Disclaimers: Tolkien and I used to be drinking mates back before I got my Blue Ribbon, but we lost touch over the years. Hope he doesn't mind me borrowing some of that miscellany he used to ramble on about—the traveling midgets, the jewelry theft, and what was that one place called?—the one that was named after some bird of prey?—oh, right, Condor.
A/n: I apologize to all my fabulous fabulous readers for the overly long wait between updates. Don't have much of an excuse, except that I've been reading tons of Thomas Hardy, and that'll put anyone off their writing. It's like trying to draw stick figures after spending an hour in the Louvre. Or telling bathroom jokes immediately following a funeral.
Anyway… here we are at Chapter 10—hooray! We're now halfway through the story—or at least we would be, if I could be bothered to adhere to my outline, which I abandoned sometime during Chapter 3. Ah well.
"I swear, it really wasn't what it looked like."
"Mm-hmmm."
"No, really, it wasn't."
"Look, I saw what happened. You don't need to explain anything to me."
"It wasn't anything like that!"
"I saw tongue."
"That was all Brego!"
"Mm-hmmm."
"No, really, it was!"
"You had your hand tangled in his mane!"
"I… I thought he was Arwen!"
"What? You mistook a horse for your intended? How did you make that leap?"
"I was half-asleep. It was a mistake any man might have made."
"I fancy her breath smells rather different."
"You'd be surprised. Arwen's morning breath is a force to be reckoned with."
"Well, how's that for a dysfunctional relationship? As soon as she's out of sight you start vilifying her. Some fiancé you are."
"Well, there's no denying our relationship is… less than ideal. I mean, she refused to marry me until I become King of a massive domain… how's that supposed to make a man feel about his fundamental personal value?"
"Hmm. Explains a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I heard you moan a name in the middle of your little dalliance. And it wasn't Arwen's."
"What? Are you serious? I did?"
"You did."
"Whose? Éowyn's?"
"Nope."
"Galadriel's?"
"Nope."
"Fin's?"
"Ugh! Eru no!"
"Legolas's?"
"Legolas?"
"Er… forget I said that."
"Admittedly, he isn't exactly the most overtly masculine specimen of Elfdom, but all the same, Aragorn…"
"Well, if it wasn't Legolas, then who?"
"You said 'Brego', you dunce!"
"I did not!"
"You most certainly did."
"I mean, I might've said the horse's name at one point, but I never moaned it. Honestly, I was just relieved to find myself alive and with unlooked-for transport. It's completely natural."
"Mm-hmm. That's what they all say."
"It's true."
"All I know is that I'm not allowing you near any of my horses while you're in Gondor."
"For the last time, I… say is that a ten-thousand-strong army of Uruk-Hais marching across the plain?"
"So it would seem. And look, there's Helm's Deep."
"I sense that these two points are not entirely unconnected?"
"Probably not. Come on, let's get a move on. Slap the horse's rear and see if it'll go faster. Though you might enjoy that a bit too much…"
"Oh, shut up."
After a triumphant and gloriously grime-ridden entry into the great fortress of Helm's Deep and a short interview with Théoden and his counselors, Boromir and Aragorn took a stroll around the ramparts with the aforementioned King, briefing soldiers and surveying the erection of slapdash defenses. Gamling trailed after them after the manner of an especially obsequious shadow, if a shadow can in any way be thought like to a burly six-foot redhead wearing full armor and carrying a large block of wood.
"I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall," said Théoden. "We will cover the causeway and the gate from above. No army has ever breached the Deeping wall, or set foot inside the Hornburg." At this, Gamling proffered the block of wood, and Théoden knocked on it sanctimoniously.
Gimli lurched onto the scene. "Thisisnorabblofmindlessorcstheseareurukhaitheirarmoristhickandtheirshields broad," he slurred, spreading his arms wide for emphasis upon the second word, overbalancing, and falling off the wall.
Théoden blinked. "Right then, I'll take that into account. At any rate, I know how to defend my own keep."
There was a long pause.
"Wood, Gamling!" roared Théoden, and Gamling hurriedly rushed forward, spouting a veritable wellspring of muttered apologies. After knocking on the wood again (rather more severely this time), he went on. "They will break upon this fortress like water on rock. Saruman's hordes will pillage and burn. We've seen it before. Crops can be resown, homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we will outlast them." Knock, knock.
