Gimli laughed aloud, slapping his armoured knee in delight. At his feet lay two Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, nonetheless, with both Frodo and Sam sitting daintily on their backs. Nearby was Boromir, who pretended not to care about the silly romping about the Hobbits were up to, but ever so often he glanced up with a little smile across his lips. Aragorn was busy arranging his things into his pack and cleaning Adruil carefully. Frodo triumphantly stuck his nose in the air, arms folded high on his chest. Sam mimicked his actions, nodding his head in an important manner, considering their job done.
Pippin protested pitifully, crying that he had nothing to do with it, it was Merry's idea, he was just dragged along. Merry, in turn, spat at his cousin that it was really HIS idea, that he warned him that they would get caught, but no, HE said they wouldn't. Strider rolled his eyes at the sound of the two related Hobbits bickering endlessly, with the Ringbearer and loyal servant suppressing fits of turbulent giggles.
"Please, Frodo, it was not my doing! Pip used guile to lead me on! I had…"
"Mer-ry! You abetted me to play along!"
"Frodo, Sam, don't believe him…"
Gimli heartily gave a sigh. "Are you Hobbits just here to divert us from the tedious journey placed into our hands?"
Aragorn fondly placed his sword into the scabbard, standing with a grunt. "No, they're just here to make us appear big and mighty."
Pippin grinned and raised his hand up in acknowledgement. "Exactly!"
Boromir flashed his own sword in the air, catching the rays of the burning sun. "And to amuse us when things are beginning to be humdrum."
Standing and brandishing his axe, Gimli retorted, "And you Men think you are all elite because of your race!"
Aragorn blocked out the remains of the banter, turning his head away from the insane chaos. It had been a week and four days since Legolas had used atrocious and bizarre behaviour, frightening the Gondor King to the bone. The very thought of the flagrant actions raised a sharp pang of soreness in his side and back; the wounds had healed but not without leaving Strider with two ugly scars. Sweat began to bead his brow, flashbacks of the reactions to the deathshade arising in his brain, the scathing pain and the weakness of his body.
Shaking his head, Aragorn glanced in a different direction. Instead, he was reminded of when he had tried to travel the first day he felt well once more. Not far into the walk had he collapsed, unable to move his legs. He swore loudly in Elvish; lightening strikes of a bolting shock were running through his thighs and calves the remainder of the day, preventing him to do anything with his lower half. Aragorn had laid paralyzed on the Forest floor, curled into a fetal position, shivering on sporadic moments.
Dear Frodo, bless the little Hobbit, had done his best to take care of his caretaker, no matter what. He knew that when it came to his healing abilities he couldn't even cure a slug, but his knack for making tea had come in handy.
Brushing loose locks of hair out of his face, Aragorn turned back to his companions. What his eyes told him would keep him laughing for at least a day.
Boromir had been faithfully tied to a tree, along with a cursing Dwarf; around the tree's shaft four Hobbits were prancing about with an axe and several swords, each taunting their captives mercilessly. On Merry's head was the Dwarven warrior's helmet, and the lad was doing his best impressions of the slightly taller comrade, complete with a makeshift beard made of leaves and mud. Sam bared Boromir's shield of Gondor, flashing it about as he danced in circles, holding Pippin's arm and swinging him around for the fun of it. On Pippin's part, he wasn't looking too happy about it, but he had taken off Gimli's shoes and kicked one to the side and the other was barely surviving the abuse of being filled with pipe weed and squishy mushrooms, then was used as a weapon against Merry when he dared to near. Frodo, on the other hand, was chasing the other three around, cackling as best as he could, claiming to be a Ringwraith on a Hobbit hunt.
Boromir pulled an utterly pathetic face at Aragorn, his eyes pleading for mercy and liberty from the tree that held him prisoner. Strider came lurching over, swooping up the nearest Hobbit - Pippin - into his arms and holding him high above his head. Poor Peregrin Took was not expecting such an abrupt action and lost his balance in Aragorn's grip, falling around the Man's shoulders and holding on for dear life.
Merry immediately began to try to save his cousin, but instead was caught in Aragorn's hands, lifted up to be held under one arm. Frodo, not thinking of Merry's fate, attempted a one Hobbit rescue mission, failing miserably - he too was soon under Strider's other arm.
