The Quest for the Rubber Chickens of Mikhai

‘The Quest for the Rubber Chickens of Mikhai’

 

Day Four: Enter the Chast-trap

 

 


It was some hours later that Faramir and Èomer awoke. Night had settled, and the rest of their friends were still bickering. They seemed to have found a river or stream, however, because Legolas had no slime in his hair, and there were
damp cloths across their brows.

 

Faramir of Gondor was the first to stir. Gingerly he sat up, wondering why he was out in the first place.

 

Oh, yeah. That damn telekinetic snail. Now…what did he say again?

 

That we were cursed to insanity until we found our soul
mate?

 

He jolted forward and swung around to look at Èomer, who was just sitting up.

 

“What did you say?” Faramir demanded, glaring at Èomer. The Rohirrim looked clueless.

 

Suddenly,
Legolas shouted and stood forcefully.

 

“You inconceivable wench! You are only here because Aragorn and Faramir wished it, and you have the nerve to talk like that!” Èomer growled and pushed himself up off the ground. He stalked toward the ranting Elf and grabbed him by the hair,
sufficiently pulling him to the ground.

 

“Ouch,” Faramir mouthed as he stood and wiped away some of the snail slime. It shimmered blue-green in the dotted moonlight that reached the forest's depths, and was actually quite a pretty thing if it did not smell so bad. Maybe if it
smelled of patchouli, or something nice and fresh that didn't come out of a snail's ass... if it were all over Èomer's muscle-clad body...

 

Lord, he knew he must have to be insane to think such a thing. The snail's magic was working on him! He knew it! Under no normal circumstances would he picture... Èomer naked under the moonlight, his body reflecting the shine and shimmer of exotic oil...

&nb
N
NO! NEVER would he think that. He was going insane. Damn snails, they really were making him go insane.

 

“I have good news, Faramir,” Pippin said, rushing up to him all of a sudden. “It takes a week for the snail's magical venom to get to your head. You're not going insane, not yet at least.”

 

Faramir blinked.

 

“Faramir?
Happy-happy Faramir?”

 

Faramir crashed to the ground.

 

Everyone but Èomer and Legolas rushed to the Captains side. The two were still wrestling with each other, Èomer clearly on the losing side.

 

“Oh my,” Èowyn exclaimed in her most feminine voice, “I wonder what has happened to my husband? Did the snails get him?”

 

“I tell you, the snails are good guys!” Pippin whined.

 

Merry pondered. “But maybe their poison had some other side effects.”

 

“Or maybe he just fainted,” Gimli suggested.

 

“Faramir would never just faint,” argued Merry.

 

“He's probably had little sleep, and then he had a bunch of snails in his mouth, I'm sure that would get to anyone,” Èowyn said logically but with a bit of distaste, the look on her face reading that she would never feel completely safe about kissing him again (of course disregarding the fact that SHE was the one with the snails making themselves at home up her skirt).

 

“Let's get him back to the tent,” grumbled Gimli, not meaning himself of course, but the other two men. “Èomer! Legolas! Break it up, you blonde prissies! Help us out here!”

 

 



Ironically it was Èomer sitting down next to Faramir when he next woke up. Faramir moaned and willed himself to pass out again. Of course, the first thing the Rohirrim did was move himself closer to Faramir’s side.

 

He laid a hand upon the man’s brow and looked into his eyes, searching for any signs that he may pass out again. There were none, thankfully. “How’re you feeling?” Èomer asked softly.

 

Faramir resisted the urge to groan again at the feeling of Èomer’s hand on his body and the insolence of him at the same time. “I feel like I’ve been hit over the head a few times with an Orc. I have fainted twice in less than a day, eaten snail
slime, and my wife is acting like she is pregnant! How do you think I’m feeling?”

 

Èomer cringed a bit at the crisp; cut tone Faramir used, but ignored them.

 

“This forest is going to get us all,” he said softly, as if the trees that rasped and wailed outside the tent were eavesdropping on their conversation.

 

“Damn Chickens.”

 

“I would not damn the Chickens if I were you! They know all!”

 

“Jesus, you're beginning to sound like your sister.”

 

“CanI help it?” he mused. “She's out there dancing around the fire with Pippin at this moment, singing a Chicken chant. It goes like this: Huuuna Cawoooona Chickenchicken AYE AYE-“

 

“Aaaagh! NO! No chicken! Please no chicken!”

 

Èomer put a hand over his mouth instinctively. “Whoops... It's just kind of catchy...”

 

“And I thought you were one of the saner ones here,” Faramir said. He couldn't help but grin a little. Èomer actually laughed.

 

“Well, my friend, you clearly thought wrong. With a sister as she, you tend to pick up a few…inhumane thoughts. Do not worry, though. I’m sure it’ll pass,”

 

Faramir sighed and laid back down, shielding his eyes. “We should get going as soon as possible. Those damnable Chickens won’t find themselves.”

 

“Nay, the certainly won’t. They’ll probably find us before we can find them,” he stood and offered Faramir a gentle helping hand up. “And if that does happen, I think we’re screwed.”

