Chapter Seven: The Not-Quite-Right White Rider
Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli surveyed the smoldering remnants of the battle between Eomer's Rohirrim and the Orcs that had kidnapped Merry and Pippin. A couple hundred dead Orcs were piled in a great heap and burned – but how? Did the Riders of Rohan carry about cans of petrol with them? Are Orcs naturally flammable? Or did the Rohirrim assemble a huge pile of brush and wood from nearby Fangorn (which they supposedly superstitiously avoided), and go through the arduous process of lighting the kindling, then igniting larger logs, then dumping the Orcs atop the monstrous pyre (which would have taken hours – in addition to burying their own dead)? And if the Riders did waste such an inordinate amount of time to dispose of Orcs that would have quite easily decayed by natural means in that god-forsaken, unpopulated spot, why do so? LET'S CALL ATTENTION TO OURSELVES! HELLO, ANYONE WITHIN A HUNDRED MILES – HERE WE ARE! JUST FIND THE BONFIRE AND THEN FOLLOW THE HOOF PRINTS!
*sighs*
Anyway, the acrid, charnel reek hung like a foul fog in the air, stinging the Three Hunters' eyes and burning their nostrils. On a more somber note, the smoke played havoc with the ph balance of Legolas' silken hair, robbing it of its natural sheen and making it dry and brittle; but, as with all such epic adventures where life and death hang in the balance, the heroic Legolas bravely overcame this horrific adversity – a noble sacrifice awestruck Elvish minstrels would sing of adoringly for years to come.
Aragorn smiled sadly at the irony of Legolas' hirsutical sacrifice, which might one day become a thing of legend. But would that be so for the ranger's lack of height? Would history smile on the diminutive Dunedain son, and accord him added inches as a measure of his great deeds? TV adds weight, epic movie accomplishments add height: Sly Stallone was actually a pygmy kidnapped from his African tribe and dyed pink – how else does one explain a short Caucasian man named Sylvester speaking in what sounds like Ebonics? Needless to say, Aragorn certainly hoped his side would win, because from an emotivist point of view he could then rewrite history to suit his stature and get away with it. You see, Dunedain were normative relativists for the most part, following in the footsteps of the meta-ethical Elves, ethnocentric cynics who rewrote Middle-earth history without compunction, having no moral compass, and holding no moral statement to be true or false – which is why Elves say both 'yes and no' to everything.
Of course, once he gained ultimate power, a non-cognitivist like Aragorn could then purge Middle-earth of unsavory elements like Orcs, Dwarves, Hobbits and Elves, making the world safe for the dominion of 4th Age Man, and the dawning of modernity. Naturally, such things as Eldaricide or a Hobbicaust would be hushed up – he would float the stories that the Elves all sailed to the West and Halflings had become shy of the big folk, and thus all but invisible – and in the place of such atrocities the benevolent and just King Elessar Telcontar would leave the world a mighty mythos of a lost land of Faery and a Golden Age, not to mention a 12 step hero's journey that Joseph Campbell would pontificate on ages from now. But such political necessities and literary propaganda were far in the future; he had need of these ludicrous legendary freaks for the time being.
"What a strange, menacing look you have, Aragorn," Gimli said, stirring the man from his dark reverie. "You look as if you were plotting a new world order."
"No…no, not at all, friend Gimli," Aragorn replied, chuckling at his own absurdity. "I was just considering how different our story might be if we abandoned all our moral imperatives and operated strictly on a surgically skeptical basis."
"We'd be no better than Orcs," the Dwarf grunted derisively. "And our story would be long-forgotten, relegated to the dust-bin of literature like most post-modern cynicism. It would have no heart -- it would have no balls!"
"Don't let pathos get the best of you," Aragon laughed.
"Pathos? Isn't he one of the Three Musketeers?" Gimli grinned.
Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Wait a minute, wait a minute! Gimli, you…you have no outlandish accent!"
"On the contrary," Gimli huffed indignantly, "I am currently using a Midwestern American accent, which is the preferred idiom for news broadcasting throughout the United States and Canada due to its lack of inflection or annoying regional colloquialisms."
"Well, it's certainly a welcome change from the last several chapters," Aragorn heaved a relieved sigh.
'Wight!" Legolas cried. 'Those widicuouswy eccentwic accents wewe incompwehensibew."
Passing the ring of battle beyond the still-flaring pyre, Aragorn found something of great interest. "Look here!" he cried. "There are strands of frayed rope in the grass and crumbs of lembas scattered all about."
"Stwange! What do you make of this widdle, Awagown?" Legolas puzzled.
"Hmmm…near as I can tell, the Hobbits somehow escaped their captors, cut their bindings here, and, rather than escaping into the forest like sensible folk, leisurely munched on Elvish snack food whilst watching the ferocious battle as it unfolded only yards away from them."
"This parody just gets weirder and weirder," Gimli grumbled.
"Yes, it does rather strain the bounds of credulity," Aragorn muttered as he followed the nonchalant Hobbits' trail. "After they had supped and rested for a goodly period of time, it looks like both Merry and Pippin finally scampered off into Fangorn in this direction."
So, with no mention of how they managed to drag the horses along through an incredibly dense and stifling primeval wood, the Three Hunters made their way into Fangorn. Here and there, they found evidence of the Hobbits' passing, which gave them renewed hope that Merry and Pippin were faring well; however, the three became concerned over another set of immense tracks that followed and then overtook the Hobbits.
"I've never seen anything like this," Aragorn said in amazement. "It's as if the Hobbits had been trailed by a giant wooden badger."
"Why a badger?" Gimli asked.
"Well, it would not be in context with the general outline of the parody if I said a giant wooden orangutan or platypus, would it?" Aragorn shrugged.
