorum.”

“Legolas! Nooooooooo!” I wailed and kicked and twisted the coverlet in my fists, but I refrained from inviting a third encounter with this avenging elf and his evil bar of soap.

“You see my dilemma, sweetling. You are still seeking to provoke me into spanking you longer.”

“No, I’m NOT!”

“Frodo, you have not been listening to me since I began revealing your naughty deeds. If you had you would have been more greatly distressed.”

“More distressed? More? This isn’t distressed enough?”

Chuckling softly, Legolas lifted his hand. “You have worked hard for these consequences you so richly deserve, little one. Shhh. No more. Think over my words thus far. Then we shall speak again.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

And Legolas began spanking me, silently, and I could tell from his steady rhythm and determined pace that he would not stop this time until he was certain I had reached whatever place he was determined I reach. Every attempt I made to goad a response from him failed. Legolas would not be moved. All he need do now was to keep spanking me in his relentless manner, and all I could do now was lie there and sob and struggle with my stubborn, foolish resistance.

As ever, Legolas was very wise. He knew that few things helped one see reason more effectively than a burning bottom and an ongoing spanking with no end in sight. It cured my rebelliousness rather quickly, not that he took my word for it despite my howling and sobbing and my useless repeated ‘sorries.’ He just kept spanking away, listening for whatever it was he expected to hear from me and watching for whatever it was he needed to see.

His strategy succeeded, for when my costly rebellion fled and my thoughts began to drift in an empty void and all I knew was the next stinging spank, and the next, and the next, sudden clarity entered into that void and I did begin to think over what he had said.

Yes, I had invited this. And it was awful to think about, because I feared . . . no, I knew that Legolas was correct. Something deep within me could compel me to act without questioning those actions too closely. The moment I began to pull on those nice new hobbit britches I’d known, deep inside, what would happen. Oh, Valar help me! Of course I’d known, and I’d done it nonetheless. I’d invited it, and then I’d invited more of it, just as Legolas had said.

Was I mad? I’d wanted to be caught? I’d wanted to be spanked? The hotter my bottom became the louder that truth bellowed at me. Yes, I’d disobeyed Aragorn’s orders, even knowing what he had taught us in Bree – you either obeyed orders or you didn’t, and if you didn’t, you were choosing certain consequences – so, yes, I . . . I’d chosen these consequences. But, what did that say about me? Was that . . . normal?

Hadn’t I just wanted to be treated as an adult? After all, I was one! I’d lived as an independent, adult hobbit for a long time in the Shire. I’d just wanted that independence back . . . hadn’t I? I’d wanted the right to decide when and if I was well enough to leave the Houses of Healing, and I’d wanted to be answerable to myself alone . . . at least I thought I had . . . of course I had! I think. I should want that independence, shouldn’t I?

I bounced back and forth in my mind, my sobbing raw and hoarse, my bottom on fire . . . then something Legolas said came back to me: “There are awful, confusing, unsettling things stirring within you. You are frightened, though you cannot say what is frightening you. It seems to be bigger and stronger than you are, and you sometimes fear it will sweep you away. But, that is not true, sweetling, for you are ever wise enough and strong enough to seek help.”

I thought, too, of the mysterious ‘something,’ that frightening sensation that had been gnawing at me earlier . . . and I . . . I could no longer feel that. It was gone. Instead I felt . . . safe. My bottom was on fire, Legolas was spanking me, and I felt safe and comforted. Absurd. Simply absurd. And yet, it was always like this. There was an everlasting feeling of comfort from these consequences. So this was what Legolas had meant. Something had been frightening me and so I’d been wise enough to seek out this comfort.

But what did that say about me? Yes, there was comfort in this particular consequence, but was it normal to solicit it? A spanking hurt!

Of course, Legolas knew these things. He had the answers and he knew what I’d been feeling better than I did. Legolas just knew. And he understood what I couldn’t quite grasp right now. Yet, to think that he’d been aware all along of how I’d sought this out on purpose – ohhhhh! I writhed from embarrassment, longing to crawl away into some dark corner and hide my head. Ohh, that he just knew my inwardly secret reasons for those outwardly naughty deeds! Ohhh!

I pressed my face to the now wet-with-tears coverlet and curled my arms up over my head, weeping miserably. Pathetic, but it was the closest I could come to burying myself far from his sight as I longed to do.

“Frodo. Little one.”

I hiccupped, startled, and I heard so much in just that murmur. Apparently Legolas, with his excellent elvish hearing and insight had at last heard and seen what he’d been waiting for. He then merely needed send me the most gentle of prompts:

“Frodo, is there something you wish to say to m --”

“Ohh, Leg’las!” I sputtered between sobs, “Y-Yes! I-I’m so s-sorry! I disobeyed Ar’gorn’s or-orders and I s-said it din’t matter ‘cause I-I was a-a grown-up, and that was one n-naughty deed, then I did the second, the most bad n-naughty and tried to l-lie --”

“Shhhhhh, Frodo, hush.” Legolas rubbed his hand over my arms, gently prying them from behind my head, and when he had them free, he said, “Sweetling, let me help you, for I know it is difficult to speak when you are so distraught.”

I was utterly humbled by how insensible I sounded, but I was able to do no better, so I nodded, grateful for his offer of help. “Y-Yes, ple-please.”

“You disobeyed orders and tried to escape, then you feigned disability to escape more spanking, then you called yourself dishonorable. Are those the three naughty deeds you are trying to apologize for?”

“Uh huhhhhh! Sorryyy, Leg’las! So ver-very sorry!”

“Ahhh. Now that, little one, is a most genuine and heartfelt sorry.”

And Legolas stopped spanking me at once, resting his palm down on my fiery bottom and giving me a few final soft pats. “All is well now, Frodo. Shhh. ‘Tis over. All is forgiven sweet one.” I shuddered with relief, drenched in fresh, cleansing sobs, hardly able to let myself believe that he really was finished, yet very, very ready for him to be.

Legolas muttered his familiar quiet shushing sounds and words, some of them in his melodious elvish tongue. “Come, my sweet little one,” he said. “Come, Frodo.” He gathered me into his close embrace with one smooth move, and, ohhh, again, there was that warm, secure place, that safe haven, Legolas holding me pressed against him, his arms wrapped around me, all of it feeling as perfect as it had earlier, almost too perfect to take in . . . except for my throbbing backside.

When the worst of my sobbing had slowed and I was able to speak, I said, my voice a soft croak, “Oh, L-Leg-las, I-I-I’m so em-b-barrass-barra --”

“Shhhhhhh, Frodo, shhhhh. I know.” Legolas reached up to cup my head and run his fingers through my curls, petting my hair. “I know, little one,” he purred, fondly indulgent. “I truly understand. But, sweetling, you have no reason to feel embarrassed. Not with me.”

“But I-I dooooooooooo!”

Legolas laughed quietly and kissed my curls. “Aye, well, of course you do. I apologize. I am not judging you, though, sweetling. I never have, nor shall I ever. So you need not feel ashamed.”

“But --”

“Shh. We shall speak more of this. But, for now, rest quietly, sweetling. Rest, and let me hold you,” he said, beginning to rock. “Shhhhh, gooooood. Hold on to me.”

And I did, and Legolas continued on like that for some time, murmuring his comforting litany of lyrical sounds, holding my boneless, liquefied self against him, keeping me cuddled there against his neck, petting my hair, reaching a hand down to rub my bottom and sniffing his small grins when I’d squeak from his touch on my burning skin . . . . I coiled his silky hair between my fingers and drifted in that most comforting of places, lost in it.

My sobbing soon slowed to crying, then to soft weeping, then to sniffling and ended at last in random soft hiccups – something Legolas had always found oddly adorable.

“Hiccupping is a most peculiar thing to find adorable, sir,” I had told him long ago when he first confessed it to me.

Legolas had laughed. “It is indeed! But it makes me smile when I hear little hobbit hiccups. I suppose you cannot help being adorable, Frodo.”

I’d rolled my eyes and hicc’ed again and Legolas had chuckled with delight. I sniffed a grin now at the memory, hearing him echo it back.

“Aye, sweetling, your little hiccups are still adorable,” he said, a smile in his voice. I felt him rub his cheek against my hair. “But I suppose you still cannot help being adorable, Frodo.”

I squirmed a bit and blushed, and he said, “Come. Let me see you, little one. Are you ready?” I nodded, and Legolas drew me down, carefully situating my scorched bottom between his thighs and resting me against the crook of his arm, that other wondrously safe place, still cuddled close to him, warm and sheltered. He gazed at me, his gentle half-smile full of compassion. “Ah. Pretty little Frodo,” he said, and he kissed me, slowly, sweetly, and wonderfully. “Sam will simply needs forgive me that,” he murmured against my lips.

“Sam will,” I said on a gasp, barely able to draw breath, my heart thudding.

Legolas watched me for a few long moments, playing slowly and thoughtfully with my curls, as he loved to do, and growing contemplative. “You did so well, little one. I am very proud of you,” he finally said. “And I vow you have been thinking over my words, and now you have much on your mind.”

My face burst into a heat that rivaled my bottom. “Yes. I-I knew – I knew . . . Legolas I –” And I squished my eyes shut, unable to look at him whilst saying this. “I knew what I was doing when I d-disobeyed Aragorn’s orders. I knew I’d be caught. I knew I’d be spanked. And I did it anyway.”

“Aye, sweetling. But, ‘tis alright, Frodo. Shhhh, little one. ‘Tis alright. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Open your pretty eyes and look at me.”

I winced and swallowed hard, but I just couldn’t --

“Frodo.”

I twisted my fingers together painfully, and I still just couldn’t --

“Are you truly of a mind to defy me?”

His tone was gentle and loving, but it resonated with that stern elvish resolve I knew all too well. Legolas meant to be obeyed and, no, I wasn’t about to defy him. I opened my eyes and looked at him, and murmured, “Sorry, Legolas.”

He simply grinned, untwisted my knotted fingers, brought them up to his lips and kissed them. “I understand, sweetling,” he said, “more than you know. I realize that you feel embarrassed. But it is alright that you needed what you needed from me. And ‘tis alright that your wise adult within knew how to obtain it.”

Puzzled, I frowned and opened my mouth to question him, but I needn’t have bothered. Legolas stayed one step ahead of me:

“I imagine that your greatest concern sounds something like this: What does it say about you if you know what will happen when you do something naughty, and you choose to do it anyway? What does that mean? What kind of person does that make you? And is that kind of behavior ‘normal?’”

I gasped, and Legolas paused to grin at my startled expression, then he went on.

“The concern itself is normal, Frodo. I have had it. More than once, in fact, even though I had previously learned the answers to those same questions. No matter. Some lessons need to be learned many times. And I shall tell you what a very wise elf told me when I rested across his lap, sore-bottomed as you are now, feeling the same concerns you are feeling.”

I blinked at the thought, wondering what elf that might be. I knew that, on occasion, Aragorn spanked Legolas, as he did Boromir – as they both did Boromir, in fact. But I hadn’t considered the many years Legolas had likely lived before Aragorn had even been born. His eyes glittering, Legolas simply kissed my brow and continued on:

“Frodo, it is ‘normal’ to behave as it is in your nature to behave. That is what you did today – you followed your nature. There are those adults whose nature is one of an everlasting, unwavering grown-up. They possess an inner spark that makes them constantly stable and steadfast. You know who some of these are, no doubt.”

“Yes, Halbarad and Damrod and Eomer,” I said. “Oh, and Aragorn, of course.” Legolas went very still and gazed at me for a moment. I frowned. “Is that right, Legolas?”

“Aye, sweetling!” he quickly said. “Indeed, aye, you are right. Aye, all those you listed are indeed good examples of . . . everlasting adults.”

“And Lord Elrond and Glorfindel and --”

“Shh, Frodo.” He touched his finger to my lips. “Enough. You have the idea, to be certain. There are also the grown-ups who possess an active youngling within, a little one that longs for attention and needs to be shown that someone bigger and stronger is watching out for him. This one seeks out certain consequences for certain naughty actions.”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly grasping a further understanding. “And in some, like Pippin and Gwin, the little one reveals itself more frequently than it does in others.”

“Aye, and --”

“And in others, the adult is present an equal amount of time, or a greater amount, like --”

“Shhh.” He grinned and, going slightly pink, placed a finger at my lips again. “You do indeed understand. No need to give more examples, sweetling.”

I grinned back and nodded, touched by his sudden discomfort.

“There are many different types and many degrees of grown-up, all unique and with unique needs,” he went on. “But the most important thing to remember is that no single type is greater or lesser in esteem than the other, sweetling. The steadfast adult and the adult with a little one within need each other to be exactly who they are. They are both valuable and unique. That, too, is ‘normal.’”

I watched him, the simple truth of his words further quieting my heart, silencing any remaining harsh whispers. And I knew . . . . “Legolas . . . .”

“Aye, sweetling,” he said, smiling. “Your wise adult within knows who you are. Both sides of you exist in harmony. And today you sought out what you desired. You were frightened, so you needed someone bigger and stronger than whatever had been troubling you, someone who could provide a safe refuge. It mattered not that you thought you were hungry for your adulthood when you were, in fact, hungry for attention and comfort and a sense of safety.

“So this morning, when Fate supplied you with an opportunity to find that comfort, you sought out one who would provide you with what you needed. And, trust me, little one,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I was delighted to be the one Fate chose.”

“Fate,” I muttered with a wry sniff. “I have both blessed Fate today and thought it stupid.”

“Stupid? Fate?” Legolas ‘tsked’ in mock horror. “Frodo, whoever would think such a thing?”

We shared a chuckle, then I sobered and said, “Legolas, before, back in the Shire, all those years that I lived as an --”

“Independent adult hobbit?”

“Yes. Well, shouldn’t I want to get back that same adult independence? I’d been answerable to no one then, and I’d been fine with that . . . I-I think. Anyway, shouldn’t I want that grown-up self-rule again?”

“Why would you, sweetling?”

I gazed at him, unable to answer. Legolas smiled and brushed the locks from my brow, saying, “Frodo, after everything that has happened to you, after all you have been through, how can you possibly expect to be the same person now that you were back in the Shire? Aye, you are still Frodo Baggins, as you ever were, but there are bound to be some things that feel different about you as well, and that is alright.

“Remember what I told you, Frodo. Your wise adult within knows who you are, and what your inner nature is. That is ‘normal,’ sweetling, to behave as it is your nature to behave. And remember that no one type of adult is greater or lesser in esteem than the other.”

As Legolas spoke a soothing warmth had been moving through me. I felt sheltered and understood, granted an unconditional acceptance I hadn’t granted myself. I felt as I had while on the Quest – no, earlier than that – I’d felt like this from the time we’d met a certain dark Ranger on that fearful night in Bree. The Quest had been a time when I’d become answerable to others, those who were – as Legolas put it so well – bigger and stronger than I was. And I’d loved feeling protected in that refuge they provided, created by the promise of those consequences, bottom-stinging though they were.

“Legolas, I-I know all this,” I said with slow realization. “I knew it today.”

“Aye, little one.”

“I’ve always known it. It feels like . . . like both a new idea and a very old idea within me.”

“Aye, little one,” he repeated with a smile. “Deep within, your wise adult has likely ever known this truth. And it is alright to long for the comfort of consequences. I think that quite normal indeed.”

And his eyes glistened with a faraway look, as though an old and much beloved melody was playing in his mind. Legolas had looked like that many times today, smiling in a secretive way that made me suppose he’d been through something similar to my current struggle. Well, Legolas had lived for a long, long while . . . .

I leaned up quite suddenly and kissed him back, then I instantly buried my burning face against his chest. His soft chuckle rumbled under my ear and he wrapped his arms around me, cuddling me closer.

“That was nice, little one,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “I suppose Sam will forgive you it as well?”

I nodded, laughing softly.

Nuzzling my curls, he murmured, “So, I assume that Fate is no longer ‘stupid.’”

“Don’t be silly, Legolas,” I said, my voice muffled against his clothing. “Whoever would think such a thing?”

*********

Epilogue

After Frodo drifted into a half-slumbering state I bundled him closer in my arms, cast about for his britches and frowned to see them now lying a short distance away on the floor. Well, no one was likely to be roaming this private wing where Sam and Frodo were the only occupants, especially at this early hour, so I left his britches where they lay and simply tugged Frodo’s long shirt down to cover his bare bottom for the short trip along the corridor to his chambers. When I rose he protested with a softly fussy mew before snuggling his dewy face deeper into the folds of my shirt, his small fingers curling and twining around my hair.

“Shhhhh, hush, my sweetling,” I whispered at his ear. He purred in response and I grinned.

As I suspected, none were about, and I enjoyed one last bit of cherished privacy with my adorably drowsy and well-spanked Ringbearer. Admittedly, I strolled at my leisure, gazing down at his charmingly innocent, youthful face and stealing a few illicit kisses along the way. The moment I entered Frodo’s chambers Sam sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and reached for him.

“Saaaam,” Frodo sniffed in the voice of a sulky, sleepy child, “Sam, Leg’las spanked me.”

“So I see,” Sam said with a stern but loving tone. “And well deserved I’ve nary a doubt, little sir.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sam and I chuckled and grinned at each other.

“Somethin’ to do with this nice new shirt, I reckon?”

“Uh-huuuuhh.”

I lowered Frodo, limp as a poppet, and he melted down into Sam’s waiting embrace, his devoted gardener near bursting with smiles whilst cuddling his Frodo close. I moved to step away, but Frodo still grasped my hair in his tight little fist, and he used it to pull me closer to him.

“Thank you, Leg’las,” he murmured, his eyes mere slits, and he kissed my cheek.

