“Why are we all wearing long jerkins?” Ârâgorn asked.

“Because of the hordes of fan girls out there who want to get a good shufty at our butts,” Legolas replied.

“They do?” Ârâgorn said.

“Yes,” the elf replied. “And the man they call PJ doesn’t want to excite them too much all at once.” “And why not?” Gimli wondered, appraising the tooshie in front of him. “Looks pretty good from back here.” He hid a grin beneath his beard. “I’ve seen the film. If you ask me, PJ didn’t want the audience to know the real reason why I was always last across Rohan.” Legolas glared at him. Gimli coughed. “Well, at least they’re not looking at Gollum’s. That would be worrying.” Gimli flicked through his script and read the page again, chuckling to himself. “Whoo . . I never thought of that position.”

Legolas whirled on him and snatched the script from his fingers. “Dirty minded dwarf!” he scoffed. “I have not been single for six thousand, three hundred and twenty-eight years, eleven months, two weeks, five days and three hours just to have a good roll with a short fat hairy fellow on the whim of a female on a hormone over-drive!”

“Whoa,” Boromir praised. “All that in one breath.”

“Well . . .it is the truth,” Legolas voiced petulantly. “They are voyeurs, all of them. It is sex, sex, sex and more sex. Is there nothing more to my life than sex with Gandalf, sex with Gimli, sex with Haldir, sex with Ârâgorn, sex with the freaking ring?! I wager, she is a blond bimbo, also!”

“THAT’S IT!”

Silence.

“I QUIT!”

Eyes followed the progress of a fume as she stomped from the trailer, her bottle-blonde prissy curls jiggling with every forced step. Throwing down her note book and pen she stomped on them, looking more like a deranged two year old in a temper tantrum gone waaay beyond out of control.

“Do control yourself, dear,” Haldir suddenly put in, camply, filing his nails nearby. “You are letting the side down. No one will ever take us blonds seriously.”

“First, I’m a drooling Leggy fan, then I’m a voyeur, and now I’m a blond. I am not blond!” she shrieked. “I have never been so insulted in my life!”

“Come now, with that hair colour you must have been,” Ârâgorn retorted. “It’s par for the course.”

Face bright red, and chest heaving she let out a loud wail and rushed off the set in floods. PJ, Ârâgorn, and Boromir looked at each other and shrugged.

Gimli lifted a leg, bending it round, holding the script up and gazing at it intently. He looked from his leg to the script and back again. “I don’t even think that is elvenly possible.”

Suddenly, a heavy punch landed on Gimli’s jaw and landed him on his back. An elf, with hands on hips, glared down at him. A snarl rose to a growl, which rose to a roar. Legolas’ eyes shrank into his head as an axe swung at him. He turned and fled as a raging bull hurtled after him. “Yipe!” the elf screeched and threw himself behind the director’s chair.

The dwarf kept coming. “Er . . .PJ . . .? Someone’s going to get hurt,” a weak voice warned. PJ grinned and nodded. At the last second, Gimli stopped and snorted at the two huge green eyes staring out from behind the director’s shoulder. It was all that was visible of Legolas.

Gimli swung the axe, slicing through the arm rests of the chair and the cloth of the director’s shirt. The shirt parted and belly appeared, thankfully unmarked. “Missed,” Gimli grumbled, licked a fingertip and ran it along the blade of his axe. “There’ll be another time, elf-boy!” he growled low.

PJ stood up. “That does it,” he shouted. “I have never had to quit a movie before, but I have met my match. I have never worked with such a sorry excuse for a company of people before. Who hired these guys? I want real actors. Where’s my phone? I want the cute guy . . .what’s his name? Yeah him, Orlando Bloom! This fairy wuz is a flop! And call that guy at Weta!”

There was a pause before PJ erupted again. “Then WAKE him! I said FAKE blades, for crying out loud! Just look at my shirt. It’s pure Egyptian cotton! It cost an arm and a leg. Cotton don’t grow on trees, ya know.”

The sound of his voice faded into the distance, and the rest of the team followed him, taking the ruined chair with them. Legolas suddenly felt exposed.

Gimli stepped closer, but before he could strike a delicate hand plucked the weapon from his unsuspecting fingers. “We shall have less of that,” Galadriel said. “Let us go inside and have something to drink. Those strange creatures from the land of Weta have left all sorts of goodies behind.”

“Food!” a hobbit knot gathered, finally coming out of hiding. A herd of large hairy feet rushed passed and the big folk followed the stampede.

