Talking Through Cotton By:  GV @c1ockwater@yahoo.com  (the ‘L’ in 
‘clock’ is a one)
Pairings:  Boz/Pippin, Aragorn/Legolas
Rating:  This one is CLEAN!  PG for Dwarven mayhem
 Authors Note:   It’s been, what?  A year since I updated this S.O.B?  I 
apologize, I’ve been so bloody busy.  Mostly making little films and 
spending way too much money on books and action figures.  I’ve reread 
the previous chapters of this and GODS but the typos and grammatical 
errors are *everywhere!*  I need a proofreader or something…  Or a 
bloody clue. ;)  But, here it is, sorry for the wait, there’s nothing I hate 
more than incomplete stories.  I’ll get on it, I promise :)  

Believe it or not, my college PROFESSOR somehow managed to find all 
my sinful slash online.  You can imagine my despair.  But instead of just 
deleting all of my fics, I decided I’d better just leave myself open to further 
embarrassment.  Shhh!  ~GV~


	The Ring had a bad habit.  Actually, it had several bad habits, but 
worse than it’s proclivities for manipulating, whining and generally being 
a bit of a stinker, the Ring’s worst trait was it’s inclination towards 
daydreaming.  The Ring, in it’s defense, did not intend to, but 
occasionally, specifically when it was in a less than desirable situation, it 
would find itself worlds away only to come back to itself to find --  It 
literally was worlds away.  For example, the Ring remembered when it 
finally freed itself from the clutches of that smelly, slimy hobbit below the 
mountain; out of breath as much as a small band of gold could be out of 
breath, the Ring lay in the foul, rotted earth and sighed in relief, as much 
as a small band of gold could sigh at all.  And in order to block out the 
wretchedness of it all, the raspy, crawling howls of Gollum’s screams 
bothering it most of all, the Ring began to daydream.  My, yes.  It had 
begun thinking about its master and the land it called home.  It 
remembered the other rings, its inferior brothers and sisters, and wondered 
how they were doing.  It reminisced fondly on the day the rank, gruff 
human who had kidnapped him had died a bloody death.  But when it 
came back to itself, the Ring found the world around it had changed!  
Now, instead of being in that revolting, moldy cavern, it was in the soft 
folds of another hobbit cloak!  Oh, if that wasn’t the damndest turn of 
events.  The Ring was livid, mostly at itself for losing a sense of his 
surroundings and ending up in the possession of another daffy hobbit.  It 
was all a mistake, a huge, rotten mistake, and the Ring knew that when it 
got to its Papa again, it would be so embarrassed.  And although the Ring 
*swore* to itself on its Papa’s finger to never, ever daydream again…  It 
did.  
	It had been on the mountain, squished between the bony form of 
another (damnable) hobbit, and the strong shoulder of another (smelly) 
man.  The two man-creatures were carrying the small hobbits along the 
snowy path, and the Ring felt like gagging.  Despite being pressed the way 
it was, the Ring was cold.  It was angry.  It was considerably bored, and 
it’s golden mind began to wander.  It began to consider many things.  For 
one, why was the poor Ring always confined to hobbits and coarse men?  
What the Ring really wanted was to be graced by the finger of an elf.  Of 
course, one would think that if the Ring couldn’t have his Vala Papa, then 
the next best thing would be a wizard, but quite frankly, the Ring was tired 
of all the hair.  It had tried and tried and tried to adapt to it, but it was 
simply too much.  And, damn it all if the Ring wasn’t accustomed to the 
best.  There.  It wanted an elf before this whole ordeal was over.  
	The Ring thought of other things as well, such as why did the Ring 
have such problems befriending other jewelry?  It thought itself a rather 
pleasant conversationalist with many a ripping anecdote, but it just 
couldn’t seem to catch anyone’s attention.  Several times, it attempted 
discourse with the hobbit’s large brooch, but found that the bitch was too 
arrogant to talk to a ring that was impetuous enough to not be on a finger, 
where it rightly belonged.  The ring agreed, thinking this common ground 
would lead to a beautiful friendship, but a brooch, especially one that has 
been mistaken for a simple pin on an occasion or two, would never speak 
with a piece of jewelry out of place.
