Resting on his laurels, Pippen laid back onto the grass to recouperate from his great strain. Just as he did so, however, something went and plopped itself right on his stomach. Having the wind knocked out of him, Pippin naturally squeaked as his breath escaped.

As he lay trying to suck in oxygen, he heard what sounded like . . . could it be? Celebration? He never knew that orcs could party. Maybe it was something left over from the original elf-state. But then he thought he felt a rumbling in the ground. Before he could figure out what the pounding was, he was lifted and held under the arms of an orc who held Merry was well. Quickly they were carried away from the site of celebration and rumbling.


This was quite enough for Merry! Having been sheltered in the baby carrier for so long, his nose had become unaccustomed to the foul stench of these—things, and being stuffed under an odiferous armpit was not proper acclimation. So now, his sensitive nose thus assaulted along with his dignity, his wrath rose high.

Crying out loudly, in a manner that might have been interpreted as a call for attention from their possible-rescuers the Rohirrim, had it not been for the obvious sincerity of emotion, Merry began a passionate and moving monologue that would certainly go down in history as second only to Feanor's: "I AM NOT BAGGAGE, YOU UNCULTURED SWINE! PUT ME DOWN"


The Riders by now had gotten near enough that even the more dim-witted among the orcs had realized the dessert coming toward them on thundering hooves was going to be a little harder to catch and chew than they had reckoned on. Pandemonium broke out. Ugluk formed the orcs around him into a group and armed them with projectiles as best he could - in this case, cans of Maggoty Bread and odd leftover orc-parts.

As the noise rose behind him, Grishnakh worked his way down the slope struggling to hold onto the two creatures under his pits. He wondered at their strange resiliance - he had often subdued his prey or even his companions (sometimes the same thing) by merely shoving them into what his troop called "The Pits of Mordor." These cufflinks kicked and one of them cried out something about cabbage and wine. He reached the edge of the forest and they were still doing the mambo beneath his arms.

Perhaps this is why the Master had wanted them! They were immune to stench and fume, or carried some secret that made them so. A recipe involving cabbage and wine, maybe. If he had that secret, he would be rich. Every orc in Mordor would pay well for such an ability, even that Wizard in his tower would want it, freedom from the stench of his own workers!

He dropped the little creatures into the brush and pinned them down. "What is it?" he demanded. "How do you live in spite of the stench? What kind of wine?"


"Kill the O...... Oh!" Eomer began retching fiercely... all manner of things came back up , the carrot last.... "What foul odour is that? Worse than the foulest Orc I have ever smelled."

Their horses pulled back, fell to the ground, and rolled about a bit, hoping great chunks of earth would lodge themselves in their nostrils and thus save them from the smell.

Their Riders did the same. Soon, the entire company was engulfed in mud, from the tips of their toes to the roots of their blond hair. Well, the roots on most were really dark. It's hard to be a Rohirrim without that wondrous blond hair and not many were lucky enough to possess it. Thus, the business for Helm Hammerhand's Haircolouring Haven was brisk.

Enough of that - once the men and their mounts mustered manly courage, they rode forward. Swords swinging, spears swaying, soldiers singing...

Eothain shook his head. "There goes the element of surprise!" He followed Eomer, hoping to prevent his liege lord from being eviscerated as soon as they engaged the enemy.


Pippin was dropped and pinned onto the ground by his and Merry's orc captor.

"What is it? How do you live in spite of stench? What kind of wine?" questioned the orc.

"Well, uh, I don't know what kind of wine. All I know is the wine at Mr. Bilbo's party was very good. Um, well, uh. Merry?"


Merry had been about to snarl at Grishnakh, his indignation still high, when Pippin had responded. That brief moment allowed Merry to recall his wits, and as Pippin now moved the ball to his court, he smiled winningly at Grishnakh, his mind dancing a thousand different circles around the current problem. "Elven wine, of course," he said in answer to the easy question.

Stench, the orc had said. But of course, the hobbits had shown remarkable strength in resisting it, and now the orc was curious. And as Merry, unlike Frodo with the mithril, had no intention of enlightening anyone of the discreet nose filters implanted in all hobbits at majority, he knew he could manipulate this situation to his heart's desire:

"How do we escape the stench, eh? I'll bet you'd really like to know that!"


