Disclaimer: I own neither Macbeth nor The Lord of the Rings now, nor the
last time I wrote this stupid little dagnabity piece of -- ahem...I mean,
this logical legal document that should precede every fanfiction in the
world. Actually, I spooting hate it. Disclaimers are evil. And yes, I used
spoot. And no, that's not mine either *sobs in corner*
Do not worry though! After some bribing and blackmail, I will have both Macbeth and Lord of the Rings within my clutches!!! It might take a while. Shakespeare and Tolkien are surprisingly resistant to my advances... But then again, they're dead so... hmm. Never mind.
Summary: Same as last time, unless I lied... but I didn't, so be at peace, young fanfictioneer! Or did I?! Naw, joke, joke! I didn't lie.... But, then again, how can you be so sure?!?! Hee hee! Never mind. Just fooling around. You know that I know that you know that neither of us knows where the spoot this is going, but it's bound to be funny if I have any say in the matter, so buckle your non-existent seatbelt and prepare for an entertaining ride! Just hope we don't crash.
Apologies: Dear Tolkien and Shakespeare, please forgive me for what I'm about to do, and have already started doing, to your characters. I know it's wrong, but it's just too much darn fun to stop! And sorry for making you guys turn in your graves, as they say.
Alrighty! Enough of my jabbering (though that is mainly what the story is composed of, and responses to the wondrous reviews are at the end) and onto:
Dunsinane Hill
Chapter two By: Spootasia Tomoe
Macbeth paced restlessly in the darkness outside his previous home, Inverness. It had been a long time since he had told the munchkins the directions to the castle pantry and given them permission to raid as much of it as they wanted. Had they gotten lost? Or perhaps they had been captured! Would they reveal his whereabouts to the enemies?! No, he doubted it. They were above such things. He knew this because he had spent a few hours with the abnormally close to the ground men in the forest just before, learning of their past, their troubles and where they were going. Not until he had revealed to them a little about himself of course.
He was very careful to leave out the crazed, hallucinogenic, paranoid, murdering part while telling them of himself. As much as he could anyway. Sometimes he slipped. A mention of a floating dagger here, prophecies there, an undeniably long speech concerning a certain 'ghost' that stole his chair at his feast in between. So he had a bit of a loose tongue... Hopefully they didn't notice.
On the other hand, he was beginning to become worried. And not merely for his own well-being, but for the munchkins', which troubled him a little more. Normally he was self-centered and mistrustful to the point of freaking out and jumping off a cliff. That was mostly his wife's fault, that dratted woman. He was a better person before, and the hobbits, as they called themselves, made him feel more like that old Macbeth rather than this new tyrannical one. At least, what he thought he was like back then... it was kind of hard to remember who the hell he was between all the delusions and intense remorse and plain insanity. Yes, you guessed it. He was having an identity crisis.
As he nervously waited in the dark wondering who he was and where his two new hobbit friends had gone a noise sounded behind him. It was a deep rumbling that sent vibrations through the earth below his feet and it frightened him at first until he recognized to noise to be Treebeard's booming footfall. Turning, he saw the outline of the massive ent against the huorns that had so annoyingly climbed the hill, scaring him out of his wits naught but five hours or so ago.
"Hello, Treebeard," he whispered to the silhouette, another new friend he had acquainted himself with in the forest. It was weird, but he trusted these strangers, and though he kicked himself for it silently, trusting wasn't half bad. After all, they hadn't asked him to murder anyone. Well, not yet... Must NOT be paranoid, NOT be paranoid... Anyway... The ent wasn't half as frightening to Macbeth once he had heard him speak. A little boring actually, reminding him of the numerous old folk situated within his previous castle's walls.
Macbeth made his way over to the ent in the dark. Being it dark and all, walking wasn't exactly one of Macbeth's brighter ideas (though it WAS better than his killing Duncan and assuming kingship one...). Inevitably, he tripped. Minding his own business, walking along, hits a root and suddenly, POW! He slammed right into the ground with the full of his face. That's got to be a bit of a downer, huh?
