The four hobbits and the laconic Strider traipsed through the woods. Hunter stopped and began pulling things out of his bag.
"Don't stop," Strider said.
"But what about breakfast?" the short hobbit protested.
"Had it."
"We had one, yes. But what about second breakfast?"
Strider didn't respond but kept walking.
"I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Hunter," Merry said.
"What about elevensies? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn't he?"
"I wouldn't count on it." Merry caught an apple and tossed it to Hunter. He stood holding the apple until another hit his head.
…
Puffkinman waved his long, wicked press-on nails over his shiny-head as he stared at it in his mirror. It glowed red around the puffkin of hair and the image of a fiery nose appeared.
"What do you require, O Odiferous One?"
"Build me an army…" the nose commanded.
…
Andyalf slowly got to his feet. He was on top of Orthanc, the obsidian tower touching the sky. Great bonfires below appeared small as lightning bugs.
…
Puffkinman stood amidst his dorcs, laughing maniacally as trees were pulled down.
"Yes! Yes! Begone, vile trees! Uproot them! Tear them out by their roots! Drag them away and burn them! Ha, ha, ha, ha!!!
…
Strider stopped momentarily and pointed at a large hill with ruined fortifications on it.
"Weathertop."
Once they were on the hill getting set for the night, Strider doled out short swords. Then he left, grunting, "Be back."
…
Rosie woke to the murmur of hobbit voices and the flicker of a fire.
"……at the gym, you know, like lifting weights……" Hunter was saying.
"Time's up!" Wil said.
"Curling iron!" Hunter exploded.
Merry began to laugh.
"You were thinking of pumping iron, weren't you? You use a curling iron to curl your hair!"
"What are you doing?!?" Rosie demanded.
"Having a snack while playing Catch Phrase," Wil responded. "Wanna join? It'll make the teams even."
"Idiots! Put out the fire! Put it out!" Rosie kicked dirt on the flames, not being fool enough to step on it, no matter how tough her feet were.
An unearthly scream sounded in the not-so-distance. The four friends grabbed their swords and ran to the open space at the top, standing in a circle facing outwards. The cloaked nazgul began to close in. The hobbits surrounded Rosie, trying to protect her, but they were swept aside. Rosie backed away and fell against a stone wall. Without taking her eyes from the advancing nazgul, she lifted the hood. Suddenly, where there had been dark void inside the cloaks there were white robes and crowns and long pale hands and wrinkled faces that looked like they'd been sucking on lemons for a hundred years. The king of the nazgul reached for the drawstrings Rosie was unconsciously offering. Just before he touched them, she pulled them back against her chest. Infuriated, the nazgul jabbed at her shoulder with his blade.
Then a shadowy figure carrying a sword and a bright brand leapt from nowhere. It swung at nazgul after nazgul, forcing them to retreat. Rosie removed the hood to see that Strider had come back and was driving the nazgul off weathertop. Then her mind was wrenched back to the agony in her shoulder and she let out a gasping cry.
"No! Rosie!" Wil called. "Help her!"
Strider knelt next to the hobbit and inspected the wound. Then he grunted as he picked up the nazgul's sword.
"Morgul."
The blade disintegrated and he dropped it.
"Needs elvish medicine."