Chapter II – To the Prancing Pony!
Frodo and Sam began the next morning at 8:00 sharp, after packing their haversacks, in which they stuffed large quantities of celery and peanut butter, truffles, and mushrooms.
"Ready, Sam?" inquired Frodo, shouldering his bag.
"Almost." Sam picked up a wooden box and dropped it into his bag. "Now I am."
At length, they embarked on their set-up "quest."
Elsewhere in the Shire, Merry and Pippin were looting vegetables from Farmer Maggot.
"Pippin!" cried Merry. "Shh…It's Frodo! Gandalf told us that if we ever saw him, we had to—"
"We have to what?" asked Pippin, dropping a vegetable or two.
"Oh, never mind!" snapped Merry. "I'll take care of it! I don't even know why I hired you to help me!"
Frodo and Sam proceeded leisurely through a cornfield, admiring the lovely weather and the beautiful green of the cornstalks.
"We're still in the Shire!" Frodo seemed fond of saying to assuage Sam's almost constant fears. "What could possibly happen?"
Suddenly, Merry and Pippin burst out, arms full of vegetables.
"Run, Frodo!" cried Merry.
"You've been into Farmer Maggot's crop!" presumed Sam.
"You'll know the devil when I catch up with you!" roared the enraged Farmer Maggot from uncomfortably nearby.
Everyone turned and ran, Merry leading the way. You see, he happened to know that Farmer Maggot's field rested atop a terrific cliff, and planned to "accidentally" push Frodo off. Unfortunately, for him, with the pell-mell running of the others, he could make nothing of his plan. He halted right at the brink.
Frodo, Sam, and Pippin attempted to stop, but slammed right into Merry, knocking them all off the cliff, which turned out to be more of a hill with a steep acclivity than a precipice.
They rolled for some time before finally coming to rest in a heap at the bottom.
"Oh, confounded Brandybucks and Tooks!" muttered Sam, pulling himself up and reaching down to help Frodo. He glared at Merry and Pippin in annoyance. "What did you mean by knockin' us down the hill, hm?"
"It was an accident, wasn't it?" put in Pippin.
"Well, whatever," continued Sam. "But don't you go doin' it again!"
Elrond's face softened towards the groveling wizard. "Very well, I will give you one more chance. Here's another copy of your part. And be sure to study it beforehand next time! You almost clued off Frodo. But as it is, it all worked out. We gained another clueless actor – that Sam. He will be one of the few who doesn't know that the whole Ring business is just a cleverly planned reality show."
The four Hobbits trudged through the muck, slanting rain vehemently stinging their faces under their hoods, clothes damp through. Gandalf had said they should get to Bree, so that was where they were heading, though no one could say whether they were going the right way. Merry and Pippin had begun to regret taking up the job. They plodded slowly behind Frodo and Sam so that they could confide in each other.
"So…how do you plan to do it?" asked Merry.
"I'm not sure, but I'm not worried about it," replied Pippin.
"You wouldn't be!" said Merry, rolling his eyes.
Sam glanced back suspiciously. He didn't like it when others whispered together. Especially these two. They had a reputation to live down and their eager pledge to aid Frodo and himself still hadn't served as much of a convincer.
Lightning struck a nearby tree with an astonishingly loud report, followed by a splintering crack. The tree, wherever it had been, was certainly destroyed, but the fire was extinguished before it started.
This only served as the precursor to a greater fright. An ear-piercing shriek rent the air and fell heavy on their ears.
"Black riders!" cried Frodo.
Everyone took off at top speed. Had they remained a moment longer, they might have heard the laugh of a hobbit child, who had been paid by a certain elf to play a recording of a Nazgûl screech.
To the Hobbits' relief, they noticed a light off in the distance as they sloshed quickly through the mud in pure terror.
"Bree! There it is!" announced Frodo breathlessly. "Hurry up! It's gaining on us!"
They finally reached the gates of Bree and desperately pounded on them. After receiving admittance from a very irritable gate warden, they entered the town, panting heavily. The street was a mass of branching rivulets flowing with mud. The Hobbits tried their best to avoid them as they made their way to the swinging sign in the distance – the one with the raring horse emblem that proclaimed "The Prancing Pony" in bold letters.