Sam was left alone.
Silence settled over the congregation of races as both thought in deep contemplation of their final move. Sam decided it was best to attack with the shoe Pippin had dropped, but found that Aragorn had other ideas.
Shifting the Took around his shoulders, he bent down a little bit so the Hobbit was hanging from around his neck. When Sam neared he hooted, "Pippin-kick!"
Giggling like a maniac, Pippin swung out his feet, nearly hitting the poor gardener's jaw. When Sam tried to retreat, Aragorn turned Merry around and yelled, "Merry-bomb!" Boromir and Gimli watched with wide-eyed fascination when Merry was hurled through the air to land on Sam's back, taking the Hobbit to the ground. Freeing Frodo, Aragorn gave his final order. "Frodo - tickle attack!"
Sam's eyes turned into saucers. "No, not that… oh, no…"
Frodo giggled fitfully, running over to pounce upon his loyal friend, tickling him feverishly, showing no intention of ending the torture any time soon. Both Man and Dwarf doubled over in laughter after their bonds were cut by a proud Aragorn, nearly rolling in the leaves from the pitiful sight.
Pippin watched quietly but with an amused smile on his face from Aragorn's shoulders, obliged to stay up where he was safe. Strider patted the young halfling's knee comfortingly, watching the rest of the game unfold.
The happy air of the Fellowship would not last for long.
A deathly arrow came whizzing through the air with a sharp scream, striking a tree just inches above Boromir's head. Silence settled quickly over the collection of races, the previous happiness forgotten. Another arrow charged through the trees, almost striking Pippin's arm, but missed its target. Lifting the halfling from his body, Strider narrowed his eyes in the direction both came from.
A soft 'shink' brought Aragorn's attention to Frodo. Sting was glowing; only this time an eerie royal blue.
Before anyone had time to say anything, a shadowed figure caught all eyes. Dirt caked clothes hung from his body as though they had gone to him to his grave, his skin a dark red spotted with patches of brown and black; his lethal teeth bared, sharp as Isildur's blade; his eyes, a shocking red glared out from their sockets, sunken into his head; his strangely thin nose betrayed the fact that he was still an Elf, not entirely the ugly Orc the rest had been made into. Dropping Andruil, Aragorn took several staggering steps forward, his hand reaching out to the fierce warrior.
"Legolas!"
Pippin protested pitifully, crying that he had nothing to do with it, it was Merry's idea, he was just dragged along. Merry, in turn, spat at his cousin that it was really HIS idea, that he warned him that they would get caught, but no, HE said they wouldn't. Strider rolled his eyes at the sound of the two related Hobbits bickering endlessly, with the Ringbearer and loyal servant suppressing fits of turbulent giggles.
"Please, Frodo, it was not my doing! Pip used guile to lead me on! I had…"
"Mer-ry! You abetted me to play along!"
"Frodo, Sam, don't believe him…"
Gimli heartily gave a sigh. "Are you Hobbits just here to divert us from the tedious journey placed into our hands?"
Aragorn fondly placed his sword into the scabbard, standing with a grunt. "No, they're just here to make us appear big and mighty."
Pippin grinned and raised his hand up in acknowledgement. "Exactly!"
Boromir flashed his own sword in the air, catching the rays of the burning sun. "And to amuse us when things are beginning to be humdrum."
Standing and brandishing his axe, Gimli retorted, "And you Men think you are all elite because of your race!"
Aragorn blocked out the remains of the banter, turning his head away from the insane chaos. It had been a week and four days since Legolas had used atrocious and bizarre behaviour, frightening the Gondor King to the bone. The very thought of the flagrant actions raised a sharp pang of soreness in his side and back; the wounds had healed but not without leaving Strider with two ugly scars. Sweat began to bead his brow, flashbacks of the reactions to the deathshade arising in his brain, the scathing pain and the weakness of his body.
Shaking his head, Aragorn glanced in a different direction. Instead, he was reminded of when he had tried to travel the first day he felt well once more. Not far into the walk had he collapsed, unable to move his legs. He swore loudly in Elvish; lightening strikes of a bolting shock were running through his thighs and calves the remainder of the day, preventing him to do anything with his lower half. Aragorn had laid paralyzed on the Forest floor, curled into a fetal position, shivering on sporadic moments.