	It was when the Ring, with a large sigh of golden frustration, gave 
up on finding any cold, metal camaraderie, it was startled out of its 
woolgathering by a thundering, ground-shaking crunch.  Oh, dear.  Where 
was it now?

	Frodo, who was lying under Gimli, who at that point, was lying 
under Aragorn, thought he might just die.  
	“Ahhhaaaaaaack…”  he said, when the two atop him didn’t get 
moving quickly enough.  The pressure finally let up, and Frodo, thankfully 
could breathe again.  However, upon having a gulp of the air around him, 
Frodo decided death would be more appreciated.  It was filled with dust 
from the crumbled archway, and the rot of the dead choked him.  
	“On your feet, Frodo!” That was Aragorn – a man who was always 
ready to do battle with a good stench.  He felt several arms on him, and 
before he knew it, Frodo was on his feet again.  The shivers that wracked 
him died as Sam righted his cloak about his shoulders.  Gandalf’s staff 
flared to life and now everyone could see everyone else standing around 
like idiots.  There was little to discuss at this point, and the old wizard was 
the first to bravely step forward on the next leg of their journey.
	The corpses of a multitude of dwarves paved their way into the 
mouth of the deep.  Pippin eyed them wearily and clung to Merry’s cloak 
as if they may reach out and grab him. The silence oppressed them so 
terribly that Aragorn found it like talking through cotton, “Stay closer than 
usual.  Foul things lurk in the shadows of Moria.”  This, of course did 
nothing to stable the little Took’s nerves.  Anxiously, his eyes sought his 
Gondorian warrior, yearning for eye contact.  It took a while, but 
eventually glittering, emerald green eyes made contact with the apple 
green of Pippin’s and a smile was shared in the dark.
	Legolas saw it and indulged in a luminous smile of his own before 
it was quenched under the stern brow of the ranger.  It was difficult in the 
dark, but Legolas carefully examined the face of the man who would be 
king and wondered what had happened.  His friend had never run from 
him before, for whatever reason, and certainly never in such a state of 
distress.  There must have been a great misunderstanding between them, 
for certainly Aragorn would behave in such a callous manner when his 
favorite elf’s feeling were on the line, would he?  Would he?
	Aragorn, for his part, would not look at the elf.  It had firmly 
ensnared him, this notion that what he had forever taken for granted was 
no longer his.  All of the soft touches, coy glances, innocent caresses that 
had been shared between Legolas and himself would be entirely gone now, 
and all of the elf’s sweet attention would be bestowed on someone who 
would never appreciate it the way Aragorn, son of Arathorn would!  The 
ranger longed to strike something.  Preferably his own noggin.  Against 
that rock over there.  Hard.  
	Gandalf was wondering how it was that when their very lives were 
in incessant danger, their concentration needed running full throttle and 
the future of the very planet was near extinction, men could not keep from 
turning their attention into their own pants.  The old wizard was quite 
close to cracking almost half of the fellowship over their empty craniums 
and scowling, “In case you haven’t noticed, there are things -far- more 
important than your hormones going on!”  
	Sam was fussing with Frodo again, “Mr. Frodo… You took a 
mighty spill back there, is all, perhaps you should let one of the men carry 
you until we can have a better look at you!  You took a rather nasty spill 
back there, is all!”  The sturdy hobbit’s back was hunched so that Sam’s 
face was nearly less than a foot from the ground.  It was his pack, the one 
he had filled to the brim with even the slightest necessity Mr. Frodo may 
need.  It caused rather a bit of envy that, while on the road, Frodo had his 
toothbrush, his razor, some refreshing tea, books and even a small wooden 
contraption used for massaging one’s sore muscles.
	Frodo had rolled his eyes when he saw all of it, willing Sam to 
leave it by the roadside, that shaving and noon time tea were not essential, 
and foot rubs could easily be attained by one’s two hands, couldn’t they?  
But Sam had insisted that if anything were left at the side of the road, the 
black riders would know they had been there, for certain, and they would 
be tracked.  
	“I am fine, Sam.  The worst of my injuries is that I’m a bit shaken.  
But I assure you, I am fine.”  The phrase had become a staple for Mr. 
Baggins, so much so that if anyone were to address him for whatever 
reason, he would immediately respond, “I am fine!”