I glanced at Sam, my face warming. Valiantly struggling to hide his amusement, Sam cocked me his pretty, lop-sided grin and said, “Never you mind ‘bout that, Legolas. It’s sure as the flowers bloom in Spring that I don’t. Mind, that is.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said with a wink.

“Told you he wouldn’t mind. My Sam doesn’t mind, Leg’las.” Frodo yawned. “MyyySSaaam.”

“Aye. Your Sam, little sir. Now turn Legolas loose a’fore he swats your hot bottom again, or a’fore I do.”

Frodo released my hair at once and I kissed their curly heads and made a swift exit whilst I could. Closing the door and striding off, I grinned, remembering full well how Frodo was feeling, recalling how hundreds of years ago I had relished a handful of Glorfindel’s silky hair, squeezing it between my fingers and rubbing it against my cheek whilst drifting in that exquisite sweetness of post-spanking fog.

Glorfindel had held me and rocked me for a long while that day – hours, no doubt, hours and hours. We had that perfect garden to ourselves and that ethereal, undisturbed time of closeness. I knew I would never again shun that feeling of safety and that longing for strong arms and a watchful gaze and that comfort unlike any other . . . and, aye, even the feel of a hot backside. And I ached for the years I had lost, the years of forfeited consequences and the extraordinary gift they bestowed. I knew I would never again deny that need to myself, and I never had.

Would that Frodo and I had been able to share as much time together this morning as Glorfindel and I had shared that day. But the little one had exhausted himself, and although I would gladly have spent more time cuddling Frodo close, feeling him in my arms, alive and safe, listening to him breathe and gazing at his beauty in the purity of slumber, the day was heartlessly speeding ahead. A certain custodial little gardener would soon become a factor, and two warriors would come seeking me out.

And, sure enough, now, when I neared the exit to the Houses of Healing, Aragorn and Boromir came around the corner and headed my way. When we met and I began to tell them what had happened, we turned as one and headed out again. We strolled at a leisurely pace, Boromir and I flanking Aragorn, and I told them more of my pre-dawn adventure with a certain runaway Ringbearer.

“The day is just beginning,” Aragorn said. “You work quickly, sir.”

“I vow Frodo didn’t think so,” Boromir said with a smirk.

“You are correct, little brother,” I said. “Frodo likely felt he had been over my knee for hours and hours and that it was now past midday.”

Boromir ‘humph-ed’ and mumbled, “I know the feeling.”

Aragorn and I grinned, then I said, “Frodo shall be looking for sympathy when next you see him. He shall likely crawl up onto your lap --”

“Onto whose lap?” Boromir interrupted.

“Either of you – nay, wait – Aragorn’s lap.”

My little brother frowned most adorably and asked in a puzzled voice, “Why Aragorn’s?”

“Because, my fledgling, Frodo shall wish to lodge a complaint against Legolas,” Aragorn said. “And he will determine that I am the one to do something about it.”

“Nay!” Boromir exclaimed. “Frodo shall not do such a thing!”

“Mark my words, little brother,” I said. “Frodo will bitterly complain to Aragorn, saying that I beat him within an inch of his life.”

“Nay!”

Aragorn and I exchanged a significant look with Boromir who promptly abandoned his quite false indignation. “Oh, very well. Aye, he shall indeed do so, although we all know that Frodo will be in jest.”

“Of course.”

“Indeed.”

“Little imp,” Boromir scoffed.

“Do not call Frodo that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because he likes it.”

Aragorn and Boromir sputtered a chuckle, then Aragorn turned to me and said, “Do not trouble yourself over Frodo’s accusations, sir. When he climbs onto my lap and begins his tale of woe I shall come to your defense and silence him at once.”

Boromir snorted. “How?”

“I shall flip him over and demand he pull down his britches and show me the evidence.”

And we laughed again until Boromir made a truly awful pun on the phrase ‘tale of woe’ that earned groans from us all – himself included – and a playful punch on the arm from his captain and king.

“Ow!” He rubbed his offended, thickly muscled arm and chortled in a wounded tone, “In the words of our dwarf, ‘pardon.’ But, please, sir – ‘tale of woe?’ It invited a bit of humor. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Try harder,” I said, then I grinned at his charmingly fierce glare.

Aye, the three of us were light of heart whilst making our way to the Hall of Feasts, chuckling and jesting – Aragorn and I playfully taunting my little brother, as Boromir truly loved it so. We had much to rejoice over and a longing to share our common underlying happiness.

For our cherished Frodo had made a great step this morning. I knew from my clear memory of Glorfindel’s lesson that Frodo was feeling more like himself, like the Frodo he had been before his self-imposed journey into the heart of evil. I knew that he felt as though he had been away for a long time, but was beginning the return journey home, and that he once again felt sheltered, as he had when he had been answerable to others who were bigger and stronger and wiser than he was. And I knew that he felt protected in that refuge created by the promise of consequences. Frodo allowed himself that.

Later, when we were in a quiet place and more reflective moods, I would share these deeper things with my beloved warriors, for they would want to know how Frodo had fared and how he seemed now – and Frodo would want their minds to be eased. At present, though, the three of us strolled through the bright morning sunshine, smiles on our faces.

“I forgot to tell you that Sam looked in on us,” I said. “He opened the door and peered in at us in the middle of Frodo’s spanking.” My warriors turned to me with identical ‘tell us more’ looks.

“He heard Frodo’s wails?” Boromir asked.

“Evidently,” I replied. “But Sam knows Frodo’s every pitch and tone of voice and inflection so flawlessly that he could tell – even from the sound of Frodo’s cries whilst he was being spanked – that he was alright.”

“So Sam was not in a panic when he opened the door,” Aragorn surmised.

“Nay.” I paused to chuckle, recalling Sam’s sweet, attentive face. “He simply leaned in and watched us silently for a moment. Then he gave me a nod and that shy little crooked grin of his, and left. Frodo was facing away from the door, so he was not positioned to see Sam looking in, and he was wailing too loudly to hear the door handle turn. So he never knew Sam had been there.”

“And you didn’t tell him?” Boromir said.

I shook my head. “Sam will.”

We chuckled a bit, imagining that. “Indeed,” Aragorn said.

I cast him a sidelong gaze and studied him pointedly, long enough for Aragorn to turn to me with a questioning look.

“Aye?”

My curious little brother glanced over, too, and when he did I reached into my pocket, whipped forth a small piece of cloth and tossed it to Aragorn. He caught it and we all halted, Boromir and I watching Aragorn shake the thing out and hold it up – a new pair of little hobbit britches.

Aragorn studied them, frowned and solemnly said, “I appreciate the gesture, sir, but I fear these are too small for me.”

Boromir and I burst into laughter, then Boromir said, “I take it these are Frodo’s new britches?”

I gave him a nod. “They are indeed.”

“And he kicked them off during his spanking, as he often did on the Quest?” Aragorn said with a broad smile.

“He did.” I raised a brow at my Ranger. “I thought you might like to have them returned to you.”

Aragorn paused, then flashed me a roguish sideways glance. “Obliged,” he said, and he stuffed Frodo’s britches into the pocket of his tunic and began striding again. Boromir and I jogged a few steps to catch up with him.

“You are returning them to . . . Aragorn?” Boromir fired me a bewildered expression that was too marvelous. “But, why --?”

“Aragorn, I spoke to the servant who put the fresh clothing in Frodo’s wardrobe,” I said. “Came upon him briefly when I was leaving the wing, and I asked him a few questions.”

“Ah,” Aragorn said, strolling along, grinning slightly, eyes front.

“It worked.”

He gave a nod. “Aye.”

“Well done, sir.”

My Ranger darted me a small, sheepish grin. “Hannon le.”

“What worked? Why are you thanking him?” Boromir asked, now growing impatient. “What goes on here?”

“Ah, little brother,” I said.

“Wait!” Boromir stopped dead in his tracks, grabbed Aragorn’s arm and stared at him. Again, we halted. “The servant who . . . . You?”

“Nay, my fledgling. I am not the servant who put those clothes in Frodo’s room.”

“I know tha--!” Boromir growled. “But you ordered --?”

“Just what are you suggesting, my Steward?” Aragorn lifted a brow at Boromir. “That I would order temptation to be placed in the path of a naughty and restless little hobbit?”

We all exchanged a look of delight and comprehension, then Boromir said, “Obviously, my lord, I am suggesting that the future king of Gondor is very wise indeed.”

Aragorn squirmed and blushed. “Ah. The trusting nature of fledglings.”

“Nay, not at all. For, on the other hand, such actions could also be construed as entrapment and manipulation and foul play – a well-laid snare to catch a little hobbit in,” Boromir said, playing now, and miserably inept at feigning disapproval.

“I know of no one who was entrapped, manipulated, or foully played upon who was not willing, even eager, to be so. And, were I you, youngling, I would guard my tongue,” Aragorn said, wonderfully gifted at feigning disapproval. “Had someone not kept me awake and otherwise engaged for most of the night I would have most likely been the one administering Frodo’s discipline.”

Bursting out laughing, I gave Boromir a moment to go fully red in the face, then I glanced over at him and burst out laughing anew. “Oh, little brother!” I cried, “I thought only your backside could become such a bright shade of red!”

“Legolas,” Aragorn said in a scolding tone. “Propriety, sir.”

Which only made me laugh harder. Boromir could maintain his pretended ire but briefly. In the blink of an eye he joined me, followed by Aragorn. When our round of chuckling slowed and we set off again, Boromir said, “Aragorn, how could you be certain that Sam was weary enough to sleep soundly this morning and not wake up when Frodo did?”

“I could not be certain, my fledgling,” Aragorn replied. “But, considering how little sleep Sam had been getting of late, I felt that, when he did give in to his weariness, he would sleep deeply and for a long time. He could scarce keep his eyes open last evening. After a full night’s rest, though, Frodo would likely hear the servant. The door of the wardrobe in that room squeaks a bit, and Frodo would be dozing lightly in that pre-dawn hour.”

“Your plan worked beautifully,” I said, “and it led to a fine beginning for our Frodo.”

“Aye.” Boromir cast Aragorn an admiring grin. “Your tactics were as they needed to be, and I agree with Legolas – well done. I just wish I’d thought of it first.”

More chuckling all ‘round, then Aragorn cocked me a questioning glance and said, “You do not seem much surprised by my deed.”

“I was, but only for a moment,” I said. “Then I recalled my wild youth, when my ada and your ada freely allowed your mischievous brothers and I to keep company with each other, knowing full well we would, in all likelihood, get into trouble.”

His eyes crinkling at the corners, Aragorn looked off and winced and tried, without success, to keep from blushing yet again. Smiling at him fondly, I went on:

“Aye, Elrond and Thranduil are very wise, as are you, my Ranger. There is great wisdom in placing temptation before those who are badly in need of the comfort of consequences.”

end

100,000!

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 16:04:23 GMT

100,000! Or – One-hundred thousand! Either way, it looks beautiful. I’m grateful to all my readers who have so enthusiastically supported my little Middle Earth Nest. This place is home to me, where the muse and I happily play and create and reveal those untold stories about the characters we all love. I’m rich beyond measure to have a readership willing to come play and enjoy our special vision.

So, many thanks to you all, and here’s to the next 100,000! Or – Two-hundred thou!

Namarie!
Larrk
PS: Look for the final chapter of 'Comfort' tomorrow or the next day. I'm just finishing up dotting the i's and crossing the t's. :D ~L

The Comfort of Consequences - part III - fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 14:40:16 GMT

Part three – and now we know why our young elf is stretched out over Glorfindel’s knee. Legolas literally landed in some BIG trouble. He knows he has this coming, but from Glorfindel! Yikes! Of all the rotten luck! Legolas is horrified, his secret passion for this glorious elf making his humiliation all the worse.

Next time we return to Frodo for the final part of this story. His spanking was just beginning when we left him, and Legolas learned from the best, so our Frodo has an ordeal of his own ahead of him. But first, Legolas once again comes up against Glorfindel’s talents in administering a spanking . . . .

Two very similar stories – Frodo decides to assert his adulthood, and in the course of stopping him, Legolas recalls a time when Glorfindel stopped him from doing the same thing.

part one is here.

part two is here.

Beta appreciation notes to Larrk’s beleaguered betas:
Helen; AKA, HRH Larrk’s Herald – who with sublime skill superbly executes her double duties of beta and Court Appointed Herald, and to my beloved Kat, who IM’s me with her instant support, reads and re-reads as is needed, and provides me with her exquisitely encouraging ‘mirror reviews.’ Thanks, Team Larrk!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

The Comfort of Consequences – part III
by Larrkin

“Enough admonishment, then. At least for now.” With another kiss on my brow he turned me back over his knee, saying, “As I said earlier my wounded little elfling, let us get on with this.”

That was all Glorfindel said for quite some time. No matter. I made up for his silence.

My memories of Glorfindel’s spanking skills fell crucially short of the mark. When he began again, this time spanking me with a steady rhythm, a strong hand and that exacting, inflexible resolve, I recalled in an instant how he had never failed to bring me to a near frantic state during a spanking. Something about the way his hand connected to my bottom – it was, well . . . it was evil. Aye, it was just plain evil. And unfair. Evil and unfair and odious and precisely what made a spanking from Glorfindel something to be studiously avoided.

And those cowardly twins – facing only their ada! Not that Lord Elrond was much easier. He was far too good at this, too. However it did seem bitterly unfair that I was not only the one who had crash landed in a tree, but I was now the one being spanked by this Balrog-slayer. Within a disgracefully short length of time Glorfindel had earned my first fervent wail:

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

How long this went on, I could not say. He continued for, it seemed, many hours. Many, many hours. Absolutely, hours. It had to be hours. I struggled to maintain a measure of dignity, ever a hopeless endeavor when being spanked. But, as my wise ada was fond of saying, “It is always good to have a goal towards which to strive.” Someday, just for fun, I would have to tell ada that his adage sometimes came to mind when I lay stretched out over someone’s knee.

Having already lost the battle with my tears, I let myself enjoy the freedom of crying right from the start, even though it usually took me a while to reach that point. Quite a bit of fight had already left me. Meanwhile, Glorfindel went silent, and when Glorfindel went silent I vow he smothered all sound from the world around him – all save the smacking echo of a big, precise, evil palm spanking down in quick, crisp evil, swats, an awful, repetitive, ‘Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!’ I tried drowning it out with my wailing, but there was no escaping that sound. And it went on, and on, and on . . . .

It is impossible to keep still when my bottom is blazing, impossible when a swift hand keeps spanking down again and again, bestowing more fire, more stinging fire, over and over, an evil steady rhythm of burning fire – impossible. I defy anyone to keep still.

I soon reached that point wherein I tried to writhe from his lap, and when that did no good I started bucking. Wildly. I had to escape that next spank! But another fell. And another. Hot and biting and cracking through me – oh, merciful Valar! Of course I abandoned reason and thrashed about, stupidly fighting to escape. Of course I reached back, palm up, to cover my flaming backside, knowing Glorfindel would, of course, remove my hand and hold me down with it, as he did. I had to try nonetheless.

“I always do,” Lad once said when we were discussing the folly of this.

Ro had sniffed and declared, “Useless gesture.”

“Utterly useless,” I had agreed. “But I always throw my hand back, too.”

“So do you, Ro.”

“Aye,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I suppose I do.”

I thought it over. “It must look . . . .”

“Ridiculous?”

“Aye. It does,” Ro said. “I have watched the two of you, and you do look ridicu --”

“So do you, Ro!” Elladan and I cried in unison.

“Aye,” he said with a blush and another grin. “I suppose I do.”

“But, I vow, ada expects it,” Elladan then said.

I nodded. “Mine does as well.”

Elrohir looked at us, lifting a brow in the manner of his ada. “And Glorfindel?”

Lad snorted and said, “I suspect Glorfindel fears he is not trying hard enough until whoever he is spanking throws a hand back to block the next swat.”

We had all agreed with much good-natured chuckling. We had also decided that there might be merit in throwing a hand back early in the spanking in hopes of reducing the length of it. I had never tried doing so, nor, to my knowledge, had the twins. It seemed a questionable plan, in the end. I was unwilling to end up with my arm held behind me during an entire spanking. A sore shoulder to match a sore bottom? Nay, thank you.

But I certainly had not wanted Glorfindel to think that he was not trying hard enough. And my efforts to clamber from his lap, now gained me a pause and the first words Glorfindel had spoken since he started spanking me hours and hours ago. Surely hours.

“I know, little one,” he quietly said whilst he shifted me around, turning me over his left thigh and closing my kicking legs between his. “It is very hard to hold still and behave, especially when your pretty backside is becoming such a rosy hue. But I know that you are trying to be a good little elfling. And you are doing very well indeed.”

His words, a gentle purr, failed to soothe me, though. His actions captured my attention more profoundly as they meant something more profoundly horrible – he was not yet finished.

“Nooooooo! Pleea-no morre! Glorinf – Gorlifin –G-G-Gordefin --!”

“Awww, little Greenleaf,” he said, chuckling and rubbing my hot backside. “I had forgotten. You always reach this point when it becomes difficult to say my name. Is that not so?”

Difficult indeed. An impossible mouthful. “Uh huhh!”

More quiet chuckling, then, “Poor sweetling. ‘Tis most typically adorable of you. But I suppose you cannot help being adorable, little Legolas.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Of course, we are not near finished yet,” he said, beginning to spank me again. “I am sorry that distresses you; nevertheless, as I told you ere we began, you have earned quite a thorough spanking.”

“AHHHHHHHHH! B-But I-I have haaaaad a tho-thro – big sp-spanking!” I cried. “I haaaaave! Enough, p-please, Glordifel!”

