Title:  The Contest

Author:  Aratlithiel

Summary:  A day in the life

Category:  General/Humor

Rating:  G

November 13, 2003

~*~

A/N – I have played around with canon here.  I am aware that the Fellowship traveled by night and slept by day upon leaving Rivendell, but that wasn’t working out for me, so I changed it.  So, nyah!  Also, I have no idea if there were dates in Middle earth, but I’m going with it anyway.

WARNING:  Guy humor ahead.

~*~

THE CONTEST

~*~

It had started innocently enough.  Or, Sam corrected himself, as innocently as anything could appear when a Took and a Brandybuck were involved.  If he were a little more honest with himself and cared a little less deeply for his master, he may well have included the name Baggins in the previous thought.  But as it was, Sam’s knowledge of his master’s less than admirable Buckland youth and his penchant for mischief that even to this day reared its roguish head now and again stayed safely tucked away in the back of his mind, ensconced in the realm of unsubstantiated rumor.  Simple Sam was not, but he could turn a blind eye and snicker into his sleeve with the best of them.

But back to the business at hand…

Innocent, it had begun, yes, but it had not remained so for very long.  In Hollin, as near as Sam could tell, was where the first Contest had started.  There had been smaller contests before that, but they had not taken on a proper-name status until Hollin and The Rock Throwing Contest.  This was not to be confused with the rock contest that preceded it, in which the size and heft of various rocks was tested and compared until it had degenerated into, ‘This one is much better than yours,’ followed immediately by, ‘I hardly think that’s true,’ and then progressed to nothing more than ‘’Tis,’ and ‘’Tisn’t,’ until Frodo had grabbed both of them by the collar and reminded them of the need for quiet.  Well, truth be told, Sam might have heard, ‘If you both don’t bloody well shut up right now, I swear I’ll stake your arses to a pricker bush and ask Gandalf to turn you into stink bugs!’  But then again, Sam really couldn’t be entirely sure he had heard any such thing, as he had been snickering into his sleeve at the time.

At any rate, having gathered so many fine rocks naturally led to pondering the uses of such which naturally led to The Rock Throwing Contest.  First a proper target had to be chosen and when they stopped for lunch, Pippin had managed to find a broad tree with an enormous, drooping branch that boasted a sizable knothole, perfect for use as a target.  Their eagerness to get to business had led to the lunch-eating contest which Merry technically won as his plate was emptied first, but which Pippin hotly contested.  It only made sense to Pippin’s mind since Merry choked on his last huge mouthful of food and Pippin had swallowed his while Merry continued to gag.  Pippin declared himself the winner and refused to listen to reason from his cousin.  Aragorn glared at them both from across the small dell and the contest was rather grudgingly declared null. 

Next came the pan-washing contest.  Pippin and Merry happened to be on washing duty that particular day and neither were entirely pleased with the situation as it would take valuable time away from the short rest period Aragorn was allowing them, during which they planned to carry out The Rock Throwing Contest.  Having no sympathy for their predicament, none of the rest of the party were inclined to volunteer to fill in for them so they impatiently stared the others down, waiting anxiously for them to finish what was on their plates before absconding with them to the stream to be washed.  Sam thought he might have heard his master remark, ‘Pippin-lad, if you try to remove my plate from my hand one more time before I’ve finished, I shall beat you bloody and leave you here for the badgers to chew on, you impatient little sod!’  But, of course, Sam could very well have been mistaken.  Sleeves, you know.

All plates having finally been collected and washed, the Took and the Brandybuck hastily stowed them into Bill’s saddlebag.  That done, they turned quickly, reaching hands into rock-laden pockets and slammed smack into Sam’s sturdy frame.  Pippin bounced backward into Merry, who teetered backward into Bill, who snorted and pushed back with his powerful flank, sending them both flying back into Sam.  Sam merely stood and glared, arms crossed over his chest and answered their quizzical stares with a pointed shift of his eyes to the pans still sitting by the small fire.  Pippin and Merry followed his gaze, turned their own plaintive ones back to Sam, then rolled their eyes and sighed at the uncompromising demand in his face.