	“Frodo?”
	“I am fine!”  Merry’s eyes got a little big before he realized that 
Frodo had just been chatting with Sam, and this kind of reaction was to be 
expected.  The little hobbit nodded sympathetically when Frodo gave him 
an apologetic look, then questioned, “Frodo, do you know what the matter 
with Pippin is?”  
	“Now, there, Mr. Brandybuck, no need to cause Mr. Frodo here 
any more cares!  He has enough as it is!”  The other two hobbits ignored 
Sam and Frodo replied, “Legolas had a look at him and reported him to be 
well…”
	“No,” Merry’s offset jaw showed his confusion, “I mean, I thought 
he liked Boromir!  But now I see he’s trying to get him to fall flat on his 
face!”  Frodo looked forward and noticed that there was indeed something 
amiss with the little hobbit.  His dark, curly hair flopped about his face as 
he almost jogged to keep up with the Gondorian’s long strides that got 
shorter as Pippin kept getting tangled up in his legs.  It looked to be quite a 
precarious situation as the man stumbled over him more often, but wee 
Mr. Took diligently kept at his side, picking up the pace whenever he 
accidentally stumbled into the large man’s feet.
	Merry shook his head, “I thought I taught him better than that…  
Don’t go for the feet, go for the knees, Pippin!”  Pippin heard Merry’s 
hissed advice and turned to give him a quizzical look.  Unfortunately, this 
affected his equilibrium and he floundered against Boromir’s bent knee, 
causing the man to nearly crash to the ground.
	“That’s the way it’s done!”  Merry whispered proudly to Frodo, 
while Boromir righted himself and scowled fondly down at his better half.
	“Problems, little one?”  Pippin blinked up at him defiantly, “I was 
just about to ask you the same thing!”
	“HUSH!”  Of course, Gandalf’s reprimand resonated more loudly 
than did the warm hearted banter between sweethearts, but no one was of 
the mind to bring that to his attention.  Legolas watched as the old wizard 
discontentedly shook his head, and decided that in order for the rest of 
their journey to be even remotely peaceful, it would perhaps be best if the 
man and hobbit were separated.
	“Here, Pippin,” the slender elf crouched to hoist the hearty halfling 
into his arms, “Perhaps if I carry you a short while you will regain your 
strength as to not stumble about and trip people.”  Pippin was none too 
pleased by this as he greatly enjoyed being tangled up in his beloved’s 
legs, but decided that not having to walk for the next couple miles wasn’t 
so bad a pay off.  With glee, Pippin batted his feet together, “Och, thankee, 
Legolas!  I cannae tell ye how badly meh feet stairted hartin’ there…  
Thought I’d fair faint, I did!”  The addressed rolled his eyes and stifled a 
smirk at the little one’s theatrics, but trotted ahead with him regardless, 
making sure Pippin’s feet didn’t smack into the back of Gimli’s head 
when they passed.
	“He certainly brings light to this dreary place, doesn’t he?”  
Boromir was drawn out of his affectionate smirk by the sound of the 
ranger at his elbow.  He turned and studied the features of the rugged man 
that seemed only sharper in the harsh light.  
	Boromir nodded and slowly uncrossed his arms, “The elf?  
Legolas?”  Due to their pause, the soft reflection off of the elf’s golden 
hair was already starting to fade, the depth of field brought to near 
nothingness in the darkness.
	“Aye, the elf Legolas…”  While on Boromir’s tongue the name 
sounded like a label, on Aragorn’s it sounded like a prayer.  The proud 
Gondorian smirked and tucked his shield into his armpit, “Pippin certainly 
seems to think so.”  The statement was supposed to be an obvious jab at 
Aragorn’s even more obvious desire for Legolas, but that was  hardly how 
the comment was received.  While Boromir smirked again and leisurely 
unfurled further, Aragorn remained stony, with the possible exception of 
the grinding of his jaw.
	“Do you think, as Pippin’s lover he has ever known the pain of 
unrequited love?”  Boromir turned his eyes away in order to focus on two 
things; one being the question itself, two being why his standing as 
Pippin’s lover would have any bearing on how he answered the question.  
