This chapter was inspired by Lbilover’s delightful story “Golfing Fever”. Please note that I know nothing about golf and that my research comes partly from tidbits taken from Lbilover’s story, from the one or two golfing movies I have seen, and from the very informative website About.com, which has everything you ever wanted to know about golf but were too afraid to ask (for good reason, as you are about to discover). All the strange golfing terms, including the names for the clubs and balls, come from the glossary located on that site. Everything else, I made up as I went along because these are ancient times and things are bound to be different.

A few notes (because I don’t want you to be as hopelessly lost as the poor victims in this story): in olden days, competitions were based on match play. In match play, whoever wins the most holes wins the game. My hobbits play on a ten-hole course (an 18-hole course is a rather modern convention), so if someone won the first six holes, he would be the winner and the match would end there because the other person could not win or even tie with just four holes left. In this case, the winner would be said to have won two-up and the loser to have lost two-down. The winner’s score would be 2-and-4, meaning he won two-up with 4 holes to play.

A match goes “dormie” when one person achieves a lead that matches the holes remaining; for example, he’s four-up with four holes to go. The person trailing can only hope to tie, or “square up”. Once a match is dormie, the person leading only needs to win one more hole to win the match.

Other tidbits – once a golf ball has been hit from the first teeing ground, it is “in play” and nothing is to touch or move the ball during the match except the golf club. The only exception to this rule would be when the ball must be moved due to an obstruction and then how the ball is moved depends on the type of obstruction. Courses did not have separate teeing grounds for each hole and instead used the putting green of one hole to tee off for the next hole.

Still confused? Perfect! Let’s get on with the story then, shall we?
 

 
“If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch, you will realize that this was only poetical exaggeration applied to any hobbit, even to Old Took’s great-granduncle Bullroarer, who was so huge (for a hobbit) that he could ride a horse. He charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields, and knocked their king Golfimbul’s head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit-hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of Golf invented at the same moment.” ~ The Hobbit 
 

Chapter 9: Fore!

“Merry! Frodo! Over here! Look!”

The hobbits came running to see what Pippin had found. Behind them, Boromir followed, trotting at a leisurely pace to keep up. They came to the spot where Pippin was standing and looked at the ground where he was so excitedly pointing. Merry exclaimed in surprise and Frodo shook his head in amazement. Sam shook his head also, but his expression was one of resignation. Boromir could only see a hole in the ground, though it was a most unusual hole, perfectly round and not too deep and lined with what appeared to be an oilcloth. Sticking out of the ground next to the hole was a flag pole with a white triangular flag standing on the end.

“Is that was I think it is?” Pippin said, bouncing from one eager foot to another as he waited for his cousins’ verdict.

“It must be,” Merry said, “but what would it be doing here?”

‘Here’ was the valley floor that surrounded the feet of the cliffs in which Rivendell was nestled high above.

Boromir had noticed that the hobbits were becoming bored and restless with their training of late, so as soon as the weather turned more favorable, he had decided to take them for a hike in the mild winter afternoon. The hobbits were very much enjoying their first look at the valley floor, which Pippin had said, just moments before discovering this rather odd-looking hole, reminded him very much of the Tuckborough links back home.

“There’s only one answer to that question,” Frodo said. “Only Bilbo never said anything about this. I wonder why.”

“Bilbo has become rather forgetful in his old age,” Merry noted, “but to forget this? It’s just shameful.”

“The grounds are well-kept, even for winter,” Frodo said, looking around long stretches of flat runways surrounded by narrow dells and softly rolling slopes. “He clearly still uses it. Why didn’t he say something to us about this?”

Sam grunted noncommittally, swallowing an answer deep in the back of his throat. He did not share in his friends’ enthusiasm for their discovery and rather regarded the hole and the surrounding grounds as though he were standing in the gaping mouth of a dragon ready to consume him.

“Let’s go ask him!” Pippin exclaimed. “If he had this built, then he’d have clubs and balls too!” He ran off before anyone could stop him, and Merry and Frodo followed close on his heels.

Boromir peered at the hole, still completely lost as to what had the hobbits so excited. Or, what had the cousins so excited. “I don’t understand,” the man said.

“It’s best if you don’t try to, sir,” Sam said, “but I’ll tell you this much. Now as they’ve found this golf course, you’re about to lose three of your pupils.”

“Golf course? What is that?”

