| Gut Feelings |
Pippin looked as miserable as it was possible for a hobbit to be on a
beautiful summer's day. The deep blue of the sky was lost on him, and the
brilliant hues of the flowerbeds only served to sink him deeper into
melancholy.
“Oh, Frodo - I love Merry, and he doesn’t love me. What am I to do?”
“I’m not exactly well-versed in matters of love, Pip.” His elder cousin looked
down at his ink-stained fingers ruefully, “But are you sure? You’re so young...”
“Of course I’m sure." Pippin scowled at an inoffensive rose. "He gives me a
stomachache!”
He watched indignantly as his usually staid and proper cousin collapsed
against the fence, laughing until tears ran down his face. “Oh Pip,” Frodo
gasped, ”Only you would liken love to a surfeit of green apples. Oh my...”
And he dissolved into another paroxysm of giggles.
There was a rustle on the terrace below, and Samwise Gamgee emerged
from behind a forest of beanpoles, drawn by the sound of his master’s
merriment. He peered up at them and tugged at his forelock shyly,
“Afternoon, Mr. Frodo... Mr. Pippin.”
“Good afternoon, Sam,” they chorused.
Frodo found himself running his eyes over his gardener’s body, as he had
surreptitiously done so many times before. Sunlight gilded the bronzed skin
and set the tawny hair aflame, and he found a strange fascination in the
droplet of sweat that wended its way coyly down the swell of the strong
throat, to disappear... Oh Eru, what was he doing? He jerked his eyes up
with a soft gasp and fell headlong into gold-flecked pools of meadow green.
After a long moment, his hand crept up toward his middle, and pressed it
gently.
Oh, he thought dazedly, So that's what it is. He now had a thorough
understanding of what Pippin meant, for he felt the most desperate twist in
his gut that he'd ever experienced.
Pippin regarded them both – master and gardener, oblivious to everything
but each other - and his eyes widened.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” he breathed.
“Eventually, I trust,” Frodo returned absently, and went to find someone to
soothe his bellyache.
END
beautiful summer's day. The deep blue of the sky was lost on him, and the
brilliant hues of the flowerbeds only served to sink him deeper into
melancholy.
“Oh, Frodo - I love Merry, and he doesn’t love me. What am I to do?”
“I’m not exactly well-versed in matters of love, Pip.” His elder cousin looked
down at his ink-stained fingers ruefully, “But are you sure? You’re so young...”
“Of course I’m sure." Pippin scowled at an inoffensive rose. "He gives me a
stomachache!”
He watched indignantly as his usually staid and proper cousin collapsed
against the fence, laughing until tears ran down his face. “Oh Pip,” Frodo
gasped, ”Only you would liken love to a surfeit of green apples. Oh my...”
And he dissolved into another paroxysm of giggles.
There was a rustle on the terrace below, and Samwise Gamgee emerged
from behind a forest of beanpoles, drawn by the sound of his master’s
merriment. He peered up at them and tugged at his forelock shyly,
“Afternoon, Mr. Frodo... Mr. Pippin.”
“Good afternoon, Sam,” they chorused.
Frodo found himself running his eyes over his gardener’s body, as he had
surreptitiously done so many times before. Sunlight gilded the bronzed skin
and set the tawny hair aflame, and he found a strange fascination in the
droplet of sweat that wended its way coyly down the swell of the strong
throat, to disappear... Oh Eru, what was he doing? He jerked his eyes up
with a soft gasp and fell headlong into gold-flecked pools of meadow green.
After a long moment, his hand crept up toward his middle, and pressed it
gently.
Oh, he thought dazedly, So that's what it is. He now had a thorough
understanding of what Pippin meant, for he felt the most desperate twist in
his gut that he'd ever experienced.
Pippin regarded them both – master and gardener, oblivious to everything
but each other - and his eyes widened.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” he breathed.
“Eventually, I trust,” Frodo returned absently, and went to find someone to
soothe his bellyache.
END