He shrugged, “Perhaps not.  As Pippin’s lover,” Boromir thought he was 
mocking Aragorn’s strange reference, “I’m sure he’s always been quite 
satisfied.”  Aragorn near choked.  He couldn’t even imagine Legolas and 
Pippin in the throes of passion, nor could he imagine Legolas being 
satisfied by what Merry would refer to as Pippin’s ‘hgnh.’  Indeed, at the 
very prospect, Aragorn wanted to bend at the waist and do what Merry 
would also refer to as ‘hgnh!’  
	A large hand came down with considerable force on an 
unsuspecting Aragorn’s back, and as Boromir passed him in good cheer, 
chuckling and bumbling, the ranger nearly tipped over.
	“Ahoy, there!” A soft, amused voice raised before him as soon as 
Aragorn had regained his equilibrium.  He peered down into the darkness 
and noticed the reflection off of twisting blonde locks.  Merry.
	“Lo, Merry…”  
	“Strider,” the hobbit greeted in return and promptly produced a 
half-eaten, red fragrant apple perilously close to the warrior’s schnoz, 
“You looked a bit ill.  Thought you might like some of my apple?”  He 
wiggled the fruit as if it would make it look more appealing, and Aragorn 
smiled softly before reaching down to take it.
	“Very considerate of you, Mr. Brandybuck,” his soft voice 
resonated as he took the apple with one hand, and Merry’s own paw in the 
other.
	Several feet before them, Gimli was burbling, “What you elves 
never understood was the art,” he let the vowel carry, making the word 
more impressive, “of stew!”  Legolas, walking beside him, lifted Pippin to 
rest more securely on his chest, “That is not true, son of Gloin. We merely 
chose to avoid meals that land heavily in the stomach.”  This set a good 
bout of sputtering upon the dwarf, but he was interrupted by the soft 
‘thunk’ of Pippin’s feet popping his helmet.
	“Preposterous!” Gimli finally managed, “A good stew provides 
what is needed for a day’s hard work!  That is why you elves never got a 
thing done, with your fruits and berries and … and twigs!”  With the soft 
voice of one familiar with speaking to birds, Legolas replied, “We do not 
eat twigs, Gimli.  And perhaps why you dwarves never got a thing done 
was your proclivity for smoking yourself out of your caves in attempt to 
boil your stew!”
	Pippin laughed in the dark and had to be hushed by Legolas, who 
was himself stifling a snicker.  The hobbit smothered his giggles, but 
neglected to restrain the merriment in his feet, thereby he smacked Gimli 
in the head again.
	“Ach!  Mind the feet, little master!”
	“Heh heh… smoked outtae yae’re caves…  cheee hee…”
	“Oh, hush, you…” Legolas said fondly, pitching Pippin in the air 
slightly, “Do not pretend you haven’t accidentally singed your own foot 
fuzz with your cooking attempts…”  Gimli chuckled behind his ax while 
Pippin gasped indignantly, “Sam put tae much in the fryin’ pan!  I 
wouldnae huv dropped it on meh ain toes, othairwise!”  While Pippin tried 
to bat Gimli in the head again, Legolas looked over his shoulder to find 
Aragorn.  He was several paces behind them, hand linked with Merry’s 
who was softly prattling at the ranger about something.  Sensing eyes on 
him, Aragorn raised his head and met the eyes of his elven love.  Legolas 
smiled, his teeth white and broad, and for a moment Aragorn returned it, 
before another crack in his heart made him turn back to the hobbit at his 
side.
	“And that is why,” Merry was concluding, “You should never 
*ever* buy your weed from anyone over 4 feet tall…  unless you’d like to 
spend your days mistakin’ your dog for a hat.”  

	It would only be fair to say that the darkness, depth and gloominess 
of the Mines of Moria were having noticeable affects on its new, 
trepidatious guests.  The hobbits were robbed of their gaiety, even Merry, 
who was insufferably cheerful at times, and Pippin, who spent much of his 
time cowering in either the elf’s or the Gondorian’s strong, safe arms.  
Aragorn’s moodiness increased ten fold, an intimidating density of 
moodiness that would only meet it’s match were the fellowship to travel 
directly downward a few more flights into the mines.  The elf had ceased 
to glow and even the wizard seemed to have forgotten his good nature.  
