Frolijah – Part 10
Bond. Elijah Bond.
Disclaimer: Fill in your favorite disclaimer here: _______. Examples are given:
1) I seriously (*snort,* yeah, right, this is humour – supposedly) don’t take any of Tolkien’s characters. Possibly because I am a kind honest soul. Or, possibly because I don’t want to be sued for ten million dollars. However, having ten million would be nice, so if ten of you would like to send me $1,000,000 a piece, I would really appreciate it.
2) I’m not J.R.R. Tolkien. Of course, that’s probably a good thing since if I were, I would be dead right now; and I happen to be addicted to life. However, that means I also can’t claim his works. Sigh. Guess I’ll actually have to become a better writer now and publish something beside ridiculous stories on his works. Well, I suppose not all my stories are like this, but even so . . . don’t worry, I won’t practice on you.
Recap Frolijah just sang “Shout” in Bree. Elijodo just sang the Bree song on Earth.
The Bree-folk stared in stunned silence at the place where Frolijah had been a moment before. All at once, they sprung into action, shouting to Barliman, and each other, and anyone else who was within listening range whether or not they were already talking. Where had the singer gone?
Covering my smile, I headed toward the corner where Strider sat, his face hidden under a dark hood. Somehow he looked much more frightening than in the movie. Perhaps it was the feeling that any moment he could just pull out that sword and kill you. But of course, it was already broken . . .
I figured that Frolijah, if he had any hobbit sense in him at all -which I wouldn’t bet on – would have headed to the same corner. He may not have known the books, but he wasn’t stupid.
What I didn’t count on, though, was how childish the actor could become after several beers. He was, after all, twenty-two, and of a legal drinking age. Not that that mattered in Middle Earth. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I spun around – empty space. “Frodo?” I whispered, a chill running between my shoulder blades, despite the fact that it was much too warm in the inn.
“Frodo? Is that you?” I asked desperately into the air.
“Ha, ha! Got your conk!” A voice next to my ear cried out. Suddenly, I felt two fingers pinch my nose. Acting more from instinct than anything – having a younger sister can do that to you – I grabbed in front of me. My hand closed around air. But not empty air: it was very full of Frolijah’s shirt. “Ow!” came his voice. “What’re you doing that for?”
“Frodo, what are you doing? Come with me.” I literally dragged the protesting Frolijah with me to Strider’s corner and under a table.
“Oh come on Alice,” Frolijah said, popping suddenly into visibility. I blinked and gasped in surprise before noticing his glare. “Why did you do that? Can’t a guy have any fun around you?”
“What’s your problem?” I hissed. “Don’t you remember anything? One would have thought that after working on the movie for nine or however-many months you could at least remember what happened in Bree!” I was being rude; I’ll admit that. But I was frightened, and fear can do strange things to people.
Frolijah seemed to think the same thing, for his eyes opened very wide, and he groaned, burying his face in one hand. “Oh.”
“Right, oh,” I said, pulling him from under the table. “So fix it.”
“Well?” said Strider, looking down at us. “Why did you do that? Worse than anything your friends could have said! You have put your foot in it! Or should I say your finger?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Frolijah absently, looking like he was unsure which of us to glare at. He looked rather annoyed – but alarmed at the same time.
“Oh yes, you do,” answered Strider; “but we had better wait until the uproar has died down. Then, if you please, Mr. Baggins, I should like a quiet word with you.”
“About what?” asked Frolijah. As if he didn’t already know. I smiled a little to myself. Method acting – there was something to be said for it. I’m not sure if he noticed the use of the name `Baggins,’ it being as strange to him as `Underhill.’ I vaguely wondered what Frolijah’s reaction would have been if Strider had said `Mr. Wood.‘
“A matter of some importance – to both of us.” Strider looked closely at me. “Or possibly all three. You may hear something to your advantage.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Frolijah nonchalantly. He looked very comfortable with everything. I wondered why; I currently felt like it would probably be a good idea not to be there right that moment. Kind of like when I had toilet-papered the school bathrooms back in fifth grade . . . but that was a long time ago, and of no concern now. I had to keep my mind on the present. “See ya later!”
Frolijah jumped up and headed toward the door. I grabbed him again. “We’ve got to stop that,” I jerked my head toward the fireplace, where an argument was taking place. Mr. Butterbur had come trotting in, and he was now trying to listen to everyone speaking all at once at what exactly, they had seen – or thought they had not.
“I saw him, Mr. Butterbur,” said a hobbit; “or leastways I didn’t see him, if you take my meaning. He just vanished into thin air, in a manner of speaking.”