Grumbling, they retrieved the pans and stomped back over to the spring, soap and scrubbing rags in hand.  They bent to their task and had Merry’s glance not fallen to Pippin’s hands and had Pippin’s eyes at just that moment not noticed the direction of Merry’s glance, it may have simply ended there with clean pans.  The sequence of events being what it was, however, rather ruled out the possibility and soon both young hobbits were scrubbing fast enough to sand iron filings from the skillets.  The sound of metal on rock rang like a clarion in Sam’s ears and he wasted no time in rescuing his treasured pans from the hands of the miscreants and threatening to beat them over the head with them if they did not leave his sight and right now.

Knowing an opportunity when they were threatened with one, Merry and Pippin immediately scuttled away and made for their target, casting nervous glances over their shoulders until they could safely see Sam bent over the stream, cradling his pans.  Thus ended the pan-washing contest. 

They reached the tree, dug out their rocks and commenced to throwing.  Smooth, rounded stones, sharp, jagged rocks and even small, uneven pebbles sailed from their hands to pepper the branch and land in a shower beneath the target.

“Ha!” cried Merry.  “Look where that one hit!  You’ll never get that close to the center, Pip.  You might as well concede now.”

“That one doesn’t count, Merry.  You stepped over the line.”

Merry looked toward his feet and the line in the dirt they had etched, noting that while the tip of his big toe might indeed be in close proximity to the line, it had not, in fact, crossed it.

“I haven’t,” he protested.

“You have,” Pippin answered.  “Look where your toe is.  You’ve crossed over the line.”

“I haven’t,” Merry maintained.  “My toe is on the line, but it hasn’t crossed over it.”

“On, or over, Merry, it makes no difference.  You’ll still have to take that shot over.”

“I most certainly will not!” Merry retorted, his voice rising with his wrath.  “You just know you can’t beat that shot and you’re trying to discount it.”

Pippin was almost apoplectic.  “Have a care before you accuse me of cheating, cousin,” he warned.  “You’re not much bigger than I am, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I have no reservations about bloodying the nose of a relation!”

“Peregrin Took, are threatening me?”

“No, Meriadoc Brandybuck, I’m warning you.  Your toe was over that line and you either take that shot again or you cede the contest.”

“I’ll not,” Merry ground out stubbornly.  “My toe was not over that line.”

Pippin pointed emphatically to the ground.  “I can see your toe-print in the dirt!” he exclaimed.

“That was after you started whinging about the shot,” Merry explained.  “I bent to look where my foot was and tottered.”

“Of all the…” Pippin sputtered.  “You did not…”

“I did!  I merely…”

“…I saw the position of your foot…”

“…stumbled a bit as…”

“…before the stone ever left--”

A whistle of air between their noses and a sharp crack at the target made them both startle silent.  They looked first to each other, then the tree.  A sharp, jagged stone was lodged dead center in the knothole, still quivering from the impact.  Merry looked from the tree to Pippin, lifted his hand to rub the tip of his nose to make sure it was still there, then they both turned to see who had made the throw.

Frodo stood before them, hands fisted at his sides, a dark scowl on his face and thunderclouds at his brow.  He looked threateningly from one to the other.

“I trust,” he said slowly through gritted teeth, “that mine is declared the winning shot and here ends this particular Contest.”

Frodo glared first at Pippin then at Merry, neither of whom found it within themselves to gainsay their elder cousin.  He turned on his heel and began making his way purposefully toward the others.

Pippin found the courage to lean in and whisper, “But, Merry, ‘tisn’t fair.  He wasn’t even in the Con--”

His throat closed on his words as Frodo stopped dead.  He turned slowly, directed a black stare to his cousins and pointed in the direction of the rest of their party.  Merry and Pippin took one look at his face, bowed their heads meekly and began moving in the direction indicated.  They had just gotten past their cousin when Pippin felt a sharp kick at his backside.

“Ow!  Frodo, you didn’t have to--”

Merry clapped a hand to his cousin’s mouth, grabbed his arm, hastened them both to the relative safety of the others and thus ended The Rock Throwing Contest.

~*~

Merry and Pippin were remarkably silent for a great deal of the afternoon and Sam found himself on one hand thanking the stars, and on the other waiting for the next round.  Sam had spent plenty enough time around the three cousins to know that another round was inevitable and though Fredegar – the usual and most notorious instigator where the younger two were concerned – was absent, Sam knew it was only a matter of time.

