by Llinos
beta Marigold

Frodo Baggins of the Shire, knew many things. He knew how to read, both in Westron and Sindarin. He could bake a hot-crust porkpie, with decorative pastry leaves and bake a seed or lard cake to perfection. He could make a campfire and roast a rabbit with nuts and berries (all the correct kind) and find his way in the dark with the help of moon and stars.

He could tell the time, sew a button, make a good pot of tea and knew how to distinguish a decent red wine from cheap, fancy-labelled plonk.

He knew what to say to an elf or a dwarf. He knew never to be late for tea. He knew how to bow to a lady, how to address the Lord Mayor and how to make small talk at parties. But most of all – Frodo Baggins knew to be wary of dragons!

That is why when he and Samwise Gamgee, his fearless and noble companion, approached the great beast's lair, Frodo held up his hand and whispered, "Shhh!"

Samwise, bold and brave, foolhardy some might say, drew his small sword and brandished it left and right, the silver blade flashing brightly as it caught the gleam of the dying sun's rays.

Frodo shook his head, "No Sam," he whispered, quieter than a mouse with earache. "It'll do no good. Your sword will not travail a dragon, mighty though your blade be. We must use stealth and cunning if we are to reclaim the dwarven treasure."

"But Master Frodo," Sam muttered, (for such he always called him) "we shall be fried with one breath."

"Which is why," Frodo explained, "we must be cunning and quiet and keep our swords sheathed. Come now, follow me."

Sam reluctantly thrust his sword into the scabbard and followed Frodo along the dark, gloomy passageway. The walls were dark and smooth on both sides and the roof just high enough to allow a hobbit to pass without bending.

As they crept further and further into the gloom the flickering twilight dimmed behind them. But gradually they became aware that a light was growing before them. Brighter and brighter it grew until it became a silver glow that lit the entire passageway.

"Is that our dragon, Master Frodo?" Sam asked in a tiny voice. "Do you think he's got his fire going?"

"She, Sam, she," Frodo whispered back. "This is a lady dragon and, yes I think she may be alight, we must take care." The little passage ended and both hobbits peeped cautiously through the opening at the end.

Frodo and Sam could not help themselves, they both gasped in wonder and astonishment. The passage had led to a cavern, as tall as the mountain it lay beneath and as wide again, it was covered from end to end in gleaming yellow gold, diamonds like stars, rubies as red as the best wine and emeralds that shimmered like the great forest in springtime.

And, in the centre of this splendid wealth, lay a sleeping dragon, as beautiful as she was terrible. The scales that covered her immense, but sleek, body were a shimmering silver-blue. Her wings, a turquoise-silver, were spread out like two great fans across her treasured hoard and her tail coiled protectively around a magnificent mithril crown, which was studded with gleaming blue sapphires and sparkling diamonds shaped like stars.

"Ahem!" Frodo coughed a polite little cough.

The dragon stirred and her eyes opened. Sparkling white light beamed from two stunning orbs like twin moons across a silver sea. Relentlessly they swept her domain until she spied two small insects-like creatures standing in her service hatch.

"Who are you? You are not my servants!" The dragon lifted a huge, but delicately formed, silver talon, glancing at it with critical eyes before blowing a puff of smoke on it and rubbing it against her chest. "I need my nails polished. Have they sent you?"

"Er yes, Your Imperial Dragoness," Frodo began. "We have been chosen from all the willing in the land to attend Your Magnificence, O Spangla, daughter of Smaug, may your beauty ever embarrass the moon."

"Aha!" Spangla turned her silver gaze once more upon the two hobbits. "You know my name! Although that is not to be wondered at, my fame is as legendary as my beauty! But that does not tell all. What are your names and who was it that sent you?"

"Begging Your Magnificent pardon, O glorious One, whose exquisiteness made Telperion wither without trace, I am the bookworm, pie decorator, weaver of buttons and finder of spectacles misplaced." Frodo took a breath and, as the dragon was impatiently clicking her claws on the gold-carpeted floor, continued. "My companion is the flower-charmer, the earth-delver, guardian of seed and the nemesis of weeds."

"So," Spangla narrowed her eyes. "He's a gardener? But what are you – weaver of buttons and lies? And who sent you? Speak quickly and keep your wit in your pocket or I'll toast you like a muffin and melt your friend for butter!"

Frodo drew himself up to his full height, an impressive 3 foot 6 inches, although his bold stance added at least another half an inch. "I was sent by King Thrandruil of Mirkwood," he paused for effect. "And I am a manicurist!"