"They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages—they come to destroy its people!" cried Aragorn. "Down to the last child!"
"Would you like wood for that, sir?" asked Gamling.
"No!"
Théoden, meanwhile, latched onto Aragorn's collar and hauled him close in a confidential attitude that struck Boromir as being rather more slashy than necessary.
"What would you have me do?" the King of Rohan hissed. "Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"
"Send out riders, my lord," Aragorn said. "You must call for aid!"
"And who will come? Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."
"Gondor will come," interjected Boromir.
"Gondor?" sputtered Théoden with flagrant indignance. "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon…"
"Where was Gondor?" Boromir exclaimed with no less antagonism. "Where were you? Sitting comatose in Meduseld, if I recall! We were busy driving back the Shadow! It hasn't exactly been a cake walk for us either, I might add!"
"And speaking of cakes, I am absolutely famished," interceded Aragorn swiftly. "Come, Boromir, let's go inspect the provisions." Grabbing Boromir by the arm, he hastily dragged him toward the Keep, leaving a fuming Théoden to mutter the addendum, "No, we are alone" to no one in particular, knock the block of wood preemptively, and storm off.
As soon as they were out of sight, Boromir wrenched his forearm out of Aragorn's grasp vehemently. "What did you stop me for?" he seethed. "I was only just getting started!"
Aragorn rolled his eyes, casting furtive glances at passers-by, some of whom were regarding them with curiosity. "I won't have my future Steward destroying all my political alliances at a go," he whispered venomously.
"Political alliances, indeed! You call that an alliance? As soon as I get home, I'm having Father declare war on Rohan; that'll show them."
Aragorn rolled his eyes. "And here I was, hoping you might eventually marry the King's niece to solidify the coalition…"
"Oh, don't try that one! Marry her yourself if it matters that much; then the two of you and Brego can do a threesome." Looking around disgustedly, Boromir spotted a supply of provisions stashed in a corner. "What's there to eat?" he asked the guard on duty.
The man handed the two of them unidentified food items wrapped in white packaging. "Rations, my lords."
Boromir removed the wrapper from his allotment and inspected the contents inquisitively. "Is that really…"
"Regulation Hostess Cakes™, my lord."
Throwing the wrapper aside, Boromir held up what was unmistakably a Twinkie, sniffed it gingerly, shrugged, and inserted it whole into his mouth. Chewing appreciatively, he turned to see Aragorn staring at his own unopened rations in unmistakable dismay.
"What's the matter, Aragorn? Don't you like Twinkies?" he said, though, through his mouthful of sugary creamed goodness, it sounded a bit closer to, "Washamadder, Arashorn? Donchu lyshwinkies?"
"I… I can't open this," said Aragorn in a broken voice.
"Wad?"
"I said I can't open it!" the Dúnadan snapped. "I've never been able to! Halbarad used to do it for me!"
Boromir, swallowing his Twinkie in a large convulsive gulp, spluttered, "You can't open a Twinkie? Oh, for the love of Eru… look, it's very simple. Just grab the little fold in the wrapper and pull until it rips."
Aragorn gritted his teeth, gripped the plastic packaging between his fingers, and yanked until the tendons stood out in his neck, grunting from the effort. "Look, it's no use! I can't get it open!" he said finally, panting.
Boromir was more utterly nonplussed than he had ever been in his entire life, though whether his second or third life, he couldn't say. "How is it that you can track two hobbits cross-country from Parth Galen to Fangorn and you still can't undo a wrapper?"
Aragorn's face, already red from exertion, blushed still deeper. Turning to the guard, he asked, "Is there anything else to eat?"
"Well, Lady Éowyn made some stew…"
"No c-c-c…cof…c…?"
"Coffee, milord?"
"Yes, that."
"No, there's no coffee. We do have ale."
"Oh, never mind," snarled Boromir, stalking away sullenly. He was beginning to wish that the Uruks would just arrive and get the battle over with; anything was better than this, trapped behind stone walls, in close quarters with a whole horde of commoners who hadn't bathed in weeks—nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing decent to eat, and no coffee.
"Lord Boromir!"