A hum is what started it this time.  Frodo ambled along beside Boromir, the taller man slowing his strides for the shorter ones of the hobbit.  Both of them were enjoying a companionable silence after a lengthy conversation regarding family trees and past kings when Frodo began to hum softly.

Whether it was deliberate or not - although Sam rather suspected it was - Pippin allowed his cousin to get several bars into the tune before overriding the softer voice with a tune of his own.  Frodo, not to be outdone, continued his tune, but changed the method of deliverance from a hum to a whistle, completely ignoring his younger cousin.  Pippin glared at him but Frodo merely cast a blithe smile Boromir’s way and continued to whistle through his teeth.

Boromir, meanwhile, seemed completely at a loss and looked to Sam with such a bewildered expression on his face that it was all Sam could do not to sit down in the holly bushes and have a good, long laugh.  Instead, he trained his expression into one of amused sympathy and shrugged.  Boromir slowed his pace, allowing Frodo to outdistance him and Sam to catch up.  Sam noted Pippin closing in on Frodo, wondered briefly if he should try to intercept him, then saw Merry surreptitiously angling his gait toward the two of them and decided that Boromir and Bill would be safer company at the moment.

“I feel as though there is some comedy playing out before me and I am missing the punch-line,” Boromir said as he reached Sam’s side.  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining?”

“Don’t know that there’s any explanation, Mr. Boromir,” Sam chuckled.  “What there seems to be is a bit of competition and that’s a thing neither Tooks nor Brandybucks seem to be able to walk away from without one of ‘em sittin’ in the dirt afterwards wonderin’ what happened.”

“I see,” said Boromir with a smile.  “And what of Bagginses?”

“Well, sir, a Baggins is a whole other animal, if you see what I mean and I doubt there’s ever been a single one of ‘em as walked away from a challenge.  And if you’d been paying any attention to all that family tree business you and Mr. Frodo were discussing, you’d know that he’s half Brandybuck as well, with some Took blood thrown in for good measure.”

Boromir looked dubiously at the three hobbits converging on one another ahead.  “That seems a daunting combination.”

Sam laughed and shook his head.  “And that, Mr. Boromir, seems an understatement.”  He noted the look on the man’s face and patted his arm.  “Don’t worry, sir,” he said reassuringly.  “Just do what I do.  Relax and watch.”

It didn’t take long. 

Pippin, not convinced that his humming was receiving the proper attention, also switched to whistling, lifting the volume of his tune and over-riding his elder cousin’s.  Merry had achieved his side and, knowing a Contest when he saw one, lent his own talents to the growing cacophony.

Sam nudged Boromir with a smirk, indicating Aragorn and Gandalf up ahead who had stopped and turned in bewilderment at the growing racket.  He nudged him again to point back to Legolas who had a rather pained expression on his face, his elven ears undoubtedly bearing the brunt of the noise.  Gimli just strolled blithely, no indication whatsoever on his face that he was even aware that there was any noise.

Sam and Boromir turned to each other and laughed conspiratorially until Sam’s gaze wandered back to the other three hobbits and his face fell.  Boromir had just had time to register the change in demeanor when Sam grabbed his arm.

“Uh, oh.”

As Sam and the soldier had been observing the reactions of the rest of the party, Frodo had allowed his pace to slacken and was now positioned, unnoticed, directly behind his two younger cousins.  He had stopped whistling, his lips instead curling into a self-satisfied smirk.

Sam watched his master’s chest puff out and braced himself.  He had just enough time to cover his own ears and warn Boromir to do the same when Frodo moved his head strategically between his two cousins and an ear-splitting whistle burst from his mouth, directly into the ears of Merry and Pippin.  Both of them stopped in their tracks, hands flying up to their ears and whirling around, their mouths round o’s in their surprised faces.

“Bloody hell, Frodo!” Merry protested.  “You could blast a person’s ear off doing that!  What in the world were you doing?”

Frodo smiled gently as Pippin stuck his finger in his offended ear and wiggled, grimacing mightily.  He placed a hand behind Merry’s head, drew him close, completely disregarding the younger hobbit’s involuntary flinch and leaned in to whisper…

“Winning.”