Normally Macbeth would never have attempted such a stupid thing as walking next to a forest of mad trees in the dead of night, but seeing as this chapter was moving a bit too slowly, he was forced by some unknown power (mainly, me) into performing such and idiotic task. This predictably set him up for a fall, thus setting this chapter back into motion and introducing a little more humour into the mix. Sort of. The only problem was that it had made Macbeth feel quite foolish and therefore weakened his mental state. The only thing worse than an ex-king who is crazy and murderous and going through an identity crisis is an ex-king who is crazy and murderous and going through an identity crisis while at the same time being overly self-conscious and now even more paranoid that usual. You see, after having fallen Macbeth, took a hit to his self-esteem. Now everyone is going to have to deal with a Macbeth who is convinced that all are staring at him and making snide comments behind his back. Not a good thing for a delusional serial killer once-sovereign to think.
Treebeard, seeing the man fall through the darkness, walked to him and picked him up, setting him gently back down a few feet away from the forest edge. Macbeth, grateful for Treebeard's kindly actions, but more so for the fact that the ent had not stepped on him, thanked Treebeard sincerely. Which was important, seeing as Macbeth had been having some trouble being both sincere and truthful of late. Unfortunately, this did not mean he was any less paranoid.
After being set down again, he was forced to wonder, Is he laughing? Is that TREE laughing at ME? And then came to the conclusion that, yes! That tree IS laughing at me! I can see his shoulders shaking from trying to hold it inside!! Thankfully, Treebeard was a little too tall for Macbeth to get into a fight with and Macbeth was feeling a little too intimidated and foolish to say anything about his 'laughter' instead. Rather, Macbeth merely seethed inside. Now that can't be very good for a delusional serial killer once-sovereign, either. Don't worry though, I'm sure that some day all of our little friends will sit down and have a talk about all of their little problems. Opening up can work wonders. Really, I know.
Gingerly, Macbeth raised a hand to his nose, which was bleeding from the impact with the ground and seemed to be broken by the feel of it. "Ah, hmm. Here," said Treebeard, lowering a bowl of clear liquid, "drink this. Men and hobbits should learn not to be so hasty. It is dangerous."
"Thanks," Macbeth answered, annoyed this time at having been reprimanded by a walking, talking tree for being too 'hasty.' And a nasty wound to his non- existent ego that was as well. Macbeth seemed to be having a very rough day. Perhaps he should have gone inside with the hobbits and sneaked some gin or ale or something. Well, it was too late now. Maybe in the morning, he mused.
"It will help to take the pain away; hmm, though do not drink too much. It is a potent draught, for one such as yourself, hoom." Macbeth, having heard the beginning of Treebeard's words but not the caution he also gave, took a great swig of the stuff. And it did take the pain away quite effectively. It also gave him a warm, giddy feeling inside that made him eager to have more. Before either Treebeard or Macbeth knew it, Macbeth had become completely and totally drunk and the bowl previously filled with the strong ent draught was now drained to the very last drop.
And I mean Macbeth was drunk. Stumbling all over, rude and uncalled for comments, squinty eyes, uncontrollable laughter, the whole bit. Treebeard had a hard time keeping the intoxicated king quiet so that he didn't alert the whole population of Inverness of their presence, but somehow the ent managed it. But that didn't mean Macbeth stopped talking. Oh, no, not at all. That night Treebread found that a hasty yet sober man was better than one who decided to tell out his whole life story as slowly as possible. Every last blasted detail. But it would have been worse had Macbeth gone in with the hobbits, gotten drunk and passed the beverages to the small ones, inebriating them as well. Treebeard let out a heavy sigh as Macbeth rambled on about his seventh year in life.
"An' tha's when," Macbeth slurred in a depressed tone, "I were told, no! Macbeff, you can' 'ave any no more horses!" He swayed a bit, putting out an arm to steady himself against the tree that Treebeard had relocated him near for just that purpose. The funny thing was, he was sitting down. How anyone can manage to almost fall over while sitting, drunk or not, I don't know. But Macbeth sure managed it a couple times that night. And sometimes he did fall, worsening his already crooked nose.