“Trust me, Master Boromir, this is one thing you don’t want to be asking any questions about,” Sam warned. “Remember when Mr. Frodo recited the Rules of Address to you, and when Mr. Merry lectured you on meal times, and when Mr. Pippin asked you all them questions about your boots?”

“Yes.”

“This will be worse. Much, much worse. The love of golf knows no bounds and can drive even the most sensible hobbit to madness,” informed Sam, with such a degree of gravity that the man almost felt a chill run up his spine. “Why, there are some who say that the feud between Mr. Bilbo and the Sackville-Bagginses didn’t start with Bag End at all, but with the 150th Annual Grand Tournament of 1335. Mr. Longo was considered to be the greatest golf champion to have ever lived, after the Bullroarer that is, and he was guaranteed to win the Silver Jug that year just as he had the last three years, which was unheard of enough. No one ever dreamed as there was a hobbit who could win the Silver Jug four years in a row. For months, indeed as soon as the 149th Annual Grand Tournament ended, it was all anyone could talk about, and by the time the next tournament came along, the excitement had reached a fevered pitch. It must have been the biggest upset in Shire history when Mr. Bilbo showed up and swooped the championship right out from under Mr. Longo, his own uncle. They never did share a kind word after that, or so it’s said.”

“We are talking about a game, correct?” Boromir asked.

“It’s more that just a game, Master Boromir. It’s a passion, some even say it’s a way of life. Hobbits will leave a kettle and a pan unguarded on a fire just to make their tee time. They’ll play in rain, snow or burning hot sun; just about the only thing as can make them drop their clubs is a bolt of lightning, and as far as they’re concerned the only good wind is no wind. If a fellow’s wife goes into labor with their very first bairn while he’s on the green, well, that’s just too bad acause he can see the bairn after he finishes the tenth hole. Mr. and Mrs. Vigo Boffin had their wedding on the same day as the 200th Annual Grand Tournament, the Bicentennial mind you, as was held in Tuckborough that year, and hardly no one showed up for the nuptials, not even their fathers and they was supposed to be witnesses. It’s bad, sir,” Sam said, “and if you know what’s best for you, you’ll stay out of their way.” And with those cautionary words, he took off after his friends, leaving Boromir no more educated but by far the wiser.  

After berating Bilbo for neglecting to tell them about his golf course, the cousins were delighted to discover the old hobbit had not one but two sets of clubs along with six perfectly round featheries. Made by the elves, the traditional feather-stuffed leather balls were so well-made and flawless in their design as to make Pippin cry. He promptly sat in the middle of Bilbo’s room and began to oil and chalk them as Frodo and Merry tested the clubs’ grips and flex to determine which set best suited them. They stood in the corner, waggling the clubs and making practice swings, and decided that they would need to be prompt if they wanted to enjoy a nice, friendly round of the links before all the scouts returned.

They were immensely surprised when, with very little prodding or pleading, Boromir agreed to let them have the following morning off their training to get in a round or two. When asked if the man would like to join them and learn about this most wonderful of pastimes, the man regrettably admitted (as he hastened out the door) that he would be busy with other matters and would not be available to join them on the green.

Sam unfortunately had no such excuse and he found himself caddying to Frodo the next morning. The weather had been mild since the snow melted, but the wind was still biting with a fierce chill. Sam buttoned up his jacket and did his best to keep his teeth from chattering as he followed his friends down the trails to the valley floor. The cousins were oblivious to the cold, so excited they were about their pending game, though Pippin was a bit put off to be caddying for Merry.

“The first game always goes to Frodo and me,” Merry pointed out, for this was of course true. Merry was an excellent golfer, though by no means champion material. Still, he had managed to beat every hobbit he has played against at least once, if not several times. Every hobbit, that is, except Frodo. Many of the games played between Merry and Frodo were finished by the sixth hole as Frodo once again annihilated Merry on every single hole to finish two-and-four. Merry was determined to win a round against his older cousin before either of them became too debilitated with old age to swing a club, and so for the last fifteen years, whenever they had chance to play, the first game of the day was always between each other.

Frodo was not as passionate a golfer as some hobbits, but he did enjoy the game well enough and would indulge his cousins when they were of a mood to play. Just as Boromir had learned with the sword, Frodo possessed a natural grace with a golf club and he was able to play with an ease that left many a hobbit so envious they turned greener than the grass of the devotedly-tended links.

