In Which Sam's Feet Hurt and Gandalf Learns of Giraffes
They had been traveling for eight days now, and Sam was desperately searching his mind for another way to cook rabbit. He had no desire to anger Gandalf, after all he'd seen. Up ahead, the new Lord of the Rings was picking his way over the rocky terrain and considering his new Ring.
It was a perfect match to Narya, and the perfect solution to all his problems. He would rid Middle Earth of Sauron and usher in a new era of promise. Forget the silly idea that the Ring might corrupt him. He was a Maia after all; another Maia's ring could hardly control him, right? Galadriel and Elrond were just paranoid elves. He supposed, after living thousands of years, they had the right to senility and paranoia.
My feet hurt," Sam had found his voice again, and Gandalf was beginning to regret his decision to not change Sam into a newt. Yet the Grey Pilgrim had to admit, his own booted feet were starting to tire. Why he, a Maia, had to suffer sore feet was another situation he planned to rectify with the Ring. Sauron never had sore feet, he would wager.
A lot is going to change. He turned to Sam. "Will you stop complaining, Sam? I'm trying to think."
"Well, my feet hurt and the only thing worse than a hobbit with sore feet is a giraffe with a sore throat."
Gandalf stared, aghast and stumped by hobbit-kind once again. "What has that got to do with anything? And what on Middle Earth is a giraffe?" he asked, big bushy eyebrows bristling.
Sam forced himself to ignore such a challenging tongue-twister and replied, "It's something my old gaffer used to say," he was past caring if he angered Gandalf. "On vacation down to the stream, he would always make us stop early on in the evening, so's his feet wouldn't hurt. He'd say-well-that. And a giraffe is a big spotted creature with reaaallly long legs and a stretched out neck."
Gandalf harrumphed. Only hobbits could think up such fantastic fairy tales. He kept plodding forwards.
Sam still followed the wizard with less-than-dogged fervor. He eyed Gandalf's tall, pointed hat as it bobbed along in front. "New ring-lord," he muttered to himself, "doesn't even know a giraffe when he hears of one. A fine pickle you've landed yourself in, Samwise. Gone and left Mr. Frodo, you have. But Mr. Gandalf said he'd turn him back, maybe. I've got to hope it's so." Sam hopped across a small stream, tugging Gandalf's horse along with him. The massive beast was loaded with their supplies from head to foot, er, hoof.
Sam, bless his little hobbit heart, had no idea where they were going, not even an inkling. To overthrow a Dark Lord, yes, but which Dark Lord? How many Dark Lords were there? Where did one go to overthrow a Dark Lord? He wished he'd listened a bit harder while under the window, but stepping in that ant hill hadn't helped any. "Where is he taking us, I wonder," Sam addressed the horse, who he had secretly named Bill. (He didn't know why; he just liked the name Bill. It had a certain ring to it.)
He didn't intend for the wizard to overhear him, but Gandalf's ears were as sharp as his nose was big. "We're going to Mordor, Sam, to challenge Sauron."
Oh. That Dark Lord. "Did you hear that?" Sam asked Bill. "We're goin' to see the orcs!" A long pause invaded the conversation. "ORCS? Eeeeek!" The sound of a hobbit screaming till he turned red echoed in the forest.
"Stop that infernal screaming, Samwise, or you'll really have something to scream about," the wizard snapped and tapped his staff meaningfully. Sam drained of both noise and color and made not another peep for several hours.
Gandalf was grateful for the time to pull himself together and think. His attention was eventually caught again when he heard two distinct voices coming from up ahead. They were heatedly arguing, sometimes screaming. "Hush!" Gandalf gagged Sam with his hat when he saw the talkative hobbit winding up again. That hat came in useful for all situations. He crept forward to see the debaters, stopped in a large bush, and parted the branches.
A blustering dwarf and an arrogant elf stood in the clearing's middle, yelling into each other's faces. Figuratively, of course, Gandalf amended. The elf was actually yelling into thin air, and the dwarf was screaming at the elf's stomach. He watched the elf glare down at the armored helm. That elf was familiar, and so was the dwarf. Gandalf strained his ears while Sam sputtered quietly behind him.
"-and I tell you, my comb is missing!" the elf declared, jerking his hands to his hips. Gandalf groaned…Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood. The only thing more important than his long flowing hair was his mother-of-pearl comb. Gandalf could now see that the dwarf was Gimli, son of Gloin, one of Gandalf's former companions.
And so already our intrepid adventurers have hit a snag. Read and review! :)
Enchanted Authoress: Thank you for the review! I'm glad you liked it. Yes, Gandalf was under a lot of pressure, and a chair can't run off anywhere, so it was probably the first thing that came to mind.