"An' i' weren't even my fault tha' them horses 'ad jumped offa tha cliff a year before. But, no! They wouldn' lisen' ta me!" he slurred some more, going into a drunken rant for some time. Treebeard listened patiently enough, but now he was considering never giving another man another ent draught ever again. Men were just too hasty and he didn't want to have to sit through this every time someone got a scrape and he offered to help. The hobbits were bad enough! Treebeard started to daydream, leaving Macbeth to his ranting which had quickly changed from not getting any horses to Banquo going against him and having a son. Macbeth, in his current condition, did not realize that Banquo had already had his son when the witches prophesized that Banquo would "beget kings(which was the witches way of telling Macbeth that he would have to give the throne up to Banquo's sons)."
Now you can imagine it was very painful for Macbeth to think of his lineage not going on forever, but it was even worse for the young, innocent English students who had to read the king's pointless broodings. And they were pointless. I mean, they all knew Banquo was going to die anyway! Get over the moral part of it, Macbeth! This is a tragedy! Kill someone! But, alas, the character did not hear them from within the thin paper booklet and went on brooding for another half an act. Dark times those were. Dark, dark times.
~*~ But enough of that! Let's see how our hobbit friends are doing in the pantry, shall we? ~
"Pour, Pippin, pour!" Merry hurriedly urged to his cousin as the young Took tried to fill his cup with golden colored ale.
"Wait a moment, will you? I don't want to spill! That would be an awful waste of a fine drink!" Pippin responded, trying not to go to fast for fear of the precious liquid sloshing over the edges of the cup. The two hobbits had indeed found the pantry of Inverness, and a marvelous place it was. It had everything a hobbit could hope for and perhaps even a little more. Save pipeweed, of course, which they didn't even come across one leaf of. That they had found more than disappointing, but they didn't let it keep them down once they had discovered the giant man sized mugs and the full kegs of ale. And it wasn't very hard to find the kegs either. In fact, they had been quite out in the open and had conveniently had the mugs located right next to them and within hobbit-reach (that was, ahem, my fault. Sorry. Couldn't resist...^ ^;;).
"Less talking, more pouring!" Merry answered, eyeing the frothing liquid with the look of someone who hasn't had a drink in years. Finally, when the man-sized mug was filled to the brim (which would have definitely been more than an acceptable amount for our dearest Merry on any other occasion) he gratefully sat down and took a few gulps, leaving Pippin to pour his own up to the very top and said, "Oh, I do wish they had pints like this back in the Shire!"
"Mmm!" Pippin exclaimed, sitting back next to his dearest cousin. "I know what you mean. I am hardly ever allowed to drink this much back home!" With that he took a great mouthful of the liquid, sighing as the alcoholic induced warmth spread from the curly mop on the top of his head right down to the other curly mops covering his hobbit feet.
"Now, not too much there, Pip," said Merry, glancing at Pippin's mug which was almost spilling over. He, himself, had drained close to half his own mug in the space of a few seconds, but he was known back home for being able to hold his liquor. Pip, on the other hand, was a younger, less experienced hobbit in the ways of, bluntly put, becoming smashed, and so Merry felt it was his responsibility to make sure he didn't have too much. Reaching over, he took the mug from Pippin's hand and transferred about one third of it into his own before the young hobbit could even begin to complain.
"Hey!" Pippin shouted, grabbing his drink back from Merry, its contents less than what it had been before. "What was that for?" he asked, upset, as Merry took another swill of ale.
"Well, being the older hobbit, I have to look out for you, don't I?" Merry mused, licking the ale from his lips. "And you had much more in your mug then you are capable of unless you're planning to be carried from this room out cold. And I figured since I can't let you drink it all if I was at all responsible, I'd have to take it upon myself in good conscience!" he finished, flashing Pippin a genuine smile.