Grishnakh snarled and slobbered to himself for a moment. The mention of Elven wine seemed to enrage him. Not even for that wizard in the tower of Isengard would he do such a thing, drink (or worse, bathe in) some filth of the Elves making. But perhaps they were lying, to save their own necks... it made sense, perfect sense to an orc who did this on a regular basis himself. And yet the vision of himself, wealthy and powerful, the Great Grishnakh peddling his shining bottles of Stench-B-Gone still wavered in front of his eyes like a mirage in the desert.

"Do I want to know? You'll tell me or I'll... I'll....eat you! Where is the recipe?!"

Somewhere behind them he could hear the rapidly approaching hooves of the Whiteskins.


The wind shifted, and Ugluk and company watched in amazement as the Rohirrim suddenly staggered to a stop and began flailing around on the ground, horses and all. They then remounted, entirely caked in mud, to resume their gallop. Showers of mud-cakes, twigs and dead grass flew off the assembly as they came on.

"Camouflage!" concluded Ugluk. Arthur nodded, though he had no idea what that word meant. Oobleck, likewise ignorant, took it to mean some kind of command to attack and charged down the slope straight towards the thundering wall of mud that was coming at them, the Lone Orc.

"Hey ho to the bottle I go..." Eomer charged singing the wrong song, but Eothain paid no heed.

'Ah,' Eothain thought, 'My bottle of hair-coloring is almost empty. I must purchase more when we get back.' He threw his spear halfheartedly as he considered the cost of the concoction. "I wonder if I can make it up myself... probably not.'

"Over the river and through the woods..."

Eothain finally listened and promptly threw a clot of dirt from off his shoulder at his Marshal. 'I could kill him when he does that,' the Rohir thought furiously. 'He knows I miss my granny!' A tear fell through the grime and gave Eothain a thought. In a moment, he was sticking his finger in his mouth, slicking it, and dragging it through the mud on his face - making a huge smiley face...

Meanwhile....
---

Treebeard had been relaxing with cucumber slices against his eyes and preparing for his big scene to come when the sounds of battle came to him upon the wind. He stood up suddenly and almost tripped, as he had forgotten he was in the middle of a Rooticure and had wedges of foam between his roots. The Japanese Maple huorn which had been attending to him removed them quickly and he got underway . . . Ents never moved really fast unless there was threat of a fire . . . or a Buy One Get One Free sale at Eru's Garden Emporium.

---

Faramir was tired and bored.

It was bad enough that he was stuck here in Osgiliath doing guard duty -- it was damp by the river and the mist made him sneeze, and he just could not keep his boots clean of mud -- but he was also having the worst time with insomnia. He had been having such odd dreams of late, in which his brother Boromir featured heavily. Usually the dreams were about Boromir at his most pedantic, going on and on in typical Gondorian lecture mode about leaving gold jewelry where you find it and never wearing a red shirt, especially into battle -- which was enough to make anyone not want to sleep, if only to avoid another lecture.

There was also a more disturbing one, however, that involved a battle, a cell phone, a pungent ranger, and the nastiest, pointy-teethed Orcs imaginable who carried even nastier sharp pointy arrows, and they were aiming them at Boromir.

"Probably he gave one too many lectures about wearing red and keeping your mail shirt on," he muttered, yawning until his jaws ached. "Wonder what the big deal is with all this fuss about red shirts all of sudden? And when is that brother of mine coming home, anyway? I'm tired of doing all this guard duty on my own!"

He yawned again, then wandered off into the mist in search of a cup of coffee.

---
Back to the Orcs...

"You certainly do not wish to eat me," said Merry slowly. "There is no ketchup left. And I am sure that your digestion is poor."

The orc frowned, and rubbed his belly, contemplating.

"Yes, I am quite sure your digestion could not take a hobbit. Do you know what?" asked Merry. "I'll bet that one of those nice muddy Men on the horses who up until this point have been quite useless in rescuing us but probably have good hearts and only need a little alerting to our presence, would have something for your digestion; an arrow, a spear, something along that line. What do you think, Pip?"


