A Midsummer Night's Bunny  
Author: The Big K. Well, one of the big Ks... well, I'm not really that big. 
Foo. (Kit – rabbitgarden@earthlink.net) 
 
Rating: PG13  
 
Pairing: Oh, thousands...  
 
Warning: Intense adorability, slash AND het pairings (but it's all good, 
baby) and some cute hobbit romance. Call me pervy, I come by it with 
pride.  
 
Summary: Tolkien squashed with Shakespeare splattered with Kit Fox: as 
if love wasn't complicated enough.  
 
Author's Notes: Tolkien threw a paint balloon at Shakespeare and ruined 
his stylin' pantaloons, so Will retaliated with maple syrup and I had to 
break up the slap fight. This was the result. For those who don't know -- 
bunny (noun): a devious story idea that won't leave you alone until you do 
its evil bidding. Some phrases from the play are used, but mostly it's my 
paraphrase.  
 
Distribution: Wayne's World-style begging/tribute would be lovely, but as 
that's not possible over the computer, I'll settle for an email asking and I'll 
be just as flattered.  
 
Feedback: Onetwothree FEEDBACK!  
 
Disclaimer: All characters and situations belong to those swingin' 
superheroes, The Tolkien Tornado and The Whirling Fists of Shakespeare. 
If I were half as cool as these men, maybe I could have come up with this 
shit on my own. As it is, I needed a little help: theirs, not mine. Thanks 
guys.  
 
Acknowlegements: Mad love goes to William Shakespeare, without whom 
I would be plotless and sad. Respect Aretha-style to the Tolkienator who 
has done it all, will do it all, and can do it all. Love to the actors who 
inspire in more ways than are allowed...  
 
To Lily, thanks for the support and general awesomeness.

A Midsummer Night's Bunny  
 
Act One  
 
“Merry! MERRY, OI!” 
 
Pippin stands on his toes, hands cupped around his mouth to magnify his 
voice. At the foot of his beloved’s house he stays, standing with steadfast 
obstinacy under the second story window. He waits, breathless, for the 
appearance of Merry’s face, having given up all pretenses of proper 
gentlehobbit courting. Being passive and demure was never the young 
hobbit’s style and it certainly hadn’t worked to ensnare the nucleus of his 
overpowering emotions.  
 
He therefore had resolved to throw away the traditional approach and do 
things his way, which meant chasing after the object of his desire with all 
his dedication and energy. 
 
“Merry! Come to the window!” 
 
Pippin’s heart stops for a beat as the other hobbit appears at the window, 
the fiery blast of the late afternoon sun catching his hair like rich gold. 
 
Merry looks down at his younger cousin whose hair is a fizzing tangle of 
messy, windswept curls and whose face is consumed with a breathless 
smile, hand on his heaving chest. Merry suspects that Pippin ran the whole 
way. 
 
Merry says nothing, only scowls and waves his hand impatiently in a 
motion to dismiss the happy, panting sprite beneath his window. Pippin’s 
face falls and Merry disappears from his sight. 
 
“Merry!” Pippin calls once again, then drops his hands to his sides, his 
bottom lip trembling. 
 
With a soft curse, he walks away. 
 
 
 
“Only two more days before our wedding, my lord,” Arwen muses, 
smiling up at Aragorn from the book she’d been reading. 
 
She sits with her knees tucked beneath her, curled in a large, squashy 
armchair by the crackling fire. Aragorn looks up from the papers he’d 
been organizing on his desk and a smile breaks onto his face. 
 
“I don’t think I can wait that long,” he says. “Sod it, let’s get married 
tonight, now.” 
 
“Nope.” 
 
“Come on, just private vows?” 
 
“Nope.” 
 
“Could we just pretend –––” 
 
“Nope.” 
 
“Well then, my dear,” he proclaims, getting to his feet and crossing the 
room to Arwen’s chair and helping her to her feet. He leans in, smiling 
and speaking softly. “In two days time we’ll have the most fantastic 
wedding ever seen in Middle Earth. Visitors from every city will be there 
to worship your beauty and wish us well.” 
 
“I’m glad to hear it,” Arwen smiles. 
 
The door to the study is struck with three gentle knocks. 
 
“Come in,” Aragorn requests, releasing Arwen’s hands. 
 
A slightly irritated looking but wholly unremarkable servant enters. 
 
“An agitated party to see the king,” he announces. 
 
“Agitated?” Aragorn echoes. “Please show them in,” he leans in to 
whisper to Arwen. “Ten to one it’s Otho Sackville-Baggins.” 
 
The lady smiles with contained amusement and nods. Four very short 
persons enter, all about the height of children, but with mature features. 
The maturest and plumpest of them all being, incidentally, the most cross. 
His face is round and squashed, as if having been punched and not fully 
having resumed proper shape. His brow is furrowed and lips twisted in a 
malevolent sneer, and he looks as though he isn’t accustomed to a lot of 
good-natured smiling. He carries an absurdly huge book. 
 
“Majesty,” the oldest hobbit smiles in an unctuous tone. “How are you?” 
 
“Magnificent, Master Sackville-Baggins,” Aragorn says, trying to keep his 
politeness at the front of his expression. “Yourself?” 
 
“Awful state, awful,” Otho shakes his head, the angry manner returning. 
“These horrid children want straightening out, I humbly seek your 
council.” 
 
Humbly. Right, Aragorn thinks, but says nothing only inclines his head 
and raises his eyebrows in question. 
 
“My close relation and responsibility Frodo Baggins is ready for 
marriage,” Otho says. “As I am his caretaker, his well-being is a matter of 
deep concern to me.” 
 
Aragorn catches Frodo rolling his eyes. 
 
“Stand forth, Meriadoc,” Otho commands in a rough bark and young 
Merry Brandybuck steps forward, hands held behind his back and 
glancing at Otho with hidden but potent dislike. “This young gentlehobbit 
has my permission to marry Frodo –– he is a hobbit of good standing and 
ehm... security, next in line for Master of Buckland and so on.” 
 
Aragorn nods. 
 
“Stand forth, Samwise,” Otho orders, voice now full of irritation. “This 
young Gamgee –– who, by the way, is only a gardener of low standing and 
background, hardly worthy of Frodo –– has seduced Frodo into believing 
that his intentions are those of true affection. He sends poetry, flowers, 
letters, and all other manner of sappy, lovesick falsehoods. My dear, 
foolish relation is under the impression that this... peasant has feelings for 
him.” 
 
“And you don’t believe this?” Aragorn asks politely. 
 
“No I don’t!” Otho snaps. “What love could a poor gardener have for 
someone of such high standing?” 
 
Aragorn sighs, quite aware of Otho’s greed and foulness, and is certain 
that the old hobbit’s support of Merry stems only from the wealth that he 
would bring, should he marry into the Baggins family. He suspects that 
Bilbo, Frodo’s uncle and adoptive father, knows nothing about this at 
Otho’s behest. 
 
“And what does Bilbo have to say about this?” he asks. 
 
Otho leans in toward Aragorn, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. 
 
“Bilbo’s been fighting trolls a little too long,” he says, twirling a finger 
around one side of his head. 
 
“Hey!” Frodo shouts.  
 
“According to law,” Otho continues, resuming his oily voice and 
slamming the massive book on Aragorn’s desk, opening it to a 
bookmarked page and pointing. “As he is under my care at present, he is 
mine to deal with and... to dispose of. If a youngster disobeys his current 
guardian –– his sane guardian –– that hobbit, according to the guardian’s 
wishes, may be done away with... to his death.” 
 
A thick silence chases this grim comment. 
 
“It’s true, there is such a law,” Aragorn says thoughtfully. “I have only so 
much power over this... what do you think about this, Frodo?” 
 
“My lord, I don’t ask you to change your rules or make an exception for 
me,” he says with unwavering courage. “I can only tell you that I love 
Sam. He’s my best friend and he cares for me more than anyone else and 
he gives excellent foot rubs...” 
 
“I may be a poor gardener,” Sam allows. “And I ain’t had much education, 
not like Mister Merry here, but I love Mister Frodo and that makes me the 
richest hobbit in the Shire, whether or no I have much in my pockets.” 
 
“Frodo please,” Merry entreats, stepping closer. “Just be cool, back down, 
and back down Sam, if he marries me, at least he’ll be alive.” 
 
“You have Sackville-Baggins’ affection, let me have Frodo’s,” Sam says, 
crossing his arms. “Are you marrying Otho?” 
 
“Insolent ––!” Otho snarls. “Do you see, my lord, why I –––” 
 
“Silence,” Aragorn commands. “Frodo I can’t help you much here. Think 
hard about your decision, as life and love are the most important forces on 
Earth... and sometimes we are forced to choose. In two days, I’m sorry to 
say... you will be expected to do so.” 
 
Aragorn catches Arwen looking at him, an expectant glare. She flicks her 
eyes toward Frodo and back at Aragorn, pursing her lips. Aragorn winces 
and shrugs helplessly. He clears his throat. 
 
“Come Otho, Meriadoc... let’s talk a few things over,” Aragorn says, 
turning back to the hobbits, then holds his hand out for Arwen. “My dear? 
Come on.” 
 
Arwen raises an eyebrow at her fiancee and sweeps out of the room like a 
departing storm. Aragorn coughs and jerks his head, signaling Otho and 
Merry to follow him. Frodo and Sam are left in the room, the former 
staring at the floor with wide, desperate eyes. Sam turns to him. 
 
“Why do you look so worried, Mister Frodo?” he asks with a slight smile, 
brushing the back of his hand over Frodo’s cheek. “This is only a minor 
problem, and no mistake, we’ll see worse, you take my word for it.” 
 
“How can you be so sure?” he asks in a voice carrying the threat of 
frustrated tears. 
 
“The course of love never ran smooth, my gaffer used to say, though it 
weren’t his to begin with,” Sam kisses Frodo’s cheek, then looks him in 
the eyes, speaking in a close, reassuring whisper. “We’ll get through this 
yet.” 
 
“What can we do?” 
 
Sam takes no time to consider, but speaks with excitement, leaning in 
closer. 
 
“My gaffer has land straight across the Shire,” he says. “Now it ain’t 
much, and no one’s been by to take after it for some time, but if we make 
for it, that horrid Otho can’t find us and we’ll be safe,” he takes both of 
Frodo’s hands, grinning now. “We’ll be safe.” 
 
“Oh Sam!” Frodo cries with joy, throwing his arms around the other 
hobbit’s neck and holding him tightly. “Do you mean it? Can we really 
run away?” 
 
“If you meet me at the start of the woods tomorrow night, near the place 
where we always walk together, then we can start off right quick and get 
to the property in a few days, I reckon. Then I could marry you and we can 
be free.” 
 
“Oh my wonderful Sam... I’ll be there.” 
 
“Keep that promise, Mister Frodo, see that you do.” 
 
 
 
They leave the king’s palace hand in hand with flushed and happy faces 
and walk absently in the lush, colorful gardens that surround it. After a 
few blissful moments, the sound of crying reaches their ears and they 
share a glance, coming upon their friend Pippin, slouched like a severed 
and wilting flower over the stone seat. 
 
“Sweet Pippin,” Frodo addresses him with concern. “What’s wrong?” 
 