Merry blinked.  Bollocks!

~*~

It would be their last evening of sleep.  Aragorn had decided that it would be safer to travel by night and had only acquiesced to a fire for one more night due to the grumbling of the rest of the party.  With the stipulation that it was to be a small fire, he proceeded to help unpack their gear then left the hobbits to build it and see to the evening meal.

Supper was rather a quiet affair, with the three cousins very obviously ignoring each other.  Pippin made a point of rubbing at his ear whenever Frodo’s glance fell his way – whether it was a ploy for sympathy or a promise of retribution Sam couldn’t tell, but either way, it only served to demonstrate how many different ways Frodo could smirk.

With dinner ended, Boromir and Legolas took their turn at washing duties and Gandalf made himself comfortable on a rock with his pipe, leaving the rest to sit around the fire, squeezing every last drop of enjoyment out of it while they still had it.    Pipes came out and were lit and the various members of the party found things to lean against and relaxed.

Quiet settled over the camp, each of them lost in their own thoughts as the evening drew down.  The smell of pipeweed and wood smoke drifted about their heads and gave them a small comfort on a journey where comforts were few and treasured.  The four hobbits sat close together, sharing a bag of dried dates between them.  Merry sat on one end with Sam on the other, Frodo and Pippin between them.  Sam was fairly certain that only he had seen the look that passed between the two younger hobbits.

It seemed innocent, Sam told himself.  Just a quick look from one cousin to another as Merry reached into the bag on Frodo’s lap for a date.  He watched as Merry popped the dried fruit into his mouth and…there it was again.  Yes, a definite warning.  Sam rolled his eyes and sat back to wait.

It was only a moment later that Merry’s cheeks puffed out and the date pit went sailing across the hollow on a great expulsion of air.  There was a small ‘plink’ as it struck the trunk of a tree and Merry sat back, folding his hands across his belly, not looking at his companions.

Sam began to count.  One.  Two.  Three.

Pippin’s hand stole across Frodo’s lap and into the bag.  It was slow and nonchalant, but neither Sam nor Frodo were fooled.  Frodo’s eyes followed Pippin’s hand from the bag to his mouth and remained there until the pit went flying.

Another ‘plink,’ a shift of eyes and Frodo’s hand moved to the bag.  Sam sighed and knocked out his pipe, dropping it into his pocket and extracting a strip of birch bark to chew on.  He crossed his arms over his chest and settled in to watch.

Aragorn and Gimli, quietly enjoying their pipes, had been watching disinterestedly until Frodo popped a date into his mouth.  As one, they removed their pipes from between their teeth and focused their attention on the hobbits.

A quick intake of breath, a slight shift forward and the pit came rocketing out of Frodo’s mouth to the same small ‘plink’ against the tree.  Boromir, who was preceding Legolas from the stream, stopped short as the pit whistled by him then turned a surprised look to the hobbits.  They all looked to him blandly for a moment before turning back to each other and assessing the situation.

A draw then.

There was a scuffle for the bag before all three finally came up with another date.  Boromir just stood staring for a moment before casting a questioning glance to Sam.  Sam gave him a wily smile, which the man returned with a lift of his brows.  Legolas came up behind him and now all had their attention turned to the three cousins.

“Would you care to go first this time, Frodo?” Merry was asking, the picture of civility and politeness.

Frodo gave him a quizzical look.  “Go first for what, Merry dear?”

“Why, for the Contest, of course.”

“I don’t know what you’re up to, cousin, but I’m not participating in any contest,” Frodo replied in a matter-of-fact tone.  “I merely needed to dispose of a pit.”

Merry narrowed his eyes at his cousin.  “Right.”  He locked eyes with Frodo who stared back, refusing to flinch.  “All right, then,” Merry said slowly and very deliberately placed the date in his mouth.

Frodo did the same, neither of them looking aside.  Pippin, feeling rather left out, quickly popped his date into his mouth, watching the other two.  All of them began chewing.  Slowly, slowly they worked the meaty fruit in their mouths, positioning the pit just so on their tongues, readying for the right moment when they would let fly.  Merry flinched first, sliding his eyes quickly to Pippin, watching for a shift of the jaw, a telltale intake of breath.  It gave Frodo the perfect opportunity and he leapt for it.  He turned his head in a flash, aimed and let loose, followed quickly by Merry and then Pippin.

