Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Just Short The Hobbit Edition	By : ShadowoftheForgotten Category: +Third Age > General Views: 1643 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings. And obvioulsy I'm not making a dime off of this. If I was making money off of fanfiction it would be in book form and not on an internet archive.

Chapter List
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The young hobbit’s gather around their favorite uncle as sits in front of his fireplace. Smoke curls around his head when he puffs softly on his pipe. He fingers his wrist, eyes far away from his Smial. The youngest Faunt touches his knee bringing him back to the present.
“Where was I? Oh yes, Soulmarks… As you know for each race they are on different parts of the body. For us they are on our wrists, for humans their throats, elves have them upon their cheeks and dwarrows… dwarrows Marks are on their hearts.”
“What about Orcs and Goblins?” the youngest asks his eyes blazing with curiosity. Bilbo chuckles softly; shaking his head at the question.
“I don’t know Pippin. I’ve never taken time to ask them but I imagine they are somewhere where we can’t see them… Now Marks are tricky little things, do you know why?”
The Faunts bite their lips before one with black hair and piercing blue eyes speaks up.
“Cause not everybody has a Mark.”
“That’s right Frodo. Some people are born without Marks but that doesn’t mean that they are destined to be alone,” Bilbo hums as he thinks about his own parents Belladonna and Bungo Baggins neither one of them had a Mark but they loved each other deeply. He notices the yawns escaping his young charges and he stands.
“Now dear children, I do believe it is time to move this into the bedroom.”
The Faunts whine softly but after getting assurances that he would tell them a story from his Adventure they file into the bedroom; all four of them lying down on the bed. Bilbo kisses each of their foreheads before sitting down in a chair cattycorner to the bed.

“Now which story do you want?”

He gets calls for the troll story, the stone giant story and from little Merry the call for any story with fighting. With a smile he launches into the Troll story for it had gotten two votes plus had fighting in it. He waves his hands around for emphasis on certain parts, pitching his voice lower for the trolls. The young Faunts giggle and are enthralled with his story and soon fall asleep. With one final peck on the youngsters foreheads Bilbo starts to leave the room.

“Uncle Bilbo?”

“Yes Frodo?”
“Have you ever met your Soulmark?”
Bilbo sighs softly, eyes clouding with scabbed over pain.
“Once upon a time a long, long time ago Frodo my boy, a long, long time ago.”
Frodo makes a soft ‘oh’ noise before settling down and Bilbo leaves the room. Yes once upon a time long, long ago Bilbo met his Soulmark; his Soulmark with long black hair and blue eyes who looks so much like his nephew that occasionally it hurt to look at him. Met him, loved him and lost him. All on a quest that brought thirteen dwarrows to his door, that took him to a Lonely Mountain. He glances down at his wrist and bites back a sob knowing that the round shield with a single oak tree is still there underneath the bracelet he wears. It’s taunting him with the fact that his lover is still alive but wants nothing to do with him.
Bilbo can still see the battle when he closes his eyes. He sees the cloudless sky, the orcs and goblins charging, the elven archers preparing to fire, the human warrior’s eyes hallow from the loss of their home yet hard with determination to beat their new foe and he sees the dwarrows. For it is the dwarrows that he is even on the battlefield; thirteen, stubborn, loyal, funny, lovable, messy dwarrows that he will protect to the best of his ability. When he closes his eyes he can feel the slight weight of the mithril shirt Thorin gave him, he can feel his sweat pouring down his face, the sting of small cuts and bruises forming. He can feel the burning of his muscles and the warm splash of blood upon his face. He can hear the screams, the shouts and the clash of weapons. He can smell everything from the copper of blood to the stench of bodies starting to turn out in the sun. Hell he can even taste the battle, as vivid and as horrid as the day it happened all those years ago.
Not that it matters anymore. He was turned away, cast aside with a parting lie that hurts him badly.
King Thorin is dead.
They even said that the boys, dear sweet Fíli and Kíli had died… He only knows that they lied about Thorin for he still has his Mark. A Mark that hasn’t faded one bit as is the fashion of Hobbit Soulmarks. With Elves they vanish the moment one half of the pair dies for an elf isn’t long in this world after their Other has died. Men’s fade to where you can barely see the Mark but it’s still there. Hobbit’s… Hobbit’s fade away as does the remaining half of the Soul until the Mark is gone and the Hobbit has joined the other in the afterlife. He isn’t sure about what happens to dwarrow Marks.
With a soft sigh he doses the fire in the fireplace, empties his pipe and heads to his bed. He kneels next to it and sends a quick prayer up to Yavanna and Mahal that Thorin is safe and happy, that the boys are alive, that the company, his Family, suffered no loses then he climbs in and curls around his pillow. Eyes scrunched shut he can almost pretend that it is the soft fur of Thorin’s coat that he is cuddling. That the blankets covering him areThorin’s arms hugging him… Almost.
He wakes as he normally does; surrounded by four Fauntlings. Pippin has wormed his way into his arms, Frodo is lying on top of Pippin one small hand gripping his, Merry is curled up behind his knees and dear Sam is lying close to his back. He chuckles and slowly maneuvers his way out of the faunt pile. With a simple stretch he goes into the kitchen intent on making a yummy breakfast, after all growing boys need all seven of their meals a day eve if he hasn’t been able to stomach more than four. He hums a tune, a tune that would stop any poor Hobbit’s heart, what with the very idea of blunting knives or burning corks, as he cooks. His small charges wonder in following their noses like young ones should. They beg for the words of the song and he’s never been one to deny them something so simple, so he sings the song and laughs at Sam’s face and at how his darling nephew pats his shoulder gently. Smiling gaily he sends them off to play.
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Just Short The Hobbit Edition