"In good conscience?" Pippin asked. "How can that be in good conscience when you stole my drink, Merry, you crook?!" To that Merry began to laugh until he saw Pippin down the rest of his mug, take Merry's and then begin to down that too.
"Pippin! And who's the crook now, hmm?" Merry queried as he tried to wrestle the mug out of Pippin's steadfast grip. "Oh, give it back, Pip!" he grumbled still finding it hard to reach the glass that Pippin held behind his back.
"Now, now, Master Meriadoc. I do believe you've had enough. I'm cutting you off!" Pippin said between giggles. After a few moments wrestling over the mug it noisily clattered to the ground, what was left of its contents spraying all over the floor as it fell. The two hobbits stopped a moment to stare at the ale seeping into the cracks of the stones of the pantry before they began to hurriedly try to get more into another mug while striving to thwart the attempts of the other. In the end, the duo collapsed to the ground, tired of fighting and soaked through with ale though they had gotten none into their mugs.
"You know," Merry said breathlessly to his cousin, "maybe I'll let you have your fill just this once. After all, I can't be expected to be responsible all the time." With that he got up from the floor and filled the mugs. Returning to where Pippin sat, he dropped to the floor yet again. Thanking him, Pippin took the glass from his hands and began to sip at it. If he was going to be trusted with such an amount, he reckoned he had better take it slow and show that he, too, could hold his liquor. If he didn't he'd face an eternity of mocking by Merry that he probably would never live down.
Exhausted from their little bout, the two of them failed to notice the faint footsteps resonating down the hallway towards the pantry they were effectively trapped in. After all, it had but one entrance.
~ ~ ~
"And Macbeth's body still lies out in the field?" asked the young King Malcolm of Macduff. Malcolm, having just been named King of Scotland, was going to prepare for a feast with his newest and greatest ally. They were on their way to they pantry to decide what such a feast should be composed of, but little did they know what they would find within its doors. Unaware of what was about to happen they continued on with their conversation. Macduff was telling Malcolm of how he had found Macbeth outside in the field. Malcolm was quite curious, actually. It was making Macduff a little annoyed, if not downright jealous. He may be king, but he was awfully nosy when it came to Macbeth, the seemingly dead traitor.
"Why, yes it does. The last time I checked anyway... For what reason do you ask?" Macduff replied, suspiciously. What was the purpose of such a question as that anyway? Surely if the tyrant was dead he would stay in one spot, would he not?
"Well, you see Macduff, a little while ago I walked out of the castle--" and then King Malcolm stopped talking, standing still as a frightened deer in the hall, straining as if to hear something.
"What is it, Sire?" Macduff asked, stopping as well to look about him. There was no one else in the hall, save for themselves, but as he paused silently he became aware of what sounded like two people deep in conversation. But where were they? Who were they? Macduff was quite sure that the owners of these disembodied voices were not of the English or the Scottish. Their accents were too unusual to be. Well, one of them, slightly younger than the other by the sound, had something close to the Scottish accent common to Inverness, but it was most definitely from another part of the land. Somewhere farther up north perhaps... How curious.
King Malcolm took a step towards the pantry, still struggling to hear the strangers' words. As he reached the door, surprisingly ajar, he peeked inside and then withdrew immediately, apparently startled by what he saw. Motioning for Macduff to come and take a look he stepped back and leaned against the wall of the hall in thought.
Macduff stepped up to the crack of space separating the door from its frame, peering into the castle's store room in turn. For a moment he saw no one until he noticed two young lads sitting on the ground with a mug full of ale each. He chuckled to himself silently at the sight until he took a closer look, wondering whose they children were, and saw that, no!, they were NOT children but rather very short, strange looking men! How peculiar...!
