A/N 13.05.03: Okay, you've found me out. I'm one of the more notorious rippers since Jack The, and to say that this has a vaguely Pratchettesque influence is like saying that the sea is a bit damp. But in my own defence, I only ripped one joke off Pratchett in this (if you want to play Spot the Plagiarism, the joke was from Reaper Man). By some strange quirk of parallel evolution (think apes and humans, or perhaps turnips and pro-wrestlers), I first read the dagger-point standoff scenario in a clearance-sale book called something like Rudest Jokes in the World!!! (I will gloss over why I was reading a book called Rudest Jokes in the World!!! in the first place). So if the Great TP rips, why shouldn't I? (I'm heading for a if all your friends jumped off the Harbour Bridge, would you? and a smack now, aren't I?)
Anyway, on with the story.
[St]ranger things have happened...
A figure trotted silently through the forest. A certain cat-like grace, a certain alertness indicated that this was no ordinary traveller. And a certain sudden pause, a slight lift of the head, indicated that the nearly inaudible snap of a twig in the distance had not passed unnoticed.
Another figure trotted silently through the forest. A certain confident tread, a certain steadiness indicated that this, also, was no ordinary traveller. And a certain pause, a slight lift of the head, indicated that the nearly inaudible snap of a twig right behind him had not passed unn- nghhngugnh.
Of course, being spun around and propelled backwards into a tree was also an indication.
Brown eyes stared into lavender.
As the silence stretched out, Aragorn felt that he ought to say something.
"The Prickliosa, or Spinybark tree," he began, carefully, "has uses which are many and meritorious, although I must say, and I emphasise this point quite vigorously, that being pressed against the rather tender flesh at the back of a man's neck is one I had hitherto not heard of."
He tried to clear his throat. A vice-like grip appeared to be in the way.
"Come now, this is no way for two noble men to treat each other," he tried again.
"Who are you?" said the voice of the vice.
"And why should I tell you?"
The lavender eyes were amused.
"Look down," suggested Drizzt. The tip of a dagger prickled Aragorn's stomach.
"Look down further," suggested Aragorn.
"Vith!"
"Vith all you like, it von't go avay."
Drizzt appeared to stop breathing entirely.
When he spoke again, his voice was somewhat higher.
"You are no noble man," he squeaked as scornfully as prudence allowed in his situation.
"Neither will you be, in a moment," said Aragorn calmly.
Drizzt, very carefully, stepped back. Aragorn stepped forward and de-perforated his neck. Two daggers were returned to their sheathes.
"But in answer to your question," continued Aragorn, "I am a Ranger, like yourself."
"Our paths have not crossed," said Drizzt, quite politely now. Some impressions do not fade quickly.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor, and a Man of Westernesse, Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, called Elessar, the Elfstone, friend of Gandalf the White née Grey, called Wingfoot and Strider by Men and Estel by Elves, and the fathers of my father's fathers were Elendil and Isildur, pleased to meet you," said Aragorn in one breath.
"I am Drizzt Do'Urden, son of Zaknafein Do'Urden, forsaker of the House of Daermon N'a'shezbaernon, humble servant of Gwaeron Windstrom hero of the goddess Mielikki, called "Aaargh" by Men and "AfterhimbyLloth!" by Elves, well, some elves, friend of Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon, constant companion of King Bruenor Battlehammer, protectorofTen-TownsandfriendofHighPriestCadderlyoftheSpiritSoaringpleasedtomee-" said Drizzt in one breath.
"Eleven - nine to me," said Aragorn, with slightly too much satisfaction.
Drizzt scowled. "Lineage. Who needs it?"
"Well, we all do. None of us would be here without it," pointed out Aragorn in an annoyingly reasonable manner. "But come now, life isn't a contest!" he added in the jolly tones of one who believes it is, and furthermore, has just won.
"No no," muttered Drizzt, "Of course not how about weapons then?"
There was a long scraping noise. "This," said Aragorn with reverence, "is Andúril, Flame of the West, née Narsil, the Sword That Was Broken And Now Reforged, which shattered beneath Elendil when he fell, but was wielded by Isildur Elendil's son when he cut the One Ring from the Hand of the Dark Lord Sauron." He waited.
"And?"
"And what?"
"Is that all?" said Drizzt. He flourished. "Well, this is Twinkle-"
"Ha!" Aragorn snorted before he could help himself. "I mean, Ha- erm, ha...what was I saying that started with ha..."