“Sweet,” the little hobbit sniffles, drying his face with the backs of his 
hands. “Sweet, sure, but beautiful? Beautiful like you, Frodo? Oh no... not 
nearly enough for Merry... he looks at you once and he’s madly in love. 
But he looks at me... nothing.” 
 
“You can have him, Pip,” says Frodo, sitting down next to him. “The 
colder I am to him, the more he comes after me.” 
 
“And the faster I chase him,” sighs Pippin. “The faster he runs to you.” 
 
“I didn’t ask for this,” Frodo insists. “His persistence is only making 
things worse. I’m fond of Merry, you know I am, but his love is like a 
plague.” 
 
“Then let me be infected,” Pippin moans, burying his face in his hands. 
“I’d welcome any disease that makes your eyes finer than mine, your 
smile sweeter, your disposition more desirable... he’s my world, Frodo, 
and he sees right through me.” 
 
He sighs, defeated. 
 
“Teach me,” he sits up and looks at Frodo with begging eyes. “Show me 
how to look like you, tell me what you did to make him love you!” 
 
“I did nothing, I told him that I didn’t love him and that only made matters 
worse.” 
 
“Maybe if my eyes were blue like yours...” Pippin says. “You and Sam 
have blue eyes, fair King Aragorn has blue eyes, Merry... he has blue eyes, 
and the most beautiful blue I’ll ever see in my life. All of you have 
someone who loves you... but no one fawns or tortures themselves over 
green eyes. I’m like a dog. No, a goat, a toad, a duck!” 
 
“You are not!” Sam sits on Pippin’s other side. “You’ve got just as much 
fair as Mister Frodo and twice as much as Merry, as he’s blind for not 
seeing you, if you follow, sir.” 
 
“Be comforted, Pip,” Frodo smiles with a look at Sam. “Merry won’t be 
seeing my face anymore.” 
 
“You’ll see, Mister Pippin,” Sam proclaims, taking the younger hobbit’s 
hand. “Soon your eyes will command his heart, and no mistake.” 
 
“What?” Pippin looks from one to the other. “What do you mean?” 
 
Sam and Frodo exchange excited glances. 
 
“We’re running away, Pippin,” Frodo grins. “We’re meeting in the woods 
tomorrow night.” 
 
“And we’re going to my gaffer’s property to get married in secret so Otho 
can’t find us,” says Sam. “Oh Mister Pippin... we’ll miss you terribly.” 
 
“Be happy for us, cousin!” Frodo hugs the astonished hobbit. “And all the 
luck in the world to you and your Merry!” 
 
“Cool beans, you two,” Pippin smiles, keeping his despair inside. “I know 
you’ll be happy together.” 
 
“Goodbye sweet Pippin, I’ll write to you whenever I can,” says Frodo, 
hugging him again. “And Sam, we should part for the day, we don’t want 
to arouse suspicion.” 
 
“Until tomorrow night, Mister Frodo,” Sam agrees, kissing Frodo’s cheek. 
 
Frodo gives one last wave and a smile, then runs off. Pippin sighs, 
watching him go, and feeling the injustice of love, happy as he is that his 
friends are together. Sam stands and takes Pippin’s hands, pulling him to 
his feet. 
 
“Don’t you worry, Pippin, these things always work out for the best,” he 
says. “As you adore Merry, Merry will adore you! Goodbye!” 
 
“Bye Sam!” Pippin waves, watching in despair as Sam runs off in his own 
direction. Pippin sniffles, his face twisting up the slightest bit, then he 
curses sharply, stomping off. 
 
“Oh spite, oh hell...” 
 
 
 
“Are we all here? Hmm? Our company?” 
 
Six men, more than some of them in scruffy clothing and unshaven faces, 
mill unconsciously around the dusty store. Its walls are brown and old, but 
the general feeling of the place is good, old fashioned and natural. Shelves 
stand at sporadic intervals, and organization is obviously not a priority. 
The store is owned by Gimli, a scowling, rough-voiced, good-natured 
dwarf who sits now behind the counter as one of the others, a tall, white 
bearded man, tries fruitlessly to maintain order. 
 
Boromir –– a tall man usually grinning and dreaming and walking into 
things –– laughs. 
 
“Gandalf, don’t be silly,” Boromir grins. “We’re actors, both disorganized 
and deaf. You’d do better to read us off one by one, according to our parts 
in the play.” 
 
“All right, all right, we’ll be performing the lament of Pyramus and 
Thisby, a most tragical comedy and comical tragedy.” 
 
“An excellent play, gentlemen, I assure you,” Boromir tells the others, 
who have all stopped poking around and stand anxiously side by side, 
watching Gandalf. 
 
“You’ve never read it,” Gandalf snickers. 
 
“No matter, read on!” 
 
“Alright, Boromir –––” 
 
“Present, present, Master Gandalf, go on, what is my part in the play?” 
Boromir sits on an empty barrel, leaning forward with eager eyes. 
 
“You shall have the part of Pyramus,” says Gandalf, looking at a yellowed 
scrap of paper and tossing Boromir a copy of the script. 
 
“So is Pyramus a knight, a soldier, a gallant, fearless swordsman?” 
Boromir flips through the script. 
 
“A lover,” answers Gandalf, a tiny smirk hiding under his thick beard. “A 
tragic lover who kills himself for... well, love, you know.” 
 
“A lover?” Boromir stands, peering dubiously at his script. “Well, I can do 
it. Yes, all who watch will be in tears by the end.” 
 
“I’m happy to hear it,” Gandalf nods, looking back at the paper as 
Boromir sits back on his barrel. “Now ––” 
 
“But my true talent is in a knight or swordsman,” says Boromir, springing 
back to his feet. “You know how well I fare with a sword, I could move 
mountains with a large, tyrannical voice, ‘CROSS ME NOT, O 
COWERING FOOLS, FOR MY BLADE SHALL STRIKE AND BITE 
AND FLY ––” 
 
He swings an arm as if holding a sword, calling out in a commanding 
voice that has patrons in the store stopping to look. Gandalf chuckles. 
 
“Yes, yes, excellent performance,” he allows. “You’re still Pyramus.” 
 
“Very well, read the others.” 
 
“Elladan, where are you, my lad?” Gandalf calls. 
 
“Here, Gandalf,” a tall, dark haired Elf steps forward, having been 
standing with his twin brother Elrohir, next to whom little difference can 
be seen. 
 
“You’re to play Thisby,” says Gandalf, handing Elladan a script. 
 
“Cool, what’s he like? He’s the knight, right? Or a wandering prince?” 
 
Gandalf snickers, eyes sparkling. 
 
“Pyramus’ lover,” he says. 
 
“Oh okay –– WHAT? No, not again,” Elladan steps toward Gandalf, 
grabbing the other’s arm with an air of pleading. “Let me not play a 
woman, my voice is getting deeper and ––” 
 
“Chill out, Elladan, we can trust Gandalf,” Elrohir says with a smirk. 
“He’s a wizard with this stuff.” 
 
“Besides, you’re so pretty,” Gimli mocks. “Yoo hoo!” 
 
The dwarf holds up a lady’s scarf from one of the racks and wraps it 
around his own shoulders, waving one end at Elladan and batting his eyes. 
Elladan moans, covering his face with his hands. 
 
“Where is Faramir?” Gandalf asks, looking around the store for Boromir’s 
slightly younger brother. 
 
“Right here, Gandalf,” says a young man, resembling his brother very 
much in the face and build. 
 
“For you, the lion’s part.” 
 
“There isn’t a lot to memorize is there?” Faramir asks. “I’ve still got work 
to do and besides,” he adds with a smile and faint blush. “There’s this girl, 
Eowyn...” 
 
Boromir raises his eyebrows, looking at Faramir. 
 
“Nice work,” he says. 
 
“Don’t worry, you’ll have nothing to memorize,” Gandalf waves his hand, 
studying his paper. “It’s all roaring.” 
 
“I could be the lion,” Boromir suggests, standing again. “I’d give such a 
roar, Gandalf, a roar you wouldn’t believe! Every man would feel it in his 
heart and beg for me to roar again!” 
 
“Yes, and you’d scare the ladies,” Gandalf sighs. “We’re playing for the 
king remember? On his wedding day, or had that slipped your mind? If we 
frighten the queen and the ladies, we’re in for it.” 
 
“Of course, of course we’d be in trouble if I should scare the ladies,” 
Boromir says impatiently. “But, my friends, I would roar so gently that I 
would sound like a kitten, I’d roar like music, so sweetly and so low... 
grrrowwwlll...” 
 
He crouches as he imagines a lion would, and looks around the store, 
growling in a soft, vibrating timbre at passing shoppers who giggle and 
whisper to each other. The men of their company laugh as they watch him, 
applauding. 
 
“Very nice,” Gandalf commends. “Pyramus, however, is the only part for 
you.” 
 
“Well can’t we juice him up a little? Give him a fighting scene or... I 
mean, how does he kill himself in the end?” 
 
“Poison,” says Gandalf.  
 
“Make it a sword and I’ll not complain again,” Boromir steps forward, 
grinning at Gandalf. 
 
“That would be an accomplishment,” Gandalf sighs. “Fine then, you shall 
have your sword. Now, we’re meeting tomorrow night in the forest where 
no one can come by and bother us, all right?” 
 
“At first dark, you’ll have us all there!” Boromir smiles, full of energy. 
“Suffer for these parts, gentlemen, we must be perfect! I know you won’t 
fail.” 
 
 
 
The next evening, Pippin stumbles through the familiar wilderness that 
surrounds his home, sniffling and occasionally tripping over rocks and tree 
branches. He bats away his steady river of tears as he crashes through the 
brush, talking to himself in a low, lamentable moan. 
 
“The rest of the Shire thinks I’m fine... not as fair as Frodo, but still fair! 
Ah, but what does any of that matter if Merry doesn’t see what they see? 
Anything clever I might say, anything graceful I might do... all of it is 
wasted if Merry isn’t there to see it. He’d never–––woahhh!” 
 
Pippin’s foot catches on an upraised tree root and he falls forward, his face 
landing in the dirt. He stands, cursing and crying, trying in vain to brush 
the dirt and leaves from his clothes. He drags his sleeve over his eyes, 
brown streaks still marring his sad little face, leaves and twigs sticking in 
his curled hair. He gives a melancholy sniffle. 
 
“I may as well be a bug, or an uneaten slice of toast,” he murmurs, 
walking on. “I’ve got no use, no beauty, no charm... for all I am to Merry–
––ow!” he hits his foot on a rock, sharp pain shooting up his leg. He holds 
his body stiffly as he waits for the pain to subside. “–––I may as well not 
exist.” 
 
He limps on, disheveled curls falling into his face. Abruptly, his eyes light 
up and he stops. 
 
“I’ll tell Merry about Frodo leaving,” he says, the idea crashing onto him 
like lightening. “Then tonight he’ll run off after him into the woods and I 
can follow! I’d finally have him alone, he’d have to hear my pleas... and 
for telling him about Frodo’s flight, I may have gratitude, maybe even... 
no, best not to think about it now. Right, off I go to find my love!” 
 
With that bold declaration, he runs off, tripping only twice more on his 
way. 
 