The links here had a proper ten holes, and they discovered as they played through that the hole Pippin had found the previous day was the fourth hole. As none of the hobbits were familiar with the links on which they were playing, they were left guessing, using their best strategies and well-honed golfer’s instincts to decide how to proceed on each hole. Frodo was a long driver but Merry had a flawless short game and for once they found themselves evenly matched on the first six holes. Instead of Frodo winning two-up, they were all square, a position Merry had never been in before.

Merry edged one-up on the 4-par seventh hole, using a pitching niblick to sink a chip shot into the hole from a bunker, finishing one under par, while Frodo took two putt shots to level. Hope began to kindle in Merry's chest as they positioned their featheries to tee off for the next drive.

On the three-par eighth hole, Frodo eyed the distance from the teeing ground to the pot bunker that cut laterally through the middle of the fairway. He decided to lay up and put his ball on the fairway just shy of the pot bunker, and selected his spade mashie for the drive. Sam pulled the desired club from the bag, wiped it clean and handed it to Frodo. After waggling his club and addressing the ball, Frodo swung with perfect follow through, sending the featherie to the desired spot.

Only the fairway was shorter than it appeared and instead of hitting the green in front of the pot bunker, the featherie disappeared into the mouth of the pit. Everyone stood gaping in disbelief. Pippin rubbed his eyes and looked again. The featherie, which should have been happily sitting in the middle of the fairway waiting for its next address, was nowhere to be seen. 

Merry teed off next, using his mashie niblick to hit his ball to the spot where Frodo’s should have landed. From there, he was able to level on the hole, but Frodo was caught in the pot bunker and had to take a backward shot onto the fairway before he could even get it onto the putting green. He finished one-down on the hole and Merry took the match dormie with two holes to go.

Merry felt triumphant. At worst, he and Frodo would finish the match all square, which would be accomplishment enough, but now that he was this close, Merry would not be satisfied with merely tying. He began to smell victory for the first time. He was mere strokes away from winning his first match against Frodo. All he had to do was win one more hole.

Pippin set up the ball for the tee off on the 5-par ninth hole and Merry swaggered to address the ball with an air of absolute confidence. Their first shots put them both on the fairway in relatively the same position, with Frodo’s landing away. Frodo’s next shot put him just shy of the putting green. Merry could follow his cousin’s lead and hope to out-putt Frodo once they were on the apron, or he could pull out all the stops and try to shoot for the green from here. It was a risky shot, but as he was in no danger of losing he was finding himself suddenly bold enough to take the risk. He asked Pippin for his brassie and after scoffing at him for a moment, Pippin pulled the club, wiped it clean and handed it to Merry.

“Time to let the big dog eat,” Merry said and regarded his club with much fervor and expectation.

“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Sam asked Frodo.

Frodo nodded. “He is.”

Merry felt sweat gathering on his brow as he stepped forward to address the ball. The featherie looked back at him with apprehension but Merry paid it no mind. He adjusted his grip on the club, interlocking his fingers expertly. He waggled the club and set his feet just so. He licked his lips in anticipation. Just one more hole for the win.   

The elf stepped lightly over the shallow dells of Rivendell as he looked ahead to the Last Homely House in the distance. The elven home was aglow under the mid-morning sun as the golden light reflected off marbled walls. In the trees the birds were singing joyously, their sweet music filling the air all about him. He smiled to hear it and began to hum along with the winged creatures, weaving his own music flawlessly with theirs. He stopped before one tall pine and looked up, his keen eyes spotting several nests in the high boughs where many birds were talking. He touched his hand to the pine’s bole and could feel it humming with the same cheer he felt within himself, and his smiled widened.

Then he took his hand away and moved on, for he needed to report to Elrond as soon as he returned to the house. He stepped around the tree and continued down the lawn that led to the base of the cliffs and the paths that led up to the house. The dell here was nearly flat but for a few soft slopes and was clear of any trees or brush. He paused in a small spot of sunlight and lifted his face skyward to relish in its gentle warmth, feeling as attuned to the earth as he ever had. He was beginning to hum again when he heard a very odd whistling noise unlike anything he had ever heard before. He tilted his head and perked his ears and listened more closely. The sound almost reminded him of an arrow in flight but the pitch was too low, and there was a certain spiraling sound to it. What could it be?