After his request for help to Merry, he had stared intently at the ugly orcs face. Multiple lines criss-crossed his face. Many places were plastered with mud. But then in the corner of the orcs mouth, he saw . . . could he be dreaming? Was that toothpaste? However, Merry interrupted his thoughts with "What do you think?"

Well, he had heard something about not good for eating. So he thought quickly for something witty. But today was not his day.

"Of course not," he replied bluntly. "Hobbits, you know are very tough and would need something to aid the digestion, like Merry said." Just then he saw something loom up behind their orc captor. He turned to Merry and said, "Do you see that?"


Oobleck thundered down the hillock straight for the advancing mass of muddy men. He flailed his arms and rolled his eyes most impressively, something that had often won him battles in the pecking order of Orc-dom.

They were nearly upon him before he realized he was all alone, the rest of his company were still behind him, in fact it appeared many of them were now in full-blown retreat. Snarling to try to cover his great embarrassment at this obvious faux pas, he decided he would make up for it by being extra tough. He lunged at one of the nearest horses intending to start out by eating the horse, then working his way up to the rider.

Alas, it was the last thought his orcsome brain had while still connected to his ungainly body.

Oobleck suddenly felt surprisingly light and carefree, though he did wonder briefly why there was a smiley-face drawn on the one who now carried his musing head aloft on a spear.

Grishnakh hesistated. What was this, were they threatening him with indigestion? How dare they! He wanted that stench-removing recipe and by golly he was going to get it.

"Grar!" he said, or something very like it. "I'll find that recipe! I'll rip you apart right now and search you down to your bones to.....uph...urk......argle."

Uttering this last linguistically advanced elucidation, he suddenly toppled down upon them, squashing them both as his head went bounding off by itself into the bushes like a soccer-ball. The Rider who had thus dispatched him could certainly not be faulted for not seeing their feet sticking out from under that lumpy carcass.

Not again, thought Merry, as he found himself once again unable to move because of an Orc. Merry vowed that, once he returned to the Shire, he and his recently-discovered claustrophobia would fall at the feet of his cousin Pimpernel, and ask forgiveness for the dastardly locking up of said cousin in a box chest. He would apologize on his knees, with a bouquet of lobelias, and would wait at least ten seconds before requesting a similar apology long left ungiven for the resounding punch given by said cousin after the chest was opened. Well...perhaps only five.

But this is no time for future planning, Merry reprimanded himself. This is time for...a monologue. "Or even better," he added aloud, "a song. I just want to sing!" And as the strings swelled, and quivered on a high note of expectation, Merry opened his mouth to belt (or squeak, considering the compression of his lungs) out a suitable solo.

"No—no singing," croaked a nearby dying orc, and Merry sighed as the strings came to a scratchy halt.

"You just like to ruin everything, don't you?" muttered Merry. As the mood was ruined, Merry began urgently pushing the carcasse from him. Those violin players might be shy of criticism, but, song fully played or no, they would expect payment for their services, and Merry had no funds. Even worse, the only place to hide was in the deep dark dank dusty forest.

"Hurry Pippin!" he called, grunting as the great carcasse was lifted. "We'll get killed in this battle if we don't hurry and hide. Look! A forest! What luck!"


As the orc had fallen upon himself and his friend, Pippin was about to exclaim "EWW!". So being buried underneath the orc, the poor Took's mouth was still semi-open. Oh, how horrible it was to taste the orcs armor. It was all leather and metal and had the distinct smell of blood.

Next to him, he thought he heard Merry say something about a song. But he didn't know for sure as sound was muffled underneath the orc. A little while later, the orc began to move off of him. Was he dreaming? Was he sinking into the ground? Then he realized that it was Merry lifting the orc up. Pippin then helped with what little there was left to do.

"Hurry, Pippin!" called Merry. "We'll get killed in this battle if we don't hurry and hide. Look! A forest! What luck!"

So without replying to his fellow escapee, Pippin made a mad dash for the cover of the wood.