~*~ and now, review responses!:
Nothing! I didn't get ONE review!!! Sigh... well, that's okay I guess... I'll just go retreat into my room and crouch in the corner, sobbing uncontrollably... sniff sniff! Now look what you've done!! v . v
' Hee hee. Just kidding. But really, feel free to review or flame. I swear it won't impair your health nor will I think you any the worse for it! So, what are you waiting for? Flames are most graciously accepted! I find the non-constructive ones funny so don't hesitate to leave them behind! *winks* ~ . ^
Do not worry though! After some bribing and blackmail, I will have both Macbeth and Lord of the Rings within my clutches!!! It might take a while. Shakespeare and Tolkien are surprisingly resistant to my advances... But then again, they're dead so... hmm. Never mind.
Summary: Same as last time, unless I lied... but I didn't, so be at peace, young fanfictioneer! Or did I?! Naw, joke, joke! I didn't lie.... But, then again, how can you be so sure?!?! Hee hee! Never mind. Just fooling around. You know that I know that you know that neither of us knows where the spoot this is going, but it's bound to be funny if I have any say in the matter, so buckle your non-existent seatbelt and prepare for an entertaining ride! Just hope we don't crash.
Apologies: Dear Tolkien and Shakespeare, please forgive me for what I'm about to do, and have already started doing, to your characters. I know it's wrong, but it's just too much darn fun to stop! And sorry for making you guys turn in your graves, as they say.
Alrighty! Enough of my jabbering (though that is mainly what the story is composed of, and responses to the wondrous reviews are at the end) and onto:
Dunsinane Hill
Chapter two By: Spootasia Tomoe
Macbeth paced restlessly in the darkness outside his previous home, Inverness. It had been a long time since he had told the munchkins the directions to the castle pantry and given them permission to raid as much of it as they wanted. Had they gotten lost? Or perhaps they had been captured! Would they reveal his whereabouts to the enemies?! No, he doubted it. They were above such things. He knew this because he had spent a few hours with the abnormally close to the ground men in the forest just before, learning of their past, their troubles and where they were going. Not until he had revealed to them a little about himself of course.
He was very careful to leave out the crazed, hallucinogenic, paranoid, murdering part while telling them of himself. As much as he could anyway. Sometimes he slipped. A mention of a floating dagger here, prophecies there, an undeniably long speech concerning a certain 'ghost' that stole his chair at his feast in between. So he had a bit of a loose tongue... Hopefully they didn't notice.
On the other hand, he was beginning to become worried. And not merely for his own well-being, but for the munchkins', which troubled him a little more. Normally he was self-centered and mistrustful to the point of freaking out and jumping off a cliff. That was mostly his wife's fault, that dratted woman. He was a better person before, and the hobbits, as they called themselves, made him feel more like that old Macbeth rather than this new tyrannical one. At least, what he thought he was like back then... it was kind of hard to remember who the hell he was between all the delusions and intense remorse and plain insanity. Yes, you guessed it. He was having an identity crisis.
As he nervously waited in the dark wondering who he was and where his two new hobbit friends had gone a noise sounded behind him. It was a deep rumbling that sent vibrations through the earth below his feet and it frightened him at first until he recognized to noise to be Treebeard's booming footfall. Turning, he saw the outline of the massive ent against the huorns that had so annoyingly climbed the hill, scaring him out of his wits naught but five hours or so ago.
"Hello, Treebeard," he whispered to the silhouette, another new friend he had acquainted himself with in the forest. It was weird, but he trusted these strangers, and though he kicked himself for it silently, trusting wasn't half bad. After all, they hadn't asked him to murder anyone. Well, not yet... Must NOT be paranoid, NOT be paranoid... Anyway... The ent wasn't half as frightening to Macbeth once he had heard him speak. A little boring actually, reminding him of the numerous old folk situated within his previous castle's walls.
Macbeth made his way over to the ent in the dark. Being it dark and all, walking wasn't exactly one of Macbeth's brighter ideas (though it WAS better than his killing Duncan and assuming kingship one...). Inevitably, he tripped. Minding his own business, walking along, hits a root and suddenly, POW! He slammed right into the ground with the full of his face. That's got to be a bit of a downer, huh?
