*William Thatcher (Heath Ledger) in A Knight's Tale.
Preparation began for the departure of those from Rivendell almost immediately. The only real delay lay in Boromir and his digestive tract. Boromir was confined to the infirmary and given a long and drawn out selection of concoctions designed with the specific purpose of expunging the rings from his body. Each, according to Boromir, was fouler than the last. Of course, the biggest indignity lay in the buckets. Whenever the urge overcame him, Boromir was forced to perch over a bucket while an audience anxiously awaited the outcome. Literally.
Not that Stu had time to sit and listen to him complain. Between discussion with El Ron and Glorfikle and the old-geezer-of-so-many-names-it-wasn’t-fucking-funny and Argyle, who was apparently a King but not a King, Stu could never really tell if he were coming or going. That, too, was the least of his worries. When he wasn’t attending meetings and discussions explaining his life in minute detail and receiving a crash course in what appeared to be Western European mythology, he was ducking Arwen.
The young female Elf was everywhere. She crept up on him at dinner and when he was coming out of the library. She almost followed him into the bath once, but someone named Rester, who apparently had enough clout to make her behave, rescued him. Last night, he’d gone to his room after dinner with a screaming headache and nearly fled his room having a screaming hissy.
He’d stripped off the heavy robes with a heartfelt sigh. While undeniably warm, he always felt like he smelled—feminine. The boots were a bitch, as well, as they had more laces and stays than a merry widow and made his feet sweat like preacher in a whorehouse. Once he was down to his bare skin, he felt relieved and began looking for his boxers. Try as they might, the elves had been unable to convince him to get rid of his short leggings, as they referred to his underwear.
Stu scratched and stretched and yawned, completing a nightly ritual that he’d been performing since he couldn’t remember when and settled on the end of the bed. His over taxed brain wanted to find the remote and tune out to some seriously mindless drivel. But there was no remote. No boob-tube. Hell, he would have even watched a soap opera. No dice.
As he sat on the edge of his bed, he felt something warm and soft slide up his leg. His first thought was spider. His next thought was large caliber gun. He hated spiders and suffered from severe arachnophobia. He screeched and jumped around the bed on one foot while brushing frantically at his leg with one arm. “GetitoffGetitoff!”
“What is it?” Arwen slithered out from under the bed wearing slightly more clothing than the stripper his friends had hired for his bachelor party.
Stu stopped jumping and brushing and lowered his leg until both fallen arches were planted firmly on intricately woven throw rug, “Was that you?”
Looking innocently around the room, Arwen asked sweetly. “Was that me what?”
“I am in no mood for games, Lady Arwen. Did you just run your hand up my leg?”
“I was intrigued by the way they felt.”
“Argyle has hairy legs. Go run your hands up his calves.” Stu suddenly realized that Arwen had not met his gaze in several seconds. Following her line of sight, he realized exactly what had her attention. He snatched up his robe and held it in front o him. “Uh, I have headache.” He said, feeling extremely lame.
“So I was informed. I came to see if I could help,” she purred, stepping closer to Stu.
Something he’d once said to his wife about sex curing headaches flashed through Stu’s mind and he cringed. “That’s sweet. But, really, I was just going to get into bed.”
Arwen’s face lit up and Stu wished he could as easily remove his tongue as his clothes. Hastily he thought to scramble back into his robes.
“I could rub your temples,” something in her voice made Stu think she wanted to rub more than his face. “Perhaps a cool cloth? A glass of wine? There are many remedies for that which ails you.”
Behind the closed wardrobe door Stu thought he heard something that sounded suspiciously like someone strangling. Without warning, he spun and pulled open the door only to have Argyle tumble out from behind several robes.
Stu rolled his eyes, wondering what he’d done to ever deserve this. “Coming out of the closet, are we?”
Argyle straightened his clothing and brushed back his shaggy blond hair. “I came to see if you needed a remedy for your aching head.”
Stu stuck his head in the closet, figuring Legless or one of the Half Lings would jump out at any second. He’d discovered that where Argyle went, certain people were sure to follow. “Is there a banquet room in here or something?” He asked with his head tucked between velvet robes.
“Argy-uh,” Arwen placed her fingertips against her brow. “Aragorn, what are you doing here?”
Eyeing her critically, Aragorn crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back a little on his heels. “I was about to ask you the same, but I got distracted by your dress.”
“What dress,” Stu muttered.
Arwen looked down at her dress and held the skirt out away from her body. The diaphanous material showed every curve and line of her body. “What is wrong with my dress?”
“It is a beautiful dress, my dear,” Aragorn replied. “You and I should talk.”
“What a great idea. Why don’t you go back to your room and do that.” Stu made for the door to his sitting room. “You need privacy for these kinds of conversations. Trust me. I know these things.”
“Were you spying on me?” Arwen demanded.
“I was not spying on you, I was spying on Steward,” Aragorn retorted. “His behavior is suspicious.”
“Hey now, wait a minute, slim.” Stu stormed back into the room. “MY behavior is suspicious? You are the one running around in the wilderness like Moses and pretending to be a king who is not a king. I just happened to wake up in someone else’s nightmare. As for Arwen, I did not invite her into my room.”
