Fic: The Wight Stuff

Name: LadySunrope

Title: The Wight Stuff

Challenge: What Dreams May Come

Words: 2497

Rating: PG 13 for lowlife and vulgar barrow-wights

Pairings: A hopeful Sam/Frodo implied

Other pairings: Hopeful barrow-wights

Warnings: This is a crackfic. Leave your disbelief at the door.

Summary: Sent on a quest of their own, two intrepid barrow-wights go in search of The FrodoBaggins

Note: Hollantide was an early English name for Hallowe'en.
thanks to trianne for beta

THE WIGHT STUFF

In the Shire older and frailer hearts tell tales in front of flickering fires and drink to times long past when they were young and strong. The young and not so young who take no notice of such tales, gather to celebrate another harvest, another blessing of plenty. Dancing, feasting, fires blazing. Laughter, songs and a little loving, if truth were told. Soft whispers in the dark, giggles and hushed sounds. Strange rustling followed by gasps and moans. All joy and no thought of sorrows because this night gives the Shire a great gift. All are one before the Hollantide fires. No distinction between gentlehobbit and those who serve. No hobbit is another’s master. All are welcome, all are blessed, no matter who they are, to feast and sing until the cry of ‘Flee before the Black Pig!’ comes and the fires are doused one by one. With shrieks and laughter, hobbits run to their homes before the light from the last fire dies. Some may take a little longer because who is really afraid of the dark? Even on a night like this, it is only tradition and tall tales that make them squeal and shiver in the remembering. It is not real, none of it is ever real.

The night is illuminated by the moon. Clouds scud across its face and somewhere in the shadows a nightjar calls. It is Hollantide when the veil between what is and what is not grows thin.

And the dead walk in the Shire…


“Come on, Mr Frodo, you do dawdle at times.”

Frodo looks up from a slim volume he’s trying to peer at by the light of the moon. He smiles for indeed he’s lagging further and further behind.

“I’m sorry, Sam. It is such a wonderful gift, though, don’t you think?”

Sam sniffs. Miss Flora never gives up. She has a knack of knowing what will make Frodo’s eyes sparkle when it comes to gifts. The giving always leads to conversation and conversation stops Frodo doing what Sam likes to see him doing. Dancing, laughing, enjoying himself. Mr Frodo needs to put down the books once in a while.

“I’d say it was a handsome enough gift. What it’s for, I don’t rightly know. Thought gift giving happened other times than this. But you do like Elvish verse so I’m mighty glad it pleases you.”

The clear sound of Frodo’s laughter fills the air. “Oh Sam, you are the only hobbit I know who can say a compliment and make it sound like something else!”

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s heard something and cautiously turns, head cocked to one side, listening.

“What is it?” Frodo is amused. It’s the Shire. What can possibly happen in the Shire?

An owl makes a strange strangled hoot and Sam relaxes a little. “Nothin' you needs worry about, Mr Frodo. Just being cautious seeing as tonight is one of those nights I’ve heard a great deal about in my time. Best to be careful.”

Frodo is tactfully silent. When Sam gets these thoughts into his head, experience has taught Frodo to let him run with the ideas. Besides, it allows Frodo to lose himself in admiration of Miss Flora’s gift. Such a beautifully embossed leather cover…

*********

“What are yer doing? Yer almost gave us away!”

“I was peckish. It was only an owl and I didn’t think it would squawk that loudly. My stomach thinks my throat's cut.”

“Hate to tell yer. Yer throat is cut, yer dumplin’. How in Barrow’s name I got lumbered with yer, I’ll never know.”

“The Chief said ‘Take someone you trust’. So I chose you. Actually, they weren’t the words he used. He was a bit miffed with me. I only disputed what he said - about being the only one on the Barrow-downs capable of hunting down hobbits. I mean, how hard can it be? Nobody said he’d get his panties in a bunch and challenge me like he did. I’m a new wight, I didn’t know. ‘Go and bring me a hobbit.’ Fine. But why this particular hobbit? We’ve passed a whole crowd of them since arriving in this wightforsaken dump. Old ones, young ones. All with a nice handful of flesh on them. This one’s scrawny.”

“Yer puddin’. The Chief’s got a thing fer this one. Ever since he snacked on the last hobbit, he’s been obsessed. That last one was a right little squealer. Got the Chief all fired up over this FrodoBaggins. ‘Bring me a FrodoBaggins!’ he’d yell, every time yer offered to get him something down the old Fog and Barrow. The landlord kept telling him he didn’t have any. Made no difference.”