Normally Macbeth would never have attempted such a stupid thing as walking next to a forest of mad trees in the dead of night, but seeing as this chapter was moving a bit too slowly, he was forced by some unknown power (mainly, me) into performing such and idiotic task. This predictably set him up for a fall, thus setting this chapter back into motion and introducing a little more humour into the mix. Sort of. The only problem was that it had made Macbeth feel quite foolish and therefore weakened his mental state. The only thing worse than an ex-king who is crazy and murderous and going through an identity crisis is an ex-king who is crazy and murderous and going through an identity crisis while at the same time being overly self-conscious and now even more paranoid that usual. You see, after having fallen Macbeth, took a hit to his self-esteem. Now everyone is going to have to deal with a Macbeth who is convinced that all are staring at him and making snide comments behind his back. Not a good thing for a delusional serial killer once-sovereign to think.
Treebeard, seeing the man fall through the darkness, walked to him and picked him up, setting him gently back down a few feet away from the forest edge. Macbeth, grateful for Treebeard's kindly actions, but more so for the fact that the ent had not stepped on him, thanked Treebeard sincerely. Which was important, seeing as Macbeth had been having some trouble being both sincere and truthful of late. Unfortunately, this did not mean he was any less paranoid.
After being set down again, he was forced to wonder, Is he laughing? Is that TREE laughing at ME? And then came to the conclusion that, yes! That tree IS laughing at me! I can see his shoulders shaking from trying to hold it inside!! Thankfully, Treebeard was a little too tall for Macbeth to get into a fight with and Macbeth was feeling a little too intimidated and foolish to say anything about his 'laughter' instead. Rather, Macbeth merely seethed inside. Now that can't be very good for a delusional serial killer once-sovereign, either. Don't worry though, I'm sure that some day all of our little friends will sit down and have a talk about all of their little problems. Opening up can work wonders. Really, I know.
Gingerly, Macbeth raised a hand to his nose, which was bleeding from the impact with the ground and seemed to be broken by the feel of it. "Ah, hmm. Here," said Treebeard, lowering a bowl of clear liquid, "drink this. Men and hobbits should learn not to be so hasty. It is dangerous."
"Thanks," Macbeth answered, annoyed this time at having been reprimanded by a walking, talking tree for being too 'hasty.' And a nasty wound to his non- existent ego that was as well. Macbeth seemed to be having a very rough day. Perhaps he should have gone inside with the hobbits and sneaked some gin or ale or something. Well, it was too late now. Maybe in the morning, he mused.
"It will help to take the pain away; hmm, though do not drink too much. It is a potent draught, for one such as yourself, hoom." Macbeth, having heard the beginning of Treebeard's words but not the caution he also gave, took a great swig of the stuff. And it did take the pain away quite effectively. It also gave him a warm, giddy feeling inside that made him eager to have more. Before either Treebeard or Macbeth knew it, Macbeth had become completely and totally drunk and the bowl previously filled with the strong ent draught was now drained to the very last drop.
And I mean Macbeth was drunk. Stumbling all over, rude and uncalled for comments, squinty eyes, uncontrollable laughter, the whole bit. Treebeard had a hard time keeping the intoxicated king quiet so that he didn't alert the whole population of Inverness of their presence, but somehow the ent managed it. But that didn't mean Macbeth stopped talking. Oh, no, not at all. That night Treebread found that a hasty yet sober man was better than one who decided to tell out his whole life story as slowly as possible. Every last blasted detail. But it would have been worse had Macbeth gone in with the hobbits, gotten drunk and passed the beverages to the small ones, inebriating them as well. Treebeard let out a heavy sigh as Macbeth rambled on about his seventh year in life.
"An' tha's when," Macbeth slurred in a depressed tone, "I were told, no! Macbeff, you can' 'ave any no more horses!" He swayed a bit, putting out an arm to steady himself against the tree that Treebeard had relocated him near for just that purpose. The funny thing was, he was sitting down. How anyone can manage to almost fall over while sitting, drunk or not, I don't know. But Macbeth sure managed it a couple times that night. And sometimes he did fall, worsening his already crooked nose.