There were Orcs and horses everywhere. Who planned this battle? What a mess, Merry thought. For a moment he considered asking one of those huge horsemen about it, and perhaps he could be kept safe by them from the invisible orchestra (who for the moment were being distracted by some Orcs calling for appropriate death-scene music)...but the sight of a smiley face painted on one of their cheeks made the creepy forest look positively heartwarming.

So with a few quick steps, Merry dashed to the left, ducking down behind an Orc carcasse, Pippin close behind. A furtive look was cast in all directions, and then Merry hopped over the dead orc, skipped to the right a little, and then pirouetted and ducked under a horse that was charging through. He was a little short, and tripped, but rolled over his left shoulder and bounced to his feet. Hoping that Pippin was catching on, he squatted behind another dead orc, and then sprinted behind a tree, where he stood straight and tall (er, ish) and hopefully unseen.

"Well, Pippin—" he began in a low voice. "Pippin? Pippin, where are you?"


Oobleck, or rather his head, bobbed along on the end of a stick and thus beheld what appeared to be a ballet or folk dance of some kind off by the woods, the little creatures were pirouetting and skipping off into the lush greenery. How he longed for arms and legs again so he might also skip and dance and a stomach so he might eat them.

Ugluk, or rather little bits of Ugluk, flailed past him in a top-notch urban break-dance to go with the music that was swelling all around. Arthur, one of the only surviving orcs at this point, ran by. His eyes bugged out rather severly at the sight of Oobleck's head, which took the opportunity to stick its tongue out at him before freezing that way, just as mother always said it would.


"What's this?" Eomer cried in alarm, noting that a great ugly, still talking head, was skewered to his spear. "How did that happen?"

'Ah!' he thought. 'I am quicker than my own eyes. Killed it without thought. Eowyn should see me now.'

"Sire!"

Eomer looked away in consternation. Could not Eothain see he was congratulating himself upon his quick reflexes? "What?" he asked tersely.

"Many are getting away towards the river - to hide in yonder forest - and there are two scraggly, whining, dancing? creatures running that way too. What manner of beings are they?"

"Does not matter, my fair Captain. We are in the midst of battle - Is not it glorious? Whips the mud right off my hair - though my face is still strangely caked with it. Must do something about that."

He took the dead Orc's head and turned it around - using the hair to wipe his face. "Ah! That feels much better!"

"Kill the Orcs!" he screamed again now that he was feeling a little more presentable. "And anything they have with them!"


Boromir -- not for the first time suddenly finding himself among Eomer's eored -- was confused and momentarily at a loss for words. He had been on his way to appear in a vision to Faramir, in order to relieve his boredom -- night watchman duty on the Anduin being notoriously dull -- and now here he was, being accosted by a very muddy Eomer.

Is my ghostly presence doomed to be at the beck and call of anyone in Middle-earth who happens to be thinking of me? he wondered, looking sidelong at Eomer and the scowling Eothain. That could be inconvenient!

He decided to cover his confusion with irritability.

"Speak not to me of 'dead upon the ground'!" he grumbled testily. "That memory is still too fresh for comfort. But since I am here -- however that may be -- let me just set the matter straight on this horse business. It is not I who lose the horses, my friend. It is they who lose me! I should seek compensation from the Rohirrim for damage to a brand new pair of the Gondorian boots, worn away to nothing from having to walk all the way to Rivendell after that horse you loaned me left me alone in the wilderness. However, since I am no longer in any condition to worry about new boots, I shall let you off this time."

Pulling out the Script which the Powers That Be had allowed him to carry -- now that he was dead and supposedly out of the story -- Boromir read through it quickly.

"I fear I cannot remain, friend Eomer," he said after a moment's reading. "I am due shortly to appear to my brother in a ghostly vision and I must be off to find all the props I need for that. But before I go, I think I ought to warn you to get the hair out of your eyes and make certain you do not slaughter any non-Orc type person in the heat of battle. It is vital to the storyline! What is a non-Orc type person, you ask? Alas! I can say no more, else it would be considered a Spoiler."

He slapped Eomer on the back, briefly wondering if he could even feel it, then waved as he drifted off in the general direction of the Anduin.