“Um . . .Lady Galadriel? May I have my axe back?”

“You may have it back later.”

“But I promise to be good with it . . .and not hit . . .”

“Or tease.”

“ . . .Or tease, I meant tease. I won’t tease Legolas again.”

“Say the magic word.”

“Abra cadabra . . .”

“Not that one, you oaf!”

“Please.”

“Better,” she said, and gave him the axe. “Now, what were we doing before those strange men from the land of Weta arrived?”

“We were reminiscing of old times,” Celeborn reminded her, stirring the wine he had poured into a punch bowl. “Those nice men were certainly entertaining, for a while. You should see all the little tincture bottles they added to your cabinet, my dear. I can’t read all the labels, but some of them smell nice.”

“I am much to upset to think of wine, my love,” Galadriel said, although she seemed closer to bored than upset.

“Take a nap, my dear,” Celeborn suggested, ladling the punch into several glasses. “Would anyone care for a drink?” he asked. “I added some of these bright blue, diamond-shaped tablets with the letter V on them. I don’t know what it means, but when crushed up and added it to the wine, it turned it all a lovely blue colour. Is that not pretty?” Celeborn handed out the goblets, still musing to himself. “I wonder if the V stands for Valar?”

It was the distraction they all needed and everyone, except Galadriel, drank some. Celeborn offered a goblet to the fuming elf who sat alone. “Drink this, Legolas. It will make you feel better.”

Legolas reluctantly took the drink and drained it in one go. His eyes were fixed on Gimli, who glared back at him in return. “It is good,” he agreed. “I shall have another one.”

Surprised, Celeborn obliged.

Galadriel wandered passed the table, still laden with food, wondering where all her guests had gone. Even the hobbits had not eaten that much. She found four hobbit plates lying on the floor, still filled with food. That was unlike them to leave a meal unfinished.

It could not have been war, she had not heard any cry of alarm. Indeed the only cry she had heard in the last ten minutes was nothing like a cry of alarm. It had all started within minutes of everyone drinking the wine.

Galadriel stopped walking, finding herself beside the suspiciously blue wine. She frowned. Wine was not supposed to be blue. What had Celeborn put in it? She sniffed the bowl. Instantly her head shot up and back as her eyes popped wide. “Celeborn!” she shrieked.

Celeborn wandered in from another room, seemingly unconcerned that there seemed to be a nazgul in the dining room, a mixing bowl in one hand and a vigorously agitating wooden spoon in the other.

“You called, my dear?” he asked.

Galadriel eyed the bowl and rolled her depthless blue eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Whipped cream,” he replied.

“We do not need more desserts, my love. All our guests have gone and the food is untouched.”

Celeborn stopped stirring and looked. Suddenly he let go of the bowl and spoon and grabbed his face. “Aahhh . . .! A whole morning’s work and they have not even tried the soufflé . . .where is everyone?”

The bowl landed at his feet with a thud, spoon still upright in the thick white glop.

Galadriel watched with a raised brow as the spoon slowly slid sideways until it chinked against the rim of the bowl. Her eyes lifted to her husband’s face. “Whipped cream? It is as stiff as concrete.” He looked down at it, noting with relief that his gown was un-splattered. “I added collagen to it.”

“Collagen?” Galadriel looked again at the punch bowl which was almost empty but still contained enough wine to serve six glasses with ease. “And what, prey tell, did you put in the wine?”

Celeborn stepped around the fallen bowl and eyed all his beautiful creations, untouched, on the buffet table. “No one even tried the ex-lax chocolate cake!” he bemoaned. “It was perfect. Would have really got the party going.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Galadriel said tightly. “The punch, Celeborn. What did you put in it?”

“What?” he asked, saddened to the core. “Oh . . .I put these in. They have a V for Valar on the side that I though would give the whole evening a boost.”

He picked up a bottle and gave it to her. His wife read the label. She turned it in her hand and began to read aloud. “VIAGRA. Do not exceed the recommended dose. Take one before bedtime, affects will present themselves within minutes. Do not take more than one in any 24 hour period.” Galadriel’s eyes darkened as she spied two more identical bottles, also empty, sitting on the table beside the punch bowl. “Oh Eru! Celeborn, why oh why did you never learn to read!!”

“I can read,” he replied with a slighty petulant edge to his voice.

