Stewart stood before the bathroom mirror and tried vainly to suck in his gut. The protrusion over his lipstick kisses boxers had begun to bother him of late. More recently when one of his coworkers at the carpet mill had jiggled his belly and asked when he was due. He peered more closely at the mirror, studying the fine lines around his eyes and the pouches under eyes chocolate brown eyes. Too many sleepless nights, he supposed. He stepped back from the sink and looked down at his legs. Chicken legs, his ex-wife, Brenda called them.
With a deep sigh, he padded down the carpeted hall to his kitchen. He pulled open the icebox and extracted a Michelob Light. He'd taken to drinking light beer these days and promising himself he'd go on a diet. Get back into shape. Get on with his life. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he twisted off the cap. Always tomorrow.
He went to the living room and plopped down on the second hand lay-z-boy recliner, the one his aunt had given to him. His uncle Joe had died in that chair and there were moments when he felt creepy sitting in the chair where his least favorite relative had breathed his last. Tonight wasn't one of those times. He picked up his remote control and flipped through the channels. He paused on ESPN and watched as Manchester United played a round against some African team with a virtually unpronounceable name. He sipped from his beer and watched as what he assumed was a referee flashed little colored cards at the players. Whatever.
He switched down the channels. Law & Order re-run of a re-run. No. True Lies. Again? What Not To Wear. Stewart looked down at his boxers and grimaced. Fuck no. Mistral's Daughter. What the hell? Oh, yeah, Judy Krantz novel. Who the freak is she, anyway? Ah. Yes, there. Stargate SG-1.
He settled back in his recliner and prepared to sleep. No wonder, he thought, I have bags under my eyes. This can't be good. But he couldn't face sleeping in the big bed alone. He and Brenda had been married eighteen years, but they figured that they only spent maybe ten of those years together. Navy life and marriage was not compatible. The old adage, if the Navy had wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one , was apropos in his case. After eighteen years and three kids, she decided she did not want to be married to him once he retired from the Navy. Some time, while he was out cruising the South Pacific on the Kitty Hawk, she met someone else. Most assuredly her new someone did not have chicken legs.
The skin on his arms and legs drew tight. He could literally feel the hairs all over his body stand on end. He felt a tightening n his chest. He gasped for air and tried to get up from the recliner. A sharp pain shot up his arm. His back arched and the pain in his arm shot to his chest. His heart beat erratically and the room spun. Then everything went black.
Boromir slowed his horse from a gallop to a canter and then to a slow trot. Ahead a body lay in the muddy road. He brought his horse to a standstill and dismounted cautiously. He laid his hands on his sword, looking around for signs of ambush. He slowly approached the body and stared down at the strangest sight to ever meet his gaze.
A man lay spread eagle on his back, his legs and arms flung wide, his mouth open in a snore that would have shaken leaves from the trees, had there been any trees nearby. He wore a type of short leggings around his loins and his member protruded from the bottom. Little lips were drawn all over the material.
The hair was closely cropped and dark, like the hairs on his chest and legs. A small drawing of a heart with lettering in the center graced his left bicep. A ships anchor was drawn on his right forearm. Boromir of Gondor drew his sword and gingerly prodded the sleeper in the ribs.
The man jerked and twitched then continued with his snoring. One hand went down to his short leggings and scratched at himself. Again Boromir poked him in the ribs. This time with better results. One eyelid peeled back, revealing deep brown orbs surrounded by thick dark lashes. The eye rolled and focused briefly on Boromir before drifting closed again. Then the figure snorted and grunted and, without warning, the man lunged to his feet, staring around in open-mouthed wonder.
Boromir leapt back in alarm, his sword raised defensively. His jaw slowly dropped open as he got a good look at the stranger's back. On his left shoulder was a drawing of a woman, naked from the waist up, wearing what appeared to be a bright yellow grass skirt around her swaying hips. What manner of tribal ritual is this, he thought.
"Whatdafuck?" The man screamed, turning in a slow circle. He focused on Boromir. "Whodafuckareyou?"
Boromir drew himself up to his full height and realized, with some dismay, that the stranger topped him by several inches. His green eyes traveled the length of man before him, taking in the odd appearance especially the enormous penis dangling from beneath his leggings.
"Can you not clothe yourself properly?" Each syllable dripped with distaste.
The man blinked for several minutes. "Whoa, dude, what a getup." He reached a hand out to Boromir. "Am I dead?"
"Hardly." Boromir took a step back. "Who are you?"
"I asked you first, dude." The man reached down and adjusted his leggings. "Sorry." He added as an afterthought.
Boromir's head tilted slightly. "I am Boromir, son of Denothor, Steward of Gondor."
"Wow. Kinda goes with the outfit doesn't it?" He was singularly impressed by the two-handed sword held in Bor-whatever's meaty fist. The freaky guy looked like he'd stepped straight out of a Robin Hood movie. The one with Kevin Costner.
"I have identified myself. You would please do the same?" Boromir prodded.
The man stuck out his hand. "Stewart Martin of Ringgold, Georgia. Don't worry if you've never heard of it. Most people haven't. My friend's call me Stu."
When the son of Denture of Gonads did not take his hand, he sheepishly withdrew it. "So, uh..Where am I?"
"This is the road to Rivendell, home of Lord Elrond."
