Middle Earth || OS

39. The Fellowship | It's Funnier in Elvish

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|| Humor, slight angst. || Elf! Reader || Mild curse word, agitated Hobbits || Imagine making the rest of the Fellowship feel paranoid when you begin talking with Aragorn and Legolas in Elvish and laughing + Imagine sharing a laugh with Aragorn and him putting an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to land a kiss on your forehead,

*

Fortune shone on Merry and Pippin as their halfhearted attempt at fishing in the small cove actually turned fruitful.

"Are those shells, Merry?" Pippin asked in amazement as they inspected their ragged nets, filled with pungent, thick lumps of hard brown-gray semi-circles. "Clams?!"

Nodding enthusiastically, Merry brought his face close to the little creatures. "Small ones, to be sure. The tiniest I've ever seen. But we can still cook them!"

"No lembas tonight!" Pippin squealed.

It wasn't much in the way of happiness, but the Hobbits grasped it desperately. There were still holes in everyone's hearts after the tragedy at Khazad-dûm. The hospitality and empathy of the Lothlorien Elves helped, but now the Fellowship was on its own again to assist Frodo in completing his overwhelming task. Their camp stop on a swath of forest land, with a jewel of a tiny cove, was a welcome respite, and the clam find was a blessing.

Merry and Pippin hoped the change in meal would bring about bright smiles, maybe even hearty laughter, to everyone's faces - not just THE THREE, including and led by you, who always laughed from something said in Elvish.

Soon after the clams were steamed to perfection in the weathered black pot over the campfire, you, Aragorn and Legolas walked away from the Fellowship's circle to gather a little more kindling - as if you really had to do that together.

Minutes later, you were each holding a small bundle when you asked a question of your longtime mates in the cutesy Elvish tongue. Everyone still sitting around the fire released frustrated grumbles.

Meanwhile, Aragorn and Legolas waited for your punchline, their handsome faces already scrunched up.

You looked over at the Hobbits, Gimli and Boromir crouched round the fire, and pointed at the pot. It looked like you were pointing at Merry.

"Násë tithen asta lim o hyalma!" you cackled.

"HAHAHAHA!" Aragorn roared, doubling over with laughter and slapping his knee with his firewood-free hand.

"Heh..heh-heh! HEH!" Legolas's shoulder-shaking laugh was accompanied by a toothy grin, which he briefly and shyly muffled with the back of his hand.

To the onlooking fellowship, even the laughter sounded Elvish - all graceful and light, even Aragorn's, not a gross snort or a silly chipmunk-like chitter to be heard.

One by one each non-Sindarin speaker slipped their eyes away from you and your chuckling mates.

"So I guess we're still the only ones not in on the jokes, then?" Merry asked. He looked around the fire at each sullen face and tried to cure the mood with a smile, but it fizzled out before anyone noticed it.

"I think we are the joke," Pippin offered, sneaking one last glimpse at you, Aragorn and Legolas as he broke a twig and tossed it toward the fire. But he missed his mark, and hit Frodo in the nose.

"Ouch, you!" Frodo snapped. A glint from the accursed ring flashed across everyone's face. "They're probably laughing about our poor throwing aim, if that toss is any clue."

"Poor throwing aim! What are you trying to say, Frodo?" asked Pippin.

"He's not trying to say it, he is saying it: you can't throw a stick, much less a dagger," Sam said, looking around and giving his fellow Hobbits and Gimli a pitiful shake of the head.