 
 
Legolas, a tall Elf with long, white-golden hair perches in the branches of 
a tree, showering passersby with rotten berries and wondering what sort of 
mischief he might get into. The sun has gone down and the moon begun to 
climb its silver ladder, casting a pale milky glow on the earth. 
 
“Hellooo...” he mutters to himself as a sylvan Elf walks by. Legolas jumps 
down from the tree to land in front of the Elf, leaning casually against 
another tree’s trunk and barring the Elf’s way. 
 
“Whither away, you gorgeous creature?” Legolas asks. 
 
The other Elf sighs, unfazed. 
 
“What an excellent question,” he says. “I go everywhere, wherever my 
lady goes. Lady Galadriel is both fast and in a foul mood.” 
 
“I gathered that,” Legolas winces as thunder cracks above, a sure sign of 
the Elf queen’s anger. “Let’s hope she doesn’t meet my lord... she and 
Elrond haven’t been getting along lately. But tell me, good Elf, what’s 
your name?” 
 
“Haldir of Lorien,” he says. “And you –– wait, I know you.” 
 
Legolas pales.  
 
“I’m certain you don’t.” 
 
“Unless I’m blind,” Haldir smirks, advancing on Legolas, who backs up. 
“You’re that foxy sprite and mischievous wiseass Legolas, sometimes 
called Puck.” 
 
Legolas stops retreating and winces, putting a finger to his lips. 
 
“Shh, good Haldir, there are many people who’d like to get their hands on 
me.” 
 
“I would agree,” Haldir smiles. “You turned my maiden aunt’s knickers 
blue once.” 
 
“Hm, yeah, I do that to a lot of people.” 
 
“Well I’d like to get my hands on you myself.” 
 
“Why? What did I do to you?” 
 
“Nothing yet,” Haldir grins, raising an eyebrow. 
 
“Oh. Ohhhhh,” Legolas smiles, then starts as he hears a noise. “Uh oh, 
here comes Elrond.” 
 
“And Galadriel as well, oh we’re in for it.” 
 
Haldir departs and Legolas hides again in the tree to watch the clash that 
will ensue in the clearing. Lightening and thunder crash in the sky as 
Galadriel and her faeries approach Elrond’s throne that suddenly appeared 
out of the rock. 
 
“Waiting for me, dear son-in-law?” Galadriel says in a caustic voice as 
commanding as the storm. “How kind of you.” 
 
“Have you relented, Lady?” asks Elrond, showing calmness, but no less 
power. 
 
Galadriel stiffens, eyes flashing with anger. 
 
“Relented?!” she cries. “You make it sound as if I need to bow to you! 
While you are a lord, Elrond Halfelven, you are no lord of mine, and I do 
not bow.” 
 
“I ask only a little kindness,” he says. “My people and yours have nothing 
to fear from one another and we’d benefit greatly from an alliance. Why 
do you insist on shutting us out?” 
 
“You would benefit,” Galadriel snaps. “But when the lion and cat are 
joined, the cat grows stronger and the lion weaker. My people live as we 
wish, and if we choose to let no one into our forests, that’s no concern of 
yours.” 
 
“Great men have died in your city, lady. It would be better for all if you’d 
chill out.” 
 
“You insist on interfering in every matter,” growls the queen. “And why 
couldn’t you leave the mortal king alone?” 
 
“Aragorn and Arwen fell in love of their own volition,” Elrond answers. 
“You accuse me of meddling when you, as I recall, tried to lure him into 
your own forest.” 
 
“Yet he marries your daughter,” she snarls. “So don’t gloat.” 
 
Elrond stands, leaving his chair of stone and vines to melt into the wall 
where it had first emerged. He walks toward Galadriel with a cool 
presence. 
 
“I beg only that you bless their wedding,” he says. “With an apology for 
your actions and an alliance between my Elves and yours.” 
 
“An apology!” Galadriel swells with fury, the storm mirroring her lividity 
with cracking thunder and lightening that tears open the sky. “Not for your 
entire kingdom will I lower myself for you!” 
 
With a final, renting snap of thunder and lightening in unison, she is gone, 
and all of her Elves and faeries with her. Elrond sighs, sitting on a boulder 
nearby. Legolas begins to shrink away from his hiding place unseen, but 
cringes as his master calls his name. 
 
“Legolas! My gentle Puck, come here.” 
 
Legolas approaches and sits beside Elrond, looking on quizzically. 
 
“You were with me one day in the spring,” says the Elf lord, looking off 
into the distance with a soft voice. “When scores of stars were falling, 
mermaids singing, the sun and the moon forgetting to quarrel.” 
 
“I remember very well, my lord.” 
 
“That day I saw –– though you couldn’t –– Cupid, all armed, flying 
between the clouds, fortified and powerful with the most deadly weapon 
of love. An arrow fell from his bow, quenched with the spell of desire, and 
fell instead of into a broken mortal heart, onto a field of flowers, once 
white, now purple with love’s wound. The juice of it will make any living 
creature fall madly in love with the next living thing it sees. Fetch me this 
flower, Legolas, and return quickly to this same spot.” 
 
“Yessir boss,” Legolas grins and disappears. 
 
“Once I have this flower,” Elrond murmurs to himself. “I can repay my 
mother-in-law for her actions. I’ll drop this flower’s juice into her eyes, 
and the next poor beast that should come her way will be pursued by the 
proud queen with all the soul of love. Before I cure her of this charm, 
there will be much to humiliate her with.” 
 
He hears the crashing of feet through the brush and keeps still and unseen, 
watching curiously. Two hobbits, both agitated and out of breath, burst 
into view. 
 
“Leave me alone!” Merry cries. “I do not love you, stop following me! 
Where are Frodo and Sam?!” 
 
He whirls on Pippin who stops jogging and doesn’t answer as he catches 
his breath. 
 
“You told me they were here,” Merry growls. “Where’s my Frodo, were 
you playing with me?” 
 
“No –– Merry...” Pippin pants. “They’re here... don’t go so fast, I can’t 
keep up.” 
 
“That’s the point, go away!” 
 
“I will not, Merry, I’d follow you anywhere,” Pippin smiles. “I’d do 
anything for you, you know that.” 
 
“Well cut it out!” Merry orders. “Do I ask you for anything? Do I tell you 
you’re beautiful? Or do I not, rather, tell you over and over that I love 
Frodo, not you?!” 
 
“For that, I love you even more!” Pippin grins. “The more you run, the 
faster I’ll chase you, my Merry. I don’t care what you do; make me your 
Frodo, use me, neglect me, call me names, just let me adore you and 
follow you and tell myself that you’re mine. What lower place can I beg 
than that?” 
 
“Pippin, give it up! As great as my love is for Frodo, that is the amount of 
hate I have for you! Go away and stop following me!” Merry yells. “You 
must be out of your mind, don’t you see that you’re in a forest at night, 
and alone?” 
 
“No I don’t,” says Pippin. “Whenever I see you, the world is so bright and 
colorful that it doesn’t feel like night. And I’m not alone because in my 
eyes, you’re the world, so how can I be alone when the whole world is 
with me?” 
 
“Pippin,” Merry steps toward the little hobbit who watches with wide 
eyes, now shivering faintly. “You can’t make love exist where it simply 
doesn’t. I do not, I can not love you. I’m chasing Frodo, you’re chasing 
me, who’s chasing you, get it? Nobody. Go home.” 
 
Merry turns and walks off into the wilderness. Pippin watches after him 
with wide, forlorn eyes which he narrows with a determined growl, then 
springs off in the direction that Merry disappeared in, shouting, “Run as 
you will, tiger, the rabbit will catch you in the ––– ahhhh!” 
 
He trips, falling to the ground and hitting his knee on a rock. He cries out, 
sitting on the ground as he holds the offended limb, close to tears again. 
 
“Merry, come back! Ohhh, you’ll be the death of me!” he moans. “Why is 
it more attractive to be silent and aloof and proper, waiting for someone to 
love you? Why does it make me so undesirable when I want to chase and 
conquer and love instead of just waiting?” 
 
He sniffles, getting to his feet and brushing off his clothes. 
 
“Very well, Merry, go,” he growls sadly. “I’ll never stop chasing you, and 
if it kills me then I’ll die happily in your arms!” 
 
He runs off after Merry. 
 
Elrond reappears, reclining on the stone he’s perched on and looks after 
the running hobbit. 
 
“Good luck, little nymph,” the Elf lord says softly. “Before the night is 
over, you’ll run from him and he’ll seek your love.” 
 
Legolas appears behind his lord, grinning and holding out a fistful of deep, 
passionately fuscia flowers in the shape of an orchid, or dragon lily. 
Elrond chooses a flower, inspecting it. 
 
“Excellent work, my faithful Legolas,” he says. “I’ll go to the grove where 
the lady Galadriel sleeps and have my revenge. Meanwhile, I have a job 
for you.” 
 
“Oh, a job! Lovely!” Legolas grins, bouncing. “What is it, my lord?” 
 
“A sweet young hobbit is in love with another, who disdains and avoids 
him. Take a flower and drop the liquid into the distant one’s eyes, but do it 
only when the next thing he sees is the doting hobbit. You’ll know the one 
I wish you to charm by his short, golden hair.” 
 
“Whatever my lord wishes,” says Legolas, ecstatic at the opportunity for 
mischief. 
 
He starts to go, but Elrond catches his arm. 
 
“Make sure that he’s not only in love with the other,” Elrond warns. “But 
even more so than the younger hobbit.” 
 
“You’ve got it.” 
 
Elrond stops him again. 
 
“And how will you be able to recognize the youth?” 
 
“By his short, golden hair,” Legolas smiles indignantly. “Have no fear, my 
lord, your servant shall do so.”

Act Two  
 
There is a tiny pond where water nymphs swim and crickets sing, there are 
draped vines choked with flowers of white and light pink, and there, in the 
middle of it all, is a rounded bed, like a bowl, filled with flowers and 
pillows and silks. This is where the lady Galadriel sleeps. 
 
Into this grove Lord Elrond appears and he sits by the queen’s bed, letting 
a drop of the liquid fall onto both of her closed eyes. He speaks in a low 
chant, “When I leave and you awake, the nearest thing love’s form will 
take, till I relent you’ll hold it dear...” he steps back with a wicked smile. 
“Awake when some vile thing is near.” 
 
 
 
“Are you getting tired, Mister Frodo?” 
 
The lovers shamble through the forest, shuffling their overlarge feet and 
feeling their packs grow heavier by the minute. 
 
“You spoke at the perfect moment, my love, as I was just about to 
collapse,” Frodo smiles. “I’m exhausted.” 
 
“I must admit, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve grown a bit weary myself,” Sam 
puffs, stopping in a small clearing. “And my slow Gamgee brain ain’t 
working so well in the dark, if you follow... I’ve lost our way.” 
 
“A brain of any sort needs rest,” says Frodo, kissing Sam and making him 
blush. “And while yours is, in fact, as quick as anyone else’s and twice as 
humble, I think we should rest here.” 
 
The hobbits lay down their packs and remove the chief of their clothing, 
lying on top of them as blankets and curled together like sleeping puppies. 
Frodo settles automatically against Sam’s firm chest, sighing softly. Sam’s 
eyes shoot open as he feels his body react. 
 