"Have fun destroying the Orcs, and let me know if you have any more trouble with that apple-wielding counselor of yours. I shall come haunt him, if I am free. The Ghost of Gondor shall see it done!"


Anything they have with them? Arthur heard this last bit and gasped, frantically stuffing his beloved pet cockroach, 'Benny' into his pocket and bidding him to "stay." The last of his troop were being decimated all around him until he staggered down the slope, the Last Orc.

It would have been a very dramatic moment if he could have only been of the physical presence and education of his former leader, Lurtz, or even able to think of some marvelous ending line. Alas, he was only a former cook, and a junior chef at that... His dramatic ending was more like the final scene in a very poorly done cooking show put on by sock-puppets, his arms above his head as he fell to the ground, each hand seeming to say "Blanch!"

Benny scuttled out from his pocket and scurried though the grass where he disappeared into the mists of the story, at least until that evening when one of the Riders cleaned out his horses' hooves and found a unique roach-paste in one of them.

"Look! They are done for. We have beaten them, the fiends, the curs, the nasty smelly things! And now the plains of Rohan will smell sweet again!"

"But what about those two gangly things..."

"'Tis not gangly things - 'tis Boromir again! What ho my friend. Speak to me - why ridest thou with the Rohirrim - dids't thou lose a horse again!!! Theoden will not allow this further - he's got a nasty, smelly, yucky, slimy counselor who will throw apples at you - very hard apples - until you lay dead upon the ground."

Eothain hit himself over the head again - his Captain had totally lost it!


---

Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas were merrily skipping across the plains of Rohan (in apparent hot pursuit of the speedy Uruks) idly watching the butterflies flutter in the breeze.

"Just take in this beauty, lads.... You don't find Vanessa cardui this far south! Oooooo look! A Delias eucharis!" Aragorn shouted out in an absurdly high voice as he danced after the flying creatures.

"You would think for the plains of Rohan there would be some more Rohirrim about, but apprently they have been tied up somewhere. I wonder where they could have gone...."

Legolas felt utterly ridiculous merrily skipping after Aragorn who was dancing after butterflies while shouting out in an absurdly high voice what sounded like names but in a language he hadn't heard before. Now the only positive thing about all of this was that the Ranger was heading in the direction taken by the Uruks so the elf was willing to put up with this until Aragorn wondered out loud where the Rohirrim had gone to.

"Oh no!" Legolas moaned in embarrassment while he suddenly put the brakes on. Then he quickly scanned the landscape all around him in hope that no one had seen him skipping like he had been...

----

Far off in Edoras...

Eowyn tossed fitfully in her sleep, dreaming of her brother riding into battle against orcs, reveling in victory. "Glory hound," she murmured and rolled over. The dream changed, revealing a fair prince of the Elves riding toward her over the plain: a great shining figure on a silver horse, followed by a horde of marauding fan girls. Eowyn groaned angrily and rolled over again.

---

Now Legolas was accustom to feeling the sensation of his fan girls dreaming about him from time to time. But when a woman's dream angrily over rode them all he was first surprised by it then curious. So he gently replied back to her sleeping mind by softly thinking "Who is now dreaming of me?"

---

Eowyn sat bolt upright, eyes wide, startled awake by the voice of the Elf in her head. "He spoke to me," she whispered to the darkness.

The shock passed in a moment, though, and she snuggled back under the covers with a dreamy smile and a long sigh. Her fair prince had a nice voice, she thought. But now that she wanted to be dreaming, she couldn't seem to fall back to sleep.

---

Legolas' curiosity grew when the woman didn't respond. Now despite his being careful he could've still awaken her if she wasn't use to hearing an unfamilar voice in her head or she may not have wished for her identity to be known just yet. Either way the Prince had found something pleasant to counter balance him being a babysitter for Aragorn who was still chasing after the butterflies thank goodness. Also he noted that no Rohirrim had showed up yet so his skipping would remain a secret unless Aragorn and Gimli started blabbing about it when they did show up. Then he sighed. Maybe he could claim temporary insanity as a defense...