“I decide that, little one, not you. Stop your impertinence at once.”

He decided. How I hated that answer! There was no way past it. And I could no longer kick or wriggle or buck or move in any way. I could do nothing but bury my head in the crook of my arm again and wail, which I did with great gusto. Taking a short break to readjust my position had done nothing to interrupt Glorfindel’s sense of focus. On he spanked, and on I howled, matching him effort for effort.

Hours and hours later – most certainly it had been hours – I heard him remark with intolerable calm, “You seem out of practice, little princeling. How long has it been since you were spanked? By your ada, or by Elrond, or Erestor, or anyone?”

It took me a moment to concentrate. “I-I dunoooooooo! AHHHH! OWWWW!”

“Yes, you do. Think about it.”

“Hunner-hunnerd years, I-I think, m-maybe morrre – AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“You have not been spanked in over one hundred years?”

“AYYYYYYYYEEE!”

Again Glorfindel paused, resting his hand on my backside. My body involuntarily quivered from relief. “Are you certain? Think, little one, for it is an easy enough matter to investigate.”

“AYYYYYYYYEEE!”

“Do not roar at me, elfling. A civil tone please, sir.”

Choking down some vile curses, I stammered in a civil tone, “T-True! I-I am certain – been g-good. I-I tried to tell you, Glorinfel, I-I am a g-grown up now! A good g-grown-up!”

“Ah,” he said, sounding distracted. “I had forgotten. You are all grown up now, and you have been too good to merit a spanking in quite some time. Small wonder you are so out of practice. I did not realize it had been that long.”

Breathless with tears, I rubbed my wet face on my wetter sleeve and sniffled and waited, wondering if I had miraculously stumbled by accident upon a reprieve. Was that possible? Could my lack of conditioning save me?

And, laying there over his knee, waiting to see if Glorfindel intended to take pity upon me and end this, I felt, to my astonishment, something building within me, glimmering out there on the edges of my awareness, then rising up and washing over me – an odd feeling connected to the notion of Glorfindel ending this spanking right now, a sudden wave of mysterious . . . regret.

Regret? No. No! Ridiculous! I dismissed it at once. No! No! No! Regret indeed! My backside throbbed. Of course I wanted this to end now! Immediately! This instant if not sooner! And I resolved to solidify that with him – and within myself – by telling him so in my most collected, reserved and adult manner.

Taking a deep breath to quiet the tremor in my voice, I declared with admirable composure, “I h-hope you are finished now, my l-lord.”

Glorfindel, who had been silently smoothing his hand over my bottom, suddenly froze. “What was that?”

A tremor shot through me, the one that shoots through me when I fear I might have accidentally said something indiscreet and revealing. What had I said? I ran my words back through my mind – no, no nothing untoward. I was stoic. I was polite. I was quite nearly removed. So why --?

“Legolas!”

I flinched and sputtered, “I-I said that I hope you are finished now, m-my lord. Finished spanking me, I-I mean.”

“Why, little Greenleaf,” he said, in an amused, sly and unnerving tone. “How composed you are. I am impressed. What a very adult question to ask.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

What a very wrong question to ask!

Glorfindel continued on full of sincere enthusiasm, and I howled on, just as sincerely enthused. Blessed Valar! Would this tireless elf never, ever stop spanking me? I wondered how long it would take me to hike home to Mirkwood for I would, in fact, never be able to sit my horse again.

All Glorfindel had to do now was to keep spanking me in his relentless manner. That was more than enough. And all I could do now was lay there, collapsed, sobbing, all resistance gone and my thoughts drifting in that vague blank space wherein all I know is the next stinging spank . . . and the next . . . and the next . . . .

“Legolas,” Glorfindel said after a period of time impossible to gauge, “when you told me that it had been over a hundred years since your last spanking, I paused, not because of what you said, or because I feared for your pretty backside. I have been keeping close watch, little one, and I would never maltreat you.”

“I knowww!” And I did. I had been frightened of this spanking. I had never been frightened of Glorfindel. “I knowww, G-Golindfel!”

He sniffed a small laugh. “I know you know,” he said. “I paused because it astonished me to learn of how long you had persevered as a grown-up. One hundred years? I was stunned, though I know not why, as you ever were, and clearly still are, a most obstinate little elfling, sir.”

“Uh-huhhhh! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“But I continued to spank you because, despite all that had happened, and despite your sore little bottom, you asked in a calm, adult manner if I was finished, rather than yelling and wailing and pleading for an end like any other elfling with a sore little bottom would do in your stead. Despite all that had happened, despite all the trouble caused by your hunger for adulthood, you were still reaching for more of what you could not admit you needed so desperately. I realized then how far we were from finishing, and how far we had yet to go. But . . . .” He sighed and chuckled softly. “Considering who was over my knee, I cannot say I was surprised.”

I was doomed. What, in all Middle Earth, had compelled me to ask that question? Worse, what was that shocking sense of regret that had compelled me to ask it? I could not have just waited to see what Glorfindel would do next?

And yet, even now, knowing what that question had cost me, I knew that I had needed to ask it. Nothing could have kept me from asking it. And Glorfindel was rambling on:

“I feel certain that your ada was permitting you this quest into adulthood that you might learn certain truths for yourself. That is how little ones learn best, and you, young headstrong --”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“You flatly refuse to listen when you are merely told a thing. Allowing you to learn it for yourself has always worked best with you. However, I dare say Thranduil shall regret his strategy when word of this reaches him. He shall especially regret failing to put a stop to it sooner.”

Mention of my ada’s response to the letter Elrond had drafted last night brought a fresh wash of tears. Ada would arrive. Oh, indeed he would. Soon. Within a fortnight if he had the patience to wait for an entourage to be assembled. Given these circumstances, though, ada would have no patience, so there would be no entourage. The King of Mirkwood and a company of his finest warriors would be in their saddles and riding for Rivendell within an hour of receiving Elrond’s missive. Aye. Ada would be arriving. Soon. And he would be . . . seriously vexed. Seriously vexing my ada never ended well for me. And so I sobbed my dismay into my sleeve and Glorfindel rambled on further:

“But I am delighted that this disciplinary duty has fallen to me, my sweet little Greenleaf. I trust I have executed Thranduil’s wishes tolerably well thus far, and I intend to continue doing so now by explaining a few things to you. I expect you to listen closely, Legolas, for I have much to say. Do I have your full attention?”

Did he have my --? “AHHHHHHHHHH! Aye, s-sir!”

“Good. Then I shall open with a review of what led us here,” he said in a purposeful tone.

Remarkably, I harnessed my groan. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“After struggling to behave as an adult for the absurdly lengthy period of one hundred years, you snapped back into your natural elfling temperament too violently when you met up with the twins once again. You embraced each other with joy, then you instantly reclaimed your youth by careening headlong into a venture so perilous it served well to offset your lost hundred years of possible naughtiness. Had you been in your right mind rather than suffering from the backlash of too much self-inflicted adulthood you would never have allowed the twins to strap you into their device. Do you agree?”

At this point I was so weary of lecturing that I longed to say to him what I had once heard one mortal child say to another. I was, however, prudent. I said, “A-Aye, Glorifel!” when what I longed to tell him was, ‘Oh, shut UP!’

“‘Tis reasonable enough, sweetling. You had missed your beloved playfellows greatly, and when you saw them again, you eagerly shed that harness of adulthood you had endured for so long. Had you refused the twins as the sensible adult you claimed to be, you and I would not be having this conversation. Would we?”

“N-Nay, Glordife--”

“Legolas?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Stop trying to say my name.”

“Aye, Glof – s-sir.”

“Thank you, sweetling. The twins had missed you as well, most earnestly, and so the three of you rushed with too much passion and too little sense into far too much mischief with near-disastrous results. Your cloak of adulthood caused you a great deal of trouble, pretty Legolas. You likely felt you had a good reason for deciding to become a grown-up ere your time. But that decision came at a high cost.” He paused, then: “And I vow you do not much enjoy being an adult, do you, my poor little princeling?”

“N-Nooooooo!” I exclaimed, full of remorse and humiliation.

“Nor should you. Not at this point in your very young life.”

Glorfindel sighed. I heard the melancholy in his voice and an immediate tremor of guilt rippled through me. I knew that I was distressing him, and with that in mind, I was in the very best place I could be. Glorfindel was skilled in handling my need to atone. He shifted me, bringing my legs up and over his lap once more, stretching me out fully whilst muttering that he felt I could be trusted to behave now. True. There was no fight left in me. He went right back to spanking me then, and I had never stopped sobbing.

“So you are not enjoying adulthood and it has led you into much difficulty. Very well then. Listen to me, little Greenleaf,” Glorfindel said in a commanding tone of unsettling resolve. “This nonsense ends now. Do you understand me, young bratling? No more! From this moment on, Legolas, you shall act your age. I intend to make certain you do.”

And Glorfindel delivered a mighty smack amidst his normal spanks that nearly sent me flying from his lap.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Rest assured, I shall be watching. And should I sense even the slightest hint of you falling back into that pretense of false adulthood you shall end up back over my knee ere you draw your next breath. Do you understand?” Another mighty smack!

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AYE!”

“Say you understand.”

“Un-unnners-stand! I-I-Iunnnnerstand!”

“Good. Because, Legolas, I assure you, my arm does not tire, and you do not want to make me demonstrate that truth to you.”

“Nay, s-sir! I-I-I do not.”

“Good,” he repeated, his hand finally, finally coming to rest on my scalded bottom. I could scarce believe that he was no longer spanking me, or that he was truly finished. But I lay there, sobbing, daring to hope, and very, very ready for him to be finished.

Glorfindel rubbed his big palm over my back, murmuring, “Breathe, little one. Shhhh. ‘Tis over now, all over. Breathe. Nice, big breaths.”

I tried. And Glorfindel kept me there, smoothing his hand over me, murmuring to me in his low, warm tone. And I remembered this – being held still over his lap like this after a spanking. They all did this, of course, my ada and Elrond, and I remembered how good it felt, how comforting, how absurdly safe. I felt Glorfindel pull my breeches back up my thighs, but he stopped there, leaving my backside exposed so that he could continue to ever so tenderly rub a little and whisper his fingers over the sizzling surface, and . . . ohhhh! I shivered from the slight sensation of relief.

And when I was no longer gasping and my breathing had calmed and I was crying instead of sobbing, Glorfindel gave my bottom a few light pats and said, “Do you have something you wish to say to me, sweetling?”

“Sorrryy! So-Sorry, Glordi --”

“Legolas.”

“I-I-I mean, s-sir! I-I am s-sorry, s-sir! Sorry, sorry, sorry! Very, v-very sorry!”

“Well said, elfling.”

And Glorfindel tenderly scooped up my wilted body, turned me and gathered me into his arms once more. Hugging me closely, he said the words I hungered to hear: “I know you are sorry, my beloved little Greenleaf. And all is forgiven. Shhhh, ‘tis alright now.”

I wept anew, melting against him the way I had before, grateful for Glorfindel’s strength as I had none of my own. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders a second time and nestled my face back against his neck, hiding beneath the fall of his thick mane, and for hours and hours – surely hours – Glorfindel held me close, and he rocked me and let me weep.

Soothing warmth coursed through my body, and I began to feel . . . whole again. I felt like the Legolas I had been before my self-imposed adulthood, as though I had been away for a long time, but was returning home. I felt sheltered, as I had when I had been answerable to others who were bigger and stronger and wiser than I was, protected in that refuge created by the promise of consequences.

When my crying had slowed, Glorfindel drew me down from his shoulder, eased me back in his arms and gazed at me, smoothing the tears from my cheeks and kissing my brow. He began murmuring again: “Shhh, pretty Legolas . . .‘tis all right now . . . ‘tis over, all over . . . you were very brave, and I am very proud of you . . . .”

And I listened, loving his praise, feeling like that little elfling he kept telling me I was, a sensation near too splendid to endure. Glorfindel murmured on, smiling down at me, seemingly fascinated – although I could not imagine why – whilst I lay quite fascinated by him as well – but with good reason. Nestled warmly over his lap, my bottom ablaze from what he had done to me, I blinked and blinked, trying to ease the sting of my burning eyes, trying to see him more clearly.

“Poor sweetling,” he said. “I should take you within and place cold compresses on your sore ey--”

“Noooo! P-Please, noo!” I cried, snuggling closer to him.

He chuckled and ‘shushed’ me, then lay me back down. “Very well. Shhh. We shall stay longer, little one. Hush now.” And he gave me a soft, chaste kiss on the lips. “I am not willing to share you yet, either.” Delighted, I smiled softly. “Ah!” Glorfindel said, grinning. “Now that is a wondrous sight to behold, my little Greenleaf.” Which made my smile broaden and his do the same.

And so for some time I rested there on his lap, saying nothing whilst Glorfindel played with the ends of my hair and watched me, plainly enjoying the way his attentiveness both enchanted me and made me squirm. When he spoke again, his voice took on a deep, earnest quality that captured my attention at once.

“Legolas, I need you to listen carefully to me, for I have some important things to say. Can you do that?”

I nodded. “Aye, my l-lord.”

He smiled. “Good.” He studied me again, petting the backs of his curled fingers over my cheek, then he said: “Adulthood is not something you need to prove. It is something you are. You cannot demand that others see you in a certain light simply because you wish them to do so. Adulthood evolves, little one. It ripens within you, quietly and serenely and within its own fair perfection of time. There is no rushing it, sweetling, as you have seen. It will not be coerced. When it is ready, it shall approach you unseen and present itself with little fanfare. And when you do become a genuine grown-up you shall not need to pose or pretend. You shall simply be a grown-up.”

I lay in Glorfindel’s arms, drained, gazing at him and grateful for all he was saying and doing, especially for the way he was taking my mind off my sizzling bottom. And I was listening, of course. Glorfindel was very wise, and his voice was a low, tranquil purr, so of course I was listening. However, I was also thinking that even though it had been a long time between spankings, I could not remember ever feeling my bottom burn this ferociously. I would not be sitting for some time yet to come. Days, likely. Days and days. Heartless brute. I grinned dreamily up at him.

“Are you listening to me, Legolas?”

I blinked my sore eyes. “Uh-huh.”

He looked doubtful. “Are you certain?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Because I thought perhaps your mind had wandered for a moment.”

“Huh uh.”

“Good. I wouldst rather not resort to turning you back over my knee in order to gain your atten --”

“Nooo! No,no,no! I am listening, G-Gl-sir!”

He grinned. “Good. To continue then, you display many adult behaviors from time to time, sweetling. You did so twice during your spanking. Aye, do not look so astonished. You allowed yourself to weep and you allowed yourself to be comforted. At the time you were embarrassed, no doubt thinking these things were somehow less than adult. But grown-ups are permitted tears, and comfort. The most grown up grown-ups know this, and it takes one with a bit of grown-up within to truly understand that.”

We shared a grin at this odd statement. “That makes perfect sense, my lord,” I said.

He grinned. “Then you have just made my point. I am proud of you.” Then Glorfindel paused, watching me, and said, “In truth, sweetling, you displayed a third grown-up behavior – a most important one.”

Again he hesitated and grew watchful . . . Glorfindel hesitating? I blinked and felt my brow tighten into a frown. What --?

“Legolas, when you told me how long it had been since your last spanking and I was so startled that I stopped spanking you for a few moments, you asked that impertinent question – you asked if I was finished spanking you.”

I flinched and I sucked a gasp . . . no. NO! He could not know about that secret, traitorous feeling of regret. Oh, please, please, please – he . . . he could not!

“Sweetling,” Glorfindel said gently, “you asked me that impertinent question not because you wanted to make certain that I was finished spanking you, but because you feared that I was.”

Ohhhhhhh! A hot jolt shot through me. He knew! Of course he knew! He had not spoken of it earlier, but of course this brilliant elf lord would know what I had been feeling! Ohhh!

“You had to make certain that I was not finished. And you made it very clear that you needed something more from me.”

“Ohh!” I stared at him, transfixed, my thoughts flying, my face burning. How? How could he have known about that bewildering regret I had felt? And was he correct about its source? Had I truly wanted him to spank me more? And what did that say about me? Was that . . . normal? I had instantly denied it to myself. The fact of it was awful enough, but oh! That he had known of this all along – ohhhhh!

Glorfindel smiled down at me with such tenderness and compassion, such knowing – I could not bear to look at him. I lowered my head and covered my hot face with my hands. “Ohhhh! Ohhhhhhhhh!”

Glorfindel laughed softly. “Legolas.”

“Ohhhhhhh!”

“Legolas. Stop.” He took hold of both my wrists with one big hand and firmly pulled my palms away from my face. “Come, little Greenleaf. Enough. Open your pretty eyes and look at me. At once.”

I winced, but obeyed. Glorfindel’s loving smile should have soothed my anguish, but I was so mortified I was near bursting into fresh sobs.

“Enough fussing, little one. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. ‘Tis all right that you needed what you needed from me. And ‘tis alright that your wise adult within knew how to obtain it.”

What? I studied him, blinking back a sheen of tears. “My – My wise adult within? Wise adult?”

“Of course. This is that third grown-up behavior you exhibited today – that most important one.” He paused to kiss my brow again. “When I stopped spanking, when I paused, that is, you were likely relieved, but deep inside you did not feel that you had fully atoned. You needed more.”

He grinned. “In truth, I was not done with you. I had merely paused in surprise, marveling over the obstinence of a certain little elfling who had just spent one hundred years without a single spanking. But you feared I might be finished, and you had to make certain that I would continue.