‘plink’  ‘plink’  ‘whoosh’

“Ha!” cried Frodo.  “One out.”

Merry turned to his younger cousin.  “Sorry, Pip.”

“What are you talking about, Merry?” Pippin asked steadily.  “Yours was the one that missed.”

“The last one to fly was the one that missed, Pippin and that means it was yours.”

“Oh, I do hope you’re not going to try this again, cousin.  I got mine off first and you know it.”

“Try what again?”  Merry directed a warning gaze to his younger cousin.  “I certainly hope you’re not referring to the fit you threw over the Rock Throwing Contest, because you know as well as I do that--”

“We are not starting this again,” Frodo interrupted sternly.  “We have a very keen-eyed elf who is standing not two yards from the target and I daresay he’s objective.  Let Legolas tell us who missed.”

All eyes turned to the elf.  Legolas looked back at each of them in turn, seeming to weigh the benefits of actually doing as requested – or rather, demanded.  He arched an eyebrow, convinced there was no good reason to allow himself to be dragged into this particular situation, then spoke anyway.

“Sorry, Merry.”

“HA!” cried Pippin.  “I knew it!  And your toe was over that line, Merry.”

Merry regarded the elf with a look of betrayal.  Legolas looked back, unmoved.

“Fine, then,” he said crossly.  “I’ll be just as happy to see Frodo whip your arse, you cheeky sod.”

“Ooh, such a clever Brandybuck you are, Merry.  Cheeky sod, eh?  Never saw that one coming.”

Merry gritted his teeth.  Bollocks!

“All right, Pippin,” Frodo chided.  “There’s no need to get vicious.”

“Fine!” Merry was sputtering.  “Fine!  All right, then.  Fine.”

“Yes, Merry, fine.  Now can we get on with it?”  Beneath his exasperated exterior, Pippin was laughing hysterically.

“Fine,” Merry repeated and one could almost hear seven pairs of eyes roll.

“I’d like a go the next round.”

The hobbits turned to Boromir and blinked.

“That is,” the man continued, “if you don’t mind the competition.”

Pippin gave a sly grin.  “I have no objection,” he said.  “Frodo?”

Frodo met the man’s eyes with a small half-smile.  “None at all.”

“You’re sure you’re participating in this Contest, Frodo?” the man asked with a crook of his mouth.  “Not just discarding pits?”

Frodo narrowed his eyes, lifted the bag from his lap and held it out for Boromir.  Boromir, smirking, strolled over to the hobbits and reached for the bag.  He reached in his hand and extracted two dates.  He looked from his palm to the hobbits.

“Only two left,” he said.  “Are there any more?”

Everyone turned to Sam.

“’Fraid not,” Sam said.  “That’s the last of ‘em.”

Pippin frowned.  “How about raisins?  Have we any of those?”  Sam shook his head.  “Blueberries?  Cherries, perhaps?”

Sam continued to shake his head.

“Well, there must be something we could use,” Merry complained.  “We can’t let a perfectly good Contest go to waste.”

“Why must we use anything?” Aragorn asked.

“We?” Frodo smiled.  “What makes you think we would want you in this Contest?  You’ve already corrupted my young cousins with your dice games and laying bets on everything from how many stars will appear to how long it will take water to boil.”

“I hardly think your cousins need any assistance with their corruption.  They already have their feet firmly on the road to debauchery.  They hardly need a ranger’s influence.”

“That hasn’t seemed to have stopped you.  I sometimes wonder if you rangers did anything at all besides partake in games of chance while pretending to guard my home.”

Aragorn clutched his chest and sighed dramatically.  “You wound me deeply, Frodo.”

“Mmm hmm.  All right, ranger.  What do you propose?”

“Well, as Merry pointed out, we can’t let a perfectly good Contest go to waste.  I don’t see why a lack of projectiles should spoil it.”

Pippin was confused.  “Well, if there’s nothing to project, how can there be a Contest?”

Aragorn rose and walked over to Boromir.  He smiled with a quirk of a brow, turned and spat at the tree.  ‘splat’

Merry frowned, his mouth pinched.  “Um.  Eww.”