“FORE!” someone shouted just then and the elf turned to see four hobbits coming towards him, two of them carrying bags slung over their shoulders with various odd wooden objects sticking out from the tops of the bags. He recognized the Ring-bearer Frodo and his servant Sam, as well as Frodo’s two young cousins, one of whom was running ahead of the others and frantically waving his arms about. He shouted again. “Fore! FORE!”

“Four?” Yes, there were four of them, but the elf hardly understood why the hobbit was telling him this nor why he was doing so in such a frenetic manner.

“Fore!” the running hobbit shouted again, while just behind him Sam cringed and suddenly hid his eyes behind his hands.

“Wha-?” the elf began just as something round and brown came flying into his eyeline. With reflexes quicker than lightning, the elf reached up and grabbed the object before it could collide with his forehead. This did little to appease the running hobbit.

“NO! What are you doing?!” he shouted.

Not knowing what else to do, the elf calmly held the object – a small ball made of a leather hide and stuffed with some sort of substance – out towards the frantic hobbit. “Are you looking for this?” he inquired.

“Am I looking—? Why—Why didn’t you move!” the frantic hobbit shouted, reaching the elf at last.

“It is all right. I am unharmed,” said the elf.

“Wonderful,” said the hobbit, not sounding in the least that he indeed found this to be wonderful. “Why did you catch the ball!”

“Should I not have?” the elf asked.

“Of course not! You don’t catch a ball that’s in play!”

The elf looked down at the ball with wonderment. “What do you do with it then?”

The other hobbits reached them, and Frodo and his other cousin looked quite amused. Sam simply looked relieved to find the elf still standing.

“What do you—? What do you—you—”

“Merry, calm down,” said Frodo. He grinned up at the elf and said, “Welcome back, Legolas. I must say, but your timing is impeccable. I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to my cousins. This is Merry and this is Pippin.”

“Master Merry. Master Pippin,” Legolas greeted with a slight bow to each. “It has been… an experience to meet you.”

“Hallo Legolas,” Pippin greeted, grinning just as much, if not more so, than Frodo. He put down his bag of odd wooden objects and scrutinized the elf, a twinkle of mischief in his green eyes. “Maybe if he throws the ball and then you can play it from wherever it lands.”

“Throw the ball?” Merry said with no small amount of incredulity and Pippin realized too late this was no time for jests. Merry forgot the elf to turn his glare on his cousin. “Throw the ball? You don’t throw a golf ball, Pippin, you hit it. You of all people should know that. You never touch a ball in play, and he—” and here he pointed backwards at Legolas “—caught it. He caught it!”

“May I inquire as to what this is about?” Legolas asked.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, sir,” Sam said with a warning shake of his head but he was too late.

“What is this about?” Merry said, swinging back around towards the elf. “I was about to win this match! If I had made that shot I’d be on the green and I could have won. I'd be three up and he—” and here he pointed at Frodo “—would finally know what it’s like to lose to me! But you had to not only get in the way, but you caught the ball! You ruined my game entirely and— Did you move?”

“Move?” Legolas said, looking down at his feet. “You did wish for me to move, did you not.”

“Not now!” Merry said, eyes darting along the ground. “You moved the ball! You were there, and now you’re here. You moved a whole inch! You caught the ball and then you moved with it! Why?”

“Merry,” Frodo said, his voice stern and surprisingly commanding. Even Legolas stood up a little straighter to hear it. “Maintain yourself. This is a gentlehobbit’s sport and you are hardly acting like a gentlehobbit. Besides, it would be nearly impossible to reach the green from that distance. You would have wound up in the rough instead and would have lost the hole. You will never know what it’s like to win against me.”

Merry opened his mouth as if to protest further but with a great effort and deep breath, he calmed himself instead and gathered himself together. “You’re right. About my behavior, not my chances of winning.” He turned to Legolas and bowed gallantly. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. It was rude and uncalled for.”

Frodo looked pointedly at Legolas and tilted his head ever so slightly in Merry’s direction. “And I must apologize for catching the ball and moving with it,” Legolas said. “What shall I do with it now? Shall I throw it?”

“No!” all the hobbits said at once. Sam set down his bag of odd wooden objects and he and Frodo stood by as Merry and Pippin conferred, scrutinizing the elf together.

“This is unprecedented,” said Pippin, looking at Legolas and the ball as though he had never seen a sight like it before. “You can’t play through. But you can’t let it lie either. He’s an obstruction, like a tree.”