Eomer watched in surprise as Boromir's mouth moved - but no sound could he hear. He bellowed to his men to shut their mouths - but, once silence reigned, still - no words could he hear from the doughty Boromir!

Eothan pulled his horse next to Eomer's and waved his hand over his lord's eyes. "What are you doing? Stopping us like this? We must continue to yell and scream and sing weighty war songs!"

"Do you not give honour to the Lord Boromir?"

"Boromir?"

"Look! There! By the Orc head, Eothan. He has the script!" Eomer stood in his stirrups and waved frantically. "What does it say, Lord Boromir? Will I win renown with this battle? Do I get top billing in the next installment?"

He sat back dejectedly as Boromir's hand passed through him and the man of Gondor disappeared... nay, faded away. "Hmmm - is that the way Elves fade?"

Eothain hit him over the head with a spear. "Onward! We must be onward. The last of the Orcs and two odd looking creatures are getting away!!!!"


When Eowyn finally drifted back into slumber, it did not go as she had hoped. Oh, she dreamed... that she was fighting an Orc and her sword turned into a large blade of grass... that Grima was asking Theoden for her hand and her uncle was going to agree... that Eomer returned victorious from battle after battle, and the people threw flowers at his feet. Nightmares all. Where, oh where was her shining Elf prince on his silver horse?

Suddenly, into Éowyn's dream rode Aragorn outfitted with two large plastic pointed ears, atop of a rather shabby and broken free-floating merry-go-round horse, whilst a wind-machine off-camera tried desperately to dislodge his matted hair, at the same time as munching on a jam sandwich (without the crusts). Quickly wiping the crumbles from his still-chewing mouth, and completely ignoring the large drop of jam slowly making its way down the front of his jacket, Aragorn stopped (in mid-float) before the gentle maiden.

"I..." He began, standing upright on the horse and spreading his arms wide, which resulted in the remains of his sandwich landing right onto Éowyn's face. "...am Sir Lack-o-legs of Leicester-Shire! A brave knight come at your beckoning call!"

"Umm... you seem to have a little something on your face..." He then pointed out to the jammy-lady by politely tapping the side of his cheek in demonstration.

Dismounting his steed in style (which involved three double somersaults, a large bunch of wilting dandelions, and an imagination the size of Papua New Guinea), the brave Sir strode up to the fair damsel and stood proud for all to stare in wonder.

"I am your knight in shining armour!" At which point his dire attire was replaced by an assorted collection of tin-foil wrapped bandages and a saucepan on his head. The glare from the foil almost blinding the bedazzled maiden (which is never a bad thing when impressing a lady, you know).

"Or, perhaps, your knight in fine Highland knit-wear!" Which, to further confuse the situation, resulting in a rather fetching collection of woollen cardigans, crocheted trousers and a selection of rather-itchy underwear. The saucepan was now replaced by a head-consuming tea-cosy that obscured his face beneath the multiple layers of fine Scottish lamb.

Deftly removing the tea-cosy, and finding a large tray complete with teapot, china cups and saucers balanced precariously on his head, the kindly Sir poured himself two cups of Earl Grey (it wouldn't do to give a lady the packaged variety!) and presented her ladyship with a steaming beverage.

"Tea! Tea! It's time for Tea! Half Past Three! It's Three for Tea!" He began, then pulled out an over-sized pocketwatch from the large cardigan and stared at it in amazement.

"Half past three! We're late! We're late! We're going to miss the 3:45 steeple-chase at Ascot! Oh my, oh my! This'll never do!" Before anything else could be said on the matter (what, to be honest, was there else to say?), the dashing Sir triple-vaulted back on to his horse and produced a bugle from some previously hidden pocket.

Blowing quickly on the instrument, proceeded by an absurdly loud rendition of 'When the Saints go marching in', he shouted "Fore!"

Followed immediately after by "Three! Two! One!" and the knight exploded in a enormous explosion of antipodean proportions (which, if you are ever to ask an antipodean, is quite remarkable). As the cloud of smoke slowly dispelled, there was left hovering in the mist a pair of dazzling blue eyes and a disembodied pair of luscious lips.

