Of Mirth And Folly.

Epilogue: Alas, 'Tis Daybreak.

Bormir, son of Denethor, took a sharp intake of breath through the blowhole of the horn, the stupefying fume escaping through his nostrils, so thick was its essence.

"One last time!" crowed Pippin, taking a large swig of the Pint he had taken with him from Bree. "Blow that mother fu-"

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!

Embers erupted from the mouth of the instrument like a volcano, illuminating Aragorn's chamber with a fiery brilliance. Merry and Pippin oooohed and aaaahhhed over the spectacle, involuntary traces of drool trickling from their gaping mouths. When Boromir's threshold for pause of breath could be pushed no further, he let the smouldering horn fall to the floor as he did likewise, laughing in unparalleled glee, and uttering a snort every so often.

The merriment was ceased when a leathered hand gripped the bong and snatched it away without a second thought. Boromir sat upright and glared at the thief in inebriated rage.

"Aragorn," he slurred. "You have a knack for robbing Gondor of what is not rightfully yours!"

Boromir clumsily fumbled for his sword, but was kneed in the forehead and sent sprawling, unconscious to the far end of the room. Aragorn's look of apprehension melted into that of hesitant regret. It would be the same expression he would wear in less than an hour, when he would be forced to return the Light of the Evenstar to his beloved. He set the horn down and knelt before the fallen noble.

"Be at peace," he whispered, holding Boromir's face in his hands, "Son of Gondor."

He bowed low where he knelt and kissed the other man above the eyes in a powerfully compelling gesture of loyalty between the warriors.

"Yer a bit of a homo, ain't ye, Strider?" whooped Merry, killing the mood for the umpteenth time that night.

Aragorn grit his teeth at the insensitivity of the stoned Hobbits and nearly crushed Boromir's skull in his hands from frustration.

"Fair go, Merry!" said Pippin in protest, "Strider ain't no fruit. Don't ye be rememberin'? He's been with that Elvish lass since dusk, so says I!"

"Oh, yeah!" giggled the other, "Dude! That chick's a milf!"

The two began chanting and laughing in unison.

"Milf………milf………milf………"

Aragorn calmly rose to his feet, crouched before the two and clonked their heads together, the sharp coconut-like sound of the collision satisfying him in ways previously unimaginable. Both fell away from the other and onto the cold marble. Merry fell instantly into unconsciousness while Pippin merely bordered it.

"Merry………," he whispered, his eyes rolling back into his head, "………the tree is talking!"

~(*)~

Legolas watched from the rooftops, feeling a little guilty that his stunt to ruin Aragorn's evening had ended up waking all of Rivendell (and Lorien, and Edoras). He dropped from his perch and confronted the Ranger on a balcony, not long after the silence had fallen upon the valley once more. He nodded politely as he passed the man, who rested against a limestone column with his hands folded over his stomach, gazing unhappily at the ridge from whence the sun would soon rise behind.

"The red sun rises," noted the Elf, curiously. "Blood has been spilt this night."

"Yes," sighed Aragorn, "Boromir cut his finger on the Shards of Narsil."

"I suppose that explains it."

Aragorn blinked, his eyes re-adjusting to an opening in the main chamber, where Lord Elrond stood, nodding gravely.

"I will not leave my daughter here to die………die………die………"

The exchange of words between himself and the healer less than a half hour ago still rang fresh in the man's mind and he sighed once more. Irrespective of his gentle nature, Legolas fought a smirk at his comrade's misery, and retreated into the shadows of the columns, vines and ceilings.

~(*)~

Frodo had barely gotten a wink of sleep since the horn incident when his gardener and trusted comrade Sam sprinted excitedly into his room and shook him where he lay.

"M'wah………?" he groaned tiredly, rolling around to face his podgy pal.

"On your feet, Mister Frodo!" whispered Sam, gleefully. "Braise my conies and call me a Hardbottle, we've been promised a bona fide Elvish breakfast, we 'ave!"

He darted back outside, and Frodo heard him talking with an Elf.

"What's on the menu, then, Mister Elf?" he heard Sam enquire.

There was a pause.

"Lembas bread?" he heard Sam say, a little disappointed. "Uh, anything else?"

Another pause.

"Aha. More Lembas bread. Well, I'm a mite pissed off, I am."

Sam marched back into Frodo's bedchamber, annoyed. Huffing, he sat on the chair beside the bed and folded his arms.

"Lousy disenchanting Elves," he murmured under his breath. "Sorry about that, Mister Frodo, y'can go back to sleep now."

"Well, bloody hell, Sam!" yelled Frodo, angrily. "The sun's already in the sky, chances are we'll be leaving Rivendell any moment, but thanks for apologising."

Sam looked down, a look of profound hurt in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sam," sighed Frodo, casting his sheets off of his body. "I don't know why I said that."

"I do," replied Sam, coldly. "It's 'cause I'm fat, isn't it? Isn't it? I can see it in yer eyes, ye think I'm a lumbering lard arse!"

"Oh, Sam," smiled Frodo, warmly.

He rose from the bed and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders, looking into his eyes with sympathy and trust.

"That's a half-truth," he laughed sincerely.

"Pack your things, lovebirds," said Aragorn, approaching them before Sam could say anything else. "Our journey to Mordor begins on this morning."

~(*)~

The Beginning.

*(Author's Notes: Thank you to the few reviewers who have showered their praise on this brief work. It's very difficult to attain recognition when, in the course of a short nine hours, one Fiction moves from the first page to the fourth. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, you know what happens from here, I'm sure! ^_^ )*