“Uh, perhaps I ought to lie further off, Mister Frodo,” he stutters, coloring. 
“For modesty’s sake and all... it ain’t proper for a bachelor hobbit, if you 
get me.” 
 
I’d like to get you, Frodo thinks, but nods anyway as Sam moves to the 
other end of the encampment, next to their packs. 
 
“Goodnight, sweet, beautiful Sam,” Frodo smiles. 
 
“Goodnight Mister Frodo, I love you so.” 
 
It only takes moments for them to drop off to sleep. Legolas shuffles by, 
kicking his feet and mumbling to himself. 
 
“I’ve looked high, I’ve looked low,” he grumbles. “But alas, I have found 
no disdainful, golden-tressed hobbits to–––oop!” 
 
He stops, seeing Sam curled on top of his clothes and sleeping, flaxen-
blond hair shining in the moonlight. 
 
“This must be him!” Legolas whispers, then hops around in a circle, 
clapping his hands and cackling quietly in triumph. “I found him! I found 
him!”  
 
He looks over to see Frodo sleeping on the ground. 
 
“And the little one sleeps there on the hard and dirty ground. What a cold 
hearted hobbit this one must be, how can he be the knight of this one’s 
heart? I shall have no pity on this blond blind fool.” 
 
Legolas kneels beside the sleeping form of Sam, dropping twin pearls of 
the flower’s juice onto his eyelids and chanting, “As you sleep I’ll 
mischief make, for love to be there when you wake, what first you see you 
shall be fond, and now I go to Lord Elrond!” 
 
Legolas disappears, leaving Sam to sleep for a few peaceful moments 
before Pippin enters the clearing, disheveled and panting. 
 
“Merry?” he calls. “Oi, Merry, where are you?” 
 
Hearing nothing in return, he gives a shivering sigh, dropping onto a rock 
and starting to cry. 
 
“This is ridiculous,” he groans, his breath hitching. “I’ll never be attractive 
to my Merry... I’m as ugly as a rotten mushroom. But,” he wipes away his 
tears with the back of his sleeve. “Frodo’s eyes didn’t get so beautiful by 
always having tears in them.” 
 
He stands and sees Sam lying alone and still. 
 
“Oh Sam, are you asleep or dead?” Pippin cries, running to him and 
kneeling at his side, shaking his shoulders. “Sam, if you’re alive, wake up, 
please?” 
 
Sam stirs and blinks at Pippin, a spark igniting in his eyes. 
 
“Sweet mercy,” he says. “What is this incredible vision I’ve opened my 
eyes to? It’s as if I’ve never seen you proper before, Mister Pippin! 
Where’s that foul Merry, has he abandoned you? Oh I’d break his legs if 
he made you cry –––” 
 
“Don’t say that, Sam!” Pippin gasps. “Merry’s good and kind, don’t be 
hard on him just because he loves your Frodo. Frodo loves you, Sam, be 
happy with that.” 
 
“Happy with Frodo?” Sam asks, sitting up. “Mister Pippin, what have I 
got to love about Frodo when you’re in front of me? It isn’t Frodo, sir, but 
you that I love... the tempest of your eyes, your bright smile rules me... if 
you follow, sir.” 
 
“No, I don’t follow, Sam, are you all right? Did you eat some bad 
mushrooms, or...?” 
 
“Oh fair Pippin, I’m not acting crazy, rather, I was crazy before! It’s not 
madness, sir, but reason. Who’d keep a raven when a dove was near?” 
 
Pippin blinks at Sam, mouth dropped open in shock, then backs away, 
realization dawning. 
 
“What did I do,” he breathes. “To deserve being teased so horribly?!” 
 
He scrambles to his feet and Sam does the same, shaking his head with 
wide eyes. 
 
“No, Pippin ––” 
 
“Was I wicked? Am I proud? What did I do to get such horrible ridicule 
from you, Sam?” Pippin yells, his fists clenching. “Isn’t it enough, isn’t it 
enough, young man, that I can never win Merry’s heart, that he’ll never 
smile at me or look at me kindly, isn’t it enough that I repulse everyone I 
meet, that you have to make fun of me for being insufficient?!” 
 
Sam steps forward, trying to grab the angry little sprite’s hand, and is 
batted away. 
 
“Pippin, my love –––” 
 
“You persist!” Pippin cries, outraged. “Fine, Sam, have it your way, I’ll 
get out of your sight and you and Merry never have to see me again! 
Refused by one, abused by the next... I must admit, I thought you were 
better than this, Samwise Gamgee!” 
 
In a raging torrent of bitterness and indignation, Pippin runs off, hardly 
knowing or caring where he’s running to. Sam looks back at the still 
sleeping form of Frodo and smiles. 
 
“You just keep sleeping, Mister Frodo,” he says. “And I’ll calm the wild 
storm of my Pippin’s heart!” 
 
Sam pulls a vest on, having previously been in only his breeches, and 
disappears from the clearing, running after Pippin. Frodo sleeps alone, still 
for a moment, then moans, turning. With a shout, he sits up, eyes flying 
open. He looks around, one hand on his heaving chest and sighs. 
 
“Sam, you wouldn’t believe this dream I had,” Frodo says, running a hand 
through his hair. “Everyone was freaking out about this little ring, but I 
had to... Sam?” 
 
Frodo looks around the clearing, finding it empty. 
 
“Sam, where are you?” 
 
Nothing. 
 
“Ohhh...” he shivers, looking around and getting to his feet. “My Sam, 
either you’re dead, or I will be if I stay... you’re in some danger, then, and 
I’ll find you.” 
 
Frodo dresses hastily and runs off. 
 
 
 
“Ah boys, here’s an excellent spot,” says Gandalf, straying with the others 
into a private little grove in the woods. “Right, out with the scripts, 
everyone, and to your parts.” 
 
“There are some things here that won’t do,” Boromir says, flipping 
through pages as the men and Elves sit on nearby rocks or fallen trees. 
“Pyramus kills himself in the end, something I’m sure will frighten the 
ladies.” 
 
“Well what do you suggest?” 
 
“We need a prologue... yes, Gandalf, write a prologue, to warn that no one 
has actually died, and that I’m not Pyramus, only Boromir the steward!” 
 
“Alright, you’ll have your prologue,” Gandalf says. “But here’s another 
problem... Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight, how do we shake that 
one?” 
 
“Hmm... we’ll have to leave a chamber open and let the moon shine 
through,” Boromir smiles, snapping his fingers. 
 
“Does the moon even shine that night?” asks Elrohir, leaning forward with 
his elbows on his knees, laying one hand on top of a fist and resting his 
chin there. 
 
“Uhhhh...” 
 
“You’re an Elf, you should have the moon charts memorized,” Gimli 
snickers, then releases a rough “ow!” as he is cuffed upside the head. 
 
“Ah!” Faramir pulls out a pocket calendar and flips through it. “It does 
shine that night, let’s just hope we have good timing.” 
 
“Excellent, all solved then?” Boromir claps his hands. 
 
“Not yet,” says Gandalf, long nose stuck in the script. “What about the 
wall?” 
 
“The what now?” 
 
“The wall, smart guy, Pyramus and Thisby talk to each other through a 
hole in the wall,” Gandalf sighs. “We can’t very well bring in a wall.” 
 
Elladan looks at Elrohir who shrugs. Gimli pulls thoughtfully at his beard 
and Faramir bites his bottom lip, leaning forward. Boromir startles them 
all when he lets out a triumphant, “hah!”, Gimli falling backwards over his 
tree stump. 
 
“Someone will have to present Wall,” he grins. “One of us with a hat of 
plaster or loam, and the hole in the wall will be thus,” he holds his arm 
out, making a circle with the fingers of one hand. “This is what Pyramus 
and Thinny ––” 
 
“Thisby,” says Gandalf. 
 
“Whatever, this is what they’ll whisper through,” he shakes his hand in the 
air for emphasis, then lowers it, looking around at the others. “Elrohir. 
Elrohir, my boy, you shall be our Wall.” 
 
“Oh no you don’t, I’m the costume wench,” the Elf stands, indignant. 
 
“Well Gimli is too short, we can’t have a wall that’s only as high as our 
ankles,” says Boromir. 
 
“Hey!” Gimli shouts. 
 
“Boromir’s right,” Gandalf rumbles with his authoritative voice. “Elrohir, 
you’ve got to be our Wall.” 
 
“I don’t have to wear a silly hat, do I?” he moans. 
 
“Yes,” Boromir grins. 
 
“Alright, now that all is settled,” says Gandalf. “Everyone to their places 
and let’s rehearse.” 
 
As the actors shuffle around the grove, placing themselves around the 
clearing that would serve as their stage, Legolas creeps out of the trees. He 
watches them with curiosity, leaning against the shoulder of Gandalf, 
unseen and unfelt. 
 
“What are these strange creatures playing so close to where Galadriel 
sleeps?” he murmurs. “Hmm... maybe if I get a mind to, I’ll join their little 
act.” 
 
“Come on, Pyramus, line five,” Gandalf prompts. 
 
“Right, ahh... Thisby!” Boromir roars in a dramatic timbre.  
 
“What?” Elladan snarks. 
 
“Shut up –– the flowers of odious savors sweet –––” 
 
“Odors, odors” Gandalf corrects. 
 
“Odors savors sweet, so hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear –––” 
 
“Perhaps Pyramus should speak more softly,” Elladan snickers. “You are 
talking to a lady, after all.” 
 
“Perhaps Thisby should kill herself now...” growls Boromir. 
 
“Ahem, Pyramus, line,” says Gandalf. 
 
“Yeah yeah,” he grumbles. “But hark, a voice! Stay thou but here a while, 
and by and by I will to thee appear!” he looks at his script for a moment. 
“Is this where I leave?” 
 
“Yes, just wait by those trees till your cue.” 
 
Boromir stalks off as Elladan is trying to convince his voice to be higher 
than it is. He wanders into the trees, muttering his lines to himself, and 
doesn’t see Legolas, who creeps up behind him and cackles, flicking the 
man’s ears. As Legolas disappears again, Boromir’s ears elongate and 
grow darker with black fur. He notices nothing, only continues to read 
over his lines as his face grows more and more like a mule’s. His head 
snaps up as Gandalf calls “Enter Pyramus!” 
 
“If I were, fair Thisby, I were only thine,” he reads, strolling back into the 
clearing, his once handsome face now halfway between his own and that 
of an ass. 
 
The actors look up and scream, paling. 
 
“What, I wasn’t that bad –––” 
 
“Boromir, what happened?” Faramir stutters, eyes wide. “What am I 
seeing?!” 
 
“Probably an ass-head of your own, brother,” Boromir says, raising an 
eyebrow. 
 
At this, the company runs off into the woods, screaming. Boromir blinks. 
 
“Oh I see,” he smiles. “They’re just trying to make an ass out of me. Well 
I’ll show them, I’m not afraid. I’ll stay right here and sing, to prove that 
I’m not scared.” 
 
Boromir places himself on a tree stump and crosses his arms, singing out 
in a loud voice (and off-key), “There once was a puppet named Grover, 
blue-colored was he all over ––” 
 
Galadriel, sleeping in her bed among the trees, opens her eyes and peers 
over the edge of her bed, looking down at the strange creature below her. 
 
