Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

A Different Sort of Game

It was the first time that he could remember, Boromir reflected, that he had ever seen Pippin push away a plate of food.  Especially a plate of Sam’s stew, which the youngster usually begged third or fourth servings of.  Especially after a long night of marching.  Especially when the young hobbit had been announcing his desire for breakfast with increasing volume for the last two leagues. 

Surreptitiously he glanced around their small camp and was astonished to see the other hobbits either eating with unprecedented slowness or sitting staring into their plates.

All of them were weary, Big Folk and Little Folk alike.  After leaving the deserted land of Hollin and heading for the Redhorn Pass, their road had turned rougher and rocky, and the halflings were hard-put to keep up.  Gandalf was following a small river, a route that afforded them a slightly easier path than hiking over the stony terrain of the hillsides.  But still rocks had to be negotiated and boulders bypassed, and the Company had to do much climbing.

It was tiring enough for the larger folk, but for the smaller folk it was exhausting.  Aragorn had tried giving them brief rests riding atop the pony’s packs, but the hobbits did not much like being perched precariously among the baggage.  Boromir had walked along side, tall enough to lend a steadying hand, but after one or two turns each ofclinging white-knuckled to the packs, they had refused further rides.  When it came time to halt and set up camp, the Gondorian soldier had watched as Aragorn bade them rest for a few moments before rising to do their share of the work.  Little wonder the halflings were almost too tired to eat.

But reluctance such as this was unprecedented.  Perhaps it was the food?  Boromir tried a bite, crunching down with pleasure on a morsel of wild turnip.  Granted, there was little Samwise could add to enhance the stew in this barren land, but it tasted as good as ever to the soldier.  Long accustomed to dried and salted meat and whatever he could forage, Boromir savored the tender rabbit, flavored with sage and basil.  The broth was rich and thick with wild onions, and altogether delicious.  He put down his spoon and frowned at the hobbits.

“This is very good, Sam,” Boromir ventured.

Sam looked up from his bowl, his round face forlorn.  “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

“Frodo, eat,” ordered Gandalf brusquely from where the wizard sat on a log, his staff propped at his side.  The Ring-bearer sighed and stirred his meal listlessly, and the wizard’s bushy brows drew down.

“What is wrong with you all?” Gandalf demanded.  So, Boromir thought, Gandalf had noticed, too.  Around them, the other members of the Company had fallen to with the appetite of those who had walked for many hours with only short rests and shorter rations.  Aragorn and Gimli looked up with inquiring expressions, while Legolas continued to hum to himself as he ate, his expression distant.

“It’s that it’s rabbit,” Pippin explained, spearing a sliver of meat and eying it distastefully.  “It’s always rabbit.  Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.  I’m tired of rabbit.  And stale bread.”  Sitting beside his cousin with his own plate balanced on his knees, Merry sighed resignedly.

“It’s not your cooking, Sam,” Frodo hastened to assure his friend.  “The stew is marvelous, as always.  We’re just tired of rabbit.”

“So am I, Mr. Frodo,” Sam returned despondently.  “Not much you can do with coneys, all said.  Wish we could have something else.”

“Not that we’re ungrateful for the rabbits, Legolas,” Merry hastened to interject, fearful that their primary meal-provider might take offense.  Boromir looked down at his plate to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.  The Elf nodded solemnly, but his clear eyes sparkled with amusement.

“It’s just that we wish there was something different to eat,” Frodo explained.

“Well, there isn’t anything else,” the wizard declared.  “We cannot spare the time to set snares, and if we did, they would only catch more rabbits. Eat your stew, all of you.”

Boromir watched this exchange with amusement.  The soldier leaned against the trunk of a stunted tree and picked a piece of gristle from between his teeth.  He, too, would welcome a change from the constant diet of rabbit, however well Sam could cook it.  Seeing the little ones’ long faces, an idea came to him.  “Why don’t we have a contest?  A game,” he elaborated when all eyes turned to him.  “See which among us can bring in something different.”

Gimli grunted.  “This is an unforgiving land, windswept and desolate.  There is nothing to eat here.”  The Dwarf tipped a spoonful of stew in his mouth and chewed noisily, not seeming to mind the trickle of broth that ran down his beard.

Boromir shrugged.  “Then we have lost nothing, and have at least awarded ourselves some amusement during our march tomorrow.  I propose a wager -”

“A wager?” repeated Merry eagerly, his pointed ears twitching.

“No,” intervened Gandalf, staring at the hobbit repressively.  “Boromir, you should know better than to mention that word around this hobbit.”

Boromir smiled when Merry unsuccessfully tried to look insulted.  “A game, then.  Let us see which among us brings in the tastiest … game.”  Pippin giggled at the play on words, and the soldier smiled at him.  Pippin grinned back, his earlier discontent forgotten in the excitement of the proposal.

Gimli rumbled thoughtfully.  “Dwarves are not hunters.  I therefore volunteer to be the official taster.”