"Really?" Spangla reached out her long foreleg and dangled her ten-inch talons before Frodo's face. "Then I do have need of you, but…" Suddenly, faster than a dragon can wink, which is actually not all that fast or likely, as they are not given to such niceties, her mighty paw shifted and she caught hold of Samwise and swept him up in her claws. Dangling him before her face and sniffing at him, she continued. "You do not smell like elves, nor do you look much like them – except perhaps for the ears, and I seem to remember elves being bigger."

"We're not elves!" Samwise gasped, desperately trying to reach for his trusty sword. "We're hobbits – and my Master is the finest hobbit in all the Shire and he'll… he'll…" Sam stalled as he quickly realised this might not be the best time to boast of Frodo's abilities as a warrior, "and he'll give you a manicure you'll never forget!"

"Hobbits are you?" Spangla held Sam out to take a better look at him and tickle his feet with a wisp of her fiery breath.

"Ouch! Ouch!" Sam tried to bat at his singeing foot fur. "Please don't do that Missus Dragon Ma'am! We hobbits love dragons, 'specially ones as becoming as yourself!"

Frodo, greatly alarmed at Sam's predicament, stepped forward into the cavern. "O Majestic One, bane of artless elven pedicurists! Spare the renowned cuticle remover, the wielder of emery paper and enamel polisher of note. We are hobbits, it is true, but sent only to trim and enhance your talons to perfection… er… greater perfection, should that be possible."

"I have heard of hobbits before," Spangla glared at Frodo and made no attempt to put Sam down. "My great and glorious father, it is said, met with a hobbit. A wily and deceitful little burglar he was! The myths and legends say he riddled information from Smaug, the Greatest of Calamities, which led to his final and terrible destruction. Perhaps I will toast you both now – in memory and tribute to my father, Smaug the Tremendous and, until he encountered a hobbit, Impenetrable!"

"But what about your nails?" Frodo boldly reached into his pocket, and drew out a small manicure set, a gift from his Uncle Bilbo, which he always carried but never used, as his own nails were bitten to the quick. "Won't you let us give you a manicure first?"

"Oh very well," Spangla sighed, letting a little puff of steam escape her nose. "I'm attending King Bard's coronation and, when I pick those skinny men out of my teeth, I want my nails to look their best!"

She set Sam down on the golden floor and Frodo quickly joined him. Together they began to saw at the gigantic claws splayed before them, quickly blunting the nail file and rubbing smooth the emery paper.

"Here Master Frodo," Sam, always well equipped, pulled out a large rasp, some coarse sandpaper and a crowbar from his satchel. "I thought we might be needing these to get in, if you take my meaning."

"Hurry up, you two," Spangla looked down at their progress. "I don't want to be late."

"So, err," Frodo began, "have you been invited as a guest of honour?"

"Not exactly invited," Spangla grinned as horrifically as only a dragon can. "But I'm sure to cause quite a stir at a society event like that – I usually do!"

"Oh I can imagine," Frodo agreed. "Although I heard a rumour that Spingle the Splendid is going to be there too. They do say that her scales are of burnished gold and her teeth are whiter than the snows of Caradhras and as sharp as a wizard's wit!"

"Nonsense!" Spangla spat sparks of silver flame at the cavern roof. "I heard she'd lost weight. Getting to be a picky eater and living off rabbits and rats – some faddy dragon diet she thinks will make her look good!"

"I heard," Frodo continued nervously, "it suits her well. Decreases wind resistance and that she flies with the grace of a swallow and alights with the delicacy of a butterfly."

"Are you implying I'm fat?" The dragon growled deep in her throat and then let out a belch of smoke.

"It suits you!" Frodo insisted. "Your magnificent, gargantuan beauty is not even surpassed by the Great White Oliphaunt of Far Harad!"

"Oliphaunt!" Spangla gasped. "You are comparing me… me the daughter of Smaug the Incomparable, the widely acknowledged winner of fairest dragoness in Middle-earth 1232, to that… that monstrosity of a mammoth?"

"Well," Frodo gave an exaggerated sigh as he took the pot of Gaffer's Stick-tight Glue from Sam. "We're none of us getting any younger. Time for the polish, Milady, um, I mean, Your Magnificence."

"Old!" Spangla would have swept Frodo off his feet with a swipe of her mighty paw, except that he was dangling the pot of varnish expectantly before her nails. "How old do you think I look?" She asked, her voice laden with menace, as she stretched her now considerably shorter (and I might add, blunter, although she was so taken up with Frodo's comments she had not noticed) talons.

"Oh," Frodo considered as he began to apply the glue. "By your looks, I wouldn't say a day over three thousand years. Other paw please."