"Oh, right." Okay. He had been sitting in his second-hand recliner having a beer, watching SG-1 and trying to catch a few z's. Now he was standing in the middle of a muddy road wearing nothing but his boxers and talking to a guy who looked like a movie extra and talked like he came from Sheffield, England. Freaky dream. Stu hoped.
"So do you think El Ron has a phone I could borrow?"
"I am sure Lord Elrond will be glad to offer any aid he can," hedged Boromir, uncertain what a 'phone' was and too stubborn to inquire. "Imladris is just ahead, on horse we could reach it by early afternoon."
Absently Stewart reached behind him and scratched is butt, hitching the thin material higher. "Car broke down?" Steward eyeballed the large steed with misgivings. The last time he'd been on horseback was at his wife's grandparents and that had been nearly fifteen years ago. He did not relish repeating the experience.
Boromir ignored the question. "Come, you can ride behind me." He took a deep breath and wished he'd learn to think before he spoke. He was not thrilled by the idea of the stranger's member flopping at his back all the way to Rivendell.
Padding over to the horse, Stewart gently petted the flanks. "I am not particularly fond of horses. I got thrown by one a few years ago at my wife's grandparent's farm and I've not bothered since. The only horsepower I like is my Harley."
Taking up the reigns, Boromir settled easily in to the saddle. "Walk or mount behind me. I care not." He offered down his arm for Stewart.
Lord Elrond's grey eyes opened wide as Boromir of Gondor rode through Imladris' ornate gates. He had not expected Boromir to bring a guest. More precisely, he had not expected that kind of guest. He was nearly nude, with only the thinnest covering of clothes about his hips. His head swiveled alarmingly on his shoulders, taking in every detail of his surroundings as though he'd never seen them before.
He slipped from the back of the horse and staggered, arms flailing, and barely missed braining Glorfindel. His loincloth had ridden up, exposing a great deal of bottom and proof of his gender. Once he was again steady on his feet, the newcomer turned in a slow circle and whistled while one hand scratched at his posterior.
Behind him, Elrond heard a strangled gasp and turned to see Arwen and two of her maids staring unabashedly at the man. Elrond followed their line of sight and realized they were not really staring at Boromir's companion. They were staring at the companion's companion.
"Arwen, perhaps you would go and see that another room is prepared for Boromir's guest." Elrond said, his eyes widening in alarm as Arwen's face flushed and her eyes dilated.
Arwen intently studied the man wandering about the courtyard with avid curiosity. She was intrigued by the short hair on his head, far different from the long braids worn by elves or the shaggy styles favored by men. The skimpy material covering his hips revealed far more than it concealed and Arwen felt her nipples tighten,.
"Arwen!" Elrond's voice cut through the fog in her brain. When at last he gained her attention, Elrond repeated his earlier request.
Disappointment clouded Arwen's features as she turned to obey her father. Besides, she mused to herself, there was always later.
Elrond focused his attention back to his guests in time to witness Boromir leaning close to his companion and his companion quickly pulling his loincloth back into place. They approached Lord Elrond and Boromir bowed.
"Welcome to Rivendell, Master Boromir," Elrond intoned, his gaze
shifting to Boromir's companion expectantly.
"My lord, my I present the Steward of Wrangled Gorge? I found him lying dazed in the middle of the road this morning. I believe he has suffered some injury to his head."
"Welcome noble friend." Elrond bowed from the waist. "We are glad you could join our council."
"Council?" Visions of PTA meetings danced in Stewart's head. "Council of what?"
"The White Council, of course," answered Elrond. "I assumed that your people…Wrangled Gorge? Sent you as their representative."
Stewart's dark brows drew down towards the bridge of his nose. "Where the hell is Wrangled Gorge?"
Looking baffled, Boromir turned to Stewart. "I thought you said you were from Wrangled Gorge. Are you not the steward of that land?"
"Naw. I'm from Ringgold, Georgia. My name is Stewart Martin." Stewart was certain his deep southern accent was the cause of the confusion, he'd had that happen often enough over the years. "It's just south of Chattanooga, about fifteen miles or so." When all he received were blank looks, he tried a different approach, one that had worked countless times before. "Pardon me, boys, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo, track twenty-nine, Oh. Won't you give me a shine.." He left off his humming of the old tune that he'd always assumed was universally known.
As Stewart Martin hummed the silly, upbeat, song, Elrond noticed a small gold circle around the finger of his left hand. His heart nearly stopped in his chest. "What is that?"
"An old Glenn Miller tune. I can't believe you folks have never heard of it."
"I refer to the object on your hand." Elrond's long fingers pointed to Stewart's hand. "How did you come by that?"
Stewart held up his hand and examined the ring on his left ring finger. "My wedding band? I should take it off but I just can't seem to bring myself to, you know? I feel like if I take it off, then my marriage is really over." He did not bother to add his marriage had been over for nearly eight months.
"It possesses you?" Elrond's voice was low and intense, nearly frightening Stewart and all those within hearing.
Stewart cocked his head to the side. "Obsessed may be a better word," he conceded. "I have never quite gotten over Brenda wanting a divorce, I guess."
"Most peculiar," Elrond spoke more to himself than his guests. "I would be glad to hear more about this and Brenda, if you would indulge me after dinner? In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. I will have you shown to your rooms and the bath houses."