“So, now we’ve found this FrodoBaggins, what’s the plan?”

“Don’t ask me, pal. Your challenge, yer own decision. I’m just here ter make sure yer don’t disgrace the Ancient and Noble Order Of Barrow-wights, 3rd Stone Slab from the Right Chapter currently meeting every 2nd Tuesday in the Fog and Barrow’s mouldiest chamber. You toffs think yer know it all but I’m tellin’ yer, this has to be planned properly.”

********

Sam is getting heartily sick of the book of Elvish verse. He’s been looking forward to a nice, leisurely stroll, maybe telling Frodo a few jokes, planning what they were going to do on the morrow but no such luck. He has the distinct feeling they are being watched.

“Did you know, Sam, that Elves have seven words for stars and eleven for sky?”

“No, I didn’t, Mr Frodo. Always managed to get by with one for each. Don’t know how I’ve coped.”

Frodo stops and looks at him somewhat reproachfully. “Sam Gamgee, am I boring you?”

Sam would like to be truthful but there’s something in Frodo’s expression that makes him think twice. “Beggin’ your pardon, but my mind’s not exactly on Elvish poetry. I keep getting these queer feelings, like.”

Frodo’s lips quirk in that smile that makes Sam’s stomach flip. “Really?”

Maybe the night will turn out right after all but then the scream of a fox makes them jump and Sam is whirling quickly about looking for anything that might indicate danger.

There’s nothing he can see, of course and Frodo shakes his head. “Honestly, Sam, you think far too much of those tales the Gaffer tells you. Ghosts and ghouls at Hollantide? The dead aren’t walking, Sam, only us living. We’re not getting far, either. Come on.”

Sam wants to let Frodo know exactly why they aren’t getting very far but refrains. His dear departed mother always stressed the need for politeness especially with gentlehobbits. Although perhaps she’d never met one who could swoon over Elvish verse quite like Frodo.

There’s a snuffling by his side and a fox overtakes him. Whatever is on the road is infinitely preferable to what lies behind…

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

“Will yer stop helpin’ yerself to the wildlife? Yer might as well wave a banner sayin' ‘Cooee I’m over here’. We’re supposed to scare ‘em witless, not advertise the fact we want to jump 'em and cut their throats.”

“Can’t help it. I’m nervous. I didn’t think there’d be two of them. He’s a big hobbit, that Gamgee. Think the Chief would like a handful of Gamgee as well as the FrodoBaggins?”

“He is a big boy. Think I’d like a handful, never mind the Chief. Think of that one in a white cotton slip – gets me wighties all unwithered and me hands all eager. Better than that scrawny one…”

“No, I like the FrodoBaggins. White lace. I see him in white lace. Stretched out on a stone slab…ooh think I’ve come over all funny.”

"Steady on, not here. Look, that hedgerow has a gap in it. Let’s cut ‘em off and make our move."

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

“OOF”

“Sorry, Sam!”

Frodo is on his knees on the ground, searching for something. Sam has walked right into him, his knees already pressing against the warmth of Frodo’s body. For a few brief seconds, Sam contemplates dropping to his knees with an enthusiastic ‘Let me help you, Mr Frodo!’ but Frodo has found what he was looking for. He waves the gold charm on the end of a weighted plaited cord.

“A special bookmark, Sam! I dropped it as I was leafing through the pages. Lucky the moon is so bright.”

The moon is indeed bright, catching the dew already forming on Frodo’s curls. Catching the sparkle in his eyes, the glistening softness of his lips. Sam blinks. “Anything else you dropped?” he asks rather hopefully.

“No, only this. Let me read you this poem. It’s so interesting…”

Sam has no doubt it is. Read in front of an open fire with suitable refreshments and added entertainment, especially if it’s a love poem and needs actions.

Only not on a lonely road, at Hollantide. Not that it is lonely. Sam notices that most of the natural world seem to be intent on following and indeed overtaking their footsteps. Foxes, fieldmice, beetles, even worms all trying to get ahead.

The hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise…

*********


“All right, now’s our chance. Have yer got the stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Yer know, the stuff the Chief gave yer. He’s been daydreaming about what he’d like to do to that FrodoBaggins for weeks. Well his dream hobbit is right there so have yer got the stuff?”

An embarrassed exhalation of ice cold ectoplasm makes a nearby branch lose its remaining leaves.

