Disclaimer : the general structure is Geoffrey Chaucer's property, the characters and places are J.R.R. Tolkien's. I do not intend any harm in writing this fanfiction, my purpose is to express the admiration I have for this long piece of writing that are The Canterbury Tales, as for the extraordinary richness of The Lord of the Rings's world. Please R&R. English is not my native language. I hope you'll enjoy !
A very General PrologueWhen that April month in Bree came I
A monstrous pelting rain did I defy,
Until I put myself dry in a tavern
There I thought myself in a cavern
For people and stench reminded me of so.
But light, music and drink was there also,
And a good many stinky asleep travellers.
Then the innkeeper he came with whiskers
And on his puzzled head a nubuckskin cap,
A daisy-white apron fringed with blue fur on his lap.
Red was his complexion and shiny his eyes,
His hair grey and dishevelled bore he long in size.
Like a too swelled goatskin bottle was his belly,
His cheeks smiling and bloating like jelly.
The Inn of the Prancing Unicorn he owned,
Where trolls, dwarves, men and elves in mead drowned.
The name of that good fellow was Tom Bombadil,
Who over all loved running among daffodil'.
"Goodday my lord!" he welcomed me.
"To my best dishes let me introduce thee."
As he spoke so entered a noisy crowd,
Soaked to the skin yet they were proud.
"I am your true guest", said the surprised Host.
"Pray follow me, and forget about this frost.
And you, dear stranger, please come too,
Or the cold you came with will make you blue."
And so the guest led them to a cosy room,
Where from the beams hung bald bats in bloom.
Now let me tell you about that merry company :
Because for sure they were gay and happy.
Sixteen fellows were there within it,
Men, elves, wizards, dwarf, hobbit, random hobbit.
Together they formed a melting pot,
That never in Middle Earth did anyone knot.
For fear and hunger pushed them to gather,
So that orcs and flying slugs they might fight together.
The whole of them in pilgrimage did they go,
In the shrine of the Mount Doom where Frodo,
The most famous hobbit ever living,
Once destroyed in Mordor the One Ring.
Great was his deed, painful his journey,
However he did succeed in leaving his chutney,
And walked across enchanted fields or barren land,
Accompanied by a merry joyful glad band,
In order to fulfil his destiny of saviour of the world,
But his patience and courage many times whirled.
Selfish he was not, so despite many torments
Did he reach his goal and after many attempts,
He came inside the dark, dark, dark land
Of the dark, dark, dark lord Sauron and,
After a tremendous struggle with his selves,
Did he throw the golden ring as would elves
Of a rotten drop of dew fallen in a sacred web.
In the deep, deep, deep depths of lava did it fall
And of Sauron, nasty orcs and Evil was it all.
Now let me describe the members of that fellowship,
Who from everywhere came, by foot, horse, or ship.
The most venerable was of mystical stuff made,
For he wore long grey robes all in shade.
An old pointed plumed hat on his thick grey hair,
A long thick grey beard with locks fair,
A long gnarled wooden staff with a fake dragon egg,
Refined he looked, serenity was all he could beg.
Things did he never do on a half,
Widespread was his fame, and his name was Gandalf.
A man was by his side, proud and ill-shaved,
On his face could be read "many lives have I saved".
His clothes of leather dark and muddy,
A great traveller was he probably.
Some called him Strider, Ranger but his name was Aragorn,
Between women and a burden of noble birth was he torn.
A noisy and interesting band of hobbits there was,
Composed of four merry curly-haired lads.
Big feet, small height, rosy cheeks, cherished belly,
They all looked as if they had drunk a keg of brandy.
The one called Merry was, well, merry.
A smile stuck on his face, always happy.
His fellow and cousin was Pippin,
Whose love of sprouts was a sin.
Then there was the brave and loyal Sam,
Who was as worry as an old ram.
Frodo was their secretive and tormented friend,
To whom a dangerous quest the elves did lend.
A tall, pointed-eared, fair-haired elf stood near them,
For him was a foggy dew the greatest gem,
In boots and cloak across the woods he went,
Silent as the arrows of his bow that he bent.
His elvish name was but Legolas Greenleaf,
And in sunbeams or streams was his belief.
A beautiful elf lady stood by him,
Her face pale as a shining star's rim,
Her hair smooth as silk and dark as night.
For her beauty mortal men showed their might,
But her heart and thoughts belonged to Aragorn,
Arwen was she, and with moonlight herself did she adorn.
Her grandmother was with her, fresh as the breeze,
In Lothlorien did she dwell, her eyes as stars did freeze,
Her long flowing hair were golden,
And she was bright and attracting as a maiden.
The one whom some called sorceress,
Was Galadriel and a great enchantress.
The shy and young lady Eowyn,
Who Aragorn's tormented heart began to win,
Sat at a preventive distance from Arwen,
For it is better to stay away from the lion's den.
Twice shorter and thrice hairier, was Gimli,
The dwarf who underground led a quarry.
Plaited was his beard, whetted was his axe,
Whatever the prey, he followed the tracks.
His voice like thunder, his feet like stone,
And a delicate helmet which in the sun shone.
The tall fair-haired man that stood by the fire,
His face all melancholy, who would any maid inspire,
Was known by the sweet name of Boromir.
He was as worthy in battle as the wise Mithrandir,
However a worm had his heart corrupted,
Of glory for his people did he dreamed,
But in his hope he had but lost
The sense of friendship that it cost.
Another merry hobbit was there,
A pint of beer did he share,
With his pink hairless chin.
He hummed to the sound of a violin,
Happy as a lark, rejoiced in food and friends,
For that Bilbo the feast had no ends.
An old wizard, as white as a frozen daisy,
Stayed in the background of this crowd noisy.
He had better away from that silly company ran,
But a stubborn pride and bitter rivalry held that Saruman.
Even more uncomfortable among that gaiety,
Was a strange-looking man, all sleepy,
Behind a greasy curtain of black hair,
And a look borrowed from a brigands' lair.
Grima Wormtongue was that sinister creature,
With a depressed raven had he a feature.
The last of the company was not in the surrounds,
He had a tendency to make gurgling sounds,
And had been pushed outside to the hosts' relief,
Unfortunately he came back with a sauced beef,
Jumping and advocating people to taste it,
But all he got was a choir of "damn it".
Hobbit had he once been, gluey was he now,
Gollum was his name, and firmly did he vow,
Fresh salmons or springing hare to catch,
But always would his two conflicting selves dispatch.
Now, oyez oyez, thou dauntless readers,
Tom Bombadil won't go to the greengrocer's,
Oh, excuse me for those nonsense rhymes,
I must have wandered sometimes.
So, the Host, to that merry company he proposed :
That each pilgrim should tell a tale and be exposed,
To the appreciation of his fellows,
The best would win a bunch of fried swallows,
The others would go away with six-foot long faces,
But the tavern or the shrine would not be the places,
For them to complain about such rules,
Because their own minds would be their tools.
Now, it is high time with the tales to begin,
Who would first speak in that crowded inn ?