Aragorn regarded him with a grin and turned his palms up.  “There’s nothing else for it.  If you want a Contest, you’ll have to make due.  We’re in the wilderness, you know.  There will be sacrifices along the way”

The hobbits looked at each other for a moment before Frodo turned back to Aragorn.  “Are we going for aim or distance?”

“I think aim would be too unwieldy, don’t you?  Distance would be the better choice.”

Frodo said nothing, just rose and walked to the fire.  He picked up several sticks from the pile of kindling, turned and made for a small clearing a short distance from their camp.  He stopped, looked about, measuring, then stooped and began laying the sticks in a line on the ground.  Finished, he straightened and looked to the rest expectantly. 

Aragorn turned to scan the faces around him.  “Gimli?” he said.

Gimli did not reply, but peered around at the various faces, picked up his helm and donned it.  He stood, adjusted his belt, squared his shoulders and began walking toward Frodo.

“We’re not going into battle, Master Dwarf,” Boromir pointed out.

Gimli stopped and turned.  “It’s a Contest, isn’t it?”

“Well…er, yes.”

Gimli gave a short nod, as if that explained everything then turned and made for the clearing.

Boromir looked to Aragorn who only shrugged.  The elf had no comment, although Sam was fairly certain he heard a rumbling chuckle coming from the direction of a certain wizard.

“Sam?”

Sam glanced up to see the two men regarding him expectantly.  He turned to Merry and Pippin, noted their dubious expressions and suppressed a smile.  They were not entirely pleased with the turn of events.  Too much competition was Sam’s guess.

“What about Legolas?” he asked and all eyes turned toward the elf.

Legolas only stared back for a moment before saying, “I believe you’ll need an impartial judge, no?”

Aragorn nodded and turned back to Sam. 

“All right, then.”  Sam stood and the party made their way to Frodo and Gimli.

“How are we to decide order?” Pippin asked. 

“Height?” Boromir answered and oh, bugger! but he’d said that out loud, hadn’t he? He would not have been surprised to find a smoking hole between his eyes after the glares that came flying his way.  “Ahem.  Or, perhaps, oldest to youngest?”

“Absolutely not,” protested Pippin.  “Either way, I’m last.  It was my idea in the first place.  I should go first.”

“I beg your pardon, cousin,” Merry said evenly, “but I’m quite certain it was my idea.”

“It most certainly was not.  You weren’t even--”

“Actually,” Frodo interjected sharply, “it was Aragorn’s idea.  Perhaps he would be kind enough to choose the order.”

Hmmm.  Aragorn was fairly certain there was no way to get out of this one unscathed.  He eyed his companions and decided the simplest route was the safest.

“Well, I think we’re already standing in a satisfactory order, so why don’t we keep it as it is?  Frodo, that would make you first.”

“All right.”

Frodo stepped up to the line, toes brushing the stick, eyes daring Pippin to complain about it.  He looked to Legolas who gave a slight nod.  Frodo took a deep breath, leaned back, pursed his lips then threw himself forward and spat.  Everyone was silent for a moment as Legolas picked up a stone, stepped over and marked the distance.

Boromir whistled through his teeth.  “That went a fair distance, eh?  Let’s see if I can better that.”

Frodo stepped aside with a ‘ha! beat that!’ expression and Boromir took his place.  Checking carefully to be sure his boots did not disturb the line, he squared his shoulders and let fly.

“Wait just a moment!” Merry cried.  “Your height gives you too much advantage.”

“My height…?  Wha…?”

“You’re too tall,” Merry explained.  “You lean much farther than a hobbit could and that will make your distance much greater.”

“He’s right,” the dwarf agreed.  “You’ll have to kneel and take the shot over.”

Boromir was nonplussed.  “Kneel?”  He looked to Aragorn for support but frowned when he saw the ranger’s expression.

“I’m afraid they’re right, Boromir,” Aragorn said apologetically.  “We do have an unfair advantage and since stilts are not something I would expect to find out here, we’ll have to make adjustments.”

This time Sam was sure he heard the wizard chuckling.

Resigned, Boromir sighed, rolled his eyes, knelt at his mark and took the shot again.  Everyone watched as Legolas moved another stone.

