Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR, or any of its characters. I don't make one thin dime from this...so why do I do it? It's an addiction. Really. I need to find a FanFiction Anonymous Chapter in my neighborhood and join the 12 Step Program. Step 1: Admitting we are powerless over our compulsion to borrow characters and settings that are not our own. Okay, I admit it. That wasn't so hard.

Chapter 3

Ants in the Pants

Elrond rolled over, grunting at the bumps in his mattress. "Oomph...I need to remember to have this thing turned. It's like sleeping on rocks!" He opened his eyes, confused for a moment at why someone had painted his ceiling bright blue. It took a little while for him to remember that he was not in his comfortable room in Rivendell, but lying on the not-comfortable-in-the-least foothills of the Misty Mountains.

Sitting up, he rolled his neck, trying to work out the kinks that had settled in over night. "Eww...my tongue tastes like an old stocking," he thought, scraping it against his teeth. He reached for his canteen to wash out his fuzzy mouth, when, from the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement. Turning his head, he saw a scrawny looking gray squirrel sitting several yards away holding Elrond's travelling pouch in its buckteeth.

"Hey! That's my breakfast! Give that back, you mangy tree rat!" he cried, leaping to his feet.

The squirrel chattered at him, then turned and scampered off into the trees, taking Elrond's travelling pouch with it.

"Oh, for the love of Eru!" Elrond swore, kicking at the remains of his fire. "I don't believe it! Can this get any worse? Stuck in Middle Earth, having to fend for myself, and now this! What am I supposed to do for breakfast? Suck on a rock?" He sullenly picked up his valise, flung his cloak around his shoulders, and headed toward the stand of trees where the squirrel disappeared. "If I catch that moth-eaten weasel, I am definitely having squirrel stew for lunch!" he thought as he entered the wood.

Elrond scanned the forest floor and the treetops, hoping to spot the squirrel. After nearly an hour of searching, he began to despair of ever retrieving his pouch.

"It's no use...that damnable creature is gone, and so is my food. I HATE squirrels!" he thought, frustrated and hungry. He began to backtrack through the wood to his former campsite, when he noticed a few clumps of small green plants with bright red berries growing low to the ground nearby.

"Strawberries!" he cried aloud, his eyes lighting up. "Wild strawberries...perfect for breakfast!" He sat himself down on the grass, and began plucking the tiny red berries from the plants. He stuffed them into his mouth as fast as he could pick them, red juice dripping down his chin. He ate as much as he could hold, then wrapped the remaining berries in a large leaf, placing it in his satchel for later. He reached for his canteen, and took a long swallow. Banging on his chest with his fist, he let out a loud, drawn-out belch. "Ahhh. Nothing like fresh berries in the morning," he thought, regaining some of his good mood from the day before.

He stood, brushing off clinging leaves and bits of grass from his leggings. Starting to walk back the way he had come, he suddenly became aware of a nasty stinging sensation on his rump. Rubbing his butt did nothing to dispel the feeling, rather, it intensified.

"Ouch! Ouch, ouch, ouch!" he cried, jumping around, swatting at the back of his leggings. He stopped, and quickly peeled off the garment, craning his head around to try to see his rear. His hand brushed his bare skin, and came back covered in ants.

"Damn! I HATE ants! I hate ants worse than I hate squirrels!" he yelled, dancing around in a circle, frantically swatting his own butt trying to rid himself of the pests. Remembering a stream he had passed on the way into the wood, Elrond made a beeline back the way he had come.

He threw himself into the stream bottom side first, squirming in relief as the water washed away the insects and cooled their bites. Sitting that way for quite a while, it occurred to him that he had left his leggings and satchel back in the forest.

Sighing, Elrond rose from the water, and gingerly rubbed his bottom. He removed his drenched cloak, laying it on the rocks along the edge of the streambed to dry. Making his way back to the wood, he retraced his steps to the spot where he had found the strawberry patch.

As he approached the strawberry patch, he froze, hearing snorting and snuffling sounds coming from just up ahead. Peeking through the leaves of a large bush, Elrond watched a giant wild warg rip through what remained of his satchel.

"I'm cursed," he thought, wincing as the warg ate his most formal robes, "that has to be it. Galadrial must have laid a big, fat one on me before she left me here to rot. There is no other possible explanation...I'm cursed. I might as well just lie down right here and let that warg dance the Tarantella on my head. How am I supposed to walk to Mirkwood without any pants?"

The warg's head came up, a sleeve of Elrond's robe sticking out of its tusked mouth. Elrond gulped, and slowly backed away from the clearing. He went back to the streambed, made another small fire, and sat desolately staring at the small, flickering flames, waiting for his cloak to dry.

The cloak was a heavy woolen one, perfect for the cold air he would encounter on the High Pass, and it took several hours before it was dry enough to wear. He flung it about his shoulders, fastening it closed in front, noticing with chagrin that it only covered him to mid thigh.

"One good breeze, and all of Mirkwood will see what is legend in Rivendell," he thought with a chuckle. He felt a little better at having found a little humor in his situation, though he knew he would never live it down if word of this reached Thranduil. He would need to find leggings of some type before he met with the King.

Luckily for him, he had not taken the time to pull on his boots before chasing the squirrel. They still sat next to the campfire from the night before. Pulling them on, he was grateful that he would not, at least, have to walk barefoot over the Misty Mountains.

Finding his way back to the strawberry patch, he picked over what remained of his satchel. Nothing was left fit to wear. The warg had eaten most of his clothes, except for one stocking and what may have been the drawstring to his leggings. He managed to salvage his mithril crown, though it was bent and misshapen from being trampled.

Sighing deeply, he forced the crumpled crown onto his head, and, stopping by the old campsite to pick up his walking stick, headed up the path toward High Pass.