“What angel awakens me?” she purrs. “Gentle mortal, sing again, I’ve 
never heard anything so beautiful.” 
 
Boromir whips around at the noise above him to see the Elf queen sitting 
up in her bed and looking down at him. He blinks and says nothing. 
 
“Nor... nor have I seen anything so beautiful,” the lady says, breathless. “It 
sounds odd, but on first sight, I could swear that I love you.” 
 
“Fair mistress,” says Boromir, choking a little. “I hardly think that’s 
possible... you should have no reason to love me. Though,” he smiles, 
overcome by Galadriel’s beauty. “Love and reason keep little company 
these days.” 
 
“You’re so wise,” Galadriel fawns, leaning forward in her bed. 
 
“My my,” says Boromir. “This must be a dream... I ought to go before ––” 
 
“No!” Galadriel commands as vines shoot out and wrap themselves 
around Boromir. “I am no ordinary Elf, and I can make you stay here 
whether you do so willingly or not. I do love you, so you shall stay here 
with me, and I’ll give you servants and jewels and anything you wish for.” 
 
“Well I guess I could hang out for a minute,” he says. 
 
 
 
Elrond perches in the low branches of a young tree, absently touching 
fresh leaves and wondering to what ends his mischief went. Legolas 
appears next to him, bouncing where he sits and grinning. 
 
“You’ve obviously done something diabolical to be so happy,” Elrond 
smiles. “How is my dear mother-in-law?” 
 
“Our lady is in love with a monster,” he states with immense pride and 
whispers his actions in his master’s ear. 
 
When all is said Elrond sits back, laughing. 
 
“This is perfect!” he cries. “Much better than I thought. Now what about 
my turmoil-afflicted hobbits? Did you do what I asked?” 
 
“Be not so quick to think me a fuckup, my lord,” Legolas smiles. “I’ve 
done it.” 
 
Raised voices and impatient footsteps herald the appearance of Frodo and 
Merry. Elrond grabs Legolas’ arm. 
 
“Here we go, this taller hobbit is one of the couple.” 
 
Legolas looks at him. 
 
“The dark haired one is your hobbit in love, but not this the blond,” he 
shakes his head. 
 
Elrond raises an eyebrow at him. 
 
“If you’ve done anything to him, Merry, I swear,” Frodo yells as he and 
Merry storm past. “If you’ve killed him, kill me as well!” 
 
“Frodo!” Merry cries. “I haven’t –– I wouldn’t –––” 
 
“I know something’s happened,” Frodo moans. “Sam is truer to me than 
sunshine, than the rise of night and day so tell me, tell me, Meriadoc, 
where is he?!” 
 
“I don’t know, but if I did, I’ve have some words for him,” Merry takes 
Frodo’s hands. “I wouldn’t leave you like that.” 
 
Frodo pulls his hands away and drops onto a tree stump, desperation 
written in his every motion. A single tear slips down his cheek which 
Merry brushes away, sitting next to him. 
 
“I have not killed Sam,” he says. “Nor is he dead for all that I can tell,” 
with a grin, he adds, “But if I did know, what would I get in return?” 
 
“You’re impossible!” Frodo shouts, jumping to his feet. “Forget it, I’ll 
find him myself.” 
 
Frodo runs off and Merry stands, calling after him. At the twitch of 
Elrond’s fingers, Merry feels a thick weariness coming over him. 
 
“It’s no use trying to catch him just yet,” Merry murmurs to himself. “I’ll 
just rest here...” 
 
He slumps onto a soft patch of grass and falls to sleep almost immediately. 
 
“Oh hell, what have you done?” Elrond growls at a cowering Legolas. 
“You’ve taken a true love away from another true love instead of turning a 
false love true!” 
 
“Didn’t get a word of that,” Legolas says. 
 
Elrond sighs, taking hold of one of Legolas’ ears and yanking their faces 
close. 
 
“Go through the forest swifter than the wind,” he commands. “Find 
Peregrin Took of the Shire, a lovesick little sprite with pains that would 
cause any heart to break if they should see. Somehow, I don’t care how 
you do it, bring him here. I’ll fix your bloody mess.” 
 
“I go, I go, I go, I go...” Legolas chants, darting off. 
 
Elrond shakes his head and jumps down from his tree, kneeling next to 
Merry’s snoozing form. He takes out the purple flower and strokes the 
liquid onto the hobbit’s closed eyes with light fingertips as he says, “Be 
full of love and not confusion, pardon my servant’s dense intrusion, when 
Peregrin you next shall see, beg of him for remedy.” 
 
Merry stirs only a little and continues to sleep. In moments, Legolas 
returns. 
 
“Here comes little Pippin, my lord, with the lad I mistook running after 
him,” he says, then, to himself, “Oo, and when Merry awakens two at once 
will pursue the sprite. Oh how I love preposterous things!” 
 
Sam and Pippin enter the clearing, the former close to tears. 
 
“Why would you think that I’m not serious?” he pleads. “Scorn and 
ridicule aren’t what I do, Pippin, you know that! What can I do to prove 
myself to you?” 
 
“You can cut it out,” Pippin growls, walking on. “I get it already, 
Samwise, you think I’m horrible and ugly, now do me a courtesy and let 
me be miserable in peace.” 
 
“Mister Pippin, that you can say that when I love–––you’re everything to 
me, you’re so beautiful and kind and oh my poor Pippin, how can you 
think that I’d leave you alone?” 
 
“Those vows are Frodo’s, so go deliver them sincerely.” 
 
“I was out of my mind when I was with him!” 
 
“No, you’re out of your mind now!” 
 
“Merry loves him, Pippin, he doesn’t love you!” 
 
At this, Pippin stops and turns around, fists balled at his sides, face livid, 
and is about to say something when Merry stirs, sitting up and staring with 
reverent wonder at Pippin. 
 
“Oh Pippin,” he says. “Divine, perfect nymph... where did you come from, 
you vision, you angel?” 
 
“Eh?” Pippin turns. 
 
“No, angels are dull in comparison,” Merry continues, getting to his feet. 
“Emeralds are muddy compared to your eyes, everything pales when 
you’re near... or is the world more beautiful because you’re in it? Oh 
mercy, all of these things are true, I can’t decide...” 
 
“Oh sour hell!” Pippin shouts. “Is everyone against me?! Enough, I get it, 
I’m a defective hobbit! Why don’t you just hate me in the open, as I know 
you do, instead of coming together to mock me? I have no more patience 
for this wretched game! If you were true gentlemen, you’d be more... 
gentle!” 
 
“Don’t be cruel, Mister Merry, you can have Frodo,” says Sam, reaching 
for Pippin’s hand who jerks it away. “I love Pippin now, and I’m sure I 
will for the rest of my life, if you take me.” 
 
“Keep your Frodo,” Merry smiles, trying for the same hand and also being 
refused. “Compared to what I feel now, I don’t think I ever loved him. My 
heart wandered, but now it’s come home to Pippin. Home to stay.” 
 
Frodo stumbles into the clearing. 
 
“My Sam, is that your voice?” he calls. “There you are, oh Sam! What 
happened, why did you leave me?” 
 
“Why should I stay when I have Mister Pippin to follow?” Sam says, 
trying to pull Pippin one way as Merry tries to pull him another way. “Go 
on, leave me alone.” 
 
Frodo gapes. 
 
“Something’s come over you, this can’t be,” he shakes his head. “Was it 
the mushrooms, or–––” 
 
“Unbelievable!” Pippin shouts. “You’re in it with them, Frodo?! You?! 
You, who was always so kind to me, my cousin... we grew up together, we 
shared secrets, we stole apples, you would turn on me like this?!” 
 
“Pippin, what’s going on?” Frodo asks. “I don’t get it.” 
 
“Your two loves scorning me, that’s what,” Pippin growls, backing away 
from the three of them. “Pretending to love me while meaning that no one 
could! Why, because I’m not beautiful like you, not graceful, not 
fortunate? You should be kinder to me because of this, not the other way 
around! At least let me go be ugly and unloved by myself!” 
 
“I don’t understand –––” 
 
“Keep it up, guys, just keep it up,” says Pippin. “It’s partly my own fault. I 
wish you well anyway.” 
 
He turns, beginning to run off, when Sam catches his arm. 
 
“Wait Mister Pippin,” he pleads. “Hear me out –––” 
 
“I’ve heard enough,” says Pippin, twisting away and turning back, only to 
collide with Merry’s chest. 
 
“I’ll keep you here by force, if I have to,” he says. “You’ve got to listen to 
me.” 
 
“Sam, what are you doing?” Frodo asks. “Don’t make fun of Pippin, that’s 
cruel.” 
 
“Oh, leave me alone,” he orders, distracted. “Peregrin, I love you, by my 
life I do, I’d do anything to prove it, sir.” 
 
“And I say that I love you more than Sam could,” Merry murmurs, 
holding Pippin’s shoulders. 
 
Pippin looks on with wide, frightened eyes. 
 
“I... I...” 
 
“Now it ain’t my nature, Mister Merry,” says Sam. “But I’d lay you down 
unconscious before I see you with my Pippin.” 
 
“Your Pippin?” Merry snarls, beginning to strip his jacket. “We’ll see 
about that.” 
 
“Oh please!” Pippin rolls his eyes and breaks away from Merry, the 
jagged ball rising in his already constricted throat and forcing tears out of 
his eyes. He runs off, yelling, “Everyone just leave me alone!” 
 
“Pippin!” Sam and Merry cry in unison, running after him. 
 
“Sam!” Frodo calls indignantly. 
 
The youngest hobbit runs as fast as he can, dodging through the trees and 
barely seeing where he goes through the sheet of tears in front of his eyes. 
He cries out in surprise and rage whenever he feels a hand trying to grab 
him. However, the chase is not meant to go on for long, as another 
menacing tree root sticks out and catches Pippin’s foot, bringing him 
down and tearing at his knee. He rolls over in the dirt, trying to catch 
himself and sits up, holding his bleeding knee and sobbing. 
 
Merry utters a soft curse and runs to him, sitting at his side and wrapping 
his arms around him. He shakes out his handkerchief and gently presses it 
to Pippin’s cut, kissing the side of the little hobbit’s face. 
 
“Mister Pippin –––” Sam starts forward, but his arm is caught by Frodo. 
 
“What’s going on, Sam?” he asks, slightly frantic. “Aren’t I still your 
Frodo? I’m the same as I was just hours ago when you still loved me... 
what changed?” 
 
“I changed,” says Sam, turning on him. “I love Pippin with all my soul. So 
go on... go home, Mister Frodo.” 
 
Frodo stands aghast, staring at Sam who goes to kneel at Pippin’s side. 
Frodo looks from one face to the next, settling on Pippin. 
 
“How could you, Pip?” he asks. “How could you take my Sam away from 
me?” 
 
“Don’t you have any mercy, any shame?” Pippin cries, getting to his feet 
with Merry and Sam helping him up. “The joke is over, let me be.” 
 
“It’s because I’m short, isn’t it?!” Frodo yells. 
 
“Don’t be daft, we’re all short,” Pippin grumbles, brushing himself off. 
 
“Oh yeah.” 
 
“Don’t be angry with me, Frodo,” says Pippin. “I’m as true to you now as 
I’ve always been, the only time I’ve ever told a secret of yours was in 
telling Merry that you were here. All I want to do is go home.” 
 