"I bet you didn't expect that to happen!" An other-worldly voice proclaimed through the lips, before planting a rather sloppy and wet kiss on the maiden's face. With a wink of an eyeball, the eyes and lips vanished, leaving behind them the faintest aroma of fine, Leicestershire strawberry jam....


Normally Legolas couldn't sense the dreams of females unless they were dreaming of him. But this time he suddenly found his mind one with the dreaming maiden due to the intervention of an unkown power while he watch as she tried to fight an Orc with a blade of grass, while someone by the name of Grima asked someone by the name of Theoden for her hand which nearly made her sick, and while a brother by the name of Eomer kept winning battle after battle which ticked her off royally since she wanted such acclaim too. Then just as the maiden wondered where her shining Elf prince was Legolas was startled to find himself now in her dream instead of just watching and shining while astride a silver horse just as she had invisioned. Then he saw the fair maiden standing up ahead of him on the plain and her beauty so captivated him that he instantly gave her one of his charming smiles while he began to ride over to her.

Unfortunately the maiden had to endure one last nightmare which wasn't of her making and the elf wasn't even sure the word nightmare described it adequately. He knew all to well from past experience that Aragorn was flaky upstairs but this...spectacle...surely couldn't have come from him!

Then Legolas spurred on his horse to a faster stride and soon he had the animal sliding stop before the maiden while he nimbly leapt from the saddle. After that he took out a moist towelette he suddenly had acquired and began to gently wipe the strawberry jam from the maiden's face along with the drool left behind from those weird floating lips.

"My Lady are you alright?" Legolas asked softly while he continued to smile at the fair maiden his blue eyes gazing into hers.

Fate, Eowyn decided, was against her even in her dreams. It was bad enough to fight orcs and watch her dear brother get the glory. It was worse being blitz-attacked (or was that blintz-attacked?) by a creepy, greasy-haired stranger... she got enough of that from Grima. But this... this was the last straw...

The fairest prince in Middle-earth stood before her, his shining blonde hair tangling with hers in the breeze, his dazzling blue eyes gazing down into hers, his fingers (and a moist towelette) gentle on her face.

And all she could say around the strawberry drool was... "BLEH."


Now Legolas didn't fail to notice his now shining blond hair tangling with the maiden's in the breeze. But for the first time he didn't regret not having his hair brush anymore for he liked how it look all messed up with hers. And the longer he gazed into the maiden's lovely blue eyes while he continued to clean her strawberry drool covered face the more he became captivated by her pale beauty which lay underneath.

Finally he had successfully removed the last of the strawberry drool from her face and the now used moist towelette vanished just as mysteriously as it had appeared. Then he gently let the finger tips of one hand lightly caress their way down the right side of her face while he gave her an encouraging smile.

"I'm sure you meant to say something more then just "BLEH" earlier," he said softly. "Perhaps you could tell me your name fair maiden?"


"Eowyn", she meant to say, but the only sound that came out of her mouth was the whispered huff of her breath. Her voice was gone, as surely as if Ursula the Sea-Witch had stolen it, a victim of her dream.

She gave an exasperated sigh, then gestured with one hand at her throat sweeping up and out and then a slashing motion, to pantomime her voice being cut off. She hoped desperately that her fair prince was good at Charades.

Suddenly Legolas sprang back out of the way since he had misread the maiden's gestures to mean that she now thought she was going to hurl but would hold it in till he was out of range.

"I'm not surprised you feel that way. That strawberry drool was disgusting!" he said in an understanding tone of voice while he waited patiently for her to get it over with.


Eowyn was taken aback when Legolas leapt away from her, and then again when she noticed Eothain standing off to the side with a very disapproving look on his face. So my dear brother sent his best friend to check up on me, she thought.

"Oh, fine, just go run and tell.." she started to say before realizing she still had no voice. Frustrated, she stuck out her tongue at the Rider, and then turned her attention back to her Elf prince.

She really had no idea what Legolas meant by saying that he understood why she would feel that way, but he had obviously missed the message. She shook her head and made negating crossways motions with her arms. Then she tried again: first she pointed at Legolas, then stabbed two fingers at her eyes to indicate "look", and finally pointed to her lips. Enunciating as clearly as possible, she mouthed Can Not Speak.