“So, clever elfling that you are, you sought what you needed in the only way you could. You asked an impertinent question in an adult manner – something that you felt would aggravate me and provoke the response that it did. You are perhaps unaware of this, but both times you asked your question – for I made you repeat it – you asked it in a most arrogant and demanding tone.”

I gasped. “I-I did?”

He made a snorting sound. “Oh, indeed. Very adult, yes, very calm. But also most impertinent and contentious. That is why I made you repeat it. I was startled by your tone. And it certainly won you the response you were seeking from me.” Then he smiled at me beautifully. “You did well, little Greenleaf.”

I stared at him, then, to my own astonishment, I burst out laughing. Glorfindel joined me, although, unlike me, there were no tears mixed with his laughter. I was simply overcome and fatigued and had few resources left upon which to draw. I could only mutter a weak, “Thank you.”

“Aye, Legolas,” he said, wiping away the fresh tears that were slipping down my cheeks. “It is much to consider. But trust that your inner adult understands about you. It is very wise indeed. And it has much to teach you about yourself, sweetling. It truly does know you better than you think you know yourself.”

I considered this carefully, then said, “Glorfindel?”

He smiled, his brows rising. “Ah! You have recovered enough to say my name! Aye, little one?”

“My sore bottom is questioning that inner adult wisdom.”

Glorfindel roared such a great laugh that he near shook me from his lap. It took him several minutes to recover. “Is it indeed?” he said. “I did not know a sore bottom could question. Cheeky of it to doubt your adult wisdom.”

I groaned mightily and told him what a ludicrous pun that was, but Glorfindel was too busy howling at his own wit and my indignation to care. I had to chuckle along with him.

“Aye, well, that is a problem,” he finally was able to cough out. “That part of you is woefully honest. It may continue to plague you, sweetling.” He shrugged, flashing me a completely unsympathetic smile.

“Why would I want more spanking, though? Is that . . . well, is it, normal?”

“Define ‘normal’ for me,” he said. “Legolas, there are grown-ups and there are grown-ups. There are many distinct types, all with differing needs and strengths. Within some lies a steadfast adult, constant, stable and with an inner spark that makes them the unwavering grown-up they are. You know who some of these are.”

I nodded. “You, Ada, Elrond, Erestor --”

“Aye. To name a few,” he said. “Within other elves a different spark exists, allowing these elves to be both an adult, and also, in part, an elfling. The balance within this kind of elf varies, too. Some are more adult with only occasional signs of an elfling. Some are equally balanced between adult and elfling, and some are mostly elfling most of the time.”

I felt that profound inner stirring one feels when hearing absolute truth. And I not only instantly understood Glorfindel, it was as if I had known this all along. “I think . . . I-I think . . . it feels as though I already knew this.”

He smiled. “Aye, little one. Deep within, your wise adult has ever known this truth.”

I nodded slowly, my mind spinning around this new idea that was actually, it seemed, a very old idea within me. I did indeed know this truth. “Glorfindel, the elf I am now, will I always be – when I become a grown-up, will I still be – or-or will I change?”

“It is your nature to be who you are, sweetling,” he said. “That does not change. You are yet young, and you shall know your adult nature when you are a fully-fledged adult. But understand this, for it is most important – the elf with that inner capacity to be both an adult and an elfling is no lesser in esteem than the elf who is the unfaltering adult. Both have value. Both are necessary. As day needs night, each needs the other to be exactly who they are – to balance one another. They are simply different from each other in nature, and that is well. And that, little one, is also ‘normal.’”

Again fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. Glorfindel smiled quietly and gathered me up in a swift, fierce hug. “And, little Greenleaf, truly, how perfectly adorable you are.”

tbc
End The Comfort of Consequences part III

onward to part 4

The Comfort of Consequences - part II - fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 12:48:08 GMT

Onward to part two! We pick up where part one left off, sometime in the past, long before Aragorn was born and long before the Quest. Legolas is now a very young elf, the equivalent of a teenager, and he’s decided that he’s tired of being treated like a kid. It’s time to ‘grow up.’ So he’s left behind his mischievous life with Elladan and Elrohir and he’s been dedicating himself to becoming an independent adult elf.

After avoiding both Rivendell and the twins for, “ . . . a short while – a hundred years or so . . .” he once again finds himself back in Rivendell, where, to his delight, the twins are away from home and Glorfindel (for whom Legolas has held a secret passion since, oh, forever,) is in residence. So, without further ado, part two!

Two very similar stories – Frodo decides to assert his adulthood, and in the course of stopping him, Legolas recalls a time when Glorfindel stopped him from doing the same thing.

part one is here.

Beta appreciation notes to Larrk’s beleaguered betas:
Helen; AKA, HRH Larrk’s Herald – who with sublime skill superbly executes her double duties of beta and Court Appointed Herald, and to my beloved Kat, who IM’s me with her instant support, reads and re-reads as is needed, and provides me with her exquisitely encouraging ‘mirror reviews.’ Thanks, Team Larrk!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

The Comfort of Consequences – part II
by Larrkin

Early one morning, a week after my arrival in Rivendell, I received a note inviting me to a rendezvous at mid-morn in High Falls Garden, one of Rivendell’s many beautifully cultivated areas. The note was sent anonymously. My heart kicked into a gallop, my hopes catching fire . . . .

Each evening I had been enjoying passing the hours close to Glorfindel in the Hall of Fire. My usual place would have been over with the elves nearer to my own age, the twins at my side, and while I caught several speculative glances from some of those younger elves, I knew I was no longer part of that juvenile crowd. They could rudely gape at me all they liked. Eventually they would realize that I had moved beyond them and was now an adult, thank you, with no interest in their elfling nonsense.

So, this note . . . I unfolded it and read it yet again on my way up the long trail to Rivendell’s most secluded, remote and lofty garden. High Falls was quite a climb, so it was less frequented than Rivendell’s many more accessible gardens. It seemed clear to me that whoever had sent me this note desired privacy and an exquisite and – I scarce dared even think this – a romantic view.

Ai! Of course I dared to hope! After all, since arriving I had kept near-exclusive company with Glorfindel, and he had been his usual friendly, accepting self, not seeming to mind that I had attached myself to him. I vow, things felt different between us. I knew that I was enjoying genuine adult compatibility with him. Encouraged and thrilled by what all this might mean, I had to force myself to keep from running up the steep path. I was already arriving much too early.

No one was there when I reached the garden. But, as it was not yet mid-morning . . . .

“Hello?” I called out, just to make certain. No answer. I had not really expected one.

So, I waited. I wandered aimlessly. I listened to the falls and looked out over the vista, dreamily watching Elrond’s house and Rivendell’s buildings far below glittering through the high, gently swaying tree tops. I tried not to peer down the path every few minutes. I pitched stones down into the ravine below. And I waited and waited and waited.

Finally, given the position of the shadows, I admitted with a sinking feeling that mid-morning had come and gone. What could have happened? I had felt certain this note was from Glorfindel. But, now that I thought it over, was that plausible? Would Glorfindel do something like this? Or would he not simply take me somewhere private to talk, perhaps even to his chambers?

I grimaced. Glorfindel would most likely do the latter. Was someone having a little fun with me? Aye. Most likely. Perhaps a few of those young elves whose company I had been shunning were feeling vindictive. I sank down upon the only bench there and muttered a curse, convinced now that I had been duped and wondering if there was another way down the mountain other than via that one path, where, I felt certain a gleeful group of those young vindictive elves were lying in wait to ridicule me. I cursed again.

Suddenly something landed in my lap. I yelped and jumped up and the thing went sailing, landing a few feet away, a tiny white object, harmless looking. But, what . . . and where had it --? I spun around. No one there. I fired a sharp gaze up the ragged rock face rising skyward behind me – foliage, scrub pine, nothing else. Feeling foolish, I strolled over, picked up the odd-looking object and studied it, turning it over in my hands.

It was a lightweight piece of parchment, precisely folded into the shape of some kind of bird, though it did not resemble any bird I knew, as it had what appeared to be wings oddly placed at the top. What, by all that was blessed . . . and even before I heard their laughter I felt Elrohir and Elladan close by.

Of course. I looked up once again.

They were peering over the side of a ledge that had blended in with the rock face some distance up, two identical, beautiful, dark-haired youths grinning down at me - Lord Elrond’s rascally sons and my cherished partners in mischief. Former partners in mischief. I caught my breath and struggled to keep from smiling. Until that moment I had not realized how much I had missed them.

“Legolas!” the twins cried in unison, laughter spilling from them like music, and they jumped to their feet and began climbing down from their lofty perch.

I watched them, reflecting on how much effort they had put forth to achieve this very result – sending the note, hiding themselves before I arrived, needing to be in place quite early, in fact, as I was early myself, and then waiting and waiting and waiting for me to sit on that bench so they could drop their little paper bird on me. The twins had never been ones to wait gracefully, especially in silence, so they had truly craved that moment of surprise. Typical of their elaborate plotting, though. I had forgotten.

At last they were reaping their reward, and I had to admit they deserved recompense for their extraordinary, abnormal patience. Scrambling down the rock, side by side, they laughed and teased in their usual back-and-forth discourse. I never had difficulty telling the twins apart, even though they were identical in looks. They . . . felt different from one another. But they sounded like one voice coming from two excited elves:

“Legolas, you were too comical!”

“You should have seen yourself, Legolas!”

“You jumped straight up in the air!”

“Straight up!”

“It was perfect! Was it not perfect, Ro?”

“It was! It was perfect, Lad!”

“Legolas, it was too perfect!”

“It was! It truly was!”

“And that yelp!”

“Such a yelp!”

They both then imitated my yelp – naturally exaggerating the truth of it, the rogues. I fought off bursting into laughter.

“Seeing that leap --”

“-- and hearing that yelp --”

“-- made it worth all the trouble!”

“And worth the endless waiting and waiting --”

“-- and waiting --”

“-- and waiting!”

“Blessed Valar, Legolas! It seemed you would never sit down!”

“All that aimless wandering about!”

“Then standing and flinging stones like an elfling --”

Curse it all, I could not help grinning. I watched them, eager, high-spirited, stumbling all over each other’s words, jabbering at me the whole way, using plenty of foul language, most of which went towards describing my detestable character. It was too wonderful! Ai! but it was good to see them!

They hit the ground at the same time, then they charged me at full speed and before I could take a single fleeing step two elves of my same size crashed into me. They both grabbed me and we all plummeted to the grass in a tangle of flailing limbs. Then the noble sons of Lord Elrond proceeded to playfully maul the Prince of Mirkwood.

I was beset by a shoving, rolling, punching, tumbling attack, good-natured, of course, else I would surely not have survived. I bellowed to be let up, my helpless laughter contradicting my feigned ire, not that the twins were paying neither my bellows nor me the slightest heed. They were too busy laughing and affectionately maltreating me and cursing me in vulgar terms for neglecting them for so long.

When they stopped, some time later, and we lay in a disheveled, gasping heap, the twins, still calling me filthy names and trying to outdo each other with foul suggestions as to how to punish me for offending them so egregiously, at last gave me a chance to speak:

“Fine greeting after a hundred years,” I grumbled.

They laughed.

“Well deserved, my lord princeling.”

“Exceeding well deserved after the way you have been avoiding us,” Lad said.

“We assume it is because you decided to . . . uh . . . .” Ro cast his twin a look of pretended bewilderment. “What was it we concluded he planned to do?”

“Uhh . . . grow up?”

“Yes, indeed. Grow up.” Ro ‘tsked.’ “Legolas, how dull.”

“Exceedingly dull, Legolas.”

“How do you fare thus far?”

“Enjoying being a grown-up?” Lad snickered.

I was too stunned to answer, shocked not only by their candor, but also by the fact that they were teasing and not holding my decision against me. “You are not angry with me,” I said, sounding as astounded as I was.

They looked genuinely surprised. “Why would we be angry?” Lad asked.

“‘Twas your decision, Legolas,” Ro said. “What could we have done about it?”

“Do not misunderstand us. We have missed you greatly --”

“And all the fun we could have been having together these past hundred years.”

“But, truly --” Elladan shrugged. “What could we have done?”

“Tried to convince you not to do what you had decided to do?”

“You forget, Legolas. We know you. Most obstinate elf in Middle Earth. Right, ‘Ro?”

“Indeed! Once you make up your mind, sir, there is none who can unmake it.”

“Certainly not us,” Lad said.

“So, tell us, how are you enjoying this thing called adulthood, brother?”

I actually flinched at the old name the twins used to call me. ‘Brother.’ I was their third twin, or so they had informed me when we were elflings. No other in this world called me ‘brother,’ and I had always loved hearing them speak it.

And now, hearing it again, hearing them accept me with such unexpected grace despite what I had done filled me with an odd despair. For the past hundred years I had shunned their company, struggling to make myself into someone I neither liked nor wished to be.

Now, here we were, the three of us, together again, sitting cross-legged in a circle as we used to do, our knees touching – here they sat, waiting for me to tell them how I had fared all this time, caring about how I had fared, despite my behavior towards them. And I could not fathom what I was feeling. I kept my gaze downcast, struggling for control, tugging up the tufts of grass not trampled flat by our wrestling.

They were right, of course. And I now knew a few things – I now knew that they could not have stopped me from ‘deciding to grow up’ even if they had tried, and I now knew that I had indeed wanted them to try. Such was not their role, though. I would never have allowed them to ‘teach’ me such a lesson about myself. I would never have accepted their authority over me. But I suddenly realized that I had spent a good part of the past hundred years resenting the fact that they could not give me what I now knew I had so desperately wanted.

And atop all of that new knowledge I felt humbled and saddened, understanding yet one more truth – although I had been playing at wanting to be a grown up, my friends were achieving it with no fanfare at all. They were accepting me as I was, aware that I had been struggling, but, knowing me better than I knew myself, they were shrewd enough to realize that there had been no telling me of the folly of my quest. I had needed to learn it for myself. How odd to recognize that the twins were like my ada in that respect.

“Legolas?” ‘Ro asked.

I could not trust that tight soreness in my throat, nor could I look at them. They were being too tolerant, too forgiving and far too willing to allow me my foolishness . . . .

“It is all right, brother,” Elladan said.

“Perfectly all right.”

“Legolas come. ‘Tis of no matter.”

“None at all,” Elrohir added.

They went quiet then, and, curious, I looked up and caught them exchanging a concerned glance.

“So, why not try this --” Elladan said. “Simply admit that you have wasted the past hundred years instead of having fun with us.”

“And that all this time you have been completely half-witted and tiresome and too boring for any fun-loving elf to desire your company --”

“-- and that, overall, you have been behaving like a warg’s backside.”

It was nearly the final blow. I bit my lower lip – hard – even closer now to tears, but tears of silliness and joy. They knew me so well, and they knew that, in such a painful moment, humor was the road best taken. Most importantly, we need never discuss the fact that they held nothing against me. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing to forgive; they simply wanted me to forgive myself. Elrond’s sons were indeed worthy of him.

I laughed. “A warg’s backside?” They laughed, too. Elrohir reached over and punched my shoulder and Elladan drew his leg up and kicked my knee and I said the only sensible thing I could at such a time: “I despise you both.”

“So you always say.”

“And we despise you back.”

“So you always say.”

I exchanged a silent look with each twin, seeing the slightly embarrassed warmth there that I hoped my gaze reflected back. Then Elladan said, “Right. Now that you are acting your age again . . . .” And he looked at his twin.

Elrohir suddenly jumped up, strolled over to some shrubbery, reached around behind the foliage, and pulled forth a sizeable bottle of a most distinctive color and shape. I felt my eyes widen.

“Guess what kind of wine Laddie and I pilfered from Ada’s most choice cellar,” he said, collapsing back down.

I swore crudely, to the twins’ delight. “Elrond will not miss it?” I asked. “A bottle of Dorwinian wine – a huge bottle of Dorwinian wine?”

“Miss it?” Ro paused in his expert dealing with the cork to dart me an incredulous look. “Will Ada miss his precious Dorwinian wine? A Dorwinian wine of such a classic year?”

“A bottle of such enormous size?” Elladan raised a brow and cleared his throat. “Let us discuss something else, brother.”

And so we did. They began by explaining how they came to be there – that they had wanted to arrange a private reunion with me rather than the three of us possibly suffering through days of some awkward public dance around each other, providing gossip and entertainment for others.

“So when Ada sent a messenger to tell us you were here, we rode back and arrived late last night.”

“We went straight to Ada and told him that we wished to devise a private reunion with you, up here, and he approved.”

“So just before dawn this morning we paid Ada’s wine cellars a quick visit, wrote that message and left it for you --”

“– then came up here to wait.”

“We needed to arrive before you did, so we had some provisions packed and we broke our fast up here.”

I smiled quietly and lowered my gaze. Aye, Elrond’s sons did him credit. Once again I was touched by their careful preparations, so typical of them. Well, typical of Elladan. Ro tended to fly headlong into things with little thought and less self-control.

I wanted to hear all about what they had been doing for the past hundred years and vice versa, focusing mostly on what the twins had been doing as their adventures far outpaced mine in terms of excitement. We passed the bottle of luscious Dorwinian wine and spent hours enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company, and sometime later, Ro turned to me and said, “We have something exciting to share with you.”

I lifted a brow.

“How drunk are you?” Lad asked.

“As drunk as I need to be,” I replied. “Or, not at all.”

“He is as sober as we are, Lad,” Elrohir said. “We are three robust young elves and we downed a mere three-thirds of this bottle. I am feeling quite happy, but --” He hiccupped. “-- by no means impaired.”

“We downed three-thirds?” I asked, eyeing the quarter bottle that remained.

“Pardon. My error. I meant four-thirds.”

“No getting anything past you, Ro,” Lad said.