"These twacks wook wike woots to me," Legolas disagreed.
"Wook wike woots?" Gimli snickered.
"Yes, woots, foowish Naugwim!" Legolas frowned. "These wook wike twacks weft by twee woots."
"Weft by…twee woots?" Aragorn and Gimli said in unison.
But Legolas ignored his comrades' derisive tone and raised a finger to his lips. "Shhhh, be vewy quiet. We are being hunted by Wabbis."
"Wabbis?" Aragorn said in befuddlement. "You mean rabbis? I see no rabbis."
"Is Fangorn even kosher?" Gimli asked.
"Can you not see him?" Legolas answered, trying his best to stay away from the letters 'L' and 'R'. "He is passing in yon shadows…" Then he pointed, rather than saying something like 'Thewe, swinking suwweptitouswy fwom twee to twee'.
"Him? That's not a rabbi," Aragorn said as he caught sight of an old man in dirty gray rags. "He's not even wearing a yarmulke."
"Hmmm…perhaps he's that sneaky sorcerer that Eomer warned us about," Gimli growled and hefted his axe. "It could be that Saruman fellow!"
"I'll bet you're right, Gimli!" Aragorn cried. "And if that is the case, we must be very careful or he shall cast a spell on us. Do not let him speak, for he has the gift of gab!"
And the Three Hunters drew their weapons, silently creeping ever closer to the suspicious-looking old man. When the ragged beggar stepped out from behind the trees and into a clearing, they saw their chance and sprang to the attack. But where once a bedraggled and gray-bearded senior citizen stood, there was now a blinding flash of white light. Legolas' arrow burnt to cinders in mid-flight, Aragorn's sword became red-hot in his hands, and Gimli whiffed terribly on a mighty swing and ended up sprawling face first on the greensward.
"No respect! No respect, I tell you!" the elderly beggar spat as he pulled his gray rags tightly about himself, cloaking his spectral brilliance. "Three young hoodlums trying to rob a frail, old man…what's Middle-earth coming to? Back in my day, thievery was practiced strictly among Orcs and Trolls and Ring addicts, but nowadays, it seems even Elves and Dwarves are brigands and bandits!"
"I am no bwigand!" Legolas protested.
"And I am no bandit!" Gimli concurred. The Dwarf stared curiously at the old man, and then said in awe, "Gandalf?"
The old man did not reply to the dwarf, but merely kept on opining, "And another thing, I am all for racial harmony, but it is a rather sad commentary on the breakdown of social order when the only solidarity one sees between the races of Elves, Dwarves and Men is if they are involved in a criminal enterprise!"
By now, both Legolas and Aragorn recognized the wizard too. "Gandalf, forgive us!" Aragorn shouted as he fell to one knee.
"Who? forgive you for what?" the old man grumbled.
"Gandalf, it is you, you are alive!" Gimli cried with tears of joy.
"Gandalf? Who the hell is that?" the elderly beggar hissed.
"You…you are Gandalf! Praise Eru, you are back!" Aragorn bowed while still genuflecting.
"I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I am certainly not Gandalf!"
"But you awe Mifwandiw!" Legolas replied. "I can heaw it in youw voice!"
"Who's the femme with the speech impediment?" the old man said to Aragorn.
"He is Legolas, an Elf of Mirkwood," Aragorn answered, "and this is Gimli the Dwarf, and I am Aragorn, Chief of the Dunedain of the North -- certainly you must remember me?"
"Legolas?" the old man mumbled.
"Yes," they all replied.
"And Gimli?"
"Yes, yes!"
"And Aragorn?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
The beggar frowned and spat. "I don't know any of you. Now bugger off and leave me alone!"
"But Gandalf," Gimli cried, "we need you…the Fellowship needs you!"
The old man rolled his eyes. "My name is not Gandalf," he said between clenched teeth. "If you must know, my name is Merlin."
"Merlin?"
"Yes, Merlin!"
"But Merlin was not all dressed in white," Aragorn rebutted, recalling reading Le Morte d'Arthur for a class at Rivendell High. "He had robes with stars and moons and astrological signs all over them!"
"Did not!" the beggar growled.
"And a high conical hat with a pointy end!"
"Lies, all lies!"
"Not to mention he did not live in 3rd Age Middle-earth, but during the Romano-Celtic period in Britain at the time of the Anglo-Saxon invasions."
"Asshole!"
"Say what you will," Aragorn laughed, "but we know who you are: GANDALF!"
"Bah!" the old man bellowed. "You are wrong! There is nothing you can say that will suck me into this parody again."
"What did you just say?" Gimli shot back.
"Nothing," the beggar blurted nervously, "nothing at all."
"On the contwawy," Legolas countered, "you said you did not want to be sucked into the pawody again, impwying…"
"Implying that you have indeed already played a part in this farce!" Aragorn interrupted triumphantly, "Therefore…"
"More Hobbitisms!" Gimli chuckled.
"No!" Gandalf moaned.
"Pages and pages of anachwonisms, double-entendwes and witewawy witticisms!" Legolas added.
"Please, no…"
Aragorn smiled mischievously and put the final nail in the coffin: "And let us not forget, more singing at the most inopportune times!"
"You…you bastards!" Gandalf hissed.
Aragorn shrugged. "Hey, if we have to go through with this, so do you!"
Gandalf's shoulders sagged as the immensity of the situation weighed upon him. After a few moments of muttered curses, threats against his agent and uncontrolled blinking and facial tics, the wizard finally sighed, "All right, all right, you got me, damn you! But can we at least end the chapter here so I can get my head back into the story?"
"Certainly," Aragorn said with a sympathetic pat on the wizard's back. "In any case, I believe it's time for a commercial."
~~oo~OO~oo~OO~oo~~
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