“Not good enough to beat the Ring-bearer,” Aragorn said.  “Sorry, Boromir.  Let’s see what Master Meriadoc can do, shall we?”

Boromir stood and politely stepped aside, resisting the urge to give the smirking hobbit a sharp thwack to the back of his curly head.  Merry stepped into Boromir’s place, fiddling with his cuffs, adjusting the position of his feet, twisting his neck and stretching his shoulders.  The rest of the party were beginning to frown and roll their eyes and Boromir had just begun to regret not having taken that thwack when Merry took his stance, ignoring one and all as he pondered his strategy.  He closed his eyes, concentrated then opened them and took his shot.  He held his breath as the elf crossed to the mark.

“Ooh, Merry, you’re even with Frodo,” Pippin enthused as Legolas placed the stone.  “If no one beats you, we’ll have to have a tie-breaker.”

“Don’t count on that,” Gimli said and stepped to the line.  A loud trumpeting sound echoed through the clearing as Gimli emptied his sinuses followed by a sloppy hacking as he cleared his throat.  Every last one of the others grimaced and Legolas quietly stepped a few more paces back and out of the line of fire.  Pippin shuddered and gave himself a shake as the dwarf took his shot.

“Ow!  Blast!”  Gimli stomped about muttering curses Merry would have given his eyeteeth to have interpreted for him.  He would have to ask Frodo to translate for him later.  At the moment, however, he was thoroughly occupied with keeping his laughter in his throat as Gimli angrily removed his helm and tossed it to the ground, rubbing his nose and cursing.

It would seem the dwarf had been a little too intent on winning the Contest and in his enthusiasm had snapped his head forward too sharply and with rather more force than necessary, causing his helm to snap forward and land squarely on the bridge of his nose.  Blood ran freely down from the cut to drip from the tip of his nose and splatter on his boots.

“Boromir,” Aragorn choked, “why don’t you take Gimli over to Gandalf and have him see to that cut?  My pouch is tucked into my bedroll should he need salves or a bandage.”

Boromir moved toward Gimli, but the dwarf held up his hand.  “Not until I see my standing.”

The contestants turned and waited for Legolas to make the mark, but the elf didn’t move.  Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared back.

“What are you waiting for, elf?” Gimli asked gruffly.  “Make the mark.”

“I cannot,” Legolas replied calmly.

“What?  Why not?”

“Because your shot never left your person.”

“Never…what?”  Gimli cast his bewildered glance to the others then looked down.  It was too dark to see a flush, but Sam was certain it was there.  “Oh.”

Aragorn had a sudden, suspicious coughing fit but managed to finally choke out, “Perhaps a visit to the stream is also in order.”

Boromir followed Aragorn’s and Gimli’s gazes, his own eyes landing on the dwarf’s beard then widening as his mouth dropped open.  He turned his back quickly, having also been suddenly overcome with a coughing fit.

“Yes…*cough*…that would be…*cough*…probably wise…*cough cough cough*

He clapped a hand on Gimli’s shoulder and steered him back to camp.  Sam thought maybe Boromir’s cough was a little worse than he let on because the man had to stop halfway there for a moment to bend over, rest his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

The remaining contestants snickered and grinned stupidly at each other for a full minute before Aragorn cleared his throat.  “Pippin?”

“Hmmm?”  Pippin looked rather dazedly to the ranger.  “Oh!”  He stepped to the line and with much less ado than his cousin displayed, took his turn.  “That’s the farthest yet!” he crowed as Legolas placed the mark.  “I’ve won!”

“Let’s not get too smug,” Frodo chastised irritably.  “There are still two who haven’t had their turn yet.”

“Oh, don’t be upset, Frodo,” Pippin cooed sweetly.  “I’m sure it was just a fluke.  Compensation for my inability to hear out of my right ear, you know.”

“Don’t be such a Took, Pippin.  It’s unseemly.”

Pippin’s eyes narrowed and his face went red.  “I’d rather be an unseemly Took,” he growled, “than a stodgy, old Baggins.”

Frodo scowled mightily.  “Peregrin Took--”

“I believe it’s my turn,” Aragorn interjected, stepping lightly between the two cousins.  “Pippin, if you don’t mind…?”