"The Harpells gifted me with it, yes," said Drizzt, looking slightly puzzled. "How did you know?"
"Er, the Elfstone knows many things," said Aragorn, slumping in relief. "Go on."
He bitterly regretted that last statement. Half an hour later...
"...and this is Left Boot Dagger, and that's Right Boot Dagger, and here's a mini drow crossbow, they come in sets of ten, and here's the Other Scimitar, and these are the enchanted bracers salvaged from Dantrag Baenre – look – wheeee! wheee!"
"Wow!" said Aragorn, suddenly animating. "You haven't got another set about your person, do you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, if you had four of the things..." He leaned closer. "Just between rangers, who know the ways of Man and Beast...You could make a fortune at the horse races, is all I'm saying..."
"Races?" Fires flared in the lavender orbs. "Priceless treasures of Menzoberranzan, and you speak of races? Do you mock my weaponry?"
"Well, c'mon, it's called Twinkle, for Elbereth's sake. You're wielding something that sounds like Fairy Peachblossom's Wonderwand."
"Well at least it wasn't reforged from something that sounds like a nose spray," said Drizzt, a little more sulkily than he cared to admit.
"Anduril has a proud history in the lore of my land," retorted Aragorn. He cleared his throat. "Seek for the Sword that was broken:/In Imladris it dwells;/There shall be counsels taken/Stronger than Morgul-spells...I doubt Twinkle has verse to its name!"
"I beg to differ," said Drizzt, and cleared his throat. "Twinkle twinkle/little star/ how I wonder- what?"
"No, no, nothing," said Aragorn. "I am quite prone to collapsing in hysterical giggles, please continue."
"I've been oft-mocked in my lifetime, and I warn you that I am no stranger to the fight," began Drizzt, bristling slightly. "I know nearly every move in existence, and then some. I even discovered the cross-down parry with bonus leg!"
"What?" Aragorn's noble brow furrowed. "Like, 'Do one cross-down parry, and get your bonus leg free!'?"
"The cross-down parry with bonus leg! One of the greatest strategic maneouvres in the history of swordplay! A move which has granted victory over all opponents of any number!"
"I find that shouting "Elendil!" while jumping off a parapet generally suffices," Aragorn noted.
"I beg you to note that fires are flaring in my glowing lavender orbs," said Drizzt, menacingly.
"Yes, I remember someone else's eyes described as glowing orbs..." mused Aragorn. "I think his name was Gollum." He was temporarily blinded by a lavender flare, and hastily changed the subject.
"Well well, that's all water under the bridge, isn't it? Come now, that's a magnificent bow my friend, may I take a look?"
"S'borrowed," said Drizzt, a little grumpily. "S'called Taulmaril, if you'd been listening."
"Oh but I was, I was," assured Aragorn hastily. "Taulmaril of the Silver Arrows, is it not; earned your friend the name of 'the Silver Streaker'? You know, your cheesy lady-friend?"
"I had not heard of 'the Silver Streaker'. And it was her great misfortune to be named for a squishy dairy product, yes," said Drizzt, quite stiffly.
"Well, that's not such a bad thing," said Aragorn comfortingly. "I think Gorgonzola's a lovely name for a girl, myself. Gorgon for short." He paused, then added slyly, "And come now, you've got feelings for her, don't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come on...why deny it? The Elfstone knows these things."
"Well," said Drizzt, and sagged. "Okay. Yes. Yes I do. How did you know?"
"The 'eirB-ittaC' tattooed in a heart on your arm was a bit of a clue," Aragorn admitted.
"Wulfgar can't read backwards," muttered Drizzt.
"Well then," said Aragorn, settling in comfortably. "Spill."
There was a puzzled pause. "Spill what?"
"Tell me about her," said Aragorn patiently.
"Oh...ah..." Drizzt looked approximately as comfortable as a ferret on fire. "Well, what can I say? She's, um. A dwarf, and then some."
"A dwarf?" exclaimed Aragorn. "Well that's a- I mean- That is to say- nothing against dwarves, personally, wonderful chaps, magnificent beards, some of the people who've tried to bite my knees off have been dwarves, and er, of course I'm sure you've noticed, a very convenient height for the average man-"
"A dwarf, and then some," Drizzt reiterated, with some emphasis. "Brought up as a dwarf, then further up as a human. Her parents died in a raid."