 

The moment their bare hands touched, a spark shot through their arm, tingling as if it had just woken up. Both men tried to ignore it as the Rohirrim pulled the Captain to his feet. That was when Faramir made his fatal mistake: he looked into Èomer’s stormy eyes. Their grasp on reality was amazing. Faramir felt as if he could see through the man’s eyes into a different realm. So caught up was he in Èomer’s storm-cloud eyes, that he hadn’t realized the King of Rohan had pulled him into a possessive embrace.

 

Tarmtarmth of the other man’s body was so overwhelming to him then, temporarily filling the hole in Faramir’s soul with the feeling of a hot bath. His muscles relaxed as Èomer held him close. Then his other senses came to focus; the fresh, clean
scent about him, how his cheek felt as it was nestled in between Èomer’s neck and shoulder, how sexually excited he began to feel as he realized he was pressed sightly against this man’s body.

 

WHOA, his mind told him, back off… especially before Èomer felt how turned on Faramir was getting.

 

Faramir gently pulled away to the air, which was too cold without the warmth of the King of Rohan. Someone coughed behind them. Surprised, Èomer and Faramir jerked away
from each other, dropping hands immediately. It was Merry.

 

“Not interrupting anything, I hope?” he asked with a slight hint of a smirk. Both men in front of him tried desperately to his their blushes.

 

“No! Èomer was just…just…”

 

“Helping him out of bed!” Èomer spoke up helpfully.

 

“Yes, helping me up.”

 

“Right then…” Merry said raising a slender eyebrow. “Anyway, Gimli asked me to come get you two, we’re ready to set off again.” He turned and walked back out.

 

The Captain of Gondor turned to speak again with Èomer, but the other man had already disappeared out of the tent. Faramir sighed. What the hell was eninening to him? Gathering up his things, he walked out of the tent and toward
the edge of the wood where the others were awaiting him.

 

“Took you long enough,” Èowyn said tartly. Faramir grimaced. What the hell crawled up her skirt? Oh, yeah…the snails…He smirked.

 

“Right then!” Gimli coughed loudly. “Let’s get going!”

 

With that he turned sharply on his heel and stalked off into the beckoning darkness. Èowyn and Èomer followed him, Legolas, Merry, Pippin and Faramir following quickly.
Unfortunately, they forgot about the tent.

 

A small creature poked its head around the side of the tent, snickering softly. Stealthily, it dove into the tent followed by a few other shadows.

 

Dumb humans.

 

Resolute on what they were to do, the shadows turned away, following the group in the waning night.

 

 

“Pippin, stop swimming around,” Merry wailed, splashing after his fellow hobbit friend who was now doing somersaults under the water. The sulfurous odor of the swamp wafted up in the form of curling steam, which writhed and twisted as if in agony in the sultry weather. That was exactly how every single one of the team felt that smoldering day, and the stench of the swamp did not help either.

 

Except for Pippin, it seemed. With an excited yelp and a sickening splash, his hobbit self tumbled into the waist-high waters. That would mean the crown of a hobbit’s head. Peregrin Took splashed about, sputtering for breath. “M-M-M-erry!”

 

“Save us all from this inhumane torture and drag him from the water, somebody!” Gimli roared, scattering some firewood. Briefly, Legolas looked up before walking to the water and grabbing the little Hobbit by the hood of his cloak and yanking
him out easily. The Elven prince ungracefully threw Pippin to the waterside, next to his cousin. Merry sighed and shook his head.

 

“Fool of a Took,” he jested. Pippin scowled.

 

Ribbit-ribbit-ribbit
sp; sp;

The cing ing sound of frogs filled the night air, putting everyone into a stupor. Even Legolas was stumbling around, drunkenly.

 

Ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ribbit-ribbit

 

It was a matter of minutes before all seven were in a deep sleep, entangled in one another.

 

 

One by one the frogs appeared from behind shrubs, out of the swamp, and gliding down from the tips of trees. They lit up the dark sky like individual flames, spiraling down towards the masses of human bodies that lay scattered about on
the ground. Although glowing in appearance from afar, if a human saw one up close its eyes would be made of ruby. In fact they sparkled red through the pressing darkness of the woods.

 

Webbed wrings carried the shimmering green creatures to the group and their unnaturally big amphibious flippers. The red eyes blinked at their captives repeatedly.

 

We have successfully led them to the Chicken Coop, the grossly enlarged leader commended with a series of ribbits and grunts. From here on they will not escape while under our guard until the Chickens arrive to deal with them.

 

The frogs cheered louder and louder until the entire forest was captivated with eerie, deafening ribbits.

 

The humans, Hobbits, Elf and Dwarf remained stilled, still succumbed to sleep.

 

That seemed a bit too easy. One of the lesser frogs commented to the leader.

 

King Felligrhan let out one big, ribbiting belch in response. There isn’t anything to worry about, Yugli. What harm could they possible do?

 

Now, at this moment, everyone please take a moment to prepare themselves for the take back of those words King Fellighan so kindly put out for us in the next chapter
of The Quest for the Rubber Chickens of Mikhai: Enter the Chickens at Last

 

 

//

 

 

Author’s Notes: Like it? Leave it? Lemme know…yeah it’s shorter than the last one, but hopefully the next chapter will be longer…