“Well, what’s stopping you?” Frodo snaps. 
 
“Me,” says Sam, folding his arms. 
 
“And me,” Merry agrees, doing the same. 
 
“And my own foolish heart,” Pippin laments, clearing away the last of his 
tears. “I’m afraid to leave something behind.” 
 
“You mean Sam?” Frodo accuses. 
 
“No, Merry!” 
 
“I could easily change your mind, sir,” Sam growls, turning on Merry. 
“Come on, you interfering Brandybuck, let’s settle this for certain.” 
 
“You’ve got it,” Merry agrees with flashing eyes and the two leave 
together to prepare for the fight. 
 
“What happened, here?” Frodo says, turning to Pippin. “Everything is 
turned around, what went down?” 
 
“I don’t know, Frodo,” Pippin moans, looking off in the direction that 
Merry and Sam disappeared in. “They’re acting so strangely...” 
 
“Well whatever happened, it’s your fault!” Frodo yells and storms off. 
 
Pippin stands alone in the clearing, trying to speak and getting nothing but 
nonsensical syllables before trailing off.  
 
“Frodo’s not acting at all like himself,” he says at last. “Nor Sam... Sam 
without Frodo is just not possible. And Merry... Merry says that he loves 
me, but that can’t be... I have to fix this somehow.” 
 
He looks in many different directions and finally runs off. 
 
Elrond turns to Legolas with a raised eyebrow as the other winces, 
shrinking back. 
 
“You idiot,” Elrond sighs. “Do you see what your screwups come to?” 
 
“Well it wasn’t my fault, lord,” Legolas insists. “You did say I’d 
recognize the hobbit by this short, blond hair...” 
 
“Alright, alright, let me think how to fix this...” the Elf lord mutters. “Sam 
and Merry are finding a place to fight. I want you to cover the land with 
fog so that they can’t see, one that will make them tired, do you 
understand so far?” 
 
“Yes m’lord.” 
 
“Then lead them astray so they won’t be a danger, each to the other. Take 
this herb,” Elrond holds up a white flower. “And drop it into Sam’s–––
Sam’s eyes, to take away the error.” 
 
“Got it.” 
 
“Who’s eyes, now?” Elrond asks, holding the flower away. 
 
“Sam’s, sir, I’ve got it.” 
 
“Alright. While you do this, I’ll go to Galadriel and beg for her 
cooperation. I’ll release her from my spell and in the morning, everything 
will be fine again.” 
 
“I’ll go fast,” Legolas promises. 
 
“Do.” 
 
Legolas runs off to find Sam, meanwhile casting a thick, swirling mist 
about the land. He amuses himself, leading Sam and Merry up and down 
the forest, ever away from each other, but at times, playing and bringing 
them close, only to separate them by mimicking their voices and fooling 
them once again. 
 
“He’s a coward, that Merry,” Sam murmurs, stumbling wearily. “When 
day comes, I’ll find him, but for now...I can’t move me another step, and 
that’s for sure and certain.” 
 
He sits on the grass by a tree and slumps over, falling asleep. 
 
Not too far off, Merry is also growing frustrated. 
 
“What, have you left, Sam?!” he calls, trying to fight off his increasing 
exhaustion. “Have you run off and stolen Pippin, you spineless thief?! 
I’ll... I’ll get you in a minute, but now... I need to close my eyes...” 
 
He slides down the base of a tree, dozing off before even hitting the 
ground. In moments, Pippin is also slumping through the path, sniffling 
and cursing the night. 
 
“Oh, let morning come and take away these pitiful events,” he sighs. “Just 
let the sun come up so that I can go home and be a defective hobbit 
alone... without the company of these people who hate me so much... but 
the sun will come up faster if I let myself sleep for just a minute.” 
 
He settles himself behind a tree, laying his head on his arms and dropping 
off. 
 
“Only three?” Legolas mutters, brushing absently at Pippin’s unruly curls. 
“One more, baby, come on. Ah, here he comes, and looking so sad! Cupid 
must be a real jerk to make poor hobbits so unhappy.” 
 
Frodo walks slowly, holding onto trees for support. 
 
“My Sam, my Sam... I don’t know what made you decide not to love me, 
but please let it pass... I’ve never been so tired or so distressed... I’ll rest 
here until morning and then... then, I don’t know.” 
 
He lays down on the grass and falls asleep. 
 
Legolas observes them: all within a few feet of each other. He pulls the 
white flower out of his pocket and heads toward Merry. He checks himself 
with a soft “ah” and spins around to Sam. Not bothering to be silent, he 
drops in front of Sam and squeezes the liquid into the sleeping hobbit’s 
eyes. 
 
He whispers: “When you wake up, let your new love break up, and Frodo 
who you loved before, be your focus evermore.”


Act Three  
 
Back in the grove where the lady Galadriel has draped herself in the arms 
of a very confused looking donkey-man, Elrond and Legolas keep watch 
out of sight. Galadriel’s Elves surround them holding out plates filled with 
fruit or glasses full of wine. Boromir looks pleased, if a bit embarrassed, 
perched in the middle of Galadriel’s bowl-shaped bed. 
 
“Won’t you eat something?” Galadriel beseeches, wilting over Boromir’s 
strong shoulders. “Or may I get you a drink?” 
 
“My lady is too kind,” Boromir bows his head, a bit distracted by 
Galadriel’s insistent kisses. “Thank you, but I-I require nothing...” 
 
She sighs at this, disappointed. 
 
“Perhaps later I’d beg of you a little hay,” he offers, smiling as he sees her 
brighten up at the prospect of giving him something. “For some reason I 
have a craving... but now, if that’s alright, I’m very tired, and...” 
 
“Then sleep,” the lady smiles. “And I’ll wind you in my arms.” 
 
Twitching his long ears the slightest bit, Boromir lays next to the Elf 
queen, suppressing a blush as she wraps her arms around his neck and 
sighs, “Oh how I love you... how I adore you...” 
 
Elrond and Legolas fall against one another in silent laughter, gnawing on 
their knuckles and holding their sides to keep the mirth from escaping. 
Once his breath is caught, Elrond straightens, still chuckling. 
 
“I feel more sorry for the poor beast she’s in love with,” he says. “This is a 
delightfully ugly picture, my Legolas.” 
 
“Yes, I quite like it,” Legolas grins. “The chaos, the chaos...” 
 
“My poor mother in law...” Elrond cackles. “And her poor Gondorian. 
Well, I guess the fun must end now.” 
 
A disappointed groan floats up from Legolas as Elrond climbs to his feet. 
With a smirk, the Elf lord turns, taking hold of Legolas’ chin and tilting it 
up, bringing them nose-to-nose. 
 
“Don’t worry, my faithful Legolas,” he grins. “I promise, more fun is on 
the way.” 
 
Legolas gazes up at his lord with glazed adoration, his lips falling open in 
shock. 
 
“But first I must fix things,” says Elrond, releasing Legolas who falls 
forward with a soft “oomph” onto the grass. 
 
Adding a low snicker, Elrond turns back and leans over the form of his 
sleeping mother-in-law, pulling the flower out from his robes. Dropping it 
into her eyes he murmurs, “Be as you used to be, see as you used to see, 
love as you wish to love, and harm my kingdom no more.” 
 
Galadriel stirs and looks up at Elrond with sleepy comprehension. He 
smiles. 
 
“My dear Lord Elrond,” she whispers, blinking. “You wouldn’t believe 
the strange visions I’ve had... I dreamed that I was in love with an ass.” 
 
“There lies your love,” Elrond nods in the direction of Boromir’s sleeping 
form. 
 
Galadriel turns to see Boromir, his head stretched and mutated until his 
ears and nose were too long for a man’s and his face too brown to be 
anything but a mule’s head. Her eyes widen and she scrambles back as 
much as her bed will allow. 
 
“How came these things to pass?” she says slowly, her voice like cool 
water. “I’ve been horrible, haven’t I? I’m... I’m sorry.” 
 
Touched by her apology, Elrond smiles and offers her his hand to help her 
from her bed. 
 
“Forgiven,” he nods. “I’ll explain later, but if you’ll help me now, 
everything will work out.” 
 
“All right.” 
 
 
 
Sun’s first light and dawn’s first birds flow together into the air as the 
mortals sleep, already forgetting their troubles. The wood comes alive 
with sounds and stirrings and as the sun rises higher, King Aragorn and his 
lady leave the palace for their morning ride. To their monumental 
displeasure, Otho Sackville-Baggins joins them, as today is when Frodo is 
expected to give his decision. 
 
Riding along the edge of the wood, something catches Aragorn’s eye and 
he checks his horse. Riding closer with Arwen, Otho and the king’s train a 
few paces behind, he is startled to see four sleeping hobbits, all curled 
together. As if having been placed there by forces unknown, they are 
covered in red rose petals and deep purple wildflowers, but only these, as 
their clothes have strangely abandoned them.  
 
“What is the meaning of...” Otho swells with fury, seeing. 
 
Aragorn clears his throat and one by one, the hobbits lift their heads, 
uttering soft exclamations at the surprise of being in the arms of the one 
they love, at being observed by the king and his company, and–––
obviously–––being naked. Sam sits up, his arms having been curled 
around Frodo, and Merry stirs, blinking at Pippin in his arms. 
 
“Stand please,” Aragorn requests. 
 
Casting confused and frightened glances at one another, the hobbits obey, 
climbing awkwardly to their feet. They grab whatever pieces of clothes 
they can find laying near them and cover their necessary bits, consumed in 
blush. 
 
“Two days ago, what I see here could never have happened,” Aragorn 
says, sitting tall and proud on his horse. “What went down here?” 
 
“My... my lord if I may say so, sir,” Sam bites his lip, fumbling with his 
vest. “I can only reply with amazement... half waking, if you follow me. I 
couldn’t say how it is I got here, only that I came last night with Frodo... 
we were planning on running away, if you get me sir.” 
 
“Do you see?!” Otho shouts. “Do you see, my lord, why I want the law 
brought on them now? He was planning on stealing Frodo away –––” 
 
“Silence,” Aragorn requests with his calm, powerful presence. “Merry, 
what explanation can you give me? Where do you and Pippin fit in here?” 
 
“Pippin told me about Frodo and Sam leaving,” he answers, gripping the 
shirt that he holds to his waist, not even sure that the shirt is his own, or 
for that matter, caring. “And in my anger, I followed them, Pippin 
following me in fancy. Lord, I have no clue what happened, but I’ve 
discovered that my true love, the only love I will ever hold...” 
 
At Merry’s words, Pippin squeezes his eyes shut, expecting the worst. 
 
“... is Pippin.” 
 
Merry lays a hand on Pippin’s narrow shoulders, whose eyes open as he 
grins, surprised and ecstatic.  
 
Beside them, Frodo and Sam squeeze one another’s hands. All look up 
with wincing expectation at Aragorn, who glances back at Arwen. Seeing 
the sadness and anger and hope written on her beautiful visage, he gives 
her a smile. The hobbits look frightened. Otho looks like a rotted lemon. 
 
“Lovers, today is a fortunate day,” he says. “Otho, I will ignore your 
complaint: you bug me. I couldn’t bear to see such a beautiful day go to 
waste–––this afternoon all four of you will be married alongside Arwen 
and myself. Come on, my friends, morning is getting older!” 
 