"Oh. Oh right. Tragic. And just desserts for such irresponsible baby-namers, may I say," said Aragorn gravely. "Go on."
"Well, um. Sometimes I really- And then I see her and- Well, I tend to- Then I really wish I hadn't- Well, it's a little hard trying to tell you, really."
"Well, why don't you tell her then? Unburden your soul, free your heart?"
Drizzt sighed. He looked up at the stars. "My friend, I have faced down tundra yetis. I have stared down the throat of a dragon without fear, and withstood the scorn of men and elves alike without so much as a flinch."
"Have you really?" said Aragorn, oblivious interrupter of emotional dramatic soliloquies, with great interest.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes I have. But when I consider revealing my deepest emotions, my truest feelings, to the one I care for the most, then I feel..."
"Yes?"
"What is that word...for when you know you are small...embarrassed...useless..."
"Hobbit?" Aragorn suggested, a little nastily.
"Yes, the very thought of it makes me hobbit," finished Drizzt sorrowfully. But he was not referred to as "stoic" no less than five times in the first book for nothing, and rallied magnificently. "But what of yourself? Your own lady-love?"
It was Aragorn's turn to stare up at the stars. "Undómiel, the evening star, beloved of her people," said he. "The fairest and most noble jewel of the House of Elrond, Arwen Evenstar."
"Say," said Drizzt, perking up. "Arwen, eh? That name reminds me a lot of a certain lady back in Menzoberranzan. B'arwen'ch Dap'Ornstar, of the House of Sweet Affection. A delightful woman, delightful. Not that I would know, of course," he added hastily.
"Delightful she might be," said Aragorn politely, "but no lady surpasses the fair Undómiel. Arwen outstrips all the women of the land."
"So did B'arwen'ch," said Drizzt absently. "By about 5 seconds, usually. Not that I would know, of course."
"Oh. Oh really?" said Aragorn, quite icily. Something had finally occurred to him, after rolling the words "House of Sweet Affection" around his mind. "Well-endrowed, I suppose?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. Not that I would know, of course. But," said Drizzt nobly, "there are sacrifices one has to make for one's beliefs, and she didn't fit in my travel pack. How painful it is to leave one's homeland, even when one knows it to be wicked and steeped in iniquity, for although I no longer called it Home, what else of the wide, glorious world did I know?"
"I don't know. What else did you know?" Aragorn had trouble with narrative flow.
"What? Oh. Right," sighed Drizzt. "Have you never heard of rhetoric?"
"No. Who's he?" Aragorn asked, a little shortly. The night was wearing on, after all.
"A favourite of RA Salvatore," said Drizzt glumly. "Anyway. What else of the wide, glorious world did I know? I was sure that I would be reviled for the colour of my skin and the foul heritage of my people, and- alas!"
"Where?" Aragorn spun around.
"Alas, I was correct," Drizzt soldiered on. "I was taken in by that kind, aged blind ranger, Montolio de Brouchee-"
"Any relation to Oscar de Grouchee, by any chance?" Aragorn wouldn't know narrative flow if it jumped him from behind.
"What? No!"
Aragorn glanced at the stars again. "Well well, what do you know, it's been fascinating talking to you my friend, but I really must depart," said he, standing up. "Not that I'm bored to tears by your tale of moral angst, but you know, the night wears on, Arwen gets upset and speaks even slower than normal-"
"Oh, I see," said Drizzt morosely. "I see it clearly. You're reviling me for the colour of my skin and the foul heritage of my people, aren't you?"
"-and what do you know, I really should go, I think I dropped Arwen's amulet in the forest back there-"
"Arwen's amulet that's hanging around your neck, you mean?"
Aragorn ripped it off and hurled it into the forest in one frantic movement. "- dropped in the forest back there, I should really go and look for it, namárië-"
"Never let it be said that Drizzt Do'Urden should not give aid to another," said Drizzt nobly. "I'll help you look; I can finish relating my tale on the way-"
"NO no no no," whinnied Aragorn in alarm, "I thank you kindly, noble ranger. But, namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar/ Ïm gëttin thëhëll outaheyár..."
Aragorn was not called Wingfoot without reason.
"Farewell then, noble ranger!" Drizzt called after his rapidly retreating back. "May we meet! Again! Some! Other- oh."
Still, he reflected as he trotted silently through the forest once more, stranger things have happened...