They laughed, then Ro said, “Legolas looks fairly sober, though. If disheveled.”

“Liar.” I picked a leaf from my tunic. “I am never disheveled.”

“Oh,no? You look as we do. Do we look disheveled?”

“You look filthy and grossly offensive,” I said.

“But you came through our attack unrumpled, eh?”

“Of course. And you two always look filthy and grossly offensive,” I lied, just to hear their chuckling sounds of feigned outrage. “You mentioned something exciting?” I said. “Do I need to be clean to hear more?”

“Nay, indeed not,” Ro said.

“In fact, being disheveled is actually more . . . befitting,” Elladan said.

“Something exciting for which being disheveled is more befitting,” I said. “I am intrigued. Perhaps I am drunk.”

Elladan jumped up, sending me flopping to the ground on my back as I had been leaning against him. Grinning, Ro stood as well, and they each took an arm and pulled me up. Ohhhh . . . right, uhh, a bit wobbly, but then it had been Dorwinian wine. Incredibly Dorwinian wine.

“Where are we going?” I asked when things stopped swirling.

Ro pointed skyward. I looked at Lad, who nodded and pointed skyward. So I grabbed the bottle and began to sit again. “Pardon me whilst I finish this.”

Chuckling – for the twins chuckled often, even when they were not slightly impaired – they took the bottle and pulled me up again, Lad saying, “The ledge, brother. We need to start by climbing back up to the ledge where we waited for you this morning.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” I scoffed.

“Hmm,” Elladan said, studying me. “This may not be wise, Ro. Mayhap poor Legolas cannot handle such a climb at present.”

“Hmm. You may be right. Mayhap when the wine wears off.”

“And mayhap you are both lack-witted.” I snorted. “Please. Enough. I can climb that little mountain.”

“You are certain?”

“We do not wish to be responsible for sending the Prince of Mirkwood to a splattering death.”

“Ada would disapprove.”

“He would frown.”

“His brow would shoot upwards.”

“And he would take us to his study --”

“To the Chair --”

“And we have not needed to be, well --” The word ‘spank’ in all its many deviations made Elrohir squirm. His twin suffered no such difficulty.

“Spanked, Ro. Spanked! We have not been spanked in quite a long while,” Elladan finished for him.

Ro glared at him. “Obliged.”

I began striding towards the rock. “If you two are finished.”

They ran to join me. Then up the rock face we climbed, one twin above me and one below. The going was easy, despite the fact that my limbs seemed determined to behave in a slightly uncooperative manner. At the top was the small base camp of sorts the twins had set up for their wait this morning. They had packed a great deal of extra food, clearly having planned out something beyond a simple reunion. Suddenly aware of our hunger, we devoured everything the twins had brought.

“Now,” I said, “this exciting thing you have to share?”

They grinned at each other, then: “Come,” Elrohir said. And we headed off around the mountain, following the narrow ledge.

**********

I sat in Rivendell’s peaceful Garden of Grace, wondering if I was going to be afforded any. This time I knew for certain that Glorfindel was coming to join me, unlike twenty-four hours ago when I had hurried up to High Falls Garden, hoping for a meeting with him. Just twenty-four hours ago . . . hmm.

It should have worked. It had worked previously for both the twins. So it should have worked for me as well. It did work, in part . . . .

I closed my eyes, remembering it, reaching back to recapture that exhilaration unlike any other I had ever felt. Oh, it had been glorious! Despite the undignified ending, it had indeed been glorious. Was it worth it, though?

Whilst growing up I had, on occasion, been spanked by Glorfindel. It had been a long, long time since he had disciplined me, but I recalled all too well what one of his spankings felt like, and I was not sure if yesterday’s ‘exhilaration unlike any other I had ever felt’ was worth what I knew he was about to do to me.

In addition to the discomfort factor, the elf who was on his way here to turn me over his knee, pull down my breeches and spank me was the very elf after whom I had been lusting, the very elf I had hoped to impress with my new-found, fully developed adulthood. Fine job I was doing thus far.

Would I have preferred Elrond spank me, even though I have never, ever, in all my life of mischief with the twins, seen the Lord of Rivendell as livid as he was yesterday? Would I have traded places with one of his sons, let Elrohir or Elladan meet Glorfindel in this garden whilst I now met Elrond in his study and faced his dreaded Chair? I was not lusting after Elrond, so would that have made any of this easier? One could chase ‘round and ‘round with such a maddening question ending up right back at the beginning. It mattered not anyway. Elrond had asked Glorfindel if he would see to my discipline in this matter and Glorfindel had readily agreed. Most readily. With exceeding readiness.

So . . . a spanking from Glorfindel . . . . I shuddered and shot up and began wandering aimlessly as I had yesterday, and when that did not help I sought solace the way I often had as an elfling; I climbed the largest tree in the garden, found a cradling juncture of branches and eased my bruised body back into the tree’s welcoming arms.

I wanted to blame the twins for this. I could have done so and been justified. But . . . no. They had not forced me to do anything. I had asked to do it. The choice had been mine alone, and, therefore, so were these consequences. And much as I hated to admit it, there was a measure of comfort in knowing that consequences for certain behaviors were steadfast, absolute and unfailing. Comfort from consequences – there was a notion.

How could only twenty-four hours have gone by? I narrowed my eyes, thinking of yesterday’s disaster yet again, starting from the moment I had stood frozen in amazement, mouth gaping, staring at the thing Elrohir and Elladan had built all by themselves.

“Your ada inspired us!” Ro had exclaimed.

“His great defense, remember? He said that they had never told us not to strap on wings and leap from Mount Doom, attempting to fly.”

“So guess what we did indeed decide to attempt?”

“It sounded like fun!” Lad said. “Well, not the Mount Doom part --”

“But with the many, many heights in Rivendell, well --”

“Legolas, honestly, what else could we do?”

I could not respond. I could do nothing but stare and walk around and around their odd-looking apparatus. Looking just like the tiny paper version they had dropped into my lap, this full-sized winged contraption was simplicity itself, a brilliant design. I had not known the twins were such talented craftspersons. The thing even looked like it worked.

“Of course it works, you moron!”

“We have both taken short flights with it!”

“We did not know we could create something like this either, but our longing to fly won out.”

“To fly, Legolas!” Elrohir exclaimed, his voice quivering with excitement. “Oh, to fly!”

“To sail on the wind!” Elladan cried.

“To fly! Imagine it! To fly!”

I could not imagine it, but I trembled with the notion! I looked out over the vista below, trying to see it from the viewpoint of a bird, barely hearing the twins as they babbled on:

“So we worked and worked, and finally, after many failures --”

“– many, many failures --”

“ We finally came up with a prototype that worked.”

“Our ELFlyer!”

“Then we had to find the perfect place to build a full sized model --”

“-- and learn how to fly it. Some place where we would not be discovered.”

“Which is why it took half an hour to hike here from High Falls Garden. This small valley is tucked away and isolated, so it cannot be seen from any watchpoint. It took us months and months to find our location. It has the perfect precipice we needed.”

“Not too high, but steep enough to catch the wind.”

“With plenty of air currents.”

“And no watchful sentinels.”

It really was an astounding accomplishment. That they had managed to do this in secrecy was, in itself, extraordinary. Had Elrond known about this secluded area of Rivendell’s lands, a place no sentinel could observe, he would have rectified that situation long ago.

“We had to be able to clear the tree tops below.”

“Tree tops sting.”

“And they tear up the ELFlyer, so we end up rebuilding and patching,” Lad was saying.

“We have had to do that often, though.”

“But,” I had sputtered. “But, landing! How – do you not – do you . . . well, do you crash?”

They just grinned and shrugged.

“A few landings have been . . . unpleasant, but they are not all hard ones.”

“We are becoming rather good at it.”

“Honestly, it is not too bad.”

“Not a single bone yet broken.”

“Sparring with the captains can be more painful!”

“And oh, Legolas! To fly! It is too astounding!”

Exhilarated by our reunion, emboldened by the invigorating effects of Dorwinian wine and thrilled by the prospect of flight, I turned to the twins, who were watching me, eagerly anticipating my response, and said what they surely knew I surely would:

“I want to try! Please!”

They had laughed. “But of course you do, brother!”

“Come; let us show you how.”

A successful flight had to do with skill and air currents. Unfortunately, one you had control over and the other you most emphatically did not. Having learned through trial and error, the twins instructed me as no one had done for them, so I was as well prepared as I could be. With a little more practice I might have even known what to do when that powerful gust of wind swept me up on my first flight and sailed me away from the launch point, speeding me out over the treetops and across the valleys and mountains of Rivendell.

Thank the Valar for the shocked sentinels under whose watchful gazes I eventually sailed. Had it not been for them it could have taken Elrond’s rescue party days to find me, as I had crash landed in a huge oak tree and there I hung, nearly hidden high up in the thick leaves, helplessly wrapped and tangled up in the smashed remains of the ELFlyer.

“Legolas.”

I jumped, nearly lost my seat, grabbed my branch and looked down. Glorfindel stood below, chuckling and watching me with his mild expression.

“Ai! Poor lad. Did I startle you?”

“N-No.”

I studied him warily. Yesterday he and Elrond had been so furious that they had agreed to postpone disciplining the twins and me until today. Glorfindel looked calm now, however . . . .

“You are no longer angry?” I asked.

“I have mastered it.”

I frowned down at him. “Oh. My. Well, then.”

“Aye,” he said, still smiling his everlastingly gentle smile. “And it is time you came down now, sweetling. We have much to attend to, you and I.” And Glorfindel held his arms up to me, as though reaching to help an elfling down from his perch. “Come here, pretty brat.”

I froze and stared at him, recognizing the words he had used the first time we met all those years ago. He was treating me this way to humble me, of course. But if Glorfindel truly thought I was about to jump down into his outstretched waiting arms like some little elfling --! Was he mad?

Oh, no. No, no, no. I had not spent the last hundred years refining my adulthood only to be subjected to this degrading treatment the minute I committed some trivial offense! I deserved to be disciplined. Aye, very well, I did. I knew that, and I was submitting to it. However, I also deserved to be spanked in a dignified and respectful manner like the grown-up I was. Glorfindel was clearly in need of some tutoring regarding the suitable treatment of grown-ups. And, as for hopping down into his outstretched waiting arms --

I quickly shifted to one side, kicked my legs straight out and launched myself off the branch and away from his arms. He was quicker. He reached over, snatched me from mid-air and held me dangling before him, my feet well above the ground. I gasped and stared at him. What he was doing took incredible strength. For all his light-hearted and merry manner, Glorfindel was also the Balrog-slayer, a warrior elf of gargantuan power, never to be taken lightly.

But none of that mattered to the indignant grown-up elf within me who deserved to be looked upon as a grown-up elf. Was respectful handling during certain disciplinary procedures too much to expect? Of course it was not! So, how dare he treat me this way!

“Glorfindel!” I snarled. “Put me down!”

“Nay. I think not,” he replied. “You look too adorable.”

I fumed and wriggled and squirmed and kicked getting nowhere and amusing him more. “Put me down at once!” I demanded. “You cannot simply do as you will because you are bigger and stronger than I am!”

“Of course I can, sweetling.”

“Glorfindel!”

“But not only because I am bigger and stronger than you, but because I am justified in doing so.”

“You most certainly are not! This is an abuse of power, sir!” I cried, my kicking becoming more violent.

“Such impertinence. Stop that, little one, lest one of your hot-tempered kicks accidentally connects to the wrong part of my body.” I froze and huffed. He had a point. Glorfindel studied me with a deep and measured look, then said, “I intend to give you quite a thorough spanking, Legolas. There is no need to provoke me in hopes of gaining a longer one.”

I sucked a sharp breath. “What? In hopes of – WHAT?”

“I know you feel badly, sweetling, as well you should,” he went on in a patient tone. “What you did was beyond foolhardy and dangerous. So you are in enough trouble as it is. You need not tempt more.”

“I am not trying to tempt more, you asinine --!” And with a quick gasp I halted in mid-word, but not before a few truly vulgar elvish ones rushed free.

Glorfindel burst out laughing. “Impertinence, insults and now obscenities. And you claim you are not trying to provoke me? Legolas, for an elfling who is about to be spanked, your behavior is most indiscreet.”

“Because your behavior is most inappropriate!” I shot back, trembling with fury. “Put me down! Put me dowwwwwn!”

To my surprise, he did so. Seeming mildly amused, Glorfindel lowered me to the ground and released me. “Inappropriate?”

I shifted my clothing back into order and glared up at him. Glorfindel stood a little more than half a head taller than me, but he had always seemed enormous. I vow he appeared bigger than he had just a few days ago. “Aye! Inappropriate! You have no right to do this!”

“No right to discipline you for what you did yesterday?” Plainly fascinated, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“No! N-No, I mean, no, that is not what I meant. I-I meant --”

“I thought not, for what you and the twins did was beyond naughty.”

Revolting choice of words! I winced. “I know that, for Valar’s sake! I really do know that. I am fully able to comprehend that fact. I know! I know! I know!”

“Your tone, little Greenleaf, is most disrespectful.”

“I --”

“As is your entire manner.”

“I-I --”

“I am exercising restraint with you, not because you are earning it, but because of my fondness for the sweet little princeling I know you to be, deep inside.”

I drew a slow breath, beat back my agitation and my raging temper, and said with a poise I positively did not feel, “Again, sir, you make my point. Forgive my bluntness, but I say once more that your behavior is inappropriate.”

“Is it indeed?”

“Aye, my lord. You have no right to do what you are doing.”

He gave me a lazy, curious smile. “Are you saying that you are no longer answerable to me, young Prince of Mirkwood?”

“Not in the manner to which you are accustomed, my lord.”

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly to one side. Ohhh, I had never liked that look of his. “Explain yourself.”

“I mean that, well, I am no longer an elfling. I am a grown-up now, an independent elf, and I expect to be treated in a respectful manner like any other independent adult. You cannot tell me what to do. So, when I say that you have no right to do this, I mean that you have no right to deal with me in such a demeaning fashion. And so, no, I am no longer answerable to you, my lord – not as I used to be.”

I was good. My limbs trembled with the thrill and alarm of defiance, yet I remained admirably poised, my voice steady, a fine example of self-governing, adult elfhood. I was most impressed with myself.

Glorfindel released a small polite laugh, then he lowered his arms and headed for a nearby bench, saying, “Well, little princeling, I disagree. And, sadly for you, mine is the only opinion that matters here. So, come.” He turned and cast me an odious grin. “Let us get on with this.”

My heart thudding, I remained frozen in place, so indignant I could not move. Nothing I said had meant anything to him! Nor, it seemed, would anything else I had to say. I was being dismissed, my claim to be a grown-up, independent adult simply . . . dismissed. I stood there, staring at this beautiful elf who was looking back at me and clearly seeing only the little elfling he had ever known me to be. And although I deserved this spanking, I had come too far and was now too mature an elf to allow Glorfindel to do this on his terms.

“No,” I said.

“Excuse me?” he said, one eyebrow slowly rising.

“No . . . sir?”

“Legolas --”

“You have the right to discipline me, yes --”

“Why, thank you.”

“Not at all. But, you are not listening to me, my lord. As I just tried to tell you, I am no longer answerable to you. I am an independent adult, but you insist upon handling me like an elfling, reducing me to a diminished state. That is what I refuse to permit.”

“. . . . you refuse to permit,” Glorfindel muttered, incredulous amusement glittering in his eyes.

“So, you see, I cannot allow myself to submit to this until you agree to treat me with the respectful dignity you would afford any other grown-up adult elf under the same circumstances.”

“Well, I doubt any other grown-up adult elf would have attempted such an insanely dangerous stunt,” he said, “but --”

“Nevertheless,” I surged on, “you see my difficulty, and I am certain you understand.”

“Then you would be mistaken, little Greenleaf,” Glorfindel quickly said. “I do indeed see your difficulty, but it is, I must point out, your difficulty. I have no such difficulty, I assure you. I do not recognize your claim to adulthood. I do consider you to be answerable to me, and I intend to handle you in any way I see fit. We are therefore, it seems, at a classic impasse.

“So let us begin here, as I believe I have tolerated this nonsense long enough: either come over here now, like a good little elfling, or, since I am, as you correctly pointed out, bigger and stronger than you are, I shall be forced to come and get you. A mature adult such as you will find that degrading. You will not like it. So why not save us both the aggravation, be a good little elfling, and come here?”

Though shaking with rage, I could not help appreciating his gift. Glorfindel’s words were well-chosen to kindle the fires of my exasperation. He knew it. He knew that I knew it. And, sure enough, those fires within me exploded with a frenzy.

I stood my ground. In fact, I took a warrior’s fighting stance, one Glorfindel himself had taught me when I was no higher than his waist and holding a wooden sword. And he recognized my intent without me uttering another word. I did utter one, though –

“No.”

He sighed, gave a nod and strolled away from the bench, out into the wider, open area of the garden, halting not far from where I stood. “Very well,” he said. “Let us get this over with. Come. Do your worst. Best me, little bratling.”

Which we both knew I could not do. But Glorfindel had ever been a gracious sort. He took my first charge straight on, fell with a soft, “oomph!” let me scramble atop him and then proceeded to carry on throughout our ridiculous excuse for a battle by employing an entirely defensive position. His only strategy was one of passive protection, which made the fact that he bested me at each turn absolutely maddening.

He fended off my every attack with little effort. But I quickly realized that something else was happening as well. He knew of all my scrapes and cuts and bruises, the results of crashing down through the branches of that oak tree, and I vow Glorfindel was trying to protect me from further hurts, catching me if I was about to hit the ground or rolling beneath me to soften a fall or deflecting a blow with gentle ease. It was most humbling. At one point, panting and furious, I paused before him in a crouch and croaked, “Fight me!”

