"No, Mr. Strider, sir, I won't take part in trickin' 'im. It's not proper and it's not right. He's a friend. What's more, he's shown us all sorts of kindness and looked after us. I won't do it!"
"We're not asking you to hurt him, Sam. Merely engage him in a bit of friendly conversation about...about trees...errr...about gardening."
"He's right, Sam. All you need do is draw him back out here," said Frodo. "There's no harm in it. Besides, he's missing this feast. You'd be doing him a favour."
"Right, the sooner he's out..." said Merry, eagerly flanked by Pippin (who, at a barely audible murmur chimed in "And they focus on getting the story out,") "we can go back to those lovely little pastries!" A chorus of hobbit-sized stomachs (equal in expansion-capacity to the fabled Oliphaunts) growled in unison, joined, much to the dismay of it's owner, by Sam's own rebellious tummy.
Seeing Sam's faltering reluctance, and the quick glance he reverently paid to the pastry table in the corner farthest from him, Faramir quickly added, "No harm will befall him on our account. We promise." A chorus of agreement came from the gathered houses of Denethor (a rather large contingent, including many of the Ruling Stewards, many of whom had come to speak with Aragorn on a little matter of delayed entrances), and Théoden (composed mostly by those of the second line of kings, the first line having quiet debates with members of the House of Denethor about various bets placed on the year of Aragorn's return).
Sam turned towards the door with all the vigour and resolution he could muster. Taking large (for determined hobbits, at any rate) strides towards the door, he continued to convince himself of his purpose. "Right, then. Beggin' your pardon, but there's been a question burning in my mind about a certain set of roses he planted in the lady Arwen's garden. Just couldn't ever get 'em to root back in the Shire, without..."
And with that, he was gone. An hour's worth of hobbit-priming had finally succeeded, and silent, thankful prayers were offered that no one else would have to commit to the task of retrieving the Prince.
"Right," said Elladan, "that wasn't too difficult." The glares he gathered were priceless. He silently took stock of those who would be winning this night's prize for best Dark-Lord (of any age) imitation.
Elrohir took in the situation a bit more readily, drawing the crowd's attention to the main issue at hand. "So what now?"
He was immediately replied by Elrohir. "We should take stock of what we have and what we will need to draw this tale out of him."
Millennia of practice in the delicate art of mischief made the twin sons of Elrond and Celebrían the apparent orchestrators, at least in their minds. Their minds started spinning in tandem, thinking what measures would be necessary to pry the tale from Legolas. Unfortunately, they had not counted on one fact: social decorum.
"And what, pray tell, makes two 'Half-elves' the authorities in such matters?" asked a rather put-out Amrod, with his twin nodding in adamant agreement and adding under his breath "they're not even half-elven at that." Amrod continued, saying "What could such decendents of that Edain thief possibly know about drawing out a Silvan or Sindarin Elf? Surely we, the sons of Fëanor, would be better trained for such a task."
If the flames in Elladan and Elrohir's eyes burned hot, they were dim compared to the fire in Eärendil's eyes, whose wrath was only just contained by the restraining arms of those around him. Yet before either could say ought, Elladan stepped in, drawling out in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "Yes, and we all know how you would 'draw out' the Prince. As we all recall what happened at Doriath, I think we would all wish to avoid the sacking of Valinor."
The brawl was swift, and the outcome timelessly predictable. Though the House of Fëanor, joined with a large contingent of Nolodrim, were powerful, they were well matched by the House of Fingolfin and the rest of the Noldor, along with many Sindar and Silvan elves. The battle would have lasted an eternity were it not for the muffled voice of one slightly-plump hobbit and the rather uncharacteristically adamant (and less than enthused) voice of an Elven Prince heard off in the far distance. The sound, though slight, was magnified by the carefully lain out halls until it was quite discernable. Once again, this age-old battle was interrupted by necessity. For a moment, at least.
"Oh, great. They will soon come, and we are no closer to a resolution."
"We would have been, had it not been for the over-zealous Fëanorians. How is it that they always manage to pop up just when things are going well and bring up those damned jewels," quipped Elladan.
The battle resumed.
In the midst of the battle Elwë Singollo, who responded to a rather base reference from Caranthir connecting the use of Dwarven Caves and the union of his daughter with Beren by making an angry reference to Caranthir's ancestral descent from wargs (and, in particular, his resemblance to the aft-end of one) paused at a curious sound coming from beyond the fight. Looking up (and rather expecting another fist aimed at his head for his troubles) he noticed that the others had stopped fighting and were staring at a hunched figure at a table in the north east corner of the room. There, huddled over the bench, diligently carving away at a small gold band, sat Celebrimbor, muttering softly and picking away with his tools at something that gleamed in the candlelight.
"Oh, no you don't!" cried Aragorn, "We are NOT going through all that again!" No tale is worth that! he thought, lunging lunged at Celebrimbor. In a rather comical and undignified fashion, he collided with one furry-footed, brown mop-haired hobbit. A mutual "oof" rang out in the hall, followed by a "Sorry" and an "ouch." Which belonged to whom was rather irrelevant, as both were equally justified in having made any (if not all) of the remarks.
And Celebrimbor, oblivious to the commotion behind him, studiously continued.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.