Boromir turned around at the salutation, and Éowyn came bounding up, pale hair streaming behind her. "Have you seen the Lord Aragorn anywhere?" she asked breathlessly.
"Not in a few hours, I'm afraid. Is there some kind of trouble?" he asked.
Éowyn flushed. "Well, no, not really. It's rather silly, really…" She trailed off.
Boromir waited expectantly.
"Well, it's just that I've been ordered to remain in the caves with the women and children and not take part in the battle at all. I was hoping he might be able to…"
"Are you kidding? Aragorn's about as decisive as political candidate with gender identity issues. He won't be able to do a thing about it."
Éowyn sighed heavily, eyes downcast.
"Tell you what," said Boromir presently. "Why don't you talk to Legolas? Maybe he could cover for you in the caves, and you could masquerade as him during the battle."
Éowyn's face brightened. "Really? Do you think that would work?"
"I sure wouldn't be able to tell you apart," said Boromir, nodding.
Éowyn frowned. "I'm not quite sure if I should thank you or hit you for that last remark."
Boromir shrugged. "Look at it this way: if you're pretending to be Legolas, Aragorn might look at you twice."
Éowyn hit him.
Aragorn was Distraught.
He still hadn't managed to open his Hostess Cake™. Wandering onto the battlements, he surreptitiously continued to twist and tug on the wrapping, which, though much-battered from the continual abuse, remained intact. Reflecting grimly that the Twinkie was probably entirely crushed by this point, he sat down heavily on the parapet and mused. Presently, it occurred to him that he might use his sword to open the wrapper, but, reaching toward his belt, released with dismay that he'd left his own sword the armory. His daggers, meanwhile, had not been returned to him since their confiscation at Edoras. He was weaponless.
Looking around in consternation, Aragorn spotted a young lad sitting on the ramparts a few feet away, staring forlornly at the darkened horizon, a naked blade lying across his lap. He waved to attract the boy's attention and then said, "Give me your sword."
The boy's eyes widened.
There was a sound not unlike that of the ten thousand panel members responsible for the compilation of The Code of Legitimate Humor Writing: Section 12- Naughty Innuendo throwing their hands in the air and storming off in a huff. This was noted by Aragorn, who was busy trying to puzzle out why this simple request had been greeted with such horror, whereupon he realized that he had been grossly misinterpreted. He chuckled in what he hoped was a kind and unassuming way. "Sorry, that came out rather wrongly… I meant your sword. Your real sword. You know," he gestured toward the weapon, "the one in your lap."
The boy, who had appeared momentarily placated by Aragorn's words, leapt up as though scalded at this last remark.
The Dúnadan, realizing that he had only made things worse, hastily tried to make emendations. "No, no, no, that wasn't what I meant, that wasn't what I meant! I mean your sword! Long, hard, pointed thing! Used for fencing! I only want it for a minute!"
The boy turned on his heel and ran away as quickly as possible, and would have left Aragorn alone to the pains of hunger and forlorn musings on the abject cruelty of Freudian slips, had he not collided directly with Boromir, who was strolling in the opposite direction.
"Woah!" said Boromir, steadying himself with a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"Anywhere, so long as it's away from him," the boy gasped, shooting an appalled glare in Aragorn's direction.
Boromir's eyes narrowed. "Why? What did he say to you?"
The boy told him.
"Aragorn!" cried Boromir, arms akimbo as he stared at the Ranger with his mouth agape and eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hairline. "What in Eru's name has gotten into you lately? First I catch you frenching Brego, and now you're propositioning young boys before a battle! Valar, if you think that as Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor I'm going to stand for this sort of…"
"That wasn't what I meant!" cried Aragorn, nearly sobbing with exasperation. "I only wanted to borrow his sword! I need it to open my Twinkie!"
There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers wondering aloud at whether there was any anatomical accessory for which the word "Twinkie" might be an obscene euphemism, and presently deciding that there were many.
Boromir rolled his eyes. "Here, you prat," he said, handing his liege a dagger, which he accepted gratefully. Boromir then turned to the boy. "Never mind him, lad, half of what he says is nonsense anyway. What is your name?"
"Háleth, son of Háma, my Lord," he replied.
Boromir stiffened. "Son of Háma?"
