Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: My apologies to the dear professor, and also to P.G. Wodehouse. In this chapter I quote, almost verbatim, from his comic novel Something Fresh, because it was far too perfect not to use for Boromir’s performance. I don’t own Wodehouse, either. ^_^

Chapter Fifteen: The Great Catfight

It took several cups of strong tea, brewed by Sam, to get Merry and Pippin into a state of coherence. The lads were huddled in the armchairs in Frodo’s room, wrapped in blankets. Frodo was going from one to the other, alternately soothing and scolding them. He looked like he did not know whether to laugh at what had happened or be angry. For the present, he had settled on simply rueful.

“This is what happens when you do battle with a Ranger, lads,” he said, rubbing Pippin’s curls. “The man has years more experience than you in everything. Although it was a cruel prank to play,” he added quickly, seeing Merry’s incredulous look.

“It amazes me, Frodo, that you have a horror of being chased by dogs and yet you can sympathize with Strider over this!” howled Merry. “We could have been eaten!”

Frodo snorted. “Merry-lad, even I know not to run from dogs. Especially when they’re standing around sniffing my pockets. It’s when they come at you barking like mad that you run away. I think that it’s safe to say that if you had kept walking to the stable, the dogs would have left you alone.”

Merry grumbled under his breath, but didn’t reply. Pippin just whimpered again, and Frodo hugged him. Over the lad’s head, he caught Sam’s eye and had to grin. Sam was bearing all this well, not giving into his inclination to laugh. The gardener had had to leave the room coughing when he saw Merry and Pippin’s ruined trousers, and had returned with the tea.

“The maids say they’ll be able to fix your trousers, Mr. Merry, Master Pippin,” Sam said, grinning back at Frodo. “They’ll be like new.”

“Oh, bugger the trousers,” squawked Merry, earning him a reproving look from Frodo. “I’m going to kill him. Dead. Pippin could have died. I’m going to do something so terrible to him that he’ll never dare cross a Brandybuck again. Just you watch, all of you!”

“Oh, we’re watching,” Frodo said dryly. “And you’re not going to do anything. Drop it, Merry.”

Merry gazed at him mutinously. This was war.

*****

Of course, Merry thought later, this was not the time for an elaborate, decadent prank. This was the time for something simple and horrible. It was time to end this, once and for all. Accordingly, he picked his weapon with utter precision. Slipping the small bottle into his pocket, Merry left the library and returned to his room.

*****

Dinner that night was full of the hobbits favorite food. It seemed that all of Rivendell had heard what had happened, and were full of concern for the two lads. That Aragorn had been involved seemed to go unnoticed, which Boromir thought was a bit strange. But then, it seemed that the arrangement of the high table was slightly altered tonight. Aragorn was sitting opposite him.

“Hello, Lord Aragorn,” Boromir said cautiously, sitting down at the table with a slight bow. “I trust you had a good afternoon?”

Aragorn nodded, smiling a bit smugly. “Yes, it was quite nice, actually. I managed to avoid Gandalf for the rest of the day after his first rant at me. And yourself?”

Filled with mad people, Boromir thought, but aloud he said, “It was good enough. Nothing eventful after the hobbits’ little adventure.”

Aragorn chuckled, eyes dancing, and Boromir wondered just how sane this man actually was. Perhaps things were just different in the North, though. Much less formal.

More people were seating themselves at their table. Bilbo joined them, to Boromir’s delight; he quite liked the old hobbit. Merry and Pippin were seated a short ways away, safely far from Aragorn, he noticed with a faint grin. Legolas, his earlier illness cured, was talking to them earnestly. All three were smiling, so Boromir doubted that the elf was angry at the hobbits. If things could continue this peacefully, dinner would be a peaceful affair.

Of course, Boromir did not trust any of his companions to keep the peace any more than he trusted the horn of Gondor to a mischievous child.