"Three thousand years!" Spangla actually spluttered in disbelief, emitting little sparks and flames, which Sam managed to nimbly dodge to avoid getting singed again. "I'll have you know I'm only nine hundred and eighty seven! That's three hundred and twenty one and a half years younger than that Spingle, the so-called Splendid!" A slight hitch began to manifest itself in Spangla's voice, "You think I look old and fat!"

"No! No!" Frodo protested. "Of course we don't – do we Sam?"

Sam nodded vigorously, then realised this might be wrong and shook his head with equal enthusiasm. "You look in pretty good shape, Ma'am, I mean for a dragon your age – you know, buxom-like!"

"Buxom?" A deep sigh arose from the dragon's throat. "Old, fat and buxom! I'm only young and… and, I don't know, perhaps I shouldn't have eaten all those fatty dwarves, get a bit more exercise, stop flying everywhere and walk sometimes!"

Frodo and Sam gazed up at the dragon, watching as one might when waiting for a great tree to succumb to the woodsman's axe. Eventually they were rewarded.

"Oh my scales! What have I come to?" Spangla let out a mighty sob and two vast tears welled in her silver eyes and finally gushed like swollen mountain streams down her cheeks. "I look old, I'm fat and that Spingle is going to out stage me at every breath!"

"Yes, but look what nice nails you'll have!" Frodo pointed out. "I think the colour suits you to perfection."

Spangla, through her gushing tears, looked down at the hobbits' handiwork. "My talons! What have you done?" She screamed in horror at the sight of her stunted, tobacco-brown nails and tried to lift them up. "They're stuck down! You little runts! Don't think you can get away with this. I'll soon burn that sticky mess to nothing and then fry you up for hors d'oeuvres!"

But Frodo was as wise as he was quick-witted. He knew well that if you made a dragon cry it would extinguish her flame for many hours. "Quick Sam," he pulled his friend by the hand. "Grab what you can and let's go!"

"Right you are, Master Frodo!" And Sam and Frodo scooped up gold coins and jewels and stuffed them into their satchels.

The dragoness meanwhile was huffing and puffing at her claws, but no fire would come. Nor could she even manage to wipe the tears from her eyes. In fact, after her terrible humiliation at the hands of these two hobbits, they were falling thicker and faster than ever.

"Thieves! Liars!" She screamed at them. "I'm not old, I'm not fat! I'm Spangla the Superb, the most exquisite dragon and the most beautiful!"

"And the most charming!" Frodo added with an elegant bow. "Now if you will excuse us Milady, as delightful as your company has been, we must depart. Other dragons may need our service and we are but taking what little pay is due to us." And with that he snatched up the silver crown from her coiled tail, the dragon being too consumed with her anger to even notice.

"You'll get no reference from me!" She squalled. "I'll tell my friends, never trust a hobbit!"

"Good day to you Spangla the Superb," Frodo bowed again, nudging Sam until he did the same. "May your tail ever coil and your scales never be weighed in the balance and found wanting."

"She's got friends?" Was all Sam could mutter in awe.

Frodo and Sam were able to make several journeys back and forth along the service corridor before the glue became loose, collecting enough dragon treasure to build a new Town Hall for the Mayor, an extension to the Mathom House at Michel Delving, buy a new hat for Sam and a handsome waistcoat for Frodo, not forgetting several books for his Uncle Bilbo that he had been wanting for some time.

~~~~~~~

"And we all lived happily ever after!" Frodo laughed. "That was a wonderful tale Bilbo, though I think you might have made me a trifle braver than I would have been."

"Nonsense my boy!" Bilbo snorted. "You're a Baggins! We Bagginses know how to deal with a dragon in a pinch!"

"Did Sam's foot fur grow back all right?" Little Marigold asked, her eyes wide and gazing down at her brother's feet with concern.

"Of course it did!" Bilbo patted her head. "In fact it grew better and thicker than ever."

"I don't know as how I'd have managed to carry all those things with me," Sam gave a puzzled smile. "And all the right things just as they were needed!"

"Now Sam," Merry slapped the young gardener on the back. "You're a very resourceful chappie. I wouldn't be at all surprised, although I would be surprised to find Frodo with a manicure set!"

"What happened to the rest of the treasure?" Pippin frowned. "Did the dragon lady keep it all? And did she get her paws free in the end? And how did Frodo and Sam get all their treasure back to the Shire?"

"Well Master Peregrin," Bilbo tousled the lad's hair affectionately, "that's a whole other story for another day."

"Can we be in it next time?" Pippin jumped to his feet from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor and took Bilbo's hand. "Merry and me? Please! Can we?"

"We'll see," Bilbo was always evasive about the content of his next story. "We'll see."

The End