Now Legolas's attention was so rivoted on the lovely maiden that he failed to notice the other Rider's (Eothain's) appearance in the dream until the maiden stuck her tongue out at him. Clearly she wanted nothing to do with him although the elf could sense that the man wished otherwise. Then his attention was brought back to the maiden who was once again trying to communicate with him and this time the elf quickly and correctly grasped her dire situation.

"You can not speak!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Who would place such an evil spell upon such a fair maiden such as yourself?"

Suddenly Leoglas looked at the Rider again this time his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Was it that mortal over there?" he asked the maiden while he swiftly removed his bow from his back. "If so I will..." Here Legolas paused while he took out what at first felt like an arrow from his quiver. However when he brought it forth into his line of sight he saw it was not that at all but a toilet plunger. "I will plunger him to death!" he finished while trying to sound as menacing as possible considering the unconventional weapon he now held.

Eowyn tried to say, "No", but even if she hadn't already lost her voice, the sight of Legolas threatening to plunger Eothain would have left her speechless. So there she stood, mute, one hand half-raised in protest as her dream took another strange twist.

Rubbing his eyes to clear the mist, Pippin noticed one thing very quickly. The sun was shining. He didn't understand it. Hadn't it just been night a little while ago, before he . . . well, Pippin hated to remember his antics with the horse and their results. The next thing the young Took notice was a lady with an upraised hand. He'd never seen her anywhere before and though she reminded him of Galadriel. But on looking closely at her ears, he knew that she was no elf.

"Hello there," he said cheerfully. "I'm Peregrine Took, though most people call me Pippin. I only have a couple of questions. One, who are you? And two, where are we?" He looked at her expectantly to see what she would say.


Eowyn stared in amazement at the short, curly-haired (kinda cute) Man-thing that had suddenly appeared before her. She opened her mouth, but whether she meant to answer his query or her jaw had just dropped, she would never know. For at that very moment, the part of her subconscious that remained on guard even when she was asleep thought it detected the soft sounds of Wormtongue creeping past her bedroom door, and it woke her instantly.

Grima tossed his head a little as he passed the door of Eowyn's chamber, causing his oily hair to swing from side to side like a basket of black worms. He put his ear to the doorframe to listen - sure enough, he could hear her mumbling away in her dreams again. It sounded like a pleasant, if confusing, dream... he hoped it was about him. His tinkering with the food for the royal family was having interesting side-effects.

Which reminded him, it was time for the king to have his next dose...

As Pippin stared at the young maiden, her jaw dropped and she suddenly went KAPOOF. Suddenly, he found that his head was pounding like a hammer and anvil. The young Took put his hand to his head, but as he did so, the colors before his eyes began to swish-and-swash and change. Then he found himself in front of a tree on the edge of a forest in the dead of night.

Looking around him, he remembered all the horrible events and remembered that he had been looking for Merry. Quickly, he cast his gaze around the field of battle where mud was still flying. Pippin sighed. "Merry, must you always keep the party going until the wee hours of the morning?" So saying, he stumbled out into the midst of the battle searching for his lost companion.

----

We now return to the REAL story...er, sort of....


As Pippin followed Merry, dashing behind orc after orc, he, for some reason, lost his friend amidst the confusion of the riders. Looking furtively around, Pippin could not locate his friend anywhere. Seeing a horse nearby, he ran up to it. Not remembering that horses could not talk, he asked it a question. "Excuse, Mr. Horse, but have you seen a fellow just about my size, maybe a little smaller, run past this way?"

The horse just stared at the hobbit with large brown eyes. Pippin waited anxiously for the horse to respond for he was in a hurry to find Merry. "Well, sir, we haven't got all day, or night as the case may be."

The horse then heard something, whinied loudly, bolted towards the forest.

"Wait, hold up, whoa!" cried Pippin chasing after him. "I didn't understand what you . . ." He never finished what he was going to say for at that moment a tree suddenly loomed in his way and Pippin, bonking his head on it, fell senseless to the ground.