Once inside said establishment, the four Hobbits immediately felt uneasy. Being around so many humans was discomfiting, to say the least, and even more so because the aforementioned humans looked suspicious, grimy, and completely wasted. Especially the hooded one smoking his pipe in the corner and staring at them fixedly. Trying to ignore all the awkward glances, Frodo stepped up to the tall counter to speak with the innkeeper. "Excuse me, sir! Ahem. Excuse me!" he said, doing his best to sound bold and confident.
"Hang on there," came the good-natured but tired voice of Barliman Butterbur, the innkeeper. Finally, the scraggly, blunt featured man peered over the counter with a pleasantly disposed expression. "Ah, Hobbits! Four of you!"
"We need lodging for the night," Frodo said, rapidly losing his affected confidence. He glanced back at his companions to clarify who he meant by "we." Then Frodo, feeling everyone's eyes on him, blushed and whispered, "We're waiting for Gandalf. Have you seen him, by chance?"
Butterbur became aghast and bewildered and then replied exceptionally loudly, so the Hobbits were certain that everyone in the room could hear. "Gandalf?! Gandalf?! Oh, yes! How could I forget him? Grumpy chap in grey. Wears a pointed hat. Nope. Not seen him for nigh on six months! Why do you ask?!"
Frodo cringed, then collected himself. He thought he heard whispering behind him, but gave it no heed. "Uh, never mind," he answered Butterbur's question hastily. "What about those lodgings?"
"Right!" the innkeeper said, nodding eagerly. Apparently, he didn't get to make use of his Hobbit-sized rooms very often. "This way, young masters!"
After they had settled down for a nice evening meal in their cozy, if somewhat dusty rooms, they began to discuss what to do, since Gandalf clearly had not arrived.
"Well," Merry put in, "we all know Gandalf can be a bit forgetful at times."
"But why would he forget something this important?" Frodo questioned, getting increasingly more distraught.
"I wouldn't put it past him," Merry continued, seriously.
Sam and Pippin sipped their ale and looked on. Frodo sighed and continued to pick at his food, lost in worried thought.
"This is perfect!" exulted Elrond, rubbing his hands together with glee. "They didn't even suspect that Butterbur was a pawn and now we've got them right where we want them!" The elf was in his new, temporary "director's room," which was actually one of the best rooms at the Prancing Pony, on the opposite side of the building from the Hobbit-sized rooms.
"Let's just hope they don't spot any of the hidden cameras," muttered Elladan, one of Elrond's trusty twin sons. He had been hired, along with his brother, Elrohir, to aid in the filming of the show. He and Elrohir had run themselves ragged, hiding cameras and microphones everywhere to be certain they didn't miss anything juicy.
"Those halfwits wouldn't know a camera from a toilet bucket," Elrond said dismissively. "Don't worry your head about that."
"Oh!" Elrohir piped up. "Great idea, Ada! That's where I'll hide the next camera."
Elladan and Elrond exchanged disturbed glances.
Elrond cleared his throat. "Elrohir, that's… that's not a… not in very good taste. Please tell me you haven't been putting cameras in any other awkward places. The footage editors would be none too pleased, I'm sure."
Elladan made a pained expression. "Don't worry about him, Ada. I'll make him behave."
"Good," said Elrond. "Moving on… the first show has aired. What're the ratings doing?"
"What? You haven't heard?!" Elladan and Elrohir cried, shocked. They often spoke in unison when they were caught off guard.
"Haven't heard what?" echoed Elrond, alarmed. "Good news or bad news?"
"Better than good!" said Elladan. "We're nearly top of the network! We even beat out Took Dynasty!"
"I knew it!" Elrond reveled, raising a fist in triumph. "Get those script-writers in here! I want them working around the clock, got it? We need to get those ratings up – I want top viewership!"
"Yes, sir!" said the twins, picking up their father's excitement. They raced out the door.
Frodo was nearly asleep. Having been particularly finicky about his dinner, he compensated by drinking two pints of ale, and now he sat slumped in his chair, eyes heavy. Sam watched him worriedly while finishing off Frodo's uneaten meal.
Earlier, Merry and Pippin had been arguing about who would get to bathe first. They then had a thumb war to settle the matter. The result was a tie (somehow), so they had decided to bathe together. Frodo felt a chill run down his spine as he heard the giggling and splashing emanating from the bathroom. Sam just pursed his lips and went on looking back and forth between his master and his master's nearly finished dinner.