Aragorn rides off with Arwen beside him, her face having lost all traces of 
hostility as she reaches for his hand, even as they ride back to the palace. 
Otho stares around in shock, his mouth opening and closing like a 
suffocating fish. At last he glares back toward Sam and Frodo and kicks 
his horse’s flanks, riding off in a separate direction. 
 
“How odd,” Pippin remarks. “This all, even now, feels like a dream.” 
 
“You’re odd,” Merry grins, kissing Pippin’s cheek as they all giggle. 
“Still, you’re right... it feels far away, somehow. Like I haven’t been 
looking with my own eyes.” 
 
“Like mountains turned into clouds...” Sam remarks with a dreamy tone. 
 
“All I know is that you’re still here,” says Frodo, taking Sam’s hand. 
 
“And the king wants us to be married,” Pippin smiles. 
 
“Well what are we waiting for?” Merry laughs, and begins to search for 
his pants. 
 
 
 
“Call me when my cue comes, Gandalf!” 
 
The yawning call rings through the forest with muffled solidarity, replied 
to by only the birds and the whisper of the late morning wind. Boromir sits 
up blinking, his face having returned to its friendly, handsome usual. 
 
“Gandalf? Faramir? Where is–– oh, I see. They’ve left me here asleep.” 
 
He sits up, brushing loose dirt and morning dew from his clothes and 
shaking leaves from his lion’s mane of golden hair. Suddenly he stops, as 
if remembering something. 
 
“What I dream I’ve had...” he murmurs. “Man hasn’t grace enough in his 
tongue to tell what it was about... or what I thought I was, I thought... but 
I’m a fool. But what an extraordinary... so much beauty, such... I know, 
I’ll get Gandalf to write me a ballad about this dream. I’ll sing it someday 
for the king... ‘Mazing.” 
 
With this last syllable, he rises and sets to finding his way back to town. 
As he sits up, he feels a sudden heaviness in his pocket. Frowning, he 
reaches in and pulls out a delicate and ornate gold ring, one that he knows 
he’s never seen before and that reminds him with insistent force of the 
events of last night. The ring seems to fill him with a comforting warmth 
and he smiles, slipping it into his pocket and dashing off. 
 
 
 
Outside Gimli’s shop, arranged and slumped on various barrels, boxes, 
and planks, the acting company sits, checking their watches and fidgeting. 
They’ve searched the town and waited for hours, but no Boromir has been 
found. 
 
“Has anyone tried his house?” Gandalf asks, knowing his query’s 
fruitlessness. 
 
“Twice,” sighs Elrohir. “He’s nowhere.” 
 
“Without Boromir, we have no play,” says Elladan. “Do we, Gandalf?” 
 
“You’re right, we don’t,” Gandalf admits. “There isn’t a man in Middle 
Earth that could play the part so well.” 
 
“He has the best wit of any steward or king,” Gimli says, holding back a 
great sniffle. 
 
“And the kindest man anywhere,” Elladan sighs. 
 
The sound of approaching footsteps meets their ears and they look up to 
see Faramir running in their direction. When he is close enough, he bends 
over, catching his breath. 
 
“The king is coming from the temple,” he reports, panting. “There are two 
more couples married!” 
 
Gandalf groans, laying his head in his hands. 
 
“If it had gone through, we’d have been made men,” Gimli says. 
 
“And no sign of my brother anywhere?” Faramir asks, knowing the 
answer. 
 
“Not an ear or tail,” Elrohir gives another sigh, stretching his arms out in 
front of him and frowning. 
 
“He’d have been a rich man if only the king had seen him,” says Elladan. 
“He’d have been paid the whole kingdom and deserved it.” 
 
Gandalf nods. “The whole kingdom for Pyramus or nothing.” 
 
“Brighten up, my lads! We aren’t lost yet!” 
 
Every head lifts as a great, familiar voice booms through the early evening 
air, putting a fire into their very hearts. They look up to see Boromir 
striding messiah-like toward them, consumed in a huge grin. The company 
jumps to their feet and ambushes him in a tight embrace, all laughing and 
shouting out their relief. 
 
“If any rescue was more last minute, I’ll be hanged!” Faramir laughs, 
clapping his brother on the back. 
 
“You great fool!” Gandalf grins at Boromir. “We don’t deserve you!” 
 
“Now out with it, man,” Elrohir requests. “Where have you been?” 
 
“Chill out, my lads, I’ll tell you all later,” promises Boromir with a now 
motivational and professional air. “But for now, we have a play at the 
palace to perform!” 
 
 
 
“It’s like I’ve found my Merry as a jewel on the ground,” Pippin smiles at 
Arwen, taking Merry’s hand. “Mine, yet... not mine.” 
 
Arwen laughs, kissing them both, and returns to her husband. 
 
“Isn’t it strange what they say?” she remarks. “Like something that could 
only happen in a dream.” 
 
“More strange than true,” Aragorn smiles with a fond glance at the 
hobbits, who sit with them outside at the king’s table, talking among 
themselves and laughing. Bilbo had been sent for and has joined them, to 
the delight of all. “Lovers and madmen have a lot in common, all with 
such active fantasies.” 
 
“But that their stories all match... that they’re all of one mind... how often 
does a dream come to four people at once?” 
 
“We may never know,” he shrugs happily. “Come, what entertainment do 
we have for tonight?” 
 
A stuffy looking servant enters in a crisp suit with a sheet of paper in front 
of him. 
 
“Many entertainers have come for the pleasure of the king,” the servant 
says. “We have the weasel juggling on a flaming unicycle...” 
 
“It’s been done,” Aragorn says. 
 
“Dwarf strippers...” 
 
Aragorn and Arwen grimace at one another. 
 
“A punk polka band...” 
 
“No! Lord no, let me see that,” Aragorn plucks the sheet of paper from the 
servant’s hand. “Hmm... hey now... ‘A tedious interesting play of young 
Pyramus and his love Thisby; a very tragical mirth’. Tedious and 
interesting? Both merry and tragic? That sounds like something I’d like to 
see... Arwen?” 
 
Before the lady can answer, the servant shakes his head. 
 
“I wouldn’t think my lord would enjoy it,” he says. “It is performed by 
hard-handed laborers who have never before tonight used their minds. It’s 
not for you, sir, it’s terribly ghetto.” 
 
“I like ghetto,” Aragorn smiles. 
 
“Trust me, it’s nothing, you wouldn’t like it.” 
 
“I like taking chances,” says Aragorn handing the sheet back to the servant 
with an air of finality. “That’s the play we’ll hear,” he turns to smile at 
Arwen. “You can’t go wrong with simplicity.” 
 
She smiles, agreeing. 
 
 
 
In the back room where all the dozens of acts are rehearsing or pacing 
with a nervous fidget, Gandalf enters with the stuffy servant standing a 
ways behind him, frowning. The company watches Gandalf approach with 
wide, expectant eyes, saying nothing. When the old man gets close 
enough, the actors lean in to hear him choke, “The king... wants our play.” 
 
 
 
The three couples enter the play room to applause from the guests. 
Aragorn and Arwen enter first, hand in hand, and sit in large chairs on the 
raised platform before the stage. Sam and Frodo come after, holding one 
another’s arm and blushing at the attention. Behind, Merry and Pippin 
walk together, fingers entwined, and looking only at one another. 
However, Pippin does not stumble. 
 
The hobbits are seated on either side of the king and queen with a 
spectacular view of the stage. After all are settled, the servant steps out. 
 
“If it pleases the king,” he sniffs. “There is a prologue.” 
 
Aragorn nods and Gandalf steps after the retreating servant onto the stage. 
Unused to crowds, he stares with blank anxiety at the audience for a 
moment, then clears his throat. He speaks at first in a low, shaky manner, 
gaining confidence toward the end. 
 
“Gentles, we mean not to offend 
Please don’t pull out our arms to mend 
All you see is fiction here 
Winding toward your cultured ear 
It’s not our intent to make you cry 
No one here doth truly die 
So if not love us, treat us fair 
And don’t set fire to our hair.” 
 
After a smattering of polite applause, Gandalf disappears, replaced by a 
sour looking Elrohir. Squashed onto his head is a plaster hat made to look 
like the top of a white column. His arms are draped with a matching cloth 
and bits of ivy are stuck to and inside his clothing. 
 
“Note gentle people,” he says, scowling at the indecency of his position. 
“That I Elrohir, even as an Elf... do present––” he thrusts his arms out to 
his sides, showing the draped cloth. “Wall.” 
 
Aragorn looks at Arwen, trying not to laugh. She bites her knuckle to hold 
it back. 
 
“That Wall which did these lovers –– Pyramus,” at this Boromir steps out 
with a wave. “And Thisby,” Elladan emerges from the other side of the 
stage, extravagantly dolled up in red makeup and a red and orange dress, 
bunchy with their attempts at creating mountainous breasts. His hair has 
been tied up at the top of his head, loose strands hanging down into his 
eyes, which he attempts to blow away without success. “–– Tear asunder. 
And through Wall’s chink –– thus,” he thrusts his one arm forward, 
holding his fingers in a circle. “Are they content to whisper... Psst! Go!” 
Elrohir hisses, glowering at Boromir and Elladan who still stand, waving 
or curtsying to the audience. They dash off. “The two lovers that meet by 
moonlight and tragedy doth befall.” 
 
Elrohir gives a stiff bow to signal the end of his introduction. Among the 
hobbits and the royal couple, there is much eyebrow raising. 
 
“It’s the wittiest wall I did ever hear, my lord,” Merry whispers, smiling. 
 
Pyramus re-enters the stage, sword already out. 
 
“O GRIM LOOKED –––” he halts as Gandalf hisses at him from offstage 
and hastily puts his sword away. “Ahem, O grim looked night, night that is 
whenever day is not...” 
 
Light titters rise through the audience. 
 
“O night, O night... is my Thisby’s promise forgotten?” Pyramus snaps his 
head around to see the Wall. “O sweet, most excellent Wall ––” 
 
“What?” says Elrohir. 
 
“Shut up, O Wall that stands between her father’s ground and mine!” 
Pyramus rushes forward, grabbing Elrohir by the arm, and is quickly and 
irritably shaken off. “Thou Wall, show me the chink that I may blink 
through to see my Thisby’s approach if she doth come and if she doth not 
than thus, I am screwed!” 
 
Elrohir holds up his fingers, shifting his weight to one leg with an 
impatient sigh. 
 
“Thanks courteous Wall, you rock!” 
 
“Shut it.” 
 
“Shut it, but what see I? No Thisby do I see!” Pyramus yanks Elrohir’s 
fingers up to his eye. “O wicked Wall–––” he smacks Elrohir’s fingers 
away and the other starts forward, clenching a fist. “–––Through which I 
see no bliss!” 
 
Thisby, shuffling in with a less than ladylike pace, sets a hand on her 
overlarge bosom at seeing the Wall. 
 
“O cruel Wall,” Thisby says in a rafter-high voice, arousing stifled giggles 
from the crowd. “That hath oft heard my moans at keeping my love so far 
from me! My ch-cherry lips have kissed your stones...” the laughter grows 
louder.  
 