Dear Frodo, bless the little Hobbit, had done his best to take care of his caretaker, no matter what. He knew that when it came to his healing abilities he couldn't even cure a slug, but his knack for making tea had come in handy.
Brushing loose locks of hair out of his face, Aragorn turned back to his companions. What his eyes told him would keep him laughing for at least a day.
Boromir had been faithfully tied to a tree, along with a cursing Dwarf; around the tree's shaft four Hobbits were prancing about with an axe and several swords, each taunting their captives mercilessly. On Merry's head was the Dwarven warrior's helmet, and the lad was doing his best impressions of the slightly taller comrade, complete with a makeshift beard made of leaves and mud. Sam bared Boromir's shield of Gondor, flashing it about as he danced in circles, holding Pippin's arm and swinging him around for the fun of it. On Pippin's part, he wasn't looking too happy about it, but he had taken off Gimli's shoes and kicked one to the side and the other was barely surviving the abuse of being filled with pipe weed and squishy mushrooms, then was used as a weapon against Merry when he dared to near. Frodo, on the other hand, was chasing the other three around, cackling as best as he could, claiming to be a Ringwraith on a Hobbit hunt.
Boromir pulled an utterly pathetic face at Aragorn, his eyes pleading for mercy and liberty from the tree that held him prisoner. Strider came lurching over, swooping up the nearest Hobbit - Pippin - into his arms and holding him high above his head. Poor Peregrin Took was not expecting such an abrupt action and lost his balance in Aragorn's grip, falling around the Man's shoulders and holding on for dear life.
Merry immediately began to try to save his cousin, but instead was caught in Aragorn's hands, lifted up to be held under one arm. Frodo, not thinking of Merry's fate, attempted a one Hobbit rescue mission, failing miserably - he too was soon under Strider's other arm.
Sam was left alone.
Silence settled over the congregation of races as both thought in deep contemplation of their final move. Sam decided it was best to attack with the shoe Pippin had dropped, but found that Aragorn had other ideas.
Shifting the Took around his shoulders, he bent down a little bit so the Hobbit was hanging from around his neck. When Sam neared he hooted, "Pippin-kick!"
Giggling like a maniac, Pippin swung out his feet, nearly hitting the poor gardener's jaw. When Sam tried to retreat, Aragorn turned Merry around and yelled, "Merry-bomb!" Boromir and Gimli watched with wide-eyed fascination when Merry was hurled through the air to land on Sam's back, taking the Hobbit to the ground. Freeing Frodo, Aragorn gave his final order. "Frodo - tickle attack!"
Sam's eyes turned into saucers. "No, not that… oh, no…"
Frodo giggled fitfully, running over to pounce upon his loyal friend, tickling him feverishly, showing no intention of ending the torture any time soon. Both Man and Dwarf doubled over in laughter after their bonds were cut by a proud Aragorn, nearly rolling in the leaves from the pitiful sight.
Pippin watched quietly but with an amused smile on his face from Aragorn's shoulders, obliged to stay up where he was safe. Strider patted the young halfling's knee comfortingly, watching the rest of the game unfold.
The happy air of the Fellowship would not last for long.
A deathly arrow came whizzing through the air with a sharp scream, striking a tree just inches above Boromir's head. Silence settled quickly over the collection of races, the previous happiness forgotten. Another arrow charged through the trees, almost striking Pippin's arm, but missed its target. Lifting the halfling from his body, Strider narrowed his eyes in the direction both came from.
A soft 'shink' brought Aragorn's attention to Frodo. Sting was glowing; only this time an eerie royal blue.
Before anyone had time to say anything, a shadowed figure caught all eyes. Dirt caked clothes hung from his body as though they had gone to him to his grave, his skin a dark red spotted with patches of brown and black; his lethal teeth bared, sharp as Isildur's blade; his eyes, a shocking red glared out from their sockets, sunken into his head; his strangely thin nose betrayed the fact that he was still an Elf, not entirely the ugly Orc the rest had been made into. Dropping Andruil, Aragorn took several staggering steps forward, his hand reaching out to the fierce warrior.
"Legolas!"