On the umpteenth day of the Fellowship's journey, in the early morning sun, Legolas walked with a gleam in his eye, yet did not speak. Nudges and nods in his direction queried, "What the Hell is wrong with him?" in not so many words.

And then, at last, Legolas spoke.

"How happens it that my compatriots dear, my brothers-in-arms, should speak of me and not to me? Am I not of flesh and bone, blood and essence? Does my heart not beat, nor my blood run? What manner of happenstance hath occasioned those I call brothers to declaim unequivocally that I hath not the ears of an Elf?"

Silence.

"What did you say?" Frodo asked, scratching his head. His inquiry was shared by all, as was evidenced by the vacant looks on their faces.

"Were thou not standing near, thine ears unwrapped and thy mouth stopped, hearing me hold forth what I have just inquired? If it is thy wish that I give idiom to those unchanged words, I say thee nay!"

"That's it, he's cracked," Merry said, turning 'round. The rest of the Fellowship still stared, in shock at the gruesome transformation Legolas had undergone. Gone was the soft-spoken Elf Prince. This was...something else entirely.

"Nay! A pox!" Legolas cried. "A pox upon thee for thine insolence, thou droning urchin-snouted gudgeon!"

"Legolas, please!" Gandalf cried from the lead. "By all the Valar, speak PLAINLY!"

Legolas looked taken aback. "Nay, my wizened comrade. I know not what thou speaketh, for I enunciate and expostulate all mine expressions as any well-bred Elf Prince hast been borne to speak, in a forthright manner and by way of fine edict. What comportment of probability hath transpired that mine own brethren shouldst parlay with me upon mine lexis?"

The others turned to Aragorn, their leader, their faces bereft of any and all emotion save confusion and fear. He shrugged, and fought to contain a smile. "I believe the term is 'revenge is mine,' gentlemen." Then he turned and trudged on across the field.

"Oh, Valar," Boromir groaned, while Gimli cursed in Dwarvish.

Legolas nodded and opened his mouth again. "Methinks it befitting to avenge myself upon those who hast so reprehensibly blasphemed the godliness of mine fair tresses. The Lady Galadriel, high on her perch in the Golden Wood, layeth her righteous hand upon my shoulder. She guideth me, and it shall be many turns of the seasons before I may be satisfied! Nay, foul pillagers of the Elven kind, thou art dastardly and fraudulent, and celestial providence decree that thou must be castigated."

Sam's eyes widened at the word 'castigated,' and he shrank back behind Frodo as cover.

But Legolas did not see fit to stop there.

He turned to Pippin and exclaimed with a cry, "A pox upon thee, varlet! Thine foul vapors that expel from thy body art blasphemous! Indeed, the leaves upon yon tree wilt and wither upon your passing. Me thinkest thou hath devoured all the bones of Gollum's cavern and returned them after a moment's thought to the earth, where they might despoil and taint whatever thing thine billows touch! A pox upon thee, thou impertinent tickle-brained foot-licker!"

Pippin's lower lip began to quiver, and he spun around to follow Aragorn, fighting back tears.

"A pox! A pox upon thee!"

It was Gimli's turn. It seemed Legolas had taken offense to the great mines of Moria, where they now found themselves, and were in greatest need of silence. But Legolas paid no heed. His Shakespearean wrath had far too much venom, and he relished the authority with which he spoke.

Gimli looked for somewhere, anywhere to hide, but to no avail. Legolas' words poured forth like the torrent of the Bruinen.

"I wouldst fain inquire as to the garish and crude lines of yonder columns, for they thrash the eye unmercifully, shocking and abusing those globes that above all things seek serenity and flowing notions. But nay, thine own brethren hath imposed their insensate touch upon yon stone! See how it burns like hard ash. Such geometries are established not in the palate of Arda, nor their inflexible proposal of monochromatic insipidness and dankness that tuggeth at my heart and poundeth in my brain. Nay, not for me! A pox upon them!"

Legolas' vengeance continued on as the sun made its daily arc across the sky. He cursed and pox-ed all manner of things, from the temperature of the mines ("What foul demon hath extended his reach from the snow-white peaks of Caradhras and journeyed hence with iciness stirring? A pox upon him!"), the idiotic questions of the two impertinent hobbits ("Is it so ostentatious an appeal that an aged, wizened, and worldly wise wizard might have a solitary moments' peace from such incessant and interminable chatter? Cease, or risk mine wrath everlasting!").

But soon came a rumbling soft voice from before him.

"Legolas," Aragorn said sternly.

"Aye, my liege-lord and master?"

"Shut up."

Legolas gasped. "Pray, dispose upon me such knowledge that thou hath incurred to insult thine own self against me?"

"Because I will kill you."

"A Pox-"

"Legolas..." he warned.

"A pox! A pox upon thee, thou surly weather-bitten miscreant! A Pox!" he whispered, and was silent.

Thank the Valar.