But perhaps the most startling shift of all was in the dwarf.  While one 
would think the dwarf would feel most at home in the depths of the earth, 
it could be argued that Gimli was, indeed the most unsettled.
	They had been traveling for an unidentified amount of time, the 
mines having denied them their opportunity to gauge the sun in the sky, 
and the only source of measurement they had for their hours were the 
periodical rumblings from underfed hobbit tummies.  It was Sam’s twelfth 
rumble that saw the flash of a battle ax and heard the sound of manly 
dwarf squeal.  Swords, daggers, staffs, bows and apples were at the ready, 
intensely seeking where to strike.  However, the dwarf alone knew the 
enemy and ran at it with a ferocity we shall not encounter again until far 
later in this epic.  The mighty ax swung and while the target was unknown, 
the miscalculation was obvious and a loud clang resonated throughout the 
caves as the dwarven weaponry was lodged in stone.
	“Oh, pants!” As Gimli struggled with the ax, Aragorn cautiously 
approached from behind, “What do you fear, Gimli?  There is nothing 
there tha—“  
	“There ‘tis!!”  While Aragorn was started by the interruption he 
was even more startled to see what his friend was chasing: so small it 
couldn’t have been seen it if it weren’t for the glow of Gandalf’s staff, a 
frightened rodent skittered away across the cold stone.  It didn’t proceed 
far, however, before the dwarf’s heavy boot landed on its tail and 
effectively pinned it to the floor.  The fellowship looked on in 
bewilderment as the son of Gloin took the rat by its tail and let it scramble 
against the air.
	“Baah-HA!” The victory caw thrummed against the stone as Gimli 
strut to the edge of the nearest precipice and swung the creature into its 
maw.  With a quick brush of the hands, shaky though they were, Gimli 
proclaimed proudly, “And here’s to making the Mines of Moria that much 
a cleaner place!  Details, gentlemen!” He turned back to the company, 
“Details!”
	As the dwarf struggled to reclaim his weapon from the stone in 
which it was lodged, Gandalf chewed his beard and muttered, “I see there 
is no time to be wasted here…”  He turned, which was the usual indication 
that a forward effort was to be made, but this time it warranted no reaction.  
The fellowship was too busy staring at the scene of the recent battle to be 
bothered with uppity wizards.
	Merry, first to break the silence, pulled on Aragorn’s sleeve and 
muttered, “The rats are against us too?”

	To Boromir of Gondor, the question “Why?” was not a very 
popular one.    There was no answer, Boromir figured, that could possibly 
justify the question.  For example, if someone were to ask him in battle, 
“Why did you do that?”  The obvious answer would be, “To avoid the 
blade headed for my neck.”  Which is really too ludicrous to say out loud.  
	At the moment, Boromir was gazing at the dusty, soft hobbit locks 
that adorned his chest and found himself asking that very damnable 
question, “Why?”  The answer to this was far less evident.  Why was there 
a hobbit on his chest that seemed to cherish him more than edibles?  Why 
had he entered into a romantic relationship with a man hardly half his 
size?  Why wasn’t he concentrating on the ridiculous ring and this 
dangerous quest?  Why on earth was he even here?  Boromir realized, of 
course, that he knew the answer to every one of these questions.  …  
Which were really too ludicrous to say out loud.
	For the rest of the fellowship, however, the question “Why?” 
remained entirely unasked due to the dry, patronizing stare they’d receive 
from Boromir or the soggy disdain that dripped from Gandalf, but this did 
not keep the troopers from thinking it.  Why did the entrance have to 
shatter?  Why wouldn’t Gandalf explain things more clearly?  Why did the 
elf disappear for hours at a time?  Why was Pippin suddenly much 
happier?
	Frodo, believe it or not, was the worst of all.  One might assume 
that the wide-eyed, daffy stares and curious grins on the other hobbit faces 
would suggest a fondness for ridiculous questions, but Frodo was indeed 
the most baffled.  The answers weren’t as obvious to him as they were to 
Boromir and this kept him awake at night while everyone slept.  He would 
stroke Sam’s hair, much the same way Boromir was stroking Pippin’s, and 
staring into the darkness, unaware that he was really asking any question at 
all…
	“Why me….?”  Nothing moved, not even the slightest particle of 
light.