As the meal progressed, Boromir enjoyed the conversation of those around him. At one point, Merry moved up the table to sit by him, and Boromir saw Aragorn glance at him sharply. Still, the hobbit seemed cheerful enough, and there seemed to be no hard feelings. Boromir wondered what he had up his sleeve.

When Lady Arwen joined them, seating herself next to Boromir so that she could look Aragorn in the face, Boromir knew that whatever result had been intended by Aragorn’s exile from the high table would not be achieved. At the same moment, as Aragorn was busy looking into the elf-maiden’s eyes, Boromir saw Merry reach across the table and dump something into the Ranger’s mug.

Oh, dear.

Frodo had seen it. He opened his mouth to say something, and Boromir knew that it would be the end for poor Merry if he did. And the dog incident had been horrible.

Now, years before, Boromir had evaded lessons with his tutor to seek out the company of one Targon of the Tower Guard. This Targon had been able to produce the most extraordinary set of noises: that of two tomcats fighting a battle to the death. Young Boromir, smitten by the brilliance of such a talent, had not rested until he had mastered it. It fell short of the master’s performance, as any pupil must, but it was still impressive, and was often called upon by the soldiers when in camp. It would provide the right distraction now.

Boromir turned casually to Arwen.

“I say,” he said. “Have you ever heard two cats fighting in a backyard?”

The next moment the performance was in full swing. The fight was something worthy of an Elvish lay: long and drawn out. The unpleasantness opened with a low gurgling sound, answered by another a hade louder and possibly a little more querulous. A momentary silence was followed by a long-drawn note like rising wind cut off abruptly and succeeded by a grumbling mutter. The response to this was a couple of sharp howls. Both parties to the contest then indulged in a discontented whining, growing louder and louder until the air was full of menace. And then, after another sharp silence, came War, noisy and overwhelming. Standing at Targon’s side, you could almost follow every movement of that intricate fray, and mark how now one, now the other of the battlers gained a short-lived advantage. It was a great fight. Shrewd blows were taken and given, and in the eye of the imagination you could see the air thick with flying fur. Louder and louder grew the din, and then, at its height, it ceased in one crescendo of tumult, and all was still save for a faint, angry moaning.

Such was the catfight of Master Targon. Boromir rendered it faithfully and with energy.

For several moments, there was complete silence in the hall as everyone tried to decide whether to laugh or beat Boromir from the room. Such a performance had never been heard before in Rivendell. Elrond looked like he was going to have a fit of sorts. Then the last feline moan died away, and Boromir smiled around at the staring faces.

“I was just telling Lady Arwen about the cats in Minas Tirith,” he said. “They are a sore trial.”

For perhaps three seconds, Boromir’s reputation swung in the balance. He felt the weight of many elvish eyes staring at him, flabbergasted. And then Arwen flung back her head and gave a great shout of laughter. It was infectious, and soon everyone in the room was cheering Boromir, and the hobbits were slapping him gleefully on the back.

“Wherever did you learn that?” Aragorn asked him, laughing, and Boromir told him. Aragorn shook his head in amazement. “Unbelievable. That was an excellent performance, my friend.” He drained his glass and smiled again.

Boromir blinked at him, and began helplessly to laugh. His laughter drew Legolas’ attention, and the elf openly gaped at Aragorn.

“Er, Aragorn,” he began, looking torn between laughter and chagrin. “Er, I think you ought to-”

He was cut off by a screech. Arwen was staring at Aragorn, horrified. “Sweet Valar, Estel! What happened to your teeth?”

Aragorn, who had been looking from Boromir to Legolas to Arwen in deep consternation, seized his spoon and used it as a mirror. The howl that smote the air was one of deep horror and fury. It was such that Elrond dropped his wineglass and Frodo choked on his mushrooms. Arwen’s hands were pressed to her lips in horror. Gandalf merely rolled his eyes.

Aragorn’s fine white teeth had been stained black as pitch.

TBC