The 24 Days of Christmas Challenge
Day 21: Four Frolicking Hobbits
Four frolicking hobbits
Running in a field
After a meal.
Is no easy feat
They’ll eat all that grows
And all kinds of meat.
I was actually immediately reminded of the most famous four hobbits
of all, being freed from the Barrow Downs by Tom Bombadil. Remember
that they realized their luck, they ran like children upon the hill in
the warm sunshine, and that Tom gathered all the jewelry and weapons,
spreading them upon the lawn to let them lie, for all good creatures to
take from, so the spell would be broken.
Bereft of Solace
He had never seen them as such, though Gandalf had told him they were
once such creatures. But not now. Not with what they had just come
through. It should have been a time of triumph. How many could say they
had journeyed through Moria and lived?
His heart ached for them, yet there was naught he could do. Two lay on
the rocks; two had walked away. All were clothed in sorrow and despair.
Gimli accepted his comfort, but these four comforted each other.
Four frolicking Hobbits of the Shire, Gandalf had once called them. ‘No more,’ thought Boromir.
She was in tears by the end of her physical therapy session, a quiet
outpouring of her pain, frustration and exhaustion. She was trying her
hardest, but she’d been into running and cycling before the accident,
and neither of those activities had given her arms the strength they
now needed to move her useless lower body. She sat rigid in her
wheelchair, on the trip back to her room, trying to be brave for the
orderly pushing her along and for her parents striding silently beside
her, but she couldn’t hold back the tears.
Back in her room, the orderly scooped her up and transferred her to the
bed as if she were a rag doll. Her father slipped into a chair nearby,
while her mother perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing and tucking
the covers around her, wiping away her tears with a tissue, holding her
hand gently in comfort.
“You did great today, Angel,” her mother told her, “I know it’s tough, but you’re getting stronger every day.”
She could only nod. The tears continued to flow for some minutes, and
her mother sat by, holding her hand, until at last they dried and she
drifted into a fitful nap until disturbed by the arrival of supper. She
wasn’t hungry, didn’t see the point of eating, was not excited to
interest by the hospital food, and her arms were still aching from the
therapy session. Still, her mother coaxed and cajoled her, and she
finally consented to swallow a few bites. Her father stepped out for a
while and returned with deli sandwiches, the same supper her parents
had eaten every evening there at her bedside.
When the supper dishes and wrappers were cleared away, her father
picked up the book from the bedside table. She had always loved to
read, but now her arms ached too much to hold a book for long, so her
father read to her every evening. It was the high point of every day
for her. A few days ago, he had started a new book, The Lord of the
Rings. “Chapter Eight: Fog on the Barrow-downs. That night they heard
no noises. But either in his dreams or out of them, Frodo heard a sweet
singing running in his mind…”
As her father went on reading in his engaging narrative voice, she
listened raptly to the tale, of the hobbits’ leavetaking from the house
of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, of them losing themselves and each other
in the fog, of the dreadful barrow wight and his raspy song of death,
of their rescue by Tom and their release back out into the sunlight,
the return of their ponies and the journey to the Road and on to Bree.
“’… they now hurried desiring only to find a fire, and a door between
them and the night.’ Well, that’s the end of the chapter, Honey,” her
father said, as he put down the book and came to her bedside to kiss
her goodnight. “You get some sleep now, and we’ll be back in the
Her mother hugged and kissed her, and then they left, and the door
closed softly behind them. She closed her eyes and slipped into sleep,
and dreamed of running across the Barrow-downs, chasing butterflies and
wind, accompanied by four frolicking hobbits, full of life and joyful in the sunlight.
Sorry it's a bit morose, but that's the mood my Muse was in, and she wouldn't leave me alone.
- Daughter of Kings
On another note....
It just wastn't Saruman's day. He knew that Ring was out there,
somewhere near. He reached for the shelf bearing the tome he wanted,
swatting eleven stupid spiders out of the way and
blowing off the dust. It made an ominous crackling sound as he opened
it, not a good thing as it meant the binding was going again and he was
out of glue. Even with ten wicked walkers at his disposal for errands, it seemed there was always something wanting from his cupboard.
Well, he wasn't going to wait any longer. Never mind the Eye, with his nine nervous Nazgul floating around. Saruman the Wise knew what to do. His double agents, disguised as eight eager Elves had failed; a mere seven soggy crebain, the bare survivors of a flock, had reported it that morning.
It wasn't for nothing he'd been called wily, the wiliest of the five wily wizards in Middle-earth. It was only a matter of moments for him to find the mind-bending spell that would turn the six sexy Rohirrim he had captive into slanty-eyed, creepy spies.
"Go forth" he commanded, "to a small town called Bree. Watch for four frolicking hobbits of the Shire - they will be along shortly... bwahahaha!"