“You don’t say, Mr. Mugwort!” said the landlord, looking puzzled. “I’m sure there’s a mistake.”
“There certainly is,” I said, dragging an unresisting Frolijah behind me. He popped back into `actor’ mode.
“That’s right,” Frolijah said. “We’ve just been having a word with – Strider over there.” Thank you for not saying `Aragorn.’ That could have been disastrous.
We came into the firelight, but most of the people seemed to find this more perturbing than ever. Hadn’t these people ever heard of mirror? Like magicians used? Well, I supposed not, seeing as they had wizards like Gandalf . . . In any case, many people left very quickly, giving Frolijah – and surprisingly, myself – curiously blank looks.
“Now what have you been doing, Mr. Underhill? And you Miss Smallburrow?” Oh, so I had a last name. Figures I couldn’t be a Took or Baggins or something – but I supposed the latter of those names was too dangerous anyway. “Frightening my customers and breaking up my crocks with your acrobatics!” Despite his words, Barliman didn’t look too disappointed – after all (as I knew from reading the Fellowship how many times?) the Bree-landers would come back for many nights after to speak of it.
“I’m very sorry about it,” Frolijah said, eyes wide and innocent. “I didn’t want to hurt anything – it was an accident!”
“All right, Mr. Underhill! But if you’re going to do any more tumbling or whatever it was, warn me.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Frolijah assured. “Trust me – Alice’ll stop me anyway. I’ll just go up to the room for tonight.”
“Will you see the ponies ready by eight o’clock?” I asked quickly, so as not to forget. I had a feeling I probably was anyway. Sigh.
“Very good! But before you go, I should like a word with you in private, Mr. Underhill. Something has just come back to my mind that I out to tell you. I hope that you’ll not take it amiss. When I’ve seen to a thing or two, I’ll come along to your room, if you’re willing.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine,” said Frolijah. He shot me an is-that-all-right-and-was-it-in-the-book-look. It was a very complicated question and took me several seconds to comprehend his glance, but I nodded when I had. Yep, it was in the book.
Frolijah let out a sigh of relief when we reached the stairs. “Are people around here always so long-winded?” he asked.
We came into our private parlor. (and my bedroom.) There was no light. Merry was not there, and the fire had burned low. It was not until they had puffed up the embers into a blaze and thrown some wood in the fire when we turned to see Strider sitting in the corner.
“Hi,” said Frolijah to Aragorn in his best hobbit-imitation of an English accent – though it sounded more Texan in his hobbit-throat. He pretended to lower non-existent sunglasses, “My name is Bond. Elijah Bond.”
Aragorn stared at Frolijah for a moment. “What?”
“Frodo Baggins,” corrected Frolijah quickly just the way the movie-Pippin had in Bree. He swept a huge mock-bow. “At your service.”
Strider stared at him some more. “I already know your name; why are you introducing yourself again? I came because I have some information.” He paused for a moment. “Who is Elijah Bond?”
“Mr Frodo!” cried Sam. “You’ve told your name! Mr. Gandalf warned you to be Mr. Underhill! Now he knows who you are.”
“Well certainly,” said Pippin. “Now that you’ve confirmed it.”
I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing deliriously. Elijah bond? The real Frodo would have never said that! The others stared at me, as if I weren’t quite right in the head. But I kept laughing: the picture in my mind was just too perfect . . .
“Are you certain this is a good idea?” asked Elijodo unsurely as Billy and Dom pushed him back up onto the table after several minutes of whispering in his ear.
“Yes, yes, go on,” Dom laughed. “You’ll be perfect – do it just like we showed you!”
“All right . . . Hi, my name is Bond,” Elijodo said in a clipped British accent. He lowered the sunglasses Billy Boyd had given him. “Frodo Bond.” The three other actor-hobbits laughed and clapped their hands, as did the rest of the small crowd gathered round the table Elijodo stood on. The all thought that perhaps the `actor’ had had a bit too much to drink.
Elijodo felt very uncomfortable – and for a good reason. Earlier, when he had been repeating his song, the Ring had slipped on one finger. It was still there; and so was he to the eyes of all around. Elijodo began to have the sick feeling inside of him that he always had when the Ring wasn’t on him. Where is It? Oh, what could have happened! It’s mine!! Where is the Ring?!!
The definition of `conk’ is `nose.’
Sorry this took so long to get out. The next one probably will also.
Um, yep, that’s about it. Must go, see ya, enjoy.
Oh, and please comment.