"An' i' weren't even my fault tha' them horses 'ad jumped offa tha cliff a year before. But, no! They wouldn' lisen' ta me!" he slurred some more, going into a drunken rant for some time. Treebeard listened patiently enough, but now he was considering never giving another man another ent draught ever again. Men were just too hasty and he didn't want to have to sit through this every time someone got a scrape and he offered to help. The hobbits were bad enough! Treebeard started to daydream, leaving Macbeth to his ranting which had quickly changed from not getting any horses to Banquo going against him and having a son. Macbeth, in his current condition, did not realize that Banquo had already had his son when the witches prophesized that Banquo would "beget kings(which was the witches way of telling Macbeth that he would have to give the throne up to Banquo's sons)."
Now you can imagine it was very painful for Macbeth to think of his lineage not going on forever, but it was even worse for the young, innocent English students who had to read the king's pointless broodings. And they were pointless. I mean, they all knew Banquo was going to die anyway! Get over the moral part of it, Macbeth! This is a tragedy! Kill someone! But, alas, the character did not hear them from within the thin paper booklet and went on brooding for another half an act. Dark times those were. Dark, dark times.
~*~ But enough of that! Let's see how our hobbit friends are doing in the pantry, shall we? ~
"Pour, Pippin, pour!" Merry hurriedly urged to his cousin as the young Took tried to fill his cup with golden colored ale.
"Wait a moment, will you? I don't want to spill! That would be an awful waste of a fine drink!" Pippin responded, trying not to go to fast for fear of the precious liquid sloshing over the edges of the cup. The two hobbits had indeed found the pantry of Inverness, and a marvelous place it was. It had everything a hobbit could hope for and perhaps even a little more. Save pipeweed, of course, which they didn't even come across one leaf of. That they had found more than disappointing, but they didn't let it keep them down once they had discovered the giant man sized mugs and the full kegs of ale. And it wasn't very hard to find the kegs either. In fact, they had been quite out in the open and had conveniently had the mugs located right next to them and within hobbit-reach (that was, ahem, my fault. Sorry. Couldn't resist...^ ^;;).
"Less talking, more pouring!" Merry answered, eyeing the frothing liquid with the look of someone who hasn't had a drink in years. Finally, when the man-sized mug was filled to the brim (which would have definitely been more than an acceptable amount for our dearest Merry on any other occasion) he gratefully sat down and took a few gulps, leaving Pippin to pour his own up to the very top and said, "Oh, I do wish they had pints like this back in the Shire!"
"Mmm!" Pippin exclaimed, sitting back next to his dearest cousin. "I know what you mean. I am hardly ever allowed to drink this much back home!" With that he took a great mouthful of the liquid, sighing as the alcoholic induced warmth spread from the curly mop on the top of his head right down to the other curly mops covering his hobbit feet.
"Now, not too much there, Pip," said Merry, glancing at Pippin's mug which was almost spilling over. He, himself, had drained close to half his own mug in the space of a few seconds, but he was known back home for being able to hold his liquor. Pip, on the other hand, was a younger, less experienced hobbit in the ways of, bluntly put, becoming smashed, and so Merry felt it was his responsibility to make sure he didn't have too much. Reaching over, he took the mug from Pippin's hand and transferred about one third of it into his own before the young hobbit could even begin to complain.
"Hey!" Pippin shouted, grabbing his drink back from Merry, its contents less than what it had been before. "What was that for?" he asked, upset, as Merry took another swill of ale.
"Well, being the older hobbit, I have to look out for you, don't I?" Merry mused, licking the ale from his lips. "And you had much more in your mug then you are capable of unless you're planning to be carried from this room out cold. And I figured since I can't let you drink it all if I was at all responsible, I'd have to take it upon myself in good conscience!" he finished, flashing Pippin a genuine smile.
"In good conscience?" Pippin asked. "How can that be in good conscience when you stole my drink, Merry, you crook?!" To that Merry began to laugh until he saw Pippin down the rest of his mug, take Merry's and then begin to down that too.