Jê’nákh groaned as the little ones came waddling in
with a bucket of water, despite having told them not to several times
already. Ten seconds later and half of its contents had been spilled
over the floor followed by three high-pitched squeals and giggles.
“Now look what you’ve done!” She cried, shuffling over to the mess and
grabbing the little ones by their noses. “You’ve gone and cleaned up
the mud that took hours to settle! I’m gonna have to spend the next
three days walking more dirt in!”
And with that she hurled the squealing runts out the doorway hoping
that maybe this time they wouldn’t bounce. Three small thuds and a load
more giggling told her that she was in for a long day.
She quickly removed the frying pan from the fire and threw its
grease-ladden contents over the alarming patch on the floor. It hissed
and bubbled upon landing but quickly died down as she patted it with
her feet. She hobbled back a few steps and looked at it intently,
hoping no one would notice. She could just imagine what the neighbours
would say and before long the gossip would have reach the next camp
over. Within a few hours she would be the laughing stock of the entire
A loud horn abruptly broke her ruminations and she scurried outside to
see what the commotion was about. The banners blowing in the air told
her it was another hoard on its way to war. She found herself
absentmindedly rubbing her nose-ring as it brought back memories of
when Lishknúr had been called, and was now out there somewhere
fighting for their survival. Her heat quickened at the thought of his
three gnarled teeth that had first attracted him to her.
The dull beat of drums quickly banished those thoughts as the sound of
marching feet grew louder. From over the ridge a line of viciously
dressed warriors strode into view, snarling and grunting for all they
were worth. She noticed that several other women had gathered outside
to watch the procession while the orclings ran up and down in awe of
Dífnal, her eldest, was standing off to the side ready to join
the war effort. It made her feel at once both sad and proud to see him
go. He had only just reached his fourth year but she knew she couldn’t
hold on to the dispicable thug for any longer. With a lump in her
throat she watched him wipe his long nose on his sleeve for the last
time before joining the passing columns.
“Isn’t it lovely watching all the cute men walk by!” Someone said on her left. “That one on the left just winked at me!”
“Are you sure he’s winking, Câhrín? It looks likes he got
fleas to me.” Jê’nákh replied, examining the soldier in
question as he sauntered by.
“Oh definitely! And he’s got the most charming little arms, don’t you
think?” And with that Câhrín let loose an enormous belch
to signal her intentions. However the Orc in question had now moved on
and instead several others looked towards her. She giggled like an
orcling and waved bashfully at the attention.
Rolling her eyes at her neighbour’s antics, Jê’nákh
unexpectedly caught sight of a large Orc in armour leading the next
procession. He stood taller than all the rest with bright pink skin
that made him look like one of the vile Men, save for an unusual growth
that covered one side of his head. However to Jê’nákh he
looked gorgeous, the epitome of beauty for any Orc.
“I hear he’s got a whole army out down near those Nazgûl’s place.” One woman said.
“They say he’s going to lead the men into battle. Got to have brains
for that and it’s not like there’s any round here!” Said a third.
“Gothmog’s his name apparently, after the Lord of the Balrogs. Top man with Lugbûrz then.” Continued the first.
The gossiping women grew quiet when Gothmog shouted out, “Stop!”
A loud cheer erupted from the soldiers, and at least one of the women
at the back fainted. Jê’nákh was even more surprised when
Gothmog himself walked up to her, the drool glistening as it dripped
down his chin. He stopped a few inches from her and she starred up into
his eye, her small legs quivering slightly in his great prescence.
“We are here to defend our homes,” He growled at her, the putrid breath
blowing in her face. “We are here to defend our women, defend our
children and our homes!” Loud cheers of acknowledgement cried out with
“Do you want this land to become vile and soiled with trees?” He continued, walking along the line of gathered folk.
“No!” Was the reply.
“Do you want your homes to be destroyed by the mines of fat Dwarves?”
“No!” Was the reply.
“Do you want the air to be filled with the deafening screech of Elvish music?”
“No!” Was the reply.
“Do you want your children to be replaced with four frolicking Hobbits?”
“No!” Was the reply.
“Join the fight for this land! Serve the Red Eye! Let darkness reign supreme!”
“Sauron! Sauron! Sauron!” The Orcs cried out, spurred on to battle and
victory by their masters. With a flick of a whip the columns of
soldiers marched onwards towards the Black Gate leaving the women
Jê’nákh’s heart and soul went with the men, joining with
the billowing clouds of dust beneath the Red Eye’s glare. Hoping that
she would see their handsome faces again. Picking up one of her litter
by the ear, she studied it longingly.
"Now you aren't going to turn into a frolicking Hobbit!" She told him
sternly, waving her finger in his face. Her only response was an
attempt to bite off her finger which she smiled at, then let him run
off towards the lava.