“And I shall make the deciding choice,” stated the wizard.  “Perhaps this was not such a bad idea, Boromir.  We might at least have something different.”  Gandalf turned to look at the hobbits, grey eyebrows raised.  “Well, my fine hobbits, do you agree to this?”

The four looked at each other, then the other three turned their eyes to Frodo.  There was much back-and-forthing of raised eyebrows, grimaces, shrugs and scowls.  Merry canted his head minutely towards the river and Frodo nodded.  “We agree,” said the Ring-bearer, speaking for all of them. 

“Aragorn?”

“I agree, Gandalf.”

“Legolas?”

“Yes, Mithrandir.”

“You, Boromir?”

“Agreed.  But we should set a time limit.  Shall we say … the contestants must provide the fare in time for this meal tomorrow?”

“What do we get if we win?” asked Pippin eagerly.

“A good supper,” growled the wizard.  “Which should be a prize excellently suited to your taste, Peregrin Took.”  Pippin nodded and applied himself to his stew, already contemplating the delights of a rabbit-less meal.

“Wait,” objected Frodo.  “We should ask Sam if it is all right with him, if he is going to be doing the cooking.”

Finding every hopeful eye upon him, Sam blushed.  “It would be my pleasure, sirs,” he mumbled.

“Good old Sam!” said Frodo happily.  “We’ll show these Big Folk, won’t we, lads?”

* * * * *

When the Fellowship made camp the following dawn, there was a barely suppressed air of excitement that had been lacking the previous morning.  The Company was tired, yes, but any deviation from the monotony of marching was welcome.  They set up camp and rested for a few moments then Gandalf, Gimli at his side, called them together.  “Do not go far from camp,” he warned them.  “Return before full light.  And stay alert.”  His piercing gaze turned to the hobbits, who were holding a soft-voiced discussion among themselves.  “Frodo, I do not want you out of my sight.”

Instead of arguing, the Ring-bearer nodded obediently.  “Yes, Gandalf.”  The wizard stared at him suspiciously but Frodo only smiled back, his wide blue eyes dancing.

“Humph.  All right, then.  Gimli and I will prepare a fire.  We will be waiting for you.”

* * * * * 

The Ranger moved silently through the sparse brush, calloused, sensitive hands sweeping the weeds and grasses, combing through them with bent fingers.  He listened, too, and looked, his keen eyes searching the shaded places and damp hollows of the rock-strewn earth.  In this hunt, his ears would serve him as well as his eyes.  Now and then he would stop and crouch, long legs tucked under him as he searched.  His prey was small but swift and ofttimes very mobile.  When he found what he sought, he would open the large pouch tied to his worn leather belt and add his catch to the cache.  He chuckled now and then to himself as he gleaned, pleased with the opportunity to press an unpopular point home with the hobbits.

* * * * *

Legolas stood in the knee-deep grass, his bow raised and ready and the arrow notched.  The small deer grazed unaware before him, her head down and her brown coat blending almost perfectly with the patches of bare earth at his feet.  Her large ears twitched alertly, but she remained completely unaware of the Elf’s silent approach.  Smiling to himself, Legolas’ fingers tightened on the bowstring in preparation for releasing the deadly shaft. 

Then a tiny fawn bounded out from a grassy bower and pranced around the doe.  She stretched out her neck and nuzzled it, and it rubbed its head against her muzzle for a moment before darting under her and beginning to nurse, its tiny tail flicking as it drank.  The Elf stood quiet for a moment then lowered his bow, melting back into the grasses as noiselessly as the wind.

* * * * *

Boromir advanced another step, the improvised javelin in his hand resting on his shoulder.  Trees were few in this desolate land, stunted and twisted, and even near the river, it had been difficult to find one strong and straight enough for a boar-spear.  His straight-bladed hunting knife was lashed to the end, and a foot above that, a short, strong branch was lashed crosswise to the lance.  Wild pigs had very poor eyesight but their sense of smell was keen, and it would likely never see the spear as it charged.  Many a hunter had been injured when the beast flung itself on the spear, impaling itself all the way up to the crossbar.

Boromir had chosen his place well.  He had not waited long before he heard the familiar snuffling of a pig.  He crouched, careful that the spear did not snag on a branch behind him and warn the beast.  After a moment, his wait was rewarded.  A small boar stood on the riverbank, its snout lifting as it scented the wind.  With a snort, it moved forward  towards the water and lowered its head to drink.  Boromir leaped forward with a shout, the spear held at the ready.

In a flurry of sharp hooves, the pig charged.  But not towards Boromir.  The soldier watched helplessly as his contest-winning dinner splashed awkwardly into the river and began swimming away.  Defeated, he lowered the long spear.  “Coward,” he muttered after it.

* * * * *

Rather to Gimli’s surprise, the hobbits heeded Gandalf’s admonition and did not stray from the wizard’s sight.  Surprise became astonishment as the four halflings each selected one of Sam’s cooking pots and walked to the shallows of the riverbank.  They rolled up the legs of their breeches as far as they would go and mud squishing between their hairy toes, waded out into the grey mire lining the banks. 

