2. Important Stuff Happens Here
Chapter 2: Important Stuff Happens Here
What is there to say? I was on a patio full of super hot Elves but was stuck between a liver-spotted old hobbit and a wizard who really could use a new deodorant. Frodo held me in a vice-grip, as though Sauron would burst through the door, tackle me, and dunk me into boiling oil… bleh, that's not a happy thought. I'm an optimist, you see.
Well, so we sat, and sat, and sat while Elrond gave hopelessly boring introductions – whoever son of whosit of the land of whocares – of everyone around the sitting ring. I was half-surprised he didn't make them say their favorite color and superhero along with the other bunk.
Finally, extending his becurtained arm, the half-Elf got down to the core issues.
"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."
"Can't I bwing forth this instead?" Frodo held up snuggly me and the collection of free peoples ahhed.
"Mayn't I hold it?" implored Boromir, man of Gondor.
"Take me into your arms? Yes you may, you burly, stubble-chinned man, you," was my thought. However, Elrond cleared his throat so loudly it had the same effect as of the noisy passing of gas and everyone fell into embarrassed silence.
Then Boromir stirred again. "It is said in my country 'the red otter will herald the coming doom'."
"And here, Boromir, your riddles will be answered," Elrond droned.
I rolled my beady eyes.
Mr. Tolkien said himself he didn't tell everything in his Council chapter, and by the Kleenex of Nienna, he wasn't kidding. (Hey, all I really wanted to hear was Legolas' Grand Apology and see the distress on his "fair Elven face"). But it was a long way to Leggy, and after the first ten minutes my head was hurting so bad that I shut it all out and took to comparing shoes. Elrond had on these red pointy clogs. It was creepy. Aragorn's boots were caked with a pound of mud. I know he wanted to go with the whole I'm a Ranger thing, but that was a little ridiculous. Erestor might have been wearing tissueboxes. And Legolas… suffice to say his shoes were without flaw.
Bored once more, I looked around at the babbling counselors, people I'd seen time and again in other nightdreams, daydreams, movies, and paintings. Pure irksomeness. But Círdan's messenger, now, no one ever pictures him!
Galdor was, and there is no better word for it, cool. His dark almost black hair was long and tied back in a loose pony tail. His face was brawny and confident. Around his neck dangled a seashell necklace with a pointy thing on the end of it that was, I am quite sure, a shark tooth. All he needed was a leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses. I really wished be on his, instead of the demented Halfling's, lap.
I didn't hear any of Galdor's talk; I just watched him because I liked the way the muscles in his jaw worked. He'd say what was on his mind and didn't give a Canadian cent to what anyone else thought. When listening to the other's remarks, he'd fall into a good-natured half-grin, or when called for, a contemplative frown. Why is there drool on my keyboard?
Yet for the most part it was Gandalf who did the blabbing, polluting the air with bad breath. Then Aragorn joined in, all about his Gollum quest, wearing a self-satisfied grin. This rapidly melted into an almost comical gape of horror at the voice of Legolas and I realized – curses! – that I missed the fair Elvish face in distress part. Obviously, my attention was rapt on him for about five minutes, until Gandalf restarted his monologue. He was in love with his stale breath, it seemed.
You know the rest. It only got interesting towards the end.
That was when Bilbo stood, offering his services, Boromir almost cracked up, and the Wizard, naturally, took over the conversation again. But this time the topic was me.
He pointed, though that's rude. "It is obvious the Valar sent their servant to us for a purpose." I tried protesting – I' m only a physics student with a big nose and know no stinkin' Valar. Only chirps and barks came out. Gandalf somehow took that as affirmation. "She is to us a sign of hope! Messengers must be sent with the Ring."
Bilbo started to talk about food.
Silence, more silence. It was like being trapped in a stuffy, soundless box. Would he make his move, already? I slapped Frodo's knee with my tail. He flew to his feet.
"I'll take the Ring!" he said, "though I haven't a pair of shoes."
Elrond spouted something about Beren, Húrin, and Túrin (the latter didn't impress me much), and Sam at last burst from his shadowy corner.
"But you won't send him off alone surely, Master?"
Frodo, unfortunately, spoke first. "Go home, Sam."
Sam's eyes bulged like a frog's, and his skin even turned as clammy as one. "But, Mr. Frodo, I…"
"I said Go Home."
Geez, what's wrong with you, Frodo, you're messing up the whole story!!!
Frodo turned away from his crumpling gardener and added, "Odi will join me." Yes, that's what he called me. Stop laughing.
The Council was beyond words. Sam ran away, and Frodo did not even notice the impression he was making. Already his one-time faithful servant was forgotten.
Suddenly Galdor stood, facing Elrond. "My lord, I do not believe that this Hobbit is capable of bearing the Ring. Already it seems to have a strong hold. He will not endure the long road to the Dark Land."
Good for you, Gal!
Glorfindel raised his über-fair head. "I agree--"
"The decision of this Council is final." It was obvious Elrond was trying to save face. "Fate placed the Ring into his hands, and in them it must stay."
With a wild hand gesture, Galdor stormed out of the chamber. Another one of those awkward silences. And then everyone went to dinner.
A/N: Sorry 'bout that.
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.