In Which Sam Flees a Nightmare and Gandalf Fends for Himself
Sam believed in giving everything a chance to prove itself, but when it came to cooking or gardening, he had less patience than most hobbits. Cooking was an art form, plain and simple, and gardening was a sincere act of a servant's devotion. He took both seriously, which was why he found himself lurking outside the cafeteria kitchens of Mordor.
"It can't be any worse than the other things here," he told himself bravely. "Cause I'm sure Orcs eat their eggs in the morning too, just like everyone else. Shore up, Samwise!"
His pep talk gave him the courage at last to wander into the kitchens. Orcs bustled here and there, carrying large pots of soup in and out the swinging doors. He thought it was soup, but what made him wonder were the smoking holes in the floor wherever the soup spilled over. Sam felt a surge of homesickness for his own tidy kitchen and Frodo.
"Hello there, little Halfling!" thundered a mighty voice behind him, and Sam turned and scowled up at Two. The blank black spot in the robes stared back at him. "What's the trouble?"
Sam wrung his hands. Long ago, Two had ceased to frighten him. The Nazgul was always seeking to lend a helping hand, and unlike Eight, Sam had not seen him ripping, tearing, and destroying anything or anyone. "I'm hungry, and I'm not sure what you eat here."
"Perhaps I can help you," Two offered at last. "I spent a summer as an apprentice to the great Chef Biguts. I was exploring alternate career paths at the time, until Sauron caught me and sent me to Angmar to help out One."
Sam perked up. Another cook. A mind of like purpose and design. The fact that it came with a ringwraith was a small matter. "Then I would appreciate your help. I'll need these seasonings…"
They cooked together for nearly an hour, whipping up a less-than-delightful salad of the few nonpoisonous plants of Morder. Still, Sam was happy. He had found a cooking friend. Two, now with a white apron over his black robes, had located some frozen meat and was frying it on the large stove.
Once done, they each took a plate and sat down at the bloodstained mess table. Sam raised his glass in a toast. "To a real meal at last!"
Two clinked his glass against Sam's. "Indeed," he hissed cheerfully. "I haven't had this much fun since I prepared that she-elf for Sauron's Second Age Dinner Party."
Sam froze in place, camaraderie forgotten as he studied the meat on his plate.
"Is it…elf?" Sam queried, staring up suspiciously at the towering Nazgul.
"Of course not!" Two was indignant. "Give me a little credit for knowing about you picky outsiders."
Sam was not reassured. "Dwarf?"
"Not at all!" Two scoffed.
"…man?"
"No chance!" Two preened proudly.
"Hobbit?" Sam squeaked.
Two ruffled his hair. "Now you're being ridiculous!"
Sam decided that perhaps he would survive here after all. He tentatively took a bite of the stringy meat, and found it pretty tasty. For the first time in weeks, he felt a smile crossing his face. Then the universe turned on him. Again.
"I searched long and hard for that," Two rumbled. "Best spider fillet in all Baradur. In fact, it's the cut right above the…little Halfling? Where are you going- oh…" Two stared at the hobbit-shaped hole in the side of the dungeon and sighed, looking down at Sam's full plate in awkward silence. He shuffled it over next to his own. "Well, I hate to see it go to waste…"
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The day was growing late, and Gandalf was getting dreadfully hungry. Sam was nowhere to be seen. The two of them had finished the packed rations and donated lembas for lunch. Now they needed to fend for themselves. He would ask the orcs only as a last resort, and the Mouth was still inconsolable. The poor thing had taken to binge drinking and chain smoking, doing little for his already reprehensible dental health. That left the Nazgul. But they were men once, surely they of anyone knew where decent food could be had.
He stepped to the door of his throne room and pulled it open. "One?" he called tentatively, then remembered. One was redecorating his room in red paint. At least Gandalf hoped it was red paint. He was never sure with One. "Two?" …. "Three?" …. "Four?"
Four popped his cowled head around the corner and cheerfully announced, "At your service, Master!" Gandalf was slowly beginning to tell the Black Riders apart, and he remembered this one was…rather bouncy. It took all kinds, he supposed.
"Four, yes. I, erm, I'm rather hungry," it wasn't the most intimidating thing a Dark Lord had ever told a minion, but Gandalf's stomach was growling.
Four cocked his invisible head to one side. "Of course, Master. I'll check with the dungeons, but I think I remember Chef Blughzh saying that elf had just entered season."