“He’s an elf,” Merry said.

“He’s a wood elf,” Pippin said with a nod.

“He’s not even supposed to be there. He wouldn’t be, if he had moved,” Merry pointed out.

“But he didn’t,” Pippin said.

“This is clearly a circumstance of abnormal ground conditions,” Merry said.

Pippin shook his head. “No, I think this is more of an obstruction.”

“How is an elf not abnormal?” Merry said. Then he seemed to think better about this because he turned to Legolas and said sheepishly, “Not that I’m saying elves are abnormal, I just mean on a track.”

“Naturally,” Legolas permitted.

“Abnormal ground conditions can only exist under the conditions of grounds construction, or holes dug by burrowing animals. Legolas is neither. He’s an immovable obstruction, Merry,” Pippin insisted.

“Immovable?”

“He’s a tree.”

“He’s an elf.”

“But he caught it.”

“Very well. He’s a moveable obstruction.”

Sam turned to Frodo and whispered quietly, so only his master, and Legolas with his keen senses, could hear him, “Wouldn’t Mr. Merry be better off agreeing to it being an immovable obstruction, what with the grass on the apron looking to break like it does?”

“Yes. Shhh,” Frodo replied.

“I still am not clear as to what this is about,” Legolas said.

“It’s golf,” Frodo said. “It’s a game we hobbits play, or some of us do at any rate.”

“How is it played?” asked Legolas.

“By hitting that there ball into the hole over yonder,” Sam said, pointing to the nearby upper level where Legolas could now see a white flag sticking out of the ground. “Whoever can get the ball into the hole in the least amount of strokes wins the hole, and whoever wins the most holes wins the match. Mr. Merry took the match dormie on the last hole, so if he wins this hole, he’ll win the match three-and-one.”

Legolas nodded. “This sounds like a very complicated game,” he observed. “How long will I have to stand here?”

“Until Merry and Pippin can decide what to do with you,” Frodo said. “Normally the links committee would make that determination, but as we don't have one of those, we decided that such matters would be settled between golfer and caddie. If you’re an immovable obstruction, then Merry can move the ball no further than one club length and no nearer the hole to take his next shot, and as his last shot was hooking, he would be much better off taking that option. If you’re deemed a movable obstruction, then Merry will have to move you in some manner and take a drop where you are currently standing. There’s no penalty either way, but the previous stroke still counts against him.”

“Very well,” Legolas said and they returned their attention to Merry and Pippin, who were still in hot debate.

“A tree has roots and leaves and a trunk. Legolas does not have any of those things,” Merry argued.

“But he caught the ball,” Pippin said. “Duffers are always losing their balls in the trees.”

“He caught it, and then moved with it. Have you ever seen a tree that moves?”

“Yes, they move all the time with the wind.”

“But Legolas walked with it. Have you ever seen a walking tree?”

“No, but Sam’s cousin Hal has.”

“Hal is known for his habit of picking the wrong mushrooms.”

“Hey now!” Sam exclaimed, insulted on his cousin’s behalf.

“Sorry, Sam.”

“Look, Merry,” Pippin said, lowering his voice so that the others – except Legolas – would not be able to hear him. “The grain on the apron cuts to the left and you have a habit of hooking your long shots when you’re worked up. If you take the drop from this position you’ll risk overshooting the green entirely and you’ll end up in the rough. But if Legolas is an immovable obstruction, you can place the ball to the right and then you’ll have a good lie. Try for a push to even out your hook and you’ll get a flush shot onto the apron, with one putt to sink it. So stop trying to make a point and play through.”

Merry turned and eyed the remainder of the green behind the elf. He was loathe to lose the argument but he would rather lose that than the match. “If that’ll make you happy, Pip,” he said. “Legolas is a tree.”

“I’m a tree?” Legolas said, wondering how literally the hobbits would take that judgment. “Does that mean I must stay here?”

“Only until I take my next shot,” Merry said, but he made no move other than to take the ball from Legolas.

Frodo and Sam walked off to where Frodo's featherie was patiently waiting for its next address. Sam then walked up to the green and lay down on the grass to study the severity of the break in the grain. When he returned to Frodo he said, “I think a push is just thing. The break does run right to left, so a push shot will put you in the better position to make your putt. Or you could try to sink it.”

“I can’t worry about what Merry might do. Give me my mashie niblick,” Frodo said and lined up his next shot. His ball landed on the green well right of the hole and rolled for a short distance to put Frodo in good putting position.