	The next morning, as the company was packing, Sam had his eye 
keenly trained on the lithe, handsome elf.  There were mysteries that had 
not yet been solved and because Frodo was in no immediate danger, the 
hearty hobbit took the opportunity to puzzle them out.  The elf Legolas 
knew, of course, that he was being watched, a sensation he had grown 
accustomed to in this assorted company.  He minded little that he was 
constantly scrutinized, since he could not say that he hadn’t done his fair 
share of inspecting along the way.  But this little hobbit was the worst of 
all.  Far more preferable to being slyly peeked upon would be to have Sam 
up and say what he was so curious about.  But Legolas was far too 
sophisticated to make anything of it.
	The elf’s eyes, Sam had concluded, must be far different in 
structure from either hobbits or men or, from what Sam could tell, 
although the spotting of the rat in the dark had altered his postulate, 
dwarves.  While hobbits are notorious for their particularly keen eyesight, 
Sam found that Legolas had him beat at every opportunity to spy the things 
that were hidden in shadow or so far away and thus impress the rest of the 
fellowship.  Sam found this particularly vexing.  So, instead of peering 
where he should have been, he was speculating on the elf’s eyes which, he 
noticed, not only worked with incredible accuracy and agility, seemed to 
shift in color:  Light blue to navy blue to some indiscriminate shade of 
gray, then to an unmistakable brown.  And now, Sam was so intent on 
those transfixing orbs that he was unaware that they were staring right 
back at him until they blinked several times.
	Sam blushed.  He had heard the conversations between the other 
hobbits, typically Merry and Pippin, discussing the beauty of the elf and 
how they would find themselves gazing at him and wondering about the 
anatomy that was not typically uncovered.  He had seen, too, the way 
several members of the fellowship, wizard and dwarf included, stared at 
the elf with something akin to desire and wonder.  And Sam, who found 
the elf a mystery but not so much a cuddle prospect, did not have any 
inclination to be grouped among the other dewy eyed sycophants, so he 
simply smiled in what he hoped was a congenial manner, and not smarmy.
	Legolas responded without the slightest flicker of emotion, but if 
one was looking very closely, which, rest assured Aragorn was, they might 
notice the slight pricking up of the delicate ears and the gentle lift of the 
eyebrows.   He watched Sam, hoping his aggravation was not apparent, 
since he had no intention of alienating the little hobbit just because 
Legolas was especially sensitive to being viewed when he felt dirty, 
grumpy, sleepy and altogether unfresh.
	“Good morning, Mister Legolas, sir,” Sam said, proud about the 
way he stumbled over the word ‘Legolas’ like he had never practiced 
saying it and he hoped the elf noticed.  Legolas did of course, but he bit 
back the dusty desire to correct him.  Instead he bowed a little and said, 
“Samwise.  Is there something I can do for you?”  Samwise the addressed 
struggled with his opportunity to snap, “Stop being so damned cute and 
distracting everyone!” But he resisted and drove shamelessly to the point, 
“Just your eyes, Mister Legolas.  Back in the Shire, there was a rumor that 
elf folk had eyes like cats.  Slits, you know, in stead of circles, like.  But 
yours aren’t slits at all.  More shifty, I’d say.”
	Legolas bristled, which could only be identified by the eyebrows 
raising a little higher and the very slightest purse of the lips, “Shifty?”
	“Not underhanded, Mister Legolas, sir,” Sam said, blushing a bit, 
“That is to say they shift…  from blue to brown, sir.  Like nothing I’ve 
ever seen, Mister Legolas, sir.”
	“Oh,” Legolas straightened and seemed to relax, “It is merely to 
help us see in different qualities of light…  Certain shades reflect…”  And 
just before the elf could launch into a long, mind numbing dissertation on 
the quality of certain light and how each variable effects how it shatters 
upon passing through a prism, a small bundle of hobbitish delight leapt 
onto Legolas’s thigh and squeaked, “They change when the elf’s feelin’ ay 
bit pissy an’ they go brown when ‘e needs a good bit ay snoggin’!”  And 
with that, Pippin bit briefly on the elf’s thigh and scampered off willy nilly 
to where Merry was attempting to peek inside Gandalf’s pockets.