I had hoped to see at least one elf in Esgaroth before I left, but Mirwold
seemed to possess a strange ability to detect and avoid them before they
had even appeared in sight. This was my only explanation for having been
in the place for an entire day without once seeing an elf in a town that
according to "The Hobbit" had been full to bursting with them. Or maybe
that was just my own literary interpretation, flawed as usual, I reflected
morosely. I had given up completely on being privileged enough to see one
when He arrived on the scene.
There really was no mistaking him for a human. He was much taller than Englas and Fadrornion the pseudo-elves were, although somewhat less blond. He was wearing a sleek grey cloak that rippled and flowed in the light breeze, underneath which peeked skin-tight leggings. A well- accessorized bow dangled casually in one hand as he swaggered down the street, muscling peasants and other riff-raff out of his way. He turned his head in my direction. To my shock and horror, I realized that he was wearing dark sunglasses.
He seemed to recognize Mirwold. At least, that was the way I interpreted the strange gesture he made in his direction, one that Mirwold returned with a sneer. The elf stalked over, at which point I developed a sudden fascination with Esgarothian architecture and tried very hard not to look in any way connected with Mirwold.
"Mae govannen," said the elf sarcastically. "All right," he added impressively, in a thick Elvish accent, "Let's take this to the next level."
I couldn't help it. I really, really couldn't help it. I was seized with the uncontrollable urge to laugh so hard that tears flowed from my eyes and my sides ached. Self-control has never been one of my talents, although in retrospect it may not have been the best course of action to actually collapse onto the street in a choking fit of hysteria.
"What? What? You think I'm funny?" demanded the elf, turning on me. It only made things worse.
"Yes, yes!" I giggled.
"Kiss the thin lips of my ax," the elf snarled as he turned on his well-heeled heel and stalked off again. Mirwold looked as if he couldn't decide which one of us he wanted to kick more.
"Who was that?" I whispered once the elf was completely out of sight.
"Morolas Blackleaf," said Mirwold coldly. "The fool! He actually thinks that he can compete with me. Me!"
"What are you talking about?"
"He's the competition, of course! Here I was, all thinking that I had a monopoly on the market and everything, and then along comes Morolas and his stupid elven-ring. And no, I have no clue where he got his ring or how it manages to transport people to and from Middle Earth. Frankly, I don't really care. I shall crush the puny sylvan upstart and his tacky inferior English back into the little hole he crawled out of, the dirt-crawling, slime-licking -"
I had stopped listening right at the moment Mirwold said the words "transport people to and from Middle Earth". So there were other ways to get home after all! A plan began to form somewhere in the most evil recesses of the corners of my mind.
There really was no mistaking him for a human. He was much taller than Englas and Fadrornion the pseudo-elves were, although somewhat less blond. He was wearing a sleek grey cloak that rippled and flowed in the light breeze, underneath which peeked skin-tight leggings. A well- accessorized bow dangled casually in one hand as he swaggered down the street, muscling peasants and other riff-raff out of his way. He turned his head in my direction. To my shock and horror, I realized that he was wearing dark sunglasses.
He seemed to recognize Mirwold. At least, that was the way I interpreted the strange gesture he made in his direction, one that Mirwold returned with a sneer. The elf stalked over, at which point I developed a sudden fascination with Esgarothian architecture and tried very hard not to look in any way connected with Mirwold.
"Mae govannen," said the elf sarcastically. "All right," he added impressively, in a thick Elvish accent, "Let's take this to the next level."
I couldn't help it. I really, really couldn't help it. I was seized with the uncontrollable urge to laugh so hard that tears flowed from my eyes and my sides ached. Self-control has never been one of my talents, although in retrospect it may not have been the best course of action to actually collapse onto the street in a choking fit of hysteria.
"What? What? You think I'm funny?" demanded the elf, turning on me. It only made things worse.
"Yes, yes!" I giggled.
"Kiss the thin lips of my ax," the elf snarled as he turned on his well-heeled heel and stalked off again. Mirwold looked as if he couldn't decide which one of us he wanted to kick more.
"Who was that?" I whispered once the elf was completely out of sight.
"Morolas Blackleaf," said Mirwold coldly. "The fool! He actually thinks that he can compete with me. Me!"
"What are you talking about?"
"He's the competition, of course! Here I was, all thinking that I had a monopoly on the market and everything, and then along comes Morolas and his stupid elven-ring. And no, I have no clue where he got his ring or how it manages to transport people to and from Middle Earth. Frankly, I don't really care. I shall crush the puny sylvan upstart and his tacky inferior English back into the little hole he crawled out of, the dirt-crawling, slime-licking -"
I had stopped listening right at the moment Mirwold said the words "transport people to and from Middle Earth". So there were other ways to get home after all! A plan began to form somewhere in the most evil recesses of the corners of my mind.