The War of the Ring was started by beer_good_foamy with this drabble; Everybody Knows Men Never Ask Directions. I retaliated at once with The Only Way To Travel. BGF responded with The Evils of Capitalism. Now the War of the Ring escalates as I strike back with a 500-word ficlet. PG. I’ve embedded a certain YouTube video as a suitable soundtrack for the story.
There’s Something About Frodo
Legolas knelt to examine the tracks. He studied them for a moment, his face grave, and then rose to his feet. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, stared into the distance, and then shouted out to the Fellowship. “They’re taking the hobbits to Isengard.”
“Gard... gard... gard... gard,” echoed from the slopes of Amon Hen, Amon Lhaw, and Tol Brandir.
The remaining members of the Fellowship all spoke at once. “The hobbits?” “The hobbits?” “The hobbits?” “The hobbits? To Isengard?”
“To Isengard,” Legolas confirmed. “They’re taking the hobbits to Isengard.”
Aragorn’s noble brows creased in a deep frown. “This is grim news indeed. We must follow, for we must not leave our poor comrades to the doubtful mercies of Saruman, and yet I am torn. Frodo and Sam have crossed the river and travel towards Mordor. They too need my aid.”
Poirot raised a finger and caressed his moustache. “A moment, Monsieur Aragorn, and I shall put to work the little grey cells. Ah, I have it. We must divide our forces. You, and the good Legolas and Gimli, shall hasten in pursuit of our abducted hobbits Meriadoc and Peregrine. Me, I would be of little use in such a chase, and neither would Madame Fletcher. My grey cells, and her unrivalled knowledge of Mordor, would be better put to use in the assistance of Monsieur Frodo.”
“Indeed so, Monsieur Poirot,” Jessica Fletcher agreed.
“Your suggestion has merit,” Aragorn agreed, “but will you be safe in the Black Lands alone?”
“I believe that I still retain sufficient knowledge of magic to cope with most eventualities,” Jessica said. “Treguna, Mekoides, Tracorum Satis Dee!”
“And we are not alone,” Poirot pointed out, “for is not the good Captain Hastings always at my side?”
“Rather, old chap,” said Hastings. “My trusty Webley should make short work of Orcs and Ringwraiths.”
“Very well, then, Poirot,” said Aragorn. “Namaarie!”
“Au revoir, mon ami,” replied Poirot.
Thus was it agreed, and thus the Fellowship was sundered, and long would it be ere they would be reunited. On the trail of the orcs Aragorn set out, in great haste, and with him went Legolas of the Sindarin Elves and Gimli of the Dwarves. Over the river paddled Hercule Poirot, and Jessica Fletcher, and the bold Captain Hastings.
Across the wastelands went the detectives, and over the mountains, following after Frodo and Sam. At first the hobbits’ trail was straight, directly towards Mordor, but at length it turned abruptly away. Now they were heading for a solitary peak, standing high above a desolate plain, nowhere near the volcano that should have been their destination.
“I do not comprehend this,” Poirot mused. “What is it that these hobbits do? Have they, perhaps, mistaken their route? Tell me, Madame Fletcher, what is that mountain towards which Monsieur Frodo and his devoted companion are travelling?”
Jessica consulted her maps. “In Elvish it is called Orodrusva N'alaquel,” she told him. “In English that would be ‘Brokeback Mountain’.”