Gandalf began laughing softly.  “Oh, my clever hobbits!” murmured the wizard.  Completely mystified, Gimli followed after them, grumbling as his heavy, hobnail boots sank deep into the muck.  Instantly the nearest hobbit, Merry, whirled around.

“You’ll frighten them, Gimli!” the hobbit said, gesturing urgently for the Dwarf to retreat back up the riverbank.  Kicking mud from his boots, Gimli did.  From this higher vantage point, the Dwarf could now see that each hobbit was carefully examining the muck around him.  Sam evidently found what he was looking for; he stepped very lightly next to a small depression in the mud, no more than a dimple on the surface of the sludge.  Then the hobbit crouched, tension in every line of his sturdy body.  Gimli found he was holding his breath.  Then Sam lunged forward and was digging with his hands, mud flying behind him as he scooped up great grey globules of mud and flung them aside.  Then he was holding up something dark and irregularly-shaped in both hands, and with a grin, dropped the strange object into his cooking pot.

Looking about, Gimli saw Sam’s actions copied by the other halflings.  Four hobbit bottoms bobbed above the muck, while small hands dug with determined quickness.  “I’ve got one,” Pippin crowed.  “What a beauty!”

“Put it in the pan, Pip,” Frodo ordered, “before they dig themselves away!  Hurry!”

It took only minutes until each hobbit’s pan was full to overflowing.  Still bewildered, Gimli helped them carry their catch to shore.  Pippin managed to trip, measuring his length in the mud with a squawk and a splat.  Gimli helped him up and carted the pan to shore, Pippin grinning ear to ear as mud dripped off his sharp nose.

The other three hunters returned a short time later, just as Sam dipped the last of their catch in ground breadcrumbs and laid them over the hot coals.  A great pile of brown shells rose off to the side, shining clean.  A smaller pile of gills and offal steamed in another pot, waiting to be cast into the river.  All three hunters sniffed deeply as a mouth-watering aroma drifted past.

Gandalf greeted Aragorn with a nod and a puff of sweet smoke, removing his pipe to watch as the Ranger untied his hunting sack and sank down near the hobbits.  Frodo was prying open the last of the shells while Merry filleted the meat and Pippin cleaned up.  Sam carefully turned one of the breaded steaks, ensuring that they did not cook too long and become tough.

“Clams?” the Ranger asked.

Frodo looked up and grinned.  “The river’s mudflats are full of them.  We crushed up the last of the stale bread and Sam is making fritters.  There’s fried clams, too, and clam chowder.  It’s made with water and flour instead of milk, but Sam thickened it with a few potatoes and a dab of butter, and it’s awfully good.”  Sam ducked his head and grinned, delight at his master’s praise shining from his grey eyes.

Aragorn shook his head. “Where did you learn to dig clams?”

Frodo finished the last shell and dropped it onto the heap, wiping his hands clean on a cloth.  “I grew up on the banks of the Brandywine, in Buckland.”

“It’s just below Brandy Hall,” Merry added.  “We used to go clamming whenever we could.  Are we all here, then?”

“What did you bring, Legolas?” Pippin asked.  Merry had made him wash in the cold river and change his clothes, dispelling some of the tweenager’s enjoyment of a chance to get good and filthy.

“I fear I return empty-handed,” the Elf replied softly. 

“Oh,” Pippin said, disappointed.  He stood and hefted up the pot of refuse, staggering with it to the edge of camp where he sat it down for later disposal.  “How about you, Boromir?”

Still chagrined, Boromir shook his head.  “I had a young, tender boar in my sights, but he leapt into the river and escaped me.”

This time Pippin’s, “Oh,” was truly regretful.  “Well, we have plenty of clams,” he added brightly, “and what ever it is Strider’s brought.  What is it, Strider?”

Aragorn proudly opened the sack and reached in.  The hobbits crowded around him eagerly, except for Sam, who was busily dishing fried clams and fritters onto plates and clam chowder into bowls.  Boromir and the others leaned forward curiously.  “Full of protein and very nutritious,” Aragorn said, opening his hand with a flourish.  Something crawled out of his palm, spread its wings and flew away. 

“Bugs!” shrieked Pippin, leaping backwards.  “Ugh!  He’s got a sackful of bugs!”

“Insects,” Aragorn pressed, “can be eaten fried or raw -”

“Gandalf!” Frodo demanded shrilly, “make him put those disgusting things away!”

“They are very crunchy -” Aragorn tried again.  Further endorsement was interrupted by Merry, who had turned an interesting shade of green and was making gagging sounds, both hands clamped tight over his mouth.

The wizard knocked the dottle from his pipe and returned it to its resting place in the tip of his staff.  He exchanged a long glance with Gimli.  The Dwarf said nothing but laughter lurked in his dark eyes.  Boromir and Legolas were hard-put not to chuckle. The Elf was giving the horizon careful examination while Boromir spread his hands, declining comment.  Gandalf turned back to the aggrieved hobbits and the affronted Ranger.  “Gimli and I have made our decision,” Gandalf declared grandly.  “We proclaim the winner of this contest the hobbits.”

The End