"Pippin! And who's the crook now, hmm?" Merry queried as he tried to wrestle the mug out of Pippin's steadfast grip. "Oh, give it back, Pip!" he grumbled still finding it hard to reach the glass that Pippin held behind his back.
"Now, now, Master Meriadoc. I do believe you've had enough. I'm cutting you off!" Pippin said between giggles. After a few moments wrestling over the mug it noisily clattered to the ground, what was left of its contents spraying all over the floor as it fell. The two hobbits stopped a moment to stare at the ale seeping into the cracks of the stones of the pantry before they began to hurriedly try to get more into another mug while striving to thwart the attempts of the other. In the end, the duo collapsed to the ground, tired of fighting and soaked through with ale though they had gotten none into their mugs.
"You know," Merry said breathlessly to his cousin, "maybe I'll let you have your fill just this once. After all, I can't be expected to be responsible all the time." With that he got up from the floor and filled the mugs. Returning to where Pippin sat, he dropped to the floor yet again. Thanking him, Pippin took the glass from his hands and began to sip at it. If he was going to be trusted with such an amount, he reckoned he had better take it slow and show that he, too, could hold his liquor. If he didn't he'd face an eternity of mocking by Merry that he probably would never live down.
Exhausted from their little bout, the two of them failed to notice the faint footsteps resonating down the hallway towards the pantry they were effectively trapped in. After all, it had but one entrance.
~ ~ ~
"And Macbeth's body still lies out in the field?" asked the young King Malcolm of Macduff. Malcolm, having just been named King of Scotland, was going to prepare for a feast with his newest and greatest ally. They were on their way to they pantry to decide what such a feast should be composed of, but little did they know what they would find within its doors. Unaware of what was about to happen they continued on with their conversation. Macduff was telling Malcolm of how he had found Macbeth outside in the field. Malcolm was quite curious, actually. It was making Macduff a little annoyed, if not downright jealous. He may be king, but he was awfully nosy when it came to Macbeth, the seemingly dead traitor.
"Why, yes it does. The last time I checked anyway... For what reason do you ask?" Macduff replied, suspiciously. What was the purpose of such a question as that anyway? Surely if the tyrant was dead he would stay in one spot, would he not?
"Well, you see Macduff, a little while ago I walked out of the castle--" and then King Malcolm stopped talking, standing still as a frightened deer in the hall, straining as if to hear something.
"What is it, Sire?" Macduff asked, stopping as well to look about him. There was no one else in the hall, save for themselves, but as he paused silently he became aware of what sounded like two people deep in conversation. But where were they? Who were they? Macduff was quite sure that the owners of these disembodied voices were not of the English or the Scottish. Their accents were too unusual to be. Well, one of them, slightly younger than the other by the sound, had something close to the Scottish accent common to Inverness, but it was most definitely from another part of the land. Somewhere farther up north perhaps... How curious.
King Malcolm took a step towards the pantry, still struggling to hear the strangers' words. As he reached the door, surprisingly ajar, he peeked inside and then withdrew immediately, apparently startled by what he saw. Motioning for Macduff to come and take a look he stepped back and leaned against the wall of the hall in thought.
Macduff stepped up to the crack of space separating the door from its frame, peering into the castle's store room in turn. For a moment he saw no one until he noticed two young lads sitting on the ground with a mug full of ale each. He chuckled to himself silently at the sight until he took a closer look, wondering whose they children were, and saw that, no!, they were NOT children but rather very short, strange looking men! How peculiar...!
~*~ and now, review responses!:
Nothing! I didn't get ONE review!!! Sigh... well, that's okay I guess... I'll just go retreat into my room and crouch in the corner, sobbing uncontrollably... sniff sniff! Now look what you've done!! v . v
' Hee hee. Just kidding. But really, feel free to review or flame. I swear it won't impair your health nor will I think you any the worse for it! So, what are you waiting for? Flames are most graciously accepted! I find the non-constructive ones funny so don't hesitate to leave them behind! *winks* ~ . ^