“I am, little one.”

“NO! No, you are NOT! Fight me! Fight me!”

“Legolas, calm down. Shhh. Breathe. Think, elfling. Consider your next move. What have you not yet tried? What might be the best way to attack me?”

He did that, too, galling me into a frenzy – he tutored, he encouraged, he praised me!

“Very good . . . nice move . . . you are doing well, little one . . . .”

I came at him again and again and Glorfindel repelled with what could only be described as defensively compassionate grace. Hand to hand combat like this was uncommon. Warriors learned it on the training field, and we practiced it there. But most battles and skirmishes were fought with weapons – bow and sword. Aside from playful tussling with the twins I had never been through anything like this, even in training. Glorfindel was . . . he was taking care of me, looking after me in ways that I could sense, but not identify in a manner I could describe. I could not stop him, though, or force him to fight me. Glorfindel continued to do just as he would.

I knew I had lost ere we began. And, in my growing weariness I had to be honest with myself – a part of me found my entire argument repugnant. I had felt it simmering in the back of my mind, a reluctance to fight him at all, a sense that I had no idea what I was fighting for. Respect? My adulthood? Was that it? Had I not abandoned my so-called adulthood as folly, gladly forsaking my wasted previous hundred years moments after meeting up again with the twins?

And, as those thoughts swirled and I became more and more drained in a fight whose purpose I no longer understood, I felt a shift in Glorfindel, a change from tolerant master back to amused and indulgent disciplinarian. He knew I could not yield, so he finally brought our absurd contest to a halt with his typically commanding manner.

“Enough now, little princeling,” he said, rising to his feet. “Come. No more. That is enough.”

Then Glorfindel reached down and scooped me up under the arms and held me aloft once more. But this time he held me high above his head, as though I were a mere toddler, and he laughed and tossed me up in the air, then caught me, the way he had when we first met. I was too exhausted to care. All I could do was dangle there, panting in his strong grip, feeling exactly like the elfling he insisted I was and submitting at last with as much poise as I could to one who was older, wiser and far more powerful.

I felt every cut, scrape and bruise from yesterday’s crash. I was a depleted mess. And Glorfindel looked barely ruffled. There was no rancor in his conduct, no gloating over his victory. He was genuinely delighted with me, as he had ever been, watching me with a deep, fond radiance in his eyes and a smile full of pure affection. He laughed again, softly, gently, indulgently. “Ah, little Greenleaf, as you ever were, I vow you are the most captivating elfling to have ever graced my knee.”

Something sharp caught in my throat and I bit back a quiet sob, a great rush of emotion sweeping over me, tears threatening to burst forth. For a second time I gladly relinquished my claim to that tiresome adulthood that had so controlled me. I released it as I had with the twins, and I shuddered and bit my lip and stared down into the smooth, perfect beauty of Glorfindel’s face, too fatigued to even feel ashamed of my foolishness.

He grinned, then he eased my aching body over his shoulder, carried me to the bench, drew me down and turned me over his knee. “Shhhhh, sweetling, shhh. Hush now,” he murmured in answer to my gasping, desperate sounds. “‘Tis over now. You fought bravely, but ‘tis over now.” Then Glorfindel pulled down my breeches and patted my bottom.

“Ohhhhh!” I cried, whimpering at the feel of cool air breezing over my bared backside. “Ohhhhhhh!”

I may have surrendered my resistance, but I am never prepared for that moment, and with Glorfindel – ohhhhhhh! I buried my face in the crook of my arm, cringing. Still purring words of encouragement, he tugged my breeches further down my legs – oh, Valar help me! Could I feel any more naked? Of course I could. Glorfindel then pulled my tunic halfway up my back and tucked it above his restraining arm. And it was awful. Awful. An awful, awful feeling of defenselessness and exposure. I lay there, trembling, waiting, dreading . . . .

“There now, little one, shhh, be at ease. All will be well.” He tenderly patted my backside again, notching up my distress. “I meant what I said. You truly are the most adorable elfling to have ever graced my knee.”

And, oh, but I was ever so comforted to hear that. I squirmed, unable to stop myself, and I fought a mental image of what he was seeing and what I looked like over his knee. Bless Lord Elrond for declaring this garden off-limits to others today! It was the only blessing I could consent to at the moment.

“I know you are anxious, Legolas,” he said. “You have cause to be. You were very naughty indeed. And it has been a long time since I last spanked you. But I shall take good care of you, sweet one. You are going to be here for a while, so try to relax.”

Was such talk meant to help me relax? I lifted my head and I exclaimed, “Relax? You cannot be in earnest-AHH!”

I would have preferred not to have cried out, but he caught me unawares and that first spank is always a shock. I felt Glorfindel’s rigid thighs under my stomach and I felt my body tucked firmly against his warm torso and his solid arm pressing down over my back, and yet that first hot sting made all this appallingly real. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no. A spanking from Glorfindel. Oh, noooo!

“You are yet quite tense, little one,” he said, rubbing my back and patting my bottom. “However, I suppose it is hard to be at ease.”

He supposed.

“I have a few reminders to offer you as we begin, a few things I would like you to think about.”

I groaned, already hating these ‘reminders.’ I had forgotten that Glorfindel sometimes liked to talk at the outset, build up slowly. Not so Elrond. I had witnessed and experienced his method firsthand, so I knew that the elf lord was saying very little before pulling each twin over his knee in turn and spanking them until they collapsed into frantic sobbing. Only then he would start talking to them. That was how he spanked me. That was how ada spanked me, too.

I could not say if Glorfindel’s slower approach was more merciful. I had the feeling that, when it came to a spanking, no one method was more merciful than another. I struggled to bite back my first cries whether those opening swats were fast or slow. These were coming slowly, Glorfindel delivering one forceful spank between each grim ‘reminder.’

“You endangered your life in a most frivolous way.”

“AHH! I kn-know!”

“You might have soared headlong into a rock face, or been battered ‘neath a waterfall, or plummeted straight down to the ground had the wind failed.”

“AHH! I kn-know!” This was not helping ease my tension.

“You could have ended up hanging by your neck from that oak tree, or upside down, or in any other broken limbed and bleeding manner. You could have hung like that for days ere we found you.”

“AHHH! I kn-know!”

“You could have become impaled on a splintered branch when you crashed down through that tree. You could have bled to death waiting for rescue. Carrion fowl might have been drawn by the scent of your blood.”

“AHHHHHH!-I know!” My stomach turned and I tightened my fists and buried my head again. “I-I know!”

“And you could not have fought them off, with your arms tied tightly to your body by that contraption’s ropes.”

“I knooow! I-AHHH!-I knooow!”

“They would have gone for your eyes firs --”

“I-I KNO --!”

“And had the sentinels not seen you, we might never have found you in time, little one.”

“AHHH!” A particularly hard spank. “I KNOW! Glorfindel, please!”

I truly did know all this! The twins and I had listened to a long and gruesome list of feasible post-crash end results during the lecture Elrond and Glorfindel had delivered last night. Glorfindel, when angry, was coldly formidable, gruff, but in control, whereas Elrond had an impressive temper and plenty of volume and he had used both liberally. My ears were still ringing. Both elf lords were skilled wordsmiths, able with the mastery of their language to reduce three young warrior elves to tearful elflings shaking with remorse. So I had withstood much of this scolding and been forced to repeatedly imagine these hideous visions last night. I would suffer no more of it!

“I-I could have flown on for days, far from Rivendell’s lands, unable to stop!” I yelled, my voice quaking and strained. “I could have been attacked in mid-air by a fell beast, or shot from the sky by an enemy’s arrow! I-I could have crashed into an orc encampment and been taken prisoner. Beaten! Tortured! Maimed! Violated! Repeatedly! I could have – I-I could have died! I know, Glorfin – I-I grant you all – I-I knowwww! Please, pleeeeeease STOP!”

Glorfindel had paused to listen, his hand resting on my warming backside. And I lay there, remembering, the horror and the fear rising up again as it had when I dangled from that tree, waiting, hoping, praying for a rescue that I had no reason to believe might ever be forthcoming.

I thought of their faces, the drawn, worried faces of my rescuers, gazing at me up in that tree. Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, the twins, and a wealth of Rivendell’s finest warriors, looking up, tears shining in the eyes of those closest to me as they watched the warriors cut me loose from the broken ELFlyer, then half-lowered me, half-helped me climb down from the tree. I thought of Elrond, reaching up for me the moment I was within his grasp, pulling me into a fierce, long embrace, then permitting Glorfindel to sweep me away and into his strong arms, and I shook with disgrace, feeling their relief and their abatement of fear, both of them holding me so tightly I could scarce breathe, both of them too moved for words . . . until later . . . .

I winced, the scene in Elrond’s study now flashing through my mind. I stood there, between the twins, listening to Elrond and Glorfindel, so ashamed that I could afford them only swift glances. Their wrath mixed with a deep concern too painful to look upon. Elrond’s first long stern glare and his hushed opening words really would have been enough:

“I. Am. Appalled.”

And now, suddenly, I started to cry. “I-I know! I dooooo! So much could have h-happened! So many b-bad things! And I-I am sorr-ry I frightened you, Glorfindel. Sorry, sorry, so-so sorry.”

He swiftly gathered me up and into his arms, cuddling me to his chest, and I held on to him, tightly, letting Glorfindel hear my thoroughly non-grown up self let go and weep. I had joined the twins in a few tears of remorse during our scolding session, but aside from that, and the bit of weeping I had done out of sheer panic whilst hanging in that tree, I had not cried. Not from relived fear. It had not felt like an adult thing to do.

But I had indeed been terrified and until now I had failed to realize how much I needed to feel the comfort of a pair of strong, capable arms, holding me, helping me feel safe again. It had hardly seemed fitting to have longed for such comfort. Wandering my dark room last night, haunted and alone, it had hardly seemed fitting to have longed for my ada, hardly fitting for a grown-up.

Yet when my crying finally slowed enough for embarrassment to begin creeping in, Glorfindel, with the gallantry of an authentic adult, knew just what to say about what he clearly knew I was thinking: “Legolas, it is very grown up indeed to allow yourself to be comforted.”

He nestled me back in his arms, smiling softly down at me with that warm look of acceptance, and murmured, “I am proud of you, little Greenleaf. You have made a fine start.” He paused to kiss my brow. “Allowing yourself to weep is also very grown up. I can only imagine how frightened you were. You have suffered a wounding for your naughtiness, sweetling, both on the outside and within. I see that you do indeed understand. And I acknowledge that you do know all this.

“Enough admonishment, then. At least for now.” With another kiss on my brow he turned me back over his knee, saying, “As I said earlier my wounded little elfling, let us get on with this.”

tbc
End The Comfort of Consequences part II

onward to part three

The Comfort of Consequences - part I - fanfiction

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 12:50:04 GMT

As promised, here’s part one of the new story. Several more parts will follow – at least three, possibly four, depending on where I end up making breaks. The muse and I are now off to do the final read-throughs and edits on part two before sending it to our faithful betas. “No rest for the weary,” as they say . . . or, do they say, “No rest for the wicked?” Hmm. Choose your adjective/noun, I guess. Either applies.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the story. Many thanks to all of you who have been so patient. The cookies paid off, to be sure, as few things keep the muse more productive than a sincere sugar high. But, most importantly, you recognize how the muse blossoms under attention. So I’m grateful for yours, and I hope to keep hearing from you. Enjoy! Part two anon –

Two very similar stories – Frodo decides to assert his adulthood, and in the course of stopping him, Legolas recalls a time when Glorfindel stopped him from doing the same thing.

Beta appreciation notes to Larrk’s beleaguered betas:
Helen; AKA, HRH Larrk’s Herald – who with sublime skill superbly executes her double duties of beta and Court Appointed Herald, and to my beloved Kat, who IM’s me with her instant support, reads and re-reads as is needed, and provides me with her exquisitely encouraging ‘mirror reviews.’ Thanks, Team Larrk!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended. I don’t own Tolkien’s original characters, however, my OC’s, Gwinthorian, Garrick, Devon and several other Rangers are exclusively my own.

The Comfort of Consequences - part I
by Larrkin

“You don’t tell me what to do!”

I paused and stared at him. Was he serious? Apparently he was. Frodo stood glaring up at me, wholly, entirely serious. I raised a brow and asked: “Excuse me?”

He tilted his small chin up even further, haughty and determined. “I said, you don’t tell me what to do, sir.”

I nodded. “I thought that was what you said.” And I scooped up one very haughty, determined little hobbit, plunked him down onto my hip and headed back to his bedchamber in the Houses of Healing. He immediately began struggling and kicking.

“Legolas!” he cried. “Put me down!”

“I think not,” I replied. “And stop that at once.” Frodo huffed and redoubled his struggles, so I promptly shifted him about to carry him locked against my body, facing me. “As you will, sir,” I said with soft resignation, “but your further defiance just cost you.”

He growled and gasped, bucking to no avail. “Cost me indeed!” he snarled. “You think that because you're bigger than me and stronger than me you can just pick me up and do as you will? Unchallenged?”

“Aye.”

He huffed. “OH!”

“But not only because I am bigger and stronger than you, sweetling,” I went on, this familiar conversation jarring a memory, “but because I am justified in doing so.”

Frodo thought for a moment, huffed a bit more, then cried, “No! You most certainly are not! Stop! Legolas! Put me down! You have no right to do this!”

No right? I could not imagine how to respond to his bizarre statement, so, for the moment, I ignored his insolent claim regarding my rights and made some statements of my own. “I presume, since you are here and Sam is not, that your loyal and doubtless exhausted gardener is sound asleep, as you should be at this early hour.”

“Legolas! Put me d--!”

“And, I presume, since you are fully dressed in nice new clothes, that some hapless servant in the Houses of Healing missed the order stating that hobbit clothing should not be stored in your bedchamber, or any place where you might get your hands on them.”

Frodo went silent, stopped wriggling for a moment, then started up again, in vain, and for reasons that escaped me.

“And I lastly presume that, perhaps this misinformed servant slipped into your chamber, saw that you and Sam were asleep, or so he thought – as, I say again, you should have been just before the crack of dawn – stored your clothes in the wardrobe and slipped back out --”

More gasping and continued squirming.

“ – never realizing he had a silent witness watching him through slitted eyes, a naughty, determined halfling who then slid from his bed, with great care, I vow, so as to avoid waking his weary gardener, donned his nice new clothes and stole out of his room, disobeying the direct orders of both the much-beleaguered Warden and the soon-to-be-crowned future king of Gondor.”

Frodo paused, then fully relaxed in my arms, heaved his own much-beleaguered sigh and said, “Oh, merciful Middle Earth, Legolas. Will you kindly shut up?”

I lost the struggle to hold back a quick laugh. “Quite the cheeky remark from someone who has just been caught in the act of open insubordination.”

“Insubordination indeed!” Frodo shot back. “It’s your behavior, sir, that’s completely inappropriate.”

Stunned, I near broke my stride. “Inappropriate?” I puzzled, turning the corner to his wing. “Are you saying that you are no longer answerable to me, sweetling?”

And the moment I said it, that same question echoed in my memory. I heard nearly those exact words as Lord Glorfindel had spoken them to me many, many years ago: “Are you saying that you are no longer answerable to me, young Prince of Mirkwood?”

“Not in the manner you are accustomed to, no, my lord.”

Glorfindel had narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly to one side. I had never enjoyed being on the receiving end of his narrow-eyed stare. “Explain yourself.”

“I mean that, well, I am no longer an elfling. I am a grown-up now, an independent elf, and I expect to be treated in a respectful manner like any other independent adult. You cannot tell me what to do. So, when I say that you have no right to do this, I mean that you have no right to deal with me in such a demeaning fashion. And so, no, I am no longer answerable to you, my lord – not as I used to be.”

Oh, I was good. I remained admirably poised, my voice steady, a fine example of self-governing elfhood. I was most impressed with myself.

Glorfindel had released a small polite laugh and headed for a nearby bench, saying, “Well, little princeling, I disagree. And, sadly for you, mine is the only opinion that matters here. So, come.” He turned and cast me an odious grin. “Let us get on with this.”

And Glorfindel had then laid waste to my admirable poise. He laid thorough waste to it, in fact, though he graciously allowed me to humiliate myself first by trying to fight him. Me fighting Glorfindel. Of all the lunacy. Lost in that sudden memory, I failed to realize that Frodo had answered me.

“Legolas!” he barked, jerking his little body.

I blinked. “I heard you.”

“You did?” he said, startled. “Then you agree?”

“I might have missed some of your reply.”

Frodo glared at me.

“A few of the details are eluding me.”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I said that, in light of all I’ve been through, I should now be permitted to decide certain things for myself. By myself. I lived as a grown-up, independent hobbit in the Shire for many, many years, and the Quest is now over, sir. So I see no reason why I should be answerable to anyone now, including you.”

That brought me to a standstill. I stared at him. “Ah.”

Squirming a bit, he went on: “I am an adult, sir. Long past my ‘tweens. I have experienced . . . much. And, having experienced much, all of that . . . muchness, that is, well, all that experiencing should mean that . . . well, it means that I deserve to be self-determining.”

“Ah.”

“Entirely self-determining. Entitled to determine things for, well . . ..”

“Yourself?”

“Yes, myself. Such as when I am fit enough to leave my bed. Answerable, as I said, to no one.”

“I see.”

“Then you agree, my lord?”

“By no means,” I replied, and I began striding again. Frodo exploded once more into fresh sounds of protest and feeble attempts to squirm.

“Legolas, put me doooowwwwwn!”