“I thought you had it. It was all in that sack. Oh hell and wightness, I think I left it by the standing stone where we met.”

“Bless us and save us. Not only does the Chief have these fantasies about hobbits in pretty white dresses all covered in jewellery and we get geared up to fulfil one of his biggest dreams and yer leave it next to the standing stone? Where the wife goes for a bit of a chat with her friends? Are yer crazy? No, forget that last part. At least yer’ve got the hands…”

“Yep, all six of them. Borrowed four more off a couple of wights who‘ve had the same fantasies but couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Thank stones for small mercies. So, hands and a good sharp sword.”

“Er, no sword. Well, not the metal kind anyway. The metal one’s with the dresses.”

“Listen pal, yer other one’s been a long time dead, yer couldn’t stir tea with that, believe me. Well, we’re shafted good and proper, I can tell yer. We might as well call it a night and head back to the Fog and Barrow.”

“Why? He’s walking down that lane, those curls all wet with the night air and I can’t help thinking what a sight he’ll look in that white lacy number. Couldn’t we grab him now and take him back with us? Does he have to be dead first?”

“Fraid so, pal. Them’s the rules if I remember rightly. Read the Barrow-wight’s Rough Guide to the Shire, haven’t yer? Hobbits can be kidnapped if they come close to home, yer put them to sleep, torture them a bit and then kill ‘em, otherwise yer have to kill’em first and play with ‘em after. Yer dead so he has to be dead too. Doesn’t matter how good they’re going to look with those circlets of gold, and the droplets of dank moisture on their brows, and those dresses riding up their thighs…what’s up?”

“Oh bugger, you shouldn’t have mentioned moisture and thighs. One of me hands has made a run for it.”

“What? Get him back now. Whistle or something. Isn’t he barrow trained?”

“It’s not one of mine. He’s not answering!”

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


There’s a rustling and a bustling amongst the vegetation by the hedgerow. Frodo is still talking about Elvish rhyming couplets and how hard it can be to get the exact intonation in translation.

Sam doesn’t give a bugger for translation. He’s far more interested in the fact that something is crawling through the bushes alongside them, aiming he suspects for Mr Frodo. Without breaking his stride, he lets the long shape get in front of him and then with the kitchen knife he’s secreted in his belt just in case the non–existent ghosts and ghouls decide to pay a visit, he happily skewers the said shape into the ground.

“Ooooh, that was nasty. He’s a mean one that Gamgee.”

“I can’t look. Tell me when you think it’s all over.”

There’s a flash of silver in the moonlight. Five long and bony digits land in the hedgerow.

“Well that’s that then. Looks like yer’ll have a lot of explaining to do why yer the only one handed wight in the barrow...”

“It’s not one of mine. It belongs to the Chief. He‘s got a hankering for hobbit thighs. Said he wanted first go. I said you’d give him his hand, all ready to play with, as soon as you get back. It’d be like the entrée before the main course. I suppose he won’t be getting it back, now. And I won’t be able to try a FrodoBaggins before the Chief does. I’ll never know what it’s like.”

“Right, I’ve had it. Yer a waste of space. We’re off before the sun comes up. I could do with a nice rubdown with a clump of moss and a long sleep on a stone slab. Anything to take away the pain of tonight. Not doing this again, I can tell yer that. Yer not cut out for it, just not the Wight Stuff.”

“Don’t want to go back yet! I want you to dress up for me!”

“What??”

“I want to play with a FrodoBaggins or a Gamgee. Even a pretend one! Here or back at the Barrow. I don't care!”

“Yer have ter be kiddin’ me.”

“I’ve got a nice black curly wig back home you could wear. I wouldn’t have to call you Frodo…”

“N-O spells no.”

“Can I dress up then and you have the sword…please?”

“Not listening.”

“Meanie. I hate you. You’re always spoiling my dreams. All I wanted was to have a hobbit before the Chief…”

The whispers and rustlings fade into quietness. All is still as Hollantide fades into the dawning of Shire Day when time can be taken to rest and celebrate the pleasures of living.

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

Sam smiles triumphantly while Frodo strides on, wondering about allegorical forms and symmetry of movement in First Age poetry.

Sam sheathes his knife, walking directly behind Frodo in respectful silence as he contemplates both form and symmetry in all their rounded glory tightly confined in russet trousers.

“Come along, Sam!”

“I’m coming, Mr Frodo.”

He wonders if Frodo would dress up for him again in that crisp white nightshirt with the lace.
After all, Frodo does look particularly good in white…..