Pippin dragged his eyes away from Frodo’s, glared blackly at the ranger for a moment then huffed and moved aside.  Merry wisely moved to stand beside Sam and they both held their breath until the snickers subsided.

Aragorn took his place at the line, but he seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for the sport.  He took a half-hearted shot that didn’t go very far and then quickly stepped aside to make way for Sam.  Sam, on the other hand, was more interested now than he had been at the beginning.  He took the wad of birch bark from his mouth, cast it aside and stepped up.  With hardly any preparation at all, he took his shot.

Pippin waited until Legolas had placed the mark before protesting.  “Not fair!” he cried.  “He was chewing on something before he took that shot.  It must have given him an advantage.”

“Advantage?” Aragorn queried.

“Well, yes,” Pippin maintained.  “It must have…have…weighted his spit!  Yes, that’s it.  It was weighted.”  Pippin crossed his arms over his chest and nodded sharply.  “It was an advantage.”

“What were you chewing, Sam?” asked Aragorn.

“Birch bark,” Sam replied stoutly.  “And you’ll pardon me, Master Pippin, but I ain’t never heard of weighted spit.” 

“Well, who’s ever heard of a Spitting Contest, either?  This is rather new territory, I’d say.”

“Humph.  With a new rule every five seconds it seems,” Sam muttered.

“Peregrin,” Frodo put in, “you’re being a Took again.”

“I am a Took, cousin, what else would you like me to be?  And so are you, in case you’d forgotten.  A Took, that is.”

Frodo shot a sideways glance to Sam and smiled his warning.  “No, I haven’t forgotten.  But it isn’t something I readily admit to in mixed company.” 

Sam took his cue and began edging Merry back to camp.  Aragorn wisely joined them.  Legolas continued to stare for several moments before catching up.

“I’m sure I could dig up the legalities on disowning you if it would make you feel better.”

“Pippin, the last time I saw you crack open a book was to squash a bug in it.  You’ll forgive me if I don’t appear worried.”

“Just because you’ve got permanent ink stains on the tip of your nose from always having it stuck in one doesn’t mean I’m any less schooled than you are.”

“Yes, this from the lad who hid under his bed and pelted his tutor with his text books to make him go away.”

“How can you blame me?  He was even stodgier than you!  It was either that or die of boredom while he prattled about the value of a good grasp on the proper uses of a comma.”

The nattering dwindled behind them as they made their way back to the fire.  They stopped just outside the circle of bedrolls, looked to each other and burst out laughing.  Boromir came toward them looking disappointed.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder and began leading him to the fire, chuckling.  “Quite a lot,” he said, pulling out his pipe and sat the other man down to catch him up.

Sam and Merry leaned against a tree, listening to the argument in the clearing and trying not to laugh so loud that they couldn’t hear it.

“Birch bark or no, Sam, you won fair and square,” Merry said.

“Aye, I know it, sir,” Sam agreed.  He nodded his head toward the clearing.  “But I wouldn’t miss this anyhow.”

Merry laughed and punched his arm good-naturedly.  “Neither would they.”

“Frodo Baggins,” Pippin was saying, “are you laughing at me?”

“Well, good heavens, Peregrin, what ever would I find to laugh about?  I mean, we’re talking about the very serious subject of spit, after all.  Nothing comical about that whatsoever.”

“A Contest is a Contest, dear cousin.  If it’s worth competing, it’s worth arguing over.”

Frodo shook his head and leaned against a tree, laughing.  “Of all the Tooks in the history of Tuckburough, you have got to be the most ridiculous, outrageous--”

“Of all the Bagginses in the Shire, you have got to be the most stubborn and willful.”

“Naturally,” replied Frodo.  “How else could I be expected to put up with my younger cousins who insist on trailing me halfway across the world only to natter at me all day?”

“I think we do a lot more than that,” Pippin protested.

Frodo flashed him a jaw-cracking grin.  He grabbed Pippin’s chin, gave him a wet, sloppy kiss and patted his cheek.  “You’re right.  You do,” he said and started back to camp, leaving a trail of laughter in his wake.

Completely disarmed and staring dumbfounded at his cousin’s back, Pippin wiped his face with his sleeve, trying very hard not to laugh.  “Always have to have the last word,” he muttered.

Bollocks!

~*~

END