"Yes," Háleth replied mournfully.
"I'm sorry to hear that. How unfortunate."
"It is not so hard at present, my Lord. I am still numb to his passing. The feeling has not yet quite sunk in."
Boromir blinked. "His passing?"
Háleth looked at him quizzically. "Yes. He fell against the Wargs. Why, did you not know?"
"Er… of course I did," said Boromir hastily, sitting down on the battlement, while Háleth followed suit. "I am most sorry for your loss. I know what it is to lose a parent."
"Sometimes we used to take walks across the plains," said Háleth distantly, his eyes gazing blankly into the distance. "It would be still and silent there, with sky so wide it would almost seem ready to swallow you whole. And my father would always walk next to me, and then he'd smile at me and say…"
Boromir waited expectantly. When Háleth did not continue, he prompted, "And say?"
"'Keep off the grass.'" Háleth shrugged. "It was his way of showing affection."
"Ah."
After a long moment, Háleth spoke again in a quavering voice. "The men say that we will not last out the night. They say that it is hopeless."
Boromir watched the gathering stormclouds gradually increasing in mass and darkness contemplatively before saying, "I was in the Golden Wood awhile, you know."
Háleth's eyes widened. "You were?"
"Yes. And I met its Lady, the Lady Galadriel."
"You did?"
"Yes. She spoke to me there, within my mind. Do you know what she said?"
Háleth shook his head. "No. What did she say?"
Boromir frowned for a moment. "Well, first she said that she wanted to throw me down and shag me dead. But that was before she realized I wasn't Aragorn."
Háleth blinked.
"But do you know what she said to me after that?"
Háleth was getting rather tired of this game. "No, what?"
"She said 'There is still hope.'"
Since there was not likely to be many opportunities for contemplative moments of silence during the upcoming battle, Boromir and Háleth went the whole hog and had another one.
"Do you believe her?" asked Háleth presently.
"Believe who?"
"Galadriel."
"Well, no."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm still alive."
"Here's your dagger back," said Aragorn, popping up at Boromir's side, at which Háleth jumped to his feet and scampered away like a frightened rabbit.
Boromir accepted it gingerly. "Why has it got cream all over it?"
There was a sound not unlike that of the screaming sirens of the Innuendo Police Force barreling down the highway at ninety kilometers per hour.
"Er… I accidentally sliced the Twinkie in half while I was opening it."
Boromir rolled his eyes. "You are hopelessly inept."
Suddenly, there was some calamity from below. "We've got a casualty!" intoned a frantic voice from somewhere beneath the wall.
"Already?" said Aragorn, frowning. "Isn't that a bit premature?"
"Who is it?" called a soldier. "Check the arm."
There was a pause. "Then— "Er… Sizzling Dwarvish Sexpot: Mm-mmm, 'Gimli' a piece of that…?"
"That'll be Gimli," said Aragorn unnecessarily. "Is he dead?"
Another pause. "Er, no, just knocked out."
"Well, he did fall off a wall, so it's only to be expected," said Aragorn, supremely unconcerned as he bit into a mangled Twinkie. "Though he'll be disappointed to miss the batEru Ilúvatar, is that what I think it is?"
"What?"
"It is!"
"What?"
"Legolas is… is wearing a helmet!"
"Well," said Boromir, "why shouldn't he be?"
Aragorn shot him a contemptuous look. "His hair, Boromir. It will get mussed. It simply isn't done. Not by Legolas." He rose to his feet. "I'm going to investigate. Maybe there was something strange in the Hostess Cakes™." Throwing down his misshapen Twinkie wrapper, he strolled off purposefully, leaving Boromir to amusedly watch the interchange—from a safe distance, naturally, as he was only too familiar with the punches Aragorn could throw, and his still-stinging cheek reminded him that Éowyn was a force to be reckoned with as well.
His contentment, however, was short-lived, as a sentry came along ten seconds later, spotted the abandoned Twinkie wrapper lying at Boromir's feet, and immediately hauled him off for a short and violent briefing on Rohan's litter laws.
A/n: Has anyone else ever been struck by how disturbingly Tolkien's description of lembas sounds like Twinkies?
Not that Hostess paid me to say that, or anything. (cough cough)