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Dinner plans started well, but things took a turn for the worst. Frodo should’ve known not to tell Sam about the new food Legolas brought from his visit to Mirkwood. Most of all, he shouldn’t have told Gimli.
“Elvish food?! Just feed me an orc head instead!” Gimli growled, chewing the tasty threads from the broth.
“I think it could use some taters,” Sam said. “Mr. Frodo, watch my plate, I think I have some in my bag.”
“The noodles won’t taste as good if you let them cool off,” Legolas said. “We elves eat them at full boil,” he sighed wistfully. “Remember, Aragorn? When we were children in Rivendell?” We used to throw them at the statues and watch the eagles chew them off. They love them.”
Aragorn smiled. “I can’t recall you ever being a child, but yes—. Pippin what are you doing?”
As Frodo feared, the minute he got distracted, Merry and Pippin shoved the rest of the noodles into their mouths. They didn’t chew. Merry looked unbothered, but Pippin’s color was turning purple like an exotic sweet potato.
Oh no.
“Help me, Frodo,” Aragorn yelled as he carried Pippin into his arms. “I’ll push his belly, you get the noodles out.”
“Me?? How?!”
“Just stick your fingers into his mouth,” Legolas explained. “It happens all the time.”
Gimli spit the noodles. “YOU DAMN ELVES!”
Frodo looked around for help. Sam was gone. Boromir was gone. Gimli was experiencing the five stages of grief. And Legolas, well...Legolas was chewing his noodles.
How did he always manage to get the worst tasks of the fellowship?
With a sigh, Frodo carefully stuck his fingers into Pippin’s mouth.
“I’m sorry Pip!” he said, and in one quick scoop, he pulled the noodles out of his throat. The ball of amorphous dough flew ominously through the skies. It’s destiny, no one bothered to find out.
Later that evening, they heard the call of eagles in the forest.