The 43rd Orc and the 80th Mug

Gimli sat triumphantly on the field of victory, congratulating his beloved ax by shoving it deeper into the neck of the prostrate and possibly dead Orc between his legs. "Ah, Legolas!" he hailed, seeing his friend, the elf, emerge from the piles of dead Urûk-Hai. "How many, eh, my Mirkwood prince?"

The elf gave a haughty grin that clearly showed he thought he had won. "Final count, forty-two, Master Dwarf!"

Gimli laughed at this, delighted. "Forty-two?" he asked. "Hmm… not bad for a pointy-eared Elvish princeling. But I, Master Elf, am sitting on pretty forty-three."

Legolas' grin disappeared. The Orc at Gimli's feet gave a feeble twitch, and faster than the eye could see, the elf had nocked an arrow and loosed it into the filthy creature's head. His smile reappeared when it lay still. "There now, Master Dwarf. Forty-three for me, and forty-two for you. What do you say to that?"

The dwarf stamped his foot. "But…but…" he sputtered. "It was already dead!" He pointed to his ax for proof.

"Please," the elf said modestly, unstringing his bow and putting it on his back. "It was twitching."

"It was twitching because it's got my ax embedded in its nervous system!" Gimli howled.

"Forty-three."

"Forty-two."

"Forty- three."

"I do beg your pardon,' Legolas told the dwarf who was clinging tightly to his back as they rode towards Edoras. The thundering of horse hooves on the yellow plains drowned out their voices to all except themselves. "But I killed your forty-third Orc."

"You did not!" Gimli protested. 'You just shot a pointless arrow into its head after it was already dead, and claimed you killed it!"

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "You are in no place to argue, Master Dwarf," he pointed out, smiling, steered Arod left, then quickly right again so that Gimli nearly fell off. The dwarf gave a whimper and clung tighter to the elf's back. "I do have control of our noble steed," the elf sneered.

"Wait 'til we're on solid ground, Elf. You cheat! You liar! You—"

Gimli did not finish his sentence, as he squawked audibly when Arod leaped and swerved so he was only not touching solid ground, as he wished, because he was holding tightly to the saddle and Legolas' quiver.

Legolas looked uncertainly around the long hall at the celebrating men and back at the large tankard in his hand. The pair was now in Meduseld again, victorious, with men of Rohan. "So… ere…" he sniffed the ale suspiciously. "This is a drinking game?"

"Aye," the dwarf sat back, pleased. "It will settle the score between us once and for all! What d'ya say?"

The elf said nothing but swirled the ale in his tankard, openly turning green.

"Someone mention a drinking game?" Éomer piped up, several mugs already in his hands. "I'm for it!" Gamling, Éothain, and Elfhelm who had come up as well, heartily agreed. One of them set down a huge barrel of ale, tankards already positioned.

Gimli chuckled. "Aye, join, join! But first help me persuade this elf to use this as a way to settle our score on the battlefield!"

"Ah, the lad afraid, is he?" Gamling nudged Éothain.

"Oh, don't worry yourselves," the other man said, catching on. "Only the true blue males have a chance at this game. Why don't you settle for some scented water that's being passed around to the women and children, eh elf?"

Legolas gave a proud toss of his head. "I am a male!" he cried indignantly, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The tankard of ale danced tantalizingly on the table, in front of his eyes.

"No, no," Gimli joined. "You wouldn't want to dirty that long, blond hair of yours, would you now?"

"Yes," Éomer grinned. "Pretty ponytails and all."

The elf clenched his teeth. "Braids!" he cried. "They're called braids!"

"Aw," Elfhelm taunted. "Look at him, blushing like a virgin maid. No one would be able to tell the difference if he just donned a dress."

"Pointy ears make him quite cute," Éomer laughed.

"ALRIGHT!" the elf gave in. "I'll do it!" He picked up his mug, still looking at it with slight disgust.

"Good!" the dwarf laughed. "No pausing, no stopping, and no regurgitation! Last one standing wins!" The two plunged into their tankards with fervor, cheered on by the men of Rohan.

"You know," Gamling said, smiling, "I think I'll sit this one out. I want to see the conclusion of this." The three others put down their mugs as well to sit and watch the showdown between elf and dwarf.

"What in the world is happening over there?" Gandalf asked, watching the growing crowd around a wooden table. He sucked at his pipe and found that his Old Tobey had gotten low.

As he replaced it with some from his pouch, his friend, Aragorn, smiled slightly. "It appears the elf and dwarf have gotten into a drinking game and the men are betting on whose to win." They both turned briefly to applaud Merry and Pippin's third rendition of "The Green Dragon," and then resumed their conversation.

Gandalf cursed himself for not having filled his light pouch with leaf when he had been at Orthanc. "Then let's join in," he said, finally coming with a good idea. "I have my money on the dwarf."

Aragorn laughed. "Then you shall lose, my good wizard. I have seen that elf down nearly half a barrel of wine at one sitting without having the slightest after effect. What shall we bet on then?"

"Any type of leaf you have," the wizard smiled, blowing out smoke from his parted lips.

"Then be prepared to lose all," the man chuckled.

"Fifty-two… fifty-three… fifty-four…" Gimli counted as he downed his ale, a mug in each hand. He seemed perfectly sober, setting each empty tankard down on the growing pile in front of him.

The elf kept drinking as well, accepting one tankard after another form Éomer, who watched the entire thing with amusement.

"Fifty four… fifty-five… fifty-six…" the crowd counted for Legolas, now a bit disconcerted as most of them had betted on the dwarf. However, now that they were more than half way to a hundred, and the elf still showed no sign of relenting, they were starting to change their bets.

"It's going to be a close one," Gandalf commented, watching as the two downed one mug after another.

"I am telling you, the elf is going to win," Aragorn smiled. "You have no chance. Hand over your leaf, now, old man."

"We shall see, we shall see," the wizard stroked his beard.

Gimli seemed to be slowly. "Sesenty-vix…" he slurred, as he dropped another mug onto the pile in front of him. "Seten-seveny…" Suddenly, he stopped.

"No stopping!" Éomer chided.

Legolas stopped for a second as well. "A slight tingly in my fingertips…" he stared in awe at his hand. "I think it's affecting me." However, he went right back to drinking.

The dwarf swayed on his chair. "Only real dwarves…" he said drunkenly, "swim with the little hairy women…" With a huge snore and unfocused eyes, he fell over backwards and knocked over the table of mugs.

At the same time, Legolas put down his eightieth mug and glanced happily at the sleeping form of the dwarf, reeking with the scent of ale. "Well," the elf said, "that's that. Game over."

Gandalf stared in disbelief as the dwarf collapsed. "But… what…."

Aragorn cackled. "Well, you heard the elf. That's that. Game over. Hand over the leaf, Gandalf."

Disgruntled, the wizard handed over his last pouch of Old Tobey and put out his pipe, deciding to keep what he had left for later. "That elf must have a hole in his stomach!" he muttered to himself.

The man heard this, but frowned at the worried expression on the wizard's face. "What is it, Gandalf?"

The wizard sighed. "If I cannot even guess correctly on the ending of a small drinking game," his eyes were far away as he said this. "Then… what will become of my guess for Frodo?"

Aragorn put a hand on the wizard's shoulder. "We have time. Every day, Frodo moves closer to Mordor," he assured him.

The wizard shook his head sadly. "Do we know that?"

"What does your heart tell you?" the man asked gently.

The wizard paused and closed his eyes, but his expression lightened as he thought. "That Frodo is alive… Yes…. Yes, he is alive."

TBC...