There was little point in arguing with him further. Frodo’s real dilemma was not one of self-rule. He had donned his clothing and strolled from his chamber knowing that Aragorn had forbidden him to do so until he was judged well enough to be released, knowing that he would be caught and knowing what was likely to happen to him when he was caught. So, whether Frodo admitted it to himself or not, being caught was part of whatever he thought he was doing.

In truth, though, I doubted thought had much to do with this. As Aragorn had said, nothing should surprise us when it came to what Frodo might do. He had been working through much during his recovery. Outwardly he put a good face on everything, seeming so much like the sweet hobbit we had known before the Quest took him into the vicious heart of evil that the recollection of it made one want to weep. Those of us who knew and loved Frodo best recognized his private anguish at once – some foul and singular darkness he was not yet ready to face fed upon him inwardly. Aragorn was inclined to give Frodo some time to reach a place wherein he was willing to be helped, however my Ranger would wait only so long before stepping in.

The past few days had been hopeful ones. Frodo had begun to loosen that tight grip on his inner solitude by displaying a belligerence similar to his occasional behavior whilst under the influence of the Ring.

This ‘dawn escape’ was an encouraging cry for help. Aragorn would be delighted to see such progress. Frodo had accepted and respected my authority over him right from the beginning, without question, even more so after the first spanking I had given him. So Aragorn would be especially pleased by the little one’s defiance of me. I was finding it engaging myself in that it was reminding me of a time when I went through something similar. The parallels closely resembled each other. Even some of the conversations were echoes from my past.

I had been struggling through a time of self-imposed and profound change brought on when, to the astonishment of all who knew me, I had decided that it was time to grow up. I had thought that such was what I desired most, and that taking this step would solve all my dissatisfaction. But, like Frodo, I had not really known what I wanted at all, and I certainly was not willing to admit what I wanted most, deep inside.

It took a quite spectacular disaster to end that self-imposed adulthood, and before it was over I had managed to challenge Glorfindel’s authority when I knew that he was fully within his rights to discipline me. The hubris of youth . . ..

I sensed a similar conflict in Frodo now. His suffering had near ended on the outside. His many wounds were healing nicely, though his weight was still down and he tired easily, but Frodo’s inner suffering was going to take more time and much more effort to heal, as Aragorn had pointed out:

“Be ready,” he had advised my little brother and me. “Frodo is frightened, deep inside. He is looking for reassurance. Hopefully he will begin to seek it out, pushing his boundaries, testing us repeatedly, doing anything he can think of to seek the comfort and safety he longs for. He will need us. So, be prepared for anything.”

Aye – my Ranger would enjoy this morning’s happenings. He might even feel a bit envious, as I was the one dealing with Frodo’s first cry for help. I could take Frodo to Aragorn, but I knew my Ranger. Fate brought Frodo and me together in this unique time and place, and Aragorn respected Fate’s choices.

Dawn was just about to break, and though Aragorn was usually up by now, he was sleeping late. He needed his rest, considering what our Steward had playfully demanded of the two of us last night. Oddly enough, Boromir’s insatiable appetites oft energized me rather than depleted me, which explained why I was the only one awake and checking on Frodo, something the little one knew we did first thing every morning, though not at this early hour.

I now neared the bedchamber in which Gwin had spent a few days last week recovering from a blow to the head he had received when he single-handedly challenged a tavernful of ruffians to a brawl. It was also the chamber Faramir and Merry had shared. It would suit my purpose nicely. I had already administered two spankings here, one to Gwin and one to Faramir, both of whom I had never spanked before, and although Frodo had been over my knee many times, there was a curious satisfaction in dealing with him here as well.

“What are you doing?” Frodo demanded with sudden fretful attentiveness, twisting his head to see where we were. “Legolas, where are you – why are you – just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I think it should be obvious, Frodo. I think I am about to take you into this room.”

“But, but, but --” His struggles increasing, Frodo stammered, “But, why, I-I, what do you plan to d--”

“Shh, little one,” I said, entering the chamber, then nudging the door shut with my shoulder. “You and I need to talk.”

“Talk?”

“Indeed,” I told him, striding to the bed.

“You just want to . . . talk?” Frodo studied me.

“You would like me to do something else?” I sat on the bed and gathered him down onto my lap – face-up. For the moment.

“No! I don’t want you to do anything el–no, no, no!” Frodo quickly said. “I-I mean --” He paused, took a deep breath and slowly let it out, recovering his composure and his self-righteous displeasure. “I mean, yes, Legolas. Yes. Of course we can talk, if that’s what you want. I’m willing to talk. However, I must make it clear that I am staying to talk because I choose to do so. Not because you are forcing me to.”

I found this an interesting statement from one who had been carried in here under restraint and spouting loud objections, but I merely nodded and said, “Understood.”

He looked adorably self-satisfied. Frodo was, as ever, too adorable. I smiled at him. He gave me a cautious smile in return. And, though I knew full well what I was about to do to him – what was going to happen in just a few minutes, in fact – and though I sensed that, deep inside, Frodo knew it as well, I felt there was merit in allowing him to at least attempt an explanation.

“So,” I said, making sure he was well settled. “Let us talk.”

*********

Immediately, I heard Gwinthorian’s voice in my head, recalling something he’d told me just a handful of days ago right here in this room. Right here in this bed, in fact, where I lay cuddled between him and Legolas. Sam had just woken up in our room further down the hallway, found me gone, roared my name and was now charging up the corridor in search of me.

“A piece of advice, my sweet little one,” a well-spanked Gwin had quickly said as I cowered further back against Legolas. “Offense is the best defense. That is my strategy. Speak out clearly in your own defense ere he attacks and throw him off his stride.”

Legolas had snorted. “Gwinthorian, do not give Frodo such advice. That strategy is fatally flawed. It has never helped you with Halbarad or me with Aragorn, or Devon with Garrick. It is an absurd tactic.”

“Well --”

“Aye, you stubbornly insist on trying it every so often, but the fact remains that your ‘offense is the best defense’ strategy simply does not apply when it comes to a spanking. Accept it, Gwin. It does not work.”

“It might work with Sam,” Gwin said.

“It will not work with Sam,” Legolas scoffed just before my irate gardener had burst into the room.

It hadn’t worked with Sam. In fact, I swear, it had enflamed Sam. Thank you so very much, Gwinthorian.

However, my argument that day had been weak. Today’s circumstances might make all the difference between that former failure and new success. Like Gwin, I saw nothing wrong with attempting a certain strategy again even though it had proven disastrous in the past.

This time my argument was strong, my purpose justified, my reasoning sound. So sound, in fact, that upon leaving the Houses of Healing I had intended to make my way straight to Aragorn’s chambers, knock on his door and inform him that I was an adult hobbit and fully able to decide matters for myself, beginning with such personal matters as my health. Inform Aragorn. Inform him. Offense rather than defense. And I would have evidence to prove my point.

My proof that I was the best judge of my own fitness would be, of course, that I had made my way, alone, from the Houses of Healing to the king’s chambers – where ever that turned out to be . . . I intended to ask directions as I journeyed along. What better proof of my fitness? Hopefully the trip would not be a long one as I was somewhat short on stamina, my limbs feeling just a bit, well, weak, but no matter. I was only a little wobbly. And I could stop often along the way.

Meanwhile, Sam, I knew, would sleep. He had collapsed. Legolas was right about that – poor Sam was indeed exhausted. However, that was his own doing. He was the one who stubbornly insisted on watching me every minute since my escape a few days ago. I’d since slept, but I don’t think he had. Every time I moved or opened my eyes, there was my Sam, watching me, bleary-eyed at times, jarring himself awake at other times with a startled, “Huh? Wha? Fro-where are y--! Oh. You’re here. Good, good.” My poor Sam.

I considered it Fate that Sam’s fatigue had caught up to him on the very morning that I cracked open my eyes to a small sound in our room and saw a servant placing what looked like clothing in the wardrobe. Could it be? Clothing? Instantly alert I did just what Legolas had guessed – I’d watched the servant from behind slitted eyes, then slipped from the bed when he’d left and found – glory be! Fresh new hobbit clothes just waiting to be donned and escaped in! Well, what else could I do? It was Fate! Oh lovely Fate! I was a great believer in honoring it.

So Legolas had no business arriving before the crack of dawn. How had Fate failed to speak to him about this? Usually he and Boromir and Aragorn visited my chambers for their morning Frodo-check within the hour after daybreak, never before dawn like this. Yes, I fear Fate had erred. Spectacularly and with a certain touch of irony. I’d rounded the corner and smacked right into the unsuitably early prince. Stupid, stupid Fate! Muttering quite the colorful elvish curse, Legolas had caught me by the arms to steady me and exclaimed, “You Shirelings move without making a sound!”

So did the elves, but I didn’t get the chance to say so because Legolas had turned instantly dictatorial, scolding me and demanding to know what I thought I was doing, telling me I shouldn’t be there and ordering me to turn right around and march myself back to my bedchamber.

Perhaps I could have been more diplomatic. But, when I was finally able to get a word in, I snarled, “You don’t tell me what to do!” Because, prince or no, this elf was being a pest. I had only so much forbearance, especially after being so roundly thwarted by that traitorous Fate.

“Frodo?” Legolas now prompted, lifting a brow. He must have picked up that mannerism from Aragorn over the years. Or vice versa.

“Yes?”

He looked both amused and on the verge of impatience. “Would you like to talk?”

“ . . . offense is the best defense . . . throw him off his attack.”

“Well, I suppose,” I said with a shrug. “Although you’re the one who brought me in here, claiming that we needed to talk, so what did you want to talk about, Legolas?”

‘Offense is the best defense’ indeed. Rot that Gwinthorian. Legolas, his grasp on patience plainly more tenuous than I’d reckoned, blinked, studied me for a moment, then scooped me up from his lap, muttering, “My mistake,” and swiftly, carefully, turned me over his knee.

I hate squealing, but I squealed. Legolas had me secured ere I uttered my first gasping sounds of protest. With practiced speed he drew down my nice new britches, pulled up my shirt and there I was, right where I didn’t want to be, exposed as I hated being exposed in front of him. Why, oh, why did I feel so much more bare when I lay bare-bottomed over this beautiful elf’s knee? It was bad enough with the others, but with Legolas, oh Merciful Middle Earth!

Sputtering at this point was simply required. “Nooooo! No, Legolas! Don’t! Please, don’t! I-I-I didn’t mean --” I sputtered. Then, stunned, I heard myself exclaim, “It’s all Gwin’s fault!”

He froze. “Did you say . . . Gwin’s fault?”

“Uhhh . . . .” Well, yes, I had said that, but . . ..

“Oh, no,” Legolas said, amusement in his tone. “Permit me to guess – ‘offense is the best defense?’ You were trying Gwinthorian’s ruinous strategy?”

“Uhhh . . ..”

He laughed. “Oh, Frodo. Poor little sweetling. I told you that never works when it comes to a spanking. It failed miserably with Sam last week.”

I gasped, twisting the coverlet in my fists. “Rot that Gwin!”

He chuckled softly. “A sentiment I have often shared. But, you were about to end up right where you are anyway, sweetling, offense and defense notwithstanding.”

Oh! Presumptuous elf! I suddenly remembered my argument. I pushed myself up, turned to glare at him over my shoulder and said, “You have no right to do this to me, sir. I am a grown-up, in --”

“A grown-up, independent hobbit, yes, I know,” Legolas rudely interrupted. “You are indeed a grown-up hobbit, Frodo, but that is not the issue here. You are a grown-up hobbit who disobeyed orders. Adult or no, you are honor-bound to obey those orders. So I do indeed have the right to discipline you for your mutinous behavior.”

“Says you!” I shot back, sounding just like Pippin, embarrassingly so. Not quite the impressive response of a grown-up hobbit. I winced at myself. I didn’t like sounding like my ‘tween cousin, but Legolas had made perfect sense. I had no response, so I’d responded with nonsense.

He grinned. “Says me indeed, sir.” And he gently shoved me back down, rested his arm across my shoulders to hold me in place and delivered his first stinging spank. I hissed, despite myself. Ohhhh, I remembered this at once, this distinctive elvish swat Legolas possessed! Oh, drat, drat, drat!

“We have much to discuss, little one,” he said, now rubbing my bottom and making my face burn from his casual intimacy, “and as you seem reluctant to talk to me whilst sitting up on my lap, I think we should try it with you turned over my lap, bottom up. What do you think?”

I snarled, “I --”

“Think carefully,” Legolas said, patting my backside. “Consider, especially, where you are.”

I did. He was having a little fun with me, of course, amidst his earnestness. I might have enjoyed his toying had I not felt that first ominous spank and known that more were going to follow unless I made a very convincing case for myself as an independent hobbit answerable to no one. Sadly, I sensed that this was perhaps a debate I was destined to lose. I had no choice but to make the attempt, though. Either that or sentence myself to an elvish spanking, a fate that made my stomach clench. I began to form an answer.

“And while you are thinking of that,” Legolas went on, “imagine, also, how I am going to react to your decision that you are no longer answerable to me.”

That didn’t take much imagination. I knew very well how vexed Legolas was with that decision of mine. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he was seriously vexed. My fellow hobbits and I had noticed that Legolas, when quietly furious, would sometimes describe himself as being ‘seriously vexed.’

“‘Seriously vexed’ is enough coming from him,” Sam had remarked.

Merry wisely noted, “He says it in that mild way to rein himself in.”

“And downplay his anger,” I added.

“Aye,” Pip had agreed. “Saying that he’s seriously vexed sounds lots better than saying, ‘Sir, I’m so angry with you that I’m tempted to turn you into orc fodder.’”

So I lay there, thinking carefully, knowing I was right, yet also feeling strangely bewildered and anxious and unable to focus and finally, frighteningly blank. So many raw feelings were erupting within me that I could focus on none of them. All I could think about was my position, and the sting on my bottom, and what this elf intended to do to me. And orc fodder. I was also thinking of orc fodder.

“Legolas?”

“Aye, sweetling?”

“I don’t think very well when in this position.”

He chuckled. “Then you shall needs try harder.”

“But --”

“And while we are on the topic, tell me, are you no longer answerable to Aragorn as well? And if you are not, how do you think he will react to that news?”

How would Aragorn react? Well . . . I’d envisioned him . . . no. I hadn’t considered Aragorn’s reaction whatsoever, nor did I particularly care to consider it now, and I certainly didn’t care to consider it whilst in this position, or to share my thoughts, or rather my lack of them, with this demanding elf. ‘Offense, not defense’ . . . offense, offense . . .. Why, oh why had Legolas been wandering the corridors of the Houses of Healing at this absurd hour of the morning?

“I am waiting, Frodo.”

“OW!” And with clearly increasing impatience.

“When Gwin is having trouble responding, Halbarad sometimes counts for him,” he said. “I believe Garrick does the same for Devon.”

“Counts?” I blinked, then cringed. “Oh, no! You mean, he counts down, like ‘one’ . . . ‘two’ . . . ‘three’ . . ..”

“I believe he counts to five. Would that help you form your answers? Shall I count down for you?”

“Noooooo!” Of all the dreadful, degrading --! Gwinthorian and Devon had far more endurance than I did!

“Are you certain, sweetling? I would be happy to --”

“Nooooo! Legolas! No! Don’t you dare start counting!” I cried. “I couldn’t think straight if you were counting down, and it’s a stupid, dumb, stupid, stupid thing to do, you ass of an elf! AHHH! OWW!”

“Mmm. I see,” Legolas said with two hard spanks. “Well, we should get on with this then, little one. Perhaps when your sweet bottom is nice and warm you will be able to think straight. You may even be able to keep a civil tongue in your pretty head.”

And Legolas started to spank me, that wicked hand stinging with staggering intensity right from the start. I couldn’t help squealing again. My bottom involuntarily flinched. I wriggled as though trying to escape the next burning swat, even this early in a spanking that I sensed, with utter dismay, was going to last a while. And I desperately tried to back things up:

“I think I can talk now, Legolas! AHHH! P-Please! OW! I know I can talk now!”

“Shhh. There, there, little one. You were right. This is much better for you than counting down. I feel you will soon be ready to --”

“I’m readyyy! OWWW! I am! Legolas, I want to talk! AHH!”

“Soon, sweetling. Take your time. I know you have much to consider,” he said, just spanking away, horribly tranquil.

It had been a long time between spankings from Legolas. I’d forgotten how awfully awful it was. And now – oh, most awful of all! – Legolas had plainly decided that we weren’t going to discuss anything right now. I was going to be spanked first, then permitted to speak afterwards, at his discretion.

It was the worst possible course of action. I pleaded a few more times and Legolas kept assuring me that I clearly wasn’t ready to talk sense yet and that he understood and that it had been unfair of him to expect so much of me ere my bottom was, “nice and warm,” and he apologized for putting such unfair pressure upon me. I should, he advised, settle down and – Valar help me – “try to be a good little hobbit.”

“Legolaaaaaaaaaas!”

“Frodo, you made your choice,” he said, pausing to rub my bottom again. “Very well. You convinced me. You need time to think. I understand, little one, and ‘tis all right. I have made my decision as well. I do not intend to let you up from my lap until your sweet bottom is a pretty rosy shade. And we shall talk when I am ready. You need know nothing else. So settle down, sweetling.”

“Oh nooooo!” My vision went blurry with unshed tears. My hands trembled, clutching the coverlet and my stomach quivered over his solid thighs, his arm pressing firm and solid over my back.

“Legolas, please, don’t --” I muttered, gasping. “Please, don’t-don’t . . . do not --”

“I shall not,” he murmured, lifting his arm again. “Shh, little one. No more fussing. I most certainly shall not let you down.”

