Of Mirth And Folly.
Prologue: Mischief In Rivendell.
Frodo lay with his stout arms rested behind his head, the thick undergrowth of his dark curls cushioning any discomfort the reclining position may have offered. His piercing, inquisitive blue eyes gazed tentatively through the archway beside him, and up at the full moon as it hung ominously in the glimmering multitude above. The Mithril his Uncle Bilbo had offered him less than an hour ago was cold against his torso, but the sensation was in synch with the crisp chill of the evening, and the young Hobbit's mind was far too troubled to dwell upon such irksome whimsy.
So he lay there, gently revisiting the day's events. Of his healing. Of the Council meeting. Of the Fellowship. Of the Ring. How he hated the One Ring, the source of all his worry and woe. Anything that attracted those monstrous Wraiths was evil in Frodo's opinion. Anything that could prompt his genial and pleasant Uncle to lash out in such a frightening manner deserved to be destroyed. And, unfortunately, he was just the Hobbit to accomplish this.
Subconsciously, he ran his thoroughly clipped, stubbly fingers along the smooth surface of his armour. Over the wound those ghastly cloaked figures had inflicted upon him, and along the V of his neckline, to the chain where the insidious object in question hung.
The Ring, however, was absent.
Frodo shot up with a start, his eyes darting frantically about the dimly lit chamber, his lips whispering silent prayers of desperation. Upon identifying two familiar figures, however, his tension was eased and he let a careful sigh pass through his teeth. Moody Dwarf Lord Gimli and Elven Noble Elrond sat adjacent to one another at the far corner of the room, and Frodo's memory was restored. He had lent the Ring to Gimli after the gruff bearded one asserted his confidence in destroying it by hand.
"I don't give an Orc's rrrear end if my axe couldn't kill it," the Dwarf had retorted, "I'm going to prrrrove to you people that a quest to Mordor is completely unnecessary!"
That had been an hour ago. As it was, he was currently wrestling with a large pair of pliers, in another feeble attempt at its destruction. His knuckles, wrought with thin orange hair, had whitened; and his eyes were wild with fury as he struggled to snap Sauron's wicked forgery. With a frustrated exhalation, he released his clamp on the handles, and the Ring fell to the cold marble floor without bouncing.
"Does anyone have a hacksaw?!" he demanded in his rolling, rich Scotsman accent.
"Oh, for the gods' sake, Gimli son of Gloin," hissed Elrond, massaging his ample brow in irritation, "What part of 'No mortal weapon' do you not understand?"
Gimli frowned and met Elrond's annoyed gaze for a short moment.
"D'you know what we need?" the Dwarf began slowly, "A power drrrill."
Surrendering, Elrond threw his hands in the air and rose from his seat, approaching the balcony beside Frodo's bed and gazing over his city below. Rivendell was beautiful at any hour, but tonight, shrouded in a low, thin mist, it was exceptionally beautiful. The silver blanket that instilled the lawns and shrubbery with dew cascaded silently along the steps and pedestals of numerous archways, palaces and patios, each crafted with the grace and elegance exclusive to the Elves. Droplets of thick evening moisture ran rivulets down the hanging vines of the valley; and under the luminance of the blue moon above, Rivendell was, quite literally, a heavenly scene.
However, Elrond was always displeased when his people were in the company of men. Weak fools, he thought to himself. Why, just now, the dignitary Boromir had emerged from the main hall, requesting a band-aid for his bleeding finger. The Elf handmaid he had requested this of nodded obediently, but fought a gloat at his expense as she darted into the shadows.
Elrond snorted in contempt. Not long afterwards, his exquisite daughter Arwen emerged from the same archway, on the arm of the rogue Ranger Aragorn.
"Hey!" bellowed Elrond from the balcony, "I want her back before midnight, understand?"
Arwen shot him a fierce double take, as her beloved nodded meekly. The two disappeared into the gardens. No doubt off to that accursed bridge, he mused ruefully. The sooner the Fellowship departs for Mordor, the sooner I can bring that frivolous vixen's head out of the clouds and have her betrothed to a decent Elven gentleman.
"May I have it back, please?" Elrond heard the soft, level voice of his Hobbit guest.
"Not just yet, young Hobbit," grunted Gimli. "I'm going to trrry and stomp on it for a wee while."
"Save your breath, Son of Gloin," Elrond commanded without turning around, "The Ring is young master Baggins' responsibility now. Return it to him."
Gimli seemed reluctant to part with it. He glowered over the small golden circle, his left eye twitching with a desire he had, by no means, mustered within himself. Adept at identifying the Ring's influence on others, Frodo swiftly rose from his bed and snatched it away from the Dwarf's hungry gaze. Gimli recoiled in a brief rage, before his primeval desire for power was thankfully subdued.
"You should retire to your chamber," Elrond recommended.
"Ach," Gimli jeered, "I may have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox, but I'm as rrrestless as a caffeine-addled goblin! What do Elves do for entertainment, Elrond?"
"Meditate on the troubles of the world," replied the healer, flatly.
"Sounds like a jolly gay time," snickered Gimli sarcastically, "But don't you have any rrrrrrecreational activities?"
Elrond shuddered. He loathed it when the Dwarves rolled their 'r's like that.
"Very well," he acquiesced, "If it is to your liking, I will escort you to the eastern gardens for a round of croquet. I believe Gandalf and Bilbo are already there."
"Aha!" Gimli grinned, rising with some effort from his seat, "Now that's more like it! Lead the way, Elrond!"
"And what of you, Frodo?" Elrond enquired. "Would you care to join us?"
"If you ask it of me," replied the Hobbit in his feathery tone, "I will join you."
"You may follow on your own accord," assured the Elf, "It is for you to decide."
"Then I will stay," concluded Frodo, "For I need my rest."
"Very well. Come, Gimli son of Gloin."
Frodo fell against the welcoming recesses of the silken undergrowth, the sound of distant waterfalls and the crisp floral aroma of Rivendell nights soothing his troubled mind. At daybreak he would embark upon the greatest adventure known to Middle Earth, but for now his naïve life perspective was enamoured with the sheer serenity of his surroundings. The rich sense of tradition, the beauty, and above all, the security.
Security, however, was but a false pretence. For nestled snugly in the eaves of his spacious chamber, a figure sat hunched and alert, its breath ragged with excitement, its eyes shining in the radiant hue of the sky. Those catlike saucers were fixated on but one small thing.
Its precious.
~(*)~
End Prologue.