Suddenly, the heavy door burst open and a cloaked figure darted inside. "Frodo Baggins!" said a hoarse, manly voice.
Frodo merely tipped backward in his chair and hit his head on the stone floor.
Sam shot up, looked accusingly at the newcomer, and rushed to help Frodo. "It'll be all your fault if Mr. Frodo's got a concussion… or… or a stomachache… or something," Sam muttered crabbily. Then he realized there was a strange, unsavory-looking person in the room who had not yet introduced himself. "Oh! Well, who're you?"
"I am called Strider," said the cloaked figure, grandly. "Gandalf the Wizard has sent me this letter telling me of your quest!" He produced an envelope from his muddy leather jerkin and waved it at Sam.
"Is that so?" said Sam suspiciously. "Then why'd you burst in like that and all?"
"It's alright, Sam," said Frodo, regaining consciousness, rubbing his injured cranium. "I believe him. How else would he know about the… the quest?"
"Good point," Sam admitted.
"You're making a wise choice, young Halflings, in trusting such a noble and wise and dashing and ruggedly handsome ranger as myself," said Strider. Frodo and Sam made nauseated faces at each other. "Anyway," the ranger continued, "I am to lead you to Rivendell, where the… piece-of-jewelry-which-shall-not-be-named… will be safe."
"Good," said Frodo. "Well, I'm ready. Why don't we go tonight?"
"No!" shrieked two voices from inside the bathroom. Towel-clad Merry and Pippin burst out the door. "No, no, no… not a good idea, Frodo!" they said, more or less in unison.
"And why not?" demanded Frodo. "The sooner we get to Rivendell the better."
"No," said Merry, "it's just not a good idea to leave… uh… now. In the dark. When all the uglies and baddies and things that go bump in the night are prowling about for a juicy bit of hobbit. You follow me?"
Frodo raised an eyebrow. "Um… hello? We have a studly ranger who'll protect us from all that!"
Now Strider looked uncomfortable. "Of course!" He chuckled nervously. "Of course I am quite capable of… defending all you vulnerable little Halflings from… all that. I just… don't know about leaving now, at this particular moment."
"Oh no!" Merry and Pippin shrieked, rushing toward the window, doing their utmost to look terrified. They were horrible actors. They seemed to think being terrified meant flailing their arms spuriously and yodeling. "The Nazgûl! The Naz-… er… Black Riders! Black Riders!" they began carrying on, running in circles and sneaking glances at Frodo to see if he was buying it.
Frodo crossed his arms. "Nice, guys. Very convincing. Now come away from the window before someone sees you acting like lunatics."
Just then, there was a spine-tingling shriek outside, followed by several others.
"See? See?" Merry and Pippin shrilled. "We told you!"
Frodo's eyes widened. "Under the bed! Quick, you all. Sam, hurry! Get under the bed."
"Don't need to tell me twice, Mr. Frodo," said Sam, quivering like jelly on a string. He dove under the nearest Hobbit-sized bed. Or at least he tried to. Unfortunately, he was too fat. He spent the next few uncomfortable minutes attempting to wedge himself under the bed, much like a badger struggling to burrow back into its collapsed den.
Elladan and Elrohir were in hysterics. "Oh, Elbereth, this is too much," Elrohir gasped, doubled over.
"The drama! The tension!" Elladan chimed in. "We're gonna smash the ratings with this, it's just that good."
Elrond appeared pleased, as well, but didn't make as much of a display of it as his sons did. "I think the fat one is setting himself up to be the source of much comic relief," he mused. "And getting my (unfortunate) adopted son involved? Brilliant. When Aragorn finds out his long-dreamed-of epic quest is bogus, he'll have an emotional breakdown and I can finally send him off to the loony bin—and away from Arwen."
"Are they gone, Mr. Frodo?" Sam peeped timidly from beneath the bed.
"Quiet, Sam," hissed Frodo, beside him. "For all we know, they could be in the room right now."
"Oh, don't say that, Mr. Frodo." Sam was on the verge of tears. "I never wanted to die wedged under a bed. I'm claustrophobic."
Frodo sighed, half rolling his eyes. "You give us away and being claustrophobic'll be the least of your worries." ~