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“Mister Gandalf, sir!” Looking up from his deep contemplation of their quest and the possible longest limit of their pipeweed stock, Gandalf was slightly concerned to see Sam come stumbling over to him, close to tears. “Mister Gandalf, you must tell him to stop!”
Out of pure reflex, Gandalf glanced over to Boromir but no, the man was busy collecting firewood. His next concerned glance went to Frodo, but he and the younger hobbits were talking to Aragorn who wanted them to get some experience in guarding camp while they were still on relatively safe ground. Gimli was ostensibly making a make-shift place for the campfire all the while staring rather wide eyed at the last member and the last possible person Gandalf would have thought to make trouble to the hobbits.
The prince of Mirkwood was standing with his arms crossed and a very put-upon expression on his fair face. A saucepan in his hand beat rhythmically against his hip, like the tail of an annoyed cat.
“He insists on cooking!” Sam said with tears in his eyes. “And, and I know I can’t cook compared to elves, but he is *royalty*! I wont be having with this, mister Gandalf, I wont!”
“Cooking is traditionally a male chore amongst elves,” Gandalf tried to console the poor hobbit. “I am sure that if you would offer to bake…” By the outraged puffing sounds Sam was now making, this had not been the support the hobbit had been hoping for.
Sam drew himself up to his not very significant height and clasped his hands behind his back as he was wont to do when telling of some young rascal hobbits in the Shire.
“The point I am trying to make here, good sir, is that I will not be having a prince cook for me as long as my own hands work!”
“Aragorn is a heir of Kings, Gimli is the nephew of a King, Boromir is the heir of the Steward of Gondor. Even your own Merry and Pippin are the heirs of Buckland and Took.” Gandalf pointed out mildly. “Are you saying you will cook for all of us, every day? That is really asking too much, dear Sam.”
“Not at all!” Sam glared down as if he was a fierce warrior whose skill in battle had been questioned. “I am sure I can handle it. Also,” and he lowered his voice, casting a quick glance at the still seething elven prince. “ I am sure he is a good cook, a very fine cook, but I am not at all certain that all this elven food will be good for a hobbits digestion in the long run, as it is. My masters constitution is very delicate and I wouldn’t want him to accidently upset it.”
The sudden guffaw from Gimli made it utterly clear that Sam had not lowered his voice enough. Legolas’ high cheek bones became dangerously red with anger although not quit as red as Frodo’s cheeks. Sam, obviously torn between fierce pride in his own skills and horrified embarrassment at having insulted an elf – a prince, none the less – still stood his ground.
The debacle had by now drawn the attention of the whole fellowship with some barely concealed whisperings about which they would prefer. It seemed fairly equal between elven and hobbit cooking but the last thing Gandalf wanted was for this ridiculous spat to divide the fellowship in any way.
In an effort to stave of what might be the first even known scuffle between an elf and a hobbit Gandalf came to his feet, albeit with no plan what so ever on how to solve the dilemma.
Before he could open his mouth, however, Gimli spoke up.
“My father-“ he started, making every pair of eyes snap to him and causing both Legolas and Gandalf to stiffen in anger and trepidation respectively. Gimli however seemed not to notice that he’d effectively thrown more fuel on the fire “- always spoke very highly of hobbit food. At the other hand, he never had anything but praise for elven cooking either, although he had other words for their, hrm, guest quarters. As my own skill in the noble art is limited to toast and tea, I say we let these eager volunteers work together and I am sure the result shall be satisfactory to all. After all,” he cast a sly glance on Gandalf, “Isn’t cooperation the point of our endeavor?”
“Well spoken, master dwarf!” relieved at the excellent suggestion, Gandalf nodded. “Sam, you are simply going to have work with nobles throughout our quest. Legolas, you are going to have to learn the joys of scrambled eggs and sausage with the occasional tomato thrown in if sporadically, morning, lunch and evening like the rest of us. Now leave me be. I have much to ponder.” Such as just how ridiculous people of all casts and races really could be, although of course he would never say that out loud. He sat down and pulled his hat over his eyes, although kept his ears peeled.
Legolas took a deep breath and let it out with something close to a sigh. Sam sided up to him, clearly still embarrassed but also determined.
“There is a lovely piece of mutton in the pack,” he said slowly. “It’d need eating within the week if it’s not to be bad. And some rutabaga to,” he added as an afterthought.
“I picked up some thyme as we passed the heath,” Legolas offered not too reluctantly. “Even this late in the season, it should be flavorful.”
Ignoring the general snickering around them, the two got to discussing the meal and various herbs and spices with increasing enthusiasm. Gimli especially looked particularly smug and thus Gandalf started counting down internally from one hundred.
“There is some rosemary to, and I shall keep a lookout for any fowl we might encounter….”
“I am sure I can whip up something savory with these taters, maybe roast them with some salt and butter….”
“Alas the season makes for little to be gathered along our way, but even as we get further south new sprigs might be coaxed from the earth…”
Gandalf got to around eighty before he opened one eye slightly and saw when Legolas blinked slowly to Sam.
“Of course should chance grant us to travel through Mirkwood, I would treat you all to the most succulent meat of all to be found. Indeed, three times a dwarf prince tried to interrupt our feast, lured in by the aroma alone.”
“And what meat would that be, my good elf?” Sam said with apparent interest, although Gandalf would see the glint in his eyes to.
“Roasted spider-leg, the prime cut of all to be found in the woods. Indeed, although none such beast might be found here, perhaps we could collect enough of its smaller kin to make a soup one evening?”
Gimli fell of his perch with a horrified squawk. Boromir swore as he fumbled a log onto his toes and Merry and Pippin got sheet white.
“I would be honored and delighted!” Ignoring the wretched faces staring at them, Sam smiled. “I’m sure it is a treat worthy a king!”
“A prince at least,” Legolas laughed and pointedly did not look at the dwarf who looked like he suddenly realized that between the elf and the hobbit, he’d created a culinary monster.
Gandalf chuckled to himself, and pulled his hat back down over his eyes.
For an elf, letting a hobbit claim a partial victory was one thing. But a dwarf? Unthinkable.
At least for now.