Gandalf turned green, and luckily, Four was observant enough. "Not elf, then…Dwarf? I've always personally thought them a little tough, but I suppose…Oh." He watched Gandalf run for the nearest bathroom. "Dwarf's off the menu too then?" The sound Gandalf made confirmed that.
When the new Dark Lord returned, looking less green but highly skittish, Four told him, "Unfortunately, the castle kitchens only carry seasonal items – we're working to save our environment, you know – , so we're going to have to expand our options. I know just who can help." He leaned out of the throne room and screeched.
Almost instantly, Six was at the door with several orcs bearing a heavy covered burden. They staggered into the room and placed the object on the floor before his throne.
Six paced as the orcs removed the cover, revealing a square slab of dark crystal stone. "Behold, the Volcanic and Extremely Powerful Tablet of Doom and Destruction!"
They all stared down at the stone until Gandalf asked, "Isn't that a bit wordy?"
Six shrugged. "It's a hot field right now. Most of the names were taken. Granted, this is no Palantir of Valinor, but we're focused on function, not trimming. And the cost of production is right, too! We only use up 23 orcs in the dark magic required to make one of these."
The bookish Nazgul was being so talkative and happy that Gandalf couldn't help a small smile. "And how is this getting me lunch?"
"Mordor Maps, of course!" Six kicked the stone, and it began to glow on the forward face. "With this, we can find any restaurant or tavern you desire!"
Four pushed in beside them. "This is great! You've outdone yourself this time, Six!"
It turned out, a surprising number of restaurants called Morder home. Four, being the very sociable sort of wraith, had visited most of them. He provided reviews for each one as Gandalf called them out.
"How about Grishpah's Fast Food?"
"Ah, that's a good one. They release your food and you catch it on the run. Tastes better that way, they claim." Four leaned back and grinned at the memories, although no one saw him.
"No, then. How about Blegah's Smorgasbord?"
"Good food, but a bit pricey. Sauron always had to take a small loan from the Mordor Bank to pay for his broiled fire slug eggs," Four reflected, and Gandalf wrinkled his nose. At the slugs, not the pricing. He was not a cheapskate. Really. It wasn't his fault that wizard's weren't wealthy.
"Moving on… Megutzh's Imports?"
"Ah, they bring in the freshest that Middle Earth has to offer. They fly it in by Fell Beast, so it's never been iced. Men from Gondor, Oliphaunt steaks from Harad, horses from Rohan, you name it, they've got it." Unfortunately for the free world, that was true.
Gandalf saw one more restaurant with five stars and asked, "What about Shelob's Lair Bar and Grill?"
Six volunteered this time. "It's a laidback atmosphere with less outlandish dishes. I go there with Seven often."
Gandalf thought it was a good sign. Six and Seven were the tamest Nazgul, almost boring compared to some of the others. "Do they have normal food like cows or fish?" he asked.
"Fish," Six nodded, and that settled it.
When Gandalf and a small contingent of Nazgul arrived at Shelob's Lair Bar and Grill, the place was swarming with orcs (it was nightfall, after all). As Dark Lord and with the imposing One at his side, Gandalf was able to bypass the long wait list and was seated in the finest bone chair in the establishment. He didn't want to think about whose bones he might be sitting on, so he reached for the menu. It was all in Black Speech and very greasy.
Rohan Baby Horse Hooves – Finest hooves of Middle Earth, imported from Isengard
Tasty Hobbit Legs – They don't need 'em, and you can't resist 'em.
Oh yes I can, Gandalf shuddered, and gladly noticed they were out of stock. He kept reading.
Wizard's Beard Pasta – High in fiber and a great choice for weight watching.
Juicy Fish Fillet – in season catch of the day, served raw and wriggling.
Taters and Coneys – A foreign dish with a gamey flavor. Served raw.
Gandalf finally managed to convince the management to cook the taters and coneys, and he began to feel hopeful for the first time since lunch. Obviously, Sam's influence had spread far in his short time here, and he silently thanked the absent hobbit.
His hopefulness lasted only until he found out that upon running out of rare coney, the establishment had decided to substitute fire bats from Mount Doom…without telling him until he'd started to eat.
And then, of all things, the waiter wanted a tip. Gandalf stiffed him.
Apologies for the delay in updating. I just returned from a long vacation. Poor Sam almost found a friend, and Gandalf is getting close to the breaking point. There's one more chapter, and then we're done with this tale. What did you all think?