“NooooooooooAHHHHH! I didn’t meanAHHHHHH! Nooo! You have no riiiiiiiiight!”

**********

He said that as if he believed it. Frodo was determined that he deserved his independence, and it was not as if his claim lacked merit. In a way, he was right. Frodo had been an independent adult hobbit ere Bilbo bequeathed him a certain Ring and Frodo’s peaceful world had exploded around him. Almost at once his self-governing status changed and a new one was made manifest.

From the moment he encountered a mysterious Ranger one stormy night in Bree, Frodo had accepted a variety of authoritative figures in his life, and he had accepted them with grace. It had been his nature to do so. It still was, although at present he was choosing to deny that truth and seek an independence that, were he able to be honest with himself, he did not want at all. He especially did not want it now, when hidden terrors were slamming into him. He desperately needed the reassurance of strong boundaries and those who were willing to enforce them.

So the difference here lay in what Frodo said he wanted and what he truly wanted. Whilst loudly objecting to my control, demanding the adulthood he felt he deserved, Frodo was, in fact, seeking the comfort of being denied what he vowed he wanted. Some deep urging was telling him that he should want that adulthood. But from the moment he pulled on the handsome new britches that were now sliding ever lower down his wildly kicking little legs, Frodo had, in truth, wanted exactly this. He wanted to be forced to stop. He wanted to be put over someone’s knee and paid attention to. He was silently begging for the extraordinary solace that came from being watched over and cared about and taken in hand when he chose to break the rules Aragorn had made plain to him. Frodo was seeking the comfort of consequences.

I was delighted to oblige him. As to how long it might take for him to yield, well, Frodo’s stubborn streak, though often dormant, was quite the force when roused. While remaining mindful of his state, I intended to give him the nice, long spanking he had gone to such trouble to request. This beloved little one deserved no less than all I had to give.

On a purely covetous note, his soft, rounded and bouncy little backside had been too long absent from my lap. So sweet Frodo would stay right where he was until I was forced to stop spanking him. Blessed Fate for placing me in his escape path this morning! I would needs thank my vigorous little brother for wearing Aragorn out last night.

“Shhh, Frodo, hush now,” I murmured. “You have been over my knee many, many times, so you know that we are just getting started. Settle down.”

Frodo bucked and kicked, as much as I permitted, and he cried, “Nooooooo! AHHHHHHHH, Leg’lasss!”

I tucked him closer, spanking him with a steady, moderate force that would allow me to keep this up for some time, shamelessly enthralled with the sight of this sweet little one over my knee once again. Satisfaction purred within me, bringing to mind something Boromir had told Aragorn and me early in the Quest.

Concerned about how casually the three of us talked of our fondness for spanking and then cuddling the hobbits, Boromir had said, “We probably should not enjoy it so. After all, the poor little moppets are crying and suffering.”

I had pointed out to my gentle-hearted little brother that, while they were indeed crying, the halflings were not really ‘suffering.’ Aragorn added, “They are suffering outwardly, but inwardly they are at peace,” and Boromir had agreed.

I grinned, recalling another time on the Quest when I had told Aragorn of how contented I felt having just spanked and comforted little Pippin.

“Of course you are content,” Aragorn told me, blank-faced. “You are a degenerate.”

I had burst out laughing, then shot back, “If I am, then so are you!”

“I would be the first to admit that,” he said with a wry grin.

We could plague each other and laugh like this, for we understood the real reason behind the underlying feeling of contentment shared by both parties during a spanking. All who engaged in this special kind of devotion understood the sweet and subtle affection woven into its fabric. Even now, when Frodo was struggling against an inner foe he could not identify, he had this place of safety to which he could escape. Safe in another’s arms; safe over another’s lap; safe under another’s watchful care – it was utterly exquisite. And this morning, that watchful care was mine – ahhh . . ..

“AHHHHHHHH!”

I flinched, yanked back to the moment by Frodo’s yelps. He was on the very edge of tears, yet still refusing to let them go – stubborn, stubborn halfling! As Aragorn had said, “If Sarumon’s forces were as strong as a hobbit’s will, we never would have broken their lines.”

“Legolaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!”

“I am here, sweetling.”

“I knoowwwww!” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with surprising fury. “I kn-knowww you’re here, you witless elf!”

I chuckled. “Frodo, your sass, while entertaining, is most imprudent.”

“But you won’t listen to meeeeee! I w-want to talk now! AHHHHHHHH!”

“I assure you, sir, I am hanging on your every bellow. But you are forgetting protocol, my impertinent bratling. I decide when we begin our talk, not you. And until I give my consent you shall behave like a good little hobbit and take the spanking you so richly deserve.”

Ew. Even I felt squeamish with such language. I imagine it hit Frodo deep within his wriggling belly.

“And,” I added, “earlier you told me to ‘shut up.’ Very cheeky of you, sir. I have, however, decided to follow your sage advice.”

“Ohhh, nooooooo!”

And whether it was because my words ignited his fury and frustration, or because I had emphasized them with another especially sincere spank, Frodo finally burst into tears. He flung his small hand back in that desperate open-palmed manner, a useless attempt to protect his pink little bottom, but such an endearing sight. I could not help smiling.

Drawing his hand up to the small of his back, I held it there and murmured, “Nay, none of that now, sweetling. I want to see and have access to your entire pretty little backside.”

Ew again. I cringed for him.

“AHHHHHH! But, Legolas, the Q-Quest is overrrrr, so you can’t, can’t – not r-riiight!” he squalled. “I-I’m a grown-up h-hobbit! Independ-dent! You can’t d-do this! I don’t answer to you anym-morrrre, and you can’t, can’t, can NOT t-tell me what to doooo! AHHHHHHHH!”

I listened quietly to his babbling, knowing he neither required, nor even expected, a verbal response. And I heard that bewildered undertone in his voice, remembering all too well what that had felt like . . ..

**********

We were good. Nine times out of ten the twins and I were not even caught.

Well . . . that was, perhaps, an inaccurate estima . . ..

Half . . . no . . . about a third of the time the twins and I were not cau . . ..

Nine times out of ten Elrohir, Elladan and I were, sadly, caught when we misbehaved. But our lack of success failed to discourage the three of us from trying something new and ill-advised the next time.

We had long ago been forced to abandon our famous, “But, you did not tell us not to do it!” defense. My ada had fashioned the classic answer to that, sharing it with me, the twins and their ada – Elrond’s brow supremely arched to a height only he could achieve:

“We never told you not to strap on wings and leap from Mount Doom, attempting to fly either, my son,” Thranduil had stated, “but we do not expect you to do so.”

Later, when the three of us met up again, sore bottomed and pouting, Elrohir had scowled at me and muttered, “In case you could not tell, our ada loved that comment.”

“So much for our famous defense,” Elladan had remarked. “Thanks to your clever ada.”

“Oh, fine,” I had snarled back. “Blame me for my ada’s cleverness. Actually, it was just the kind of thing your ada would have said!” Glaring at them, I growled what I always growled when the twins and I were in trouble. “I despise you both.”

“So you always say.”

“And we despise you back.”

“So you always say,” I returned. I paused then, struck by the funny vision Thranduil’s comment had conjured . . . flying off Mt. Doom. Oh, Ada. But I had chuckled, despite myself, and moments later I looked up to a familiar sound and saw the twins chuckling as well and exchanging a wicked glance.

“Flying. Hmm.”

“Not a bad idea, Legola --”

“We should --”

“NOOOOOO!” I roared, and we had all laughed.

So, given our disastrous record, any time I saw a certain gleam in the eyes of a certain pair of approaching Rivendell brothers I should have made a swift departure in the opposite direction. They would have followed me, though, badgering me with their newest idea for yet another roguish, risky scheme until I agreed that it was indeed a brilliant plan and went along with them.

“Why do I listen to you?” I once cried when disaster befell us yet again and, yet again, we met up later sore bottomed and pouting.

“Because we always listen to you when you have brilliant plans,” Ro replied.

“And we always --”

“Always --”

“Combine forces with you.”

It was hard to argue with truth, especially when it came my way in duet form.

So Elladan, Elrohir and I had earned a reputation for mischief within the realms of Mirkwood and Rivendell . . . indeed, within the entire elfdom of Middle Earth. One would think this might prompt our elders to keep the three of us far away from each other, or to at least keep a closer watch when we were together, but such never seemed to be the case. We felt there was wisdom in not questioning our good fortune.

“Green princes and wild youths with too much time on their hands, my lords,” Erestor had said the last time his pupils and I stood in Lord Elrond’s library before our unhappy adas, awaiting their judgement over a small bit of fun that had turned out to be slightly calamitous.

“No need to apologize, my old friend,” Elrond had wearily told Thranduil, as he had many times in the past. “My elflings are equally impish when we are visiting your realm.”

‘Elflings!’ ‘Impish!’ ‘Green princes!’ I had silently bristled at those demeaning words, so insulted that I made an instant decision. I was tired of being thought of, referred to and treated like an elfling. It was time to grow up.

So, for many years I contrived ways to avoid the company of the twins, a task that turned out to be fairly easy, if, well . . . a bit dull. My father, who missed little when it came to his only son, noticed my maneuvers from the beginning, and asked me if Elrond’s sons and I had experienced a falling out.

“Not at all, Ada,” I had said with a dismissive coolness. “I simply decided to stop playing little elfling games and to act my age.”

“Act your . . ..” Ada had paused, gazing levelly at me, a whisper of amusement in his eyes. “That is commendable, my son. I am, as ever, proud of you. But, keep in mind that you are yet, in truth, quite young.”

“Old enough to behave with the dignity of my title, though,” I said with determined firmness. “And I intend to do so.”

My ada was very wise. After studying me for a long moment, he had simply nodded and said, “You shall have my full support in your endeavors, my valiant son, as you ever have enjoyed.”

And so began a bewildering time for me. I took up the company of some elves who were a few hundred years older than myself, warriors who good-naturedly invited their young prince to share in their fellowship, treating me, for the most part, as an equal and not as a prince, or a little elfling. Yet, a vague and restless melancholy plagued me, sometimes forcing me into periods of ill-temper that I struggled to hide. Oh, well. Such was, I concluded, the price of adulthood.

This went on for a short while – a hundred years or so – during which time I settled into my new sophistication and dignity. It helped to have quit the company of the twin elflings from my foolish youth. I did not miss our exciting adventures and daring undertakings. Not in the least. And I certainly did not miss the company of those two miscreants. So it baffled me as to why I felt so apprehensive when Ada asked me – or rather, when he strongly requested – that I lead a small entourage to Rivendell. One of his subjects, Lady Freya, who had known my ada since they were elflings together, wished to visit her kin, and she had no male family members currently available to escort her there.

I had managed to avoid Rivendell during my transition into sophisticated adulthood and I was less than thrilled at the prospect of going there now. So, although I felt a bit cowardly in trying to elude the twins, nevertheless, I sought to decline this duty ada had asked of me, retreating behind the suggestion that it seemed inappropriate for the Prince of Mirkwood to serve as a mere escort. My protest gained me Ada’s stern frown and his standard lecture about a prince remaining a prince regardless of the duty he was required to perform.

“There is nothing noble about arrogance, my son,” he quietly told me, something I cringed to hear. “I would go if I could, but as I cannot do so at present, I strongly request you pay this old and cherished friend of mine the honor of your escort.”

“Aye, my lord. Forgive me. Of course I am honored to obey your request.”

“I only regret that the trip will prove tedious for you, as I understand that, unfortunately, the twins are away from Rivendell, hunting in the north with a goodly party of warriors. It is unlikely you will see them ere you return home.”

“Oh! Indeed? I see. Well, then when shall we leave, Ada?”

Hard to say how I felt about the fact that the twins would be gone. Well, I felt relieved, of course. But there was an odd measure of something mixed in with that, and my moodiness returned tenfold.

And so, after an uneventful journey, I found myself back in Rivendell. It seemed Lord Elrond was ever host to any number of visiting dignitaries and friends, his beautiful lands being a place of retreat for many elves. Lady Freya praised me to the others at dinner the evening we arrived, commending me on how well I had discharged my duties, making me blush and bringing a broad smile to Elrond’s face. Lord Glorfindel laughed joyously, as he ever seemed inclined to do. Aye, Glorfindel was there! I was thrilled! Though Rivendell was his home he was often away journeying near and far, so this trip had indeed been well timed. Seeing him made it well worth the while.

Glorfindel was . . . oh, he was wondrous! Big and golden, majestic and beautiful, the Balrog slayer of heroic song and legend. Yet Glorfindel was also thoughtful and kind and witty, quick to laugh, quick to flash his ready and often wry smile, his eyes sparkling with warmth. He visited Mirkwood several times a year, showing up either alone or with an entourage from Rivendell or Lorien, but his visits were never frequent nor long enough to suit me.

When I was an elfling and met him for the first time, I stood, open-mouthed, gaping up, short of breath, and Glorfindel had quietly gazed down at me, his smile soft and full of affection. I never had seen such a beautiful creature, female or male. He barely seemed real. Glorfindel ‘glowed.’ I vow I fell in love with him then and there.

“So,” he had said, “what I have heard of Thranduil’s young son is true.” Then he laughed lightly, grabbed me up under the arms and tossed me into the air. Ada laughed as well and I gasped and giggled.

“You are charming indeed, Little Greenleaf!” Glorfindel said. “A credit to your majestic ada.” Then, amidst my repeated giggles, he tossed me up again, once, twice and the third time he tossed me I twisted in mid-air and jerked my body violently, just far enough to snag hold of a tree branch above and slightly behind me. Grabbing on, I swung myself up, straddled the branch, then perched there howling with absolute delight at Glorfindel and my ada, who stood beneath me, staring up with stunned expressions.

Ada looked suddenly tempted to scold me or worse for such a potentially dangerous stunt, but Glorfindel turned to him and exclaimed, “Faith! He is just as you used to be! Like ada, like son, Thranduil!” And they laughed yet again, easing my fear. Glorfindel then reached up for me, saying, “Ah, little princeling, your ada is going to have quite the time with you, is he not? Come here, pretty brat.” Pulling me down into his arms, he gave me a swift, gentle squeeze that left me breathless, then turned to Thranduil, saying, “Imagine how well this little one will perform Trillium’s Sweep, my old friend. He has just achieved it on a tree branch!”

Of course, Glorfindel was the stuff of dreams, and dream I did. He was the first elf for whom I had felt consuming stirrings of passion, a situation that increased as I grew older and more inclined to such feelings. Though I would ne’er admit as much to another, and though I covered it well, I harbored an ongoing and profound hunger for him.

Glorfindel, however, saw me as Thranduil’s son – that elfling he tossed in the air and to this day called ‘little Greenleaf.’ Of course, perhaps now, with my newfound adulthood and sophistication . . . well, one never knew what might happen. I could scarce contain my excitement.

It helped that the twins were off hunting. That suited me nicely. I hoped they remained afield long enough for me to put in a suitable stay and then be on my way home ere confronting them. Perhaps Glorfindel would return to Mirkwood with me for a visit with my ada! Ah, that was a dream worth dreaming! I began planning some convincing . . ..

tbc
End The Comfort of Consequences part I

onward to part two.

It's Bilbo!

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Fri, 30 May 2008 17:33:32 GMT

I’m very excited about something I just read about on my ‘homepage’ – The One Ring.net. James McAvoy is rumored to be the favorite to take the role of Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit! I’m thrilled, because way back before they even announced that The Hobbit was really and truly going to be made, I’d longed for this wonderful actor to play Bilbo.

I’d first seen him in the role of Mr. Tumnus, the faun, in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. He was also in Becoming Jane, wherein he played Jane Austin’s love interest, and he’s been in several other important films that I missed, The Last King of Scotland, and most recently, Atonement.

I simply LOVE him! I had been hoping he’d be tapped for Bilbo and now, Oh Joy! Looks like that might happen.

More about the rumor here.

And here’s James’ bio on IMDB, where there are more pics available.

Just wanted to pop in and share my excitement!

New story sighting!

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Mon, 19 May 2008 01:05:30 GMT

Greetings all! A few weeks ago, on my last entry, I was having a delightful little back and forth with a few readers, and I was told that there's a quiet fellowship of Larrk fans out there who are 'always watching.' I was pretty tickled to learn that, and so it's to my Fellowship of Larrk Watchers that I address this little update.

The story I'd been working on and chatting about then has been coming along nicely, and hopefully I can begin posting it within the next few weeks. That's providing all goes as it should and my life isn't plagued by some prohibitive weirdness. (Regular weirdness is, let's face it, just going to happen.) It'll take some time to get the story through final editing and beta-ing because this puppy is huge - 58 pages thus far and it's not yet finished. So when it's completed I'll send it to my courageous betas a section at a time whilst I keep editing and blah, blah, blah, never mind. Bottom line, it'll likely go up in three, perhaps four installments spread out over however long it takes to complete. Hey, when the muse catches fire . . .

So, hang in there my loyal FoLW, and let's hope the prohibitive weirdness has better things to do than plague me and my poor beleaguered betas!

Heads up about fan fiction.net

larrkin2@yahoo.com — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 02:14:45 GMT

Laura found out from a helpful pal on her flist that the formatting rules on fan fiction.net have changed. Asterisks, dashes or dots to mark section breaks (view point switches, etc.) in stories are now gone. They've totally vanished. *sigh* So, as it stands now in my stories on ff.net, there are no indications to show the reader that we've switched from one person's vp to another's.

Laura's on it, of course, bless her heart - ingeniously changing everything over to x's instead of dashes to show the breaks. But I just wanted to pass this info along, as ff.net hasn't made any announcement about it to their writers. :P