Now it was Merry’s turn again. He and Pippin quickly decided his cleek would be the best club to use for this shot, for it would give him the control he so desperately needed. He placed the cleek on the ground perpendicular from where Legolas stood and dropped the ball next to the club head. Picking up the cleek again, he measured the distance and studied the wind before waggling the club and addressing the ball.

Legolas watched all this with much fascination. He noticed the way Merry’s fingers interlocked over the club handle, the way he adjusted his grip so that the right hand was looser than the left, the way Merry shifted from one foot to another until his weight was evenly distributed. Legolas had no idea what form the player’s body should take in the back swing, but he did note the fluidity of the movements, Merry’s concentration and the way his weight shifted again to put all the power into his left leg even while he maintained control in his right leg.

Everything grew still and silent, even the birds in the trees had stopped chirping, as though they sensed the importance of this moment. Merry swung, his follow through flawless, and with a dull THWACK! the featherie sailed through the air towards the raised circular lawn in the distance. The ball landed in the middle of the lawn and rolled towards the flag that Legolas could see there. Then, impossibly, the ball continued to roll, disappearing into the ground just short of the flag.

A brief moment of shocked silence was followed by a monstrous whoop from Merry and Pippin, who began jumping up and down in joyous celebration. “Did you see that?! A double eagle! A double eagle!” Pippin exclaimed.

Despite himself, Legolas looked up into the sky. He was not surprised when he did not find any eagles flying there, but he did wonder how the hobbits came about their names for… whatever it was Merry had just done.

“I won! I won!” Merry exclaimed. Tears were streaming down his face. He hugged Pippin fiercely and they continued to jump around, making such a ruckus that some of the birds left their perches and took flight to find more peaceful trees.

Merry then let go of Pippin and turned to hug Legolas. “Thank you!” he said, with genuine sincerity. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

“You’re most welcome,” Legolas said, surprised by this sudden turn of events but finding it much more favorable than having the hobbit angry with him.

“Congratulations, Merry,” Frodo said. “You played well today. And I think Legolas might like to have his legs back.”

Merry let go of Legolas, smiling up at him sheepishly before taking his cousin’s hand. “You played well yourself, dear old Frodo. It was a pleasure to win against you.” Then he turned back to the elf, his new best friend, and said, “You should have been here for the whole match Legolas. It was really an excellent game.” And he launched into his post-game reenactment before Legolas could even hope to think of escape.

Legolas learned quite a lot about golf as they hiked up the cliff trail to the Last Homely House. He learned all about strokes, grips, clubs, and hazards and learned the definitions of many odd words such as bogey, froghair, hardpan, dormie and chunking, to name a few. By the time they reached the house, his head was swimming with the hobbits’ excited chatter and he was beginning to feel rather out of his equilibrium. But he found an unlooked for savior when they turned a corner and spotted the Gondorian at the other end of the passageway.

“BOROMIR!” Merry and Pippin shouted as one.

Boromir paused in his wandering and waited for the hobbits and Legolas to join him – until he noticed Sam walking at the back of the group. Sam was making small imperceptible waving motions with his hands and mouthing one word that Boromir understood to mean “Go!”

The man needed no further prompting. “Lord Elrond!” Boromir called down an adjoining corridor. “Just a moment! Sorry, lads, but duty calls.” He all but sprinted down the corridor and was gone from their sight before they could blink.

Legolas separated himself from the hobbits. “I too must request an audience with Lord Elrond. Good-bye.” He then trotted down the passageway and rounded the corner and down the corridor. He was just in time to see a door in the middle of the corridor snap closed. He opened that door and entered the room to find himself standing in the middle a storeroom.

“Where is Elrond?” Legolas asked, thinking they must have entered the wrong door.

“I don’t know. I have not seen him all morning,” Boromir said and leaned against the door so no one else could enter. “Is it as horrible as I have been warned?”

“I know nothing of your warning, but it was rather upsetting,” Legolas said and joined the man in leaning against the door. “I pity whoever is chosen to accompany the hobbits on their quest.”

“Merry and Pippin will not be going, I hear,” Boromir informed.

“That is hopeful,” Legolas responded.

They waited until the voices of the hobbits had faded into the distance before leaving their refuge and finding more convenient hiding places.
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 
 

GF 1/28/07