“My name is Argy-uh-Aragorn,” the Ranger snapped.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted the argument and Stu went to answer it. Glorfinkle the Goon stood in the doorway. “Lord Boromir has passed the rings and you are needed to identity---“ He leapt out of the way as three people bolted suddenly towards the door. Only his warrior’s reflexes saved him from becoming wedged in the door with the trio.
Arwen was lodged between Aragorn and Stu as they tried to exit the door at the same time. Aragorn stepped on Arwen’s dress and there was a loud ripping sound as Arwen pushed through the door with an unladylike grunt and squeak.
“”Hell, it’s my ring,” snarled Stu as he tumbled through the door. He glanced at Arwen and realized he could see her bare bottom. His eyes widened appreciatively at the view.
Belatedly, Aragorn realized his error and bent to retrieve the section of skirt his booted foot had removed from Arwen’s dress. He straightened just in time to receive a resounding slap across his face.
Gathering up the shreds of her dignity and dress, Arwen stormed off in the direction of her chambers, leaving the three males behind to gape.
Whistling softly, Stu clapped Argyle on the shoulder. “Dude, I can see why you are so protective of her. What an ass!”
Aragorn glared at Stu with murder in his eyes. “Her ass is none of your affair.”
“Hey, easy, Argyle, I was only making an observation.” But he did not easily dismiss the image from his mind.
Glorfindel wisely kept his own counsel.
They entered the healing chambers where everyone had gathered. Boromir blushed furiously as he was patted and praised like a house broken pup. All the hoopla had left him feeling out of sorts and it showed on his face. He felt exposed, as though he had nothing on beneath his tunic and everyone was staring at him. Well, they were staring at him, really. Staring at his backside, specifically. Waiting for what would come out of it.
When Stu reached the bedside where Boromir sat, he clapped him on the back. “Kinda gives a whole new meaning to ‘pulling it out of yer ass’, eh, Boomer?”
Boromir’s jaw tightened and his eyes flamed. A gentle cough from Aragorn diverted his attention from Stu.
Healers removed the bucket containing the rings from the room, and under Elrond’s watchful eye, carefully removed the rings from the bucket. The shiny metal bands were carefully cleaned and placed in linen cloth.
The rings were presented to the group, so that all would know that both were present.
Gandalf-Mithrandil studied both carefully, with Frito Back-Ins the Half Ling staring over his arm. No one was willing to touch the Rings except for the child and Stu. Carefully they each picked one and examined them. They were completely identical gold bands, with nothing to distinguish them from each other.
Blue eyes met Stu’s and he shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Shaking fingers accepted the golden band and placed it on a waiting mithril chain. Stu did like wise and both of them placed the chains around their necks and tucked the rings beneath their clothes.
“Tis done, then.” Elrond intoned. “Both rings shall go to feed the heart of Mount Doom. You will depart the day after tomorrow.”
There were apprehensive looks and deep sighs all around as the company understood for the first time the gravity of the situation. One of them held the true Ruling Ring and the other had a worthless hunk of gold. In order for their mission to be successful, both rings had to perish. Which meant that both Frito and Stu had to be protected at all costs.
Aragorn would have preferred to walk on his lips, but his duty remained clear.
The following day dawned bright and clear and cool. Perfect October weather set in and the company grew light of heart despite the hardships that lay ahead. Elrond planned a final farewell party for the group, knowing that the long road ahead would take a large toll, and possibly lives.
Final preparations were made for the departure and the upcoming party. The guest list was small; containing only the members of the company and the residents of Rivendell. Wine and food were abundant and discussion of the mission was not allowed by orders from Stu.
“It’s bad luck to discuss a mission the night before. We’ll jinx ourselves.” Explained the Georgian. “All the plans that could be made have been made. Time to relax and enjoy ourselves one last time.” So saying, he picked up a goblet of wine and chugged it back.
What no one had bothered to tell Stu, and what he learned on his own the hard way, was that elves only looked fragile and delicate. They were not fragile. They were not delicate. They were immortal and unbelievably strong. Their choice in alcoholic beverages reflected cultural refinement.
Wine in Rivendell was much different from the Boone’s Farm he used to get at the convenience store down from his crappy little apartment. It was sweet and smooth and fruity, sure. By the time Stu drank his third goblet he realized his mistake. The stuff had a kick like Jack Daniels Black Label. He did not remember anything after his third glass.
Stu slowly cracked open one eye and waited for his surroundings to come into focus. A foul creature had crawled in to his mouth during the night and died. The entire USC drum corps was practicing in his head. His one open eye scanned the room while his brain tried to assemble the bleary picture into something coherent and process the necessary data needed for Stu to be able to remember just where in the hell he was.
He felt a warm body at his back and snuggled closer. Bare skin brushed bare skin and Stu froze, both eyes flying wide as he stared at the leaf patterned wall. Cautiously he placed his hand behind him and gingerly groped the body pressed so near his. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh, God.”