“Hark! I see a voice!” says Pyramus. “Now will I to the chink, to hear my 
Thisby’s face!” 
 
Pippin squeezes his eyes shut, falling against Merry, who shakes with 
silent giggles. 
 
“My love, thou art my love I think,” Thisby says, peering through 
Elladan’s fingers. 
 
“Is that my Thisby I see?” Pyramus grins. “Hey babe.” 
 
Thisby straightens and swings her hand to slap Pyramus’ face, instead 
hitting Elrohir. 
 
“Hey!” he shouts. 
 
“Sorry.” 
 
Pyramus clears his throat. “Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb –––” 
 
“Pssst!” Gandalf hisses. “Ninus’ tomb!” 
 
“Ninus’ tomb meet me straight away?” 
 
“Come life or death, I shall be there!” Thisby replies and both lovers run 
offstage in their separate directions. 
 
Elrohir, left alone on the stage, suppresses a yawn as he speaks. 
 
“Thus have I–––Wall–––discharged my part, and so, being done, thus 
Wall away doth go.” 
 
“I’ve never heard of such an obedient wall,” Frodo giggles. 
 
“This is the silliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Arwen remarks with a fond 
smile. 
 
Elrohir leaves the stage and is replaced by Faramir who is dressed in a 
marvelous Lion suit, the head contrived of curled yellow and red paper as 
the mane, the rest an ingenious cloth. He stands in the middle of the stage 
and removes his Lion’s head, shaking out his own mane and smiling at the 
audience. 
 
“You ladies,” he grins, blushing. “Whose gentle hearts may fear a 
monstrous beast such as myself...” the audience smiles tenderly. “Should 
know that it is only I, mild Faramir, and not in truth a Lion. Do not fear 
when in wildest rage I roar,” here he adds a playfully dangerous growl. 
“For in life I am as kind-hearted as a kitten.” 
 
With sincere smiles, the audience applauds as Faramir bows, blushing 
once more and replacing his lion’s head. 
 
“A gentle beast,” Aragorn remarks in a soft tone.  
 
“The best lion that I’ve ever seen,” Pippin smiles. 
 
In the back room, Elrohir climbs a shaky wooden ladder up to where a tiny 
window sits, covered in thick, wooden shutters. He throws the shutters 
open only to find the window leading to nothing: a blank expanse of stone. 
Panicking, he glances back at Gandalf and Gimli who shrug. The audience 
grows awkward, sensing the scuffle behind the curtain and they exchange 
glances as Faramir stands, looking expectantly back at the curtain. At last, 
Gimli is shoved through with a lantern and a stool. Glancing around with 
shaken, jerky motion, he climbs atop the stool and holds up the lantern. 
 
“This lantern... doth the horn-ed moon present, eh...” he says in a clumsy 
fumble. “I, the man on the moon and uh... such.” 
 
The crowd holds back giggles. 
 
“But then shouldn’t you be on the lantern?” Elrohir groans from offstage. 
 
“Your candle is out,” hisses Gandalf. 
 
“All right, shut yer cakeholes the lot of yeh!” Gimli snaps at them, then 
turns back to the crowd. “Look, all I know is, this is the moon––” he 
shakes the lantern for emphasis. “––I’m the man on the moon... that’s it.” 
 
“But then what about –––” Sam starts. 
 
“Shh, here comes Thisby!” Frodo whispers, holding Sam’s arm. 
 
Thisby re-enters, pausing once to curtsy for the audience, and smiles 
around at her surroundings. 
 
“Here I am now at Ninny’s tomb–––” 
 
“NINUS’ TOMB!” Gandalf calls. 
 
“Ninus’ tomb!” Thisby says. “Where is my love?” 
 
Faramir rushes forward, letting loose a roar. Thisby screams, gathering her 
skirt and running off as the Lion snaps at her mantle, dragging it with him. 
Sewn on the white cloth of the mantle is a large red droplet, signifying 
blood from the Lion’s terrible jaws. Shaking himself free of the mantle, 
the Lion departs with a last bow. 
 
After a moment, Pyramus enters the stage. 
 
“Ah sweet Moon,” he smiles. “I thank thee for thy sunny beams!” 
 
“Ayup,” Gimli nods, twitching his hand in a wave. 
 
“Show me my Thisby, O Moon!” he requests, then looks to the ground, 
seeing her mantle. “But stay, what hast thou shown me, thou Moon... my 
dearest’s mantle stained with blood!” 
 
He holds up the mantle, examining it with panicky, moving eyes. 
 
“O Lion... cruel Nature, why did you create lions? Such a vile creature that 
hath deflowered my ––” 
 
“Devoured!” Gandalf reminds him. 
 
“Devoured my dear, the fairest maiden in all the land that ever looked 
with love and cheer... come tears, for my Thisby!” he drops to his knees 
on the ground. “Come sword and bite my broken heart!” 
 
Pulling out his sword, he thrusts it between his arm and torso. Wavering, 
he coughs. 
 
“Thus die I, thus, thus, thus... now I am dead... now I am fled...” 
 
Watching from backstage, Gandalf’s eyes widen as he flips through the 
script in confusion. 
 
“My soul is in the sky... now die, die, die, die...” 
 
He slumps back onto the floor of the stage, rising to mutter one final “die” 
before remaining still. 
 
The stage is left still for a tense, silent moment, all the audience holding its 
breath. Thisby approaches, giving her preliminary curtsy before walking 
further out. Seeing Pyramus laying on the ground, she smiles. 
 
“Sleeping, my love?” she asks in her unnaturally high voice. The crowd 
cracks up as she steps closer. “What... dead, my dove?” 
 
Laughter comes harder as Thisby kneels beside him. 
 
“Pyramus, arise!” she cries. “Speak! Speak!” 
 
The audience falls silent as Thisby’s shoulders drop, all comedy gone, as 
well as the abnormal highness in Thisby’s voice. 
 
“Dead,” she says in a soft voice, setting a hand of Pyramus’ cheek. “Now 
a tomb must cover your sweet eyes, hiding you from all... your lips, your 
hair, all gone...” 
 
Thisby sniffles, and for a moment Elladan can be seen shining through as 
a tear slips down his cheek. 
 
“Of what cruel nature is fate... that would take such gentleness, never 
again to smile, to weep, to dance, to sing... for his Thisby...?” 
 
Aragorn and Arwen sit forward, motionless. The hobbits squeeze one 
another’s hands. 
 
“Come then, trusty sword!” 
 
Pulling the sword from Pyramus’ side, she jams it into herself, staggering. 
With heavy breaths, she leans over Pyramus and looks out at the audience. 
 
“Farewell friends...” she says. “Thus Thisby ends... adieu.” 
 
A thick and sad silence falls as Thisby collapses onto Pyramus, tears slip 
down from cheeks, and eyes remain on the stage, almost disbelieving. 
Aragorn shatters the silence with his applause; lone at first, then joined by 
the entire house. Aragorn and Arwen stand, accompanied not long after by 
the hobbits, then the remainder of the company. On the stage, Boromir and 
Elladan sit up, helping one another to their feet. 
 
“Excellent work, my friends,” Aragorn exults. 
 
“Would you care to see an epilogue?” asks Boromir eagerly. “Or an 
interpretive dance...?” 
 
“Thank you, no,” the king smiles. “Your play needs no excuse, for when 
all the players are dead, there need none to be blamed.” 
 
 
 
 
Back behind the curtain, complimenting one another on a job well done, 
the players wait for the king’s reply. The servant enters and they cease 
talking to watch his approach. Scowling, he hands Gandalf a slip of paper 
with the king’s emblem on it. With a shaking hand, he opens it, then looks 
up at the impatient, staring company. 
 
“’Very thoroughly dug’,” Gandalf reports in a dazed tone. 
 
After a moment of awed silence, they break into a cheer and grab each 
other into a tight mound of a hug. Among the laughing and shouting, that 
phrase could be discerned over and over: “Very thoroughly dug!” 
 
 
 
“Everyone to bed,” Aragorn commands with a smile. “It’s almost faerie 
time.” 
 
With playful and slightly scared expressions, the hobbits climb the stairs 
behind the king and queen, exchanging shy goodnights as the couples slip 
off to their own separate rooms. That night, lying in one another’s arms 
after clothes and apprehension have been shed, the lovers look up from 
their tender kisses to see an odd sight. Dozens of tiny balls of light, what 
could almost be fireflies, dancing and swirling around one another above 
their bed, seeming to whisper bits of poetry that can only be half 
perceived. Somehow, all seem to understand, if not hear, the spell that 
flies over them that night. 
 
“Now until the break of day 
Through this house each faerie stray 
To the bridal bed will we 
Which by us shall blessed be; 
And the issue there create 
Ever shall be fortunate 
So shall all the couples three 
Ever true in loving be.” 
 
Aragorn and Arwen, lying on their backs and whispering softly to one 
another, look up at the lights with calm smiles, as if greeting a pleasant–––
but not unheard of–––surprise. Closing her eyes, Arwen whispers, 
“Thanks Daddy.” Aragorn holds her tighter, kissing her again. 
 
Sam lies back with Frodo’s head on his chest, both looking up with 
startled wonder at these strange fey lights. Frodo reaches out a tentative 
hand to touch one, feeling a pleasant shock of warmth when one brushes 
his fingers. He looks up at Sam with an excited smile, and Sam’s 
comfortable reassurance feels even warmer, though it has been there 
always, growing stronger by the day. 
 
The sheets are a tangled swirl around Merry and Pippin, whose arms and 
legs are entwined as if in imitation. Pippin’s face, buried in that perfect 
curve of Merry’s neck, is painted with the blush of endless love. Merry 
wears a calm smile as he brushes his hands through Pippin’s curls, 
planting random kisses there and on closed eyelids. The lights that flow 
into their room, twirling and spinning over them, cause a small jolt as they 
look up. After a moment of surprise, they look at each other and curl 
together in shaking giggles that don’t stop. 
 
Boromir–––walking with his company in a long knot, arms slung over 
backs and around waists as they walk through the streets, singing and 
cheering as quietly as they can–––looks up to see these strange pinpricks 
of light dancing through the sky and feels a lightening of the spirit and a 
gentle tugging at his heart. He puts his hand to his pocket, where 
Galadriel’s ring rests, a reminder of all the dreams that are perfectly all 
right to entertain. 
 
In a tree outside the palace, dangling like a snoozing lion, Legolas lies on 
his stomach, stretching across a thick branch, twirling his fingers at little 
balls of light that go whizzing by. As he does, he murmurs a reminder to 
all readers here: 
 
“If we shadows have offended, 
think but this, and all is mended... 
that you have merely slumbered here 
while these visions did appear. 
And this weak and idol theme, 
no more yielding but a dream...  
gentles, do not reprehend. 
If you pardon, we will mend. 
And as I am an honest Puck, 
if we have unearned luck, 
now to escape the serpent’s tongue, 
we will make amends ere long, 
else the Puck a liar call. 
So goodnight unto you all...” 
 
A soft call is heard at the foot of the tree, where Lord Elrond waits. 
Legolas smiles down at him, then looks up with a soft smile, speaking 
once more before jumping down to greet his lord. 
 
“Give me your hands, if we be friends. And Legolas shall restore 
amends.” 
 
FIN.