Suddenly, his wife grabbed him and pulled him with her as she almost flew into her tincture room. “I hope you didn’t drink any of that wine,” she grumbled. “You are bad enough without it!”

“What does it do?” he asked, eyeing her shapely rear with a growing smile.

“It is a human medicine for men who can’t,” she told him, opening her medicine cupboards and searching the extensive shelves one by one. She slammed the first door shut with an exasperated gasp, and opened the next door.

“Can’t what?” came the distracted voice behind her, as a hand followed the eye.

Galadriel ignored it. “Celeborn, focus. You have just made our entire guest list as desperate as a pair of mice in a grain barn.”

“Viagra does that?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she replied. “And with the amount you added to the wine, which works very well in that respect on it’s own, I might add . . .”

“I picked the ‘54 vintage?”

“You picked the ‘54,” she agreed. “That punch was so potent, a mere whiff would have been enough. Anyone who drank it will now lay practically anything that moves . . .and even some things that don’t.” Galadriel sighed as she took out three small bottles. “You are such a clutz, but somehow I still love you,” she announced, despairingly. “Get me a gallon of water in a pitcher, please. I am going to make an antidote and get everyone to drink it . . .hopefully before there is a population explosion.”

A pitcher was set upon the table and Galadriel began pouring in measured amounts of three bottles at once. Celeborn stood nearby reeling off the names of those who had drunk the punch. His memory was not as agile as his imagination, she noted, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. Galadriel ignored it. She had much more pressing business right now than an amorous husband.

“The antidote is ready,” she told him. “We will have to visit every flet, talan, bush, root bole and even open path. If we give this to everyone we see, we will be sure not to miss anyone. I have no tincture left to make more, so this had better work. Come along, my love. You shall carry it.”

Celeborn lifted his gaze from her perfect body and snapped too. “Yes, my dear,” he said, and lifted the pitcher and a ladle into his arms. “I suppose the quicker we are, the less likely our guests are to have acted upon the wine?” he offered.

“There is always hope,” Galadriel voiced.

Together they began down the steps to the forest floor and within seconds they found Rumil lying atop someone, unseen beneath the curtain of blond hair, and about to do something unmentionable, watched by an interested collection of onlookers.

Galadriel filled the ladle and entered the huddle without a word, pressed the ladle to their lips and squeezed their noses. One by one, all of them had had a does. Galadriel stepped back out of the huddle, one onlooker missed. Galadriel refilled the ladle.

“Who . . .I mean, what was Rumil doing?” Celeborn asked.

“His brother,” Galadriel replied, without hesitation. “He’s cured now, unfortunately that elf maiden has run off. After her.”

A minute later, they found Rumil’s other brother, Haldir, doing something indecent to a knot in a mallorn tree.

Celeborn winced. “Well . . .I suppose that answers the question about the origins of ents.” He wife sent him a glare, to which he smiled innocently.

As predicted the run-away was there, and this time she did not escape. She was now feeling twice as frisky a she usually was, which was a lot.

She batted her eyes at Celeborn as they approached her.

“We can cure her,” Galadriel decided. “Or, at least, dampen it down for a few minutes.”

The maiden pouted and drank the foul-tasting mixture. “You could have at least let me and Haldir have a go first.” She smiled sweetly up at Celeborn. “Hi there,” she spoke softly. “My name is Laurelin.”

The lady said nothing and made her way to the path. “Who is she?” Celeborn asked.

“I have no idea,” his wife replied. “She just crops up now and then in plot bunnies requiring another nondescript elf maiden.”

“She’s rather short for an elf.” Celeborn frowned. “Are you sure she’s not a dwarf?”

“No,” Galadriel replied matter-of-factly.

“I am part hobbit, dwarf and a bit of man…” She grinned. “But there can be an elf in me . . .if it’s the right one,” Laurelin put in.

Galadriel eyed her while pushing her husband towards the path. “We’re just leaving . . .toodles.”

They left her pouting, and went in search of the next . . . .and all the while Celeborn was reminding himself of her curvy hips. The touching was getting increasingly out of hand . . .or in hand, depending on how you looked at it.

The next victim found was the guard at the foot of the great stairs. Celeborn eyed the elf most curiously as his wife administered the dose.

“What is he doing to that squirrel . . .?”

“Well,” Galadriel began, dropping the ladle into the pitcher again. “I shall leave that to your vivid imagination.”

They had cured the guard, much to the relief of said squirrel, who walked away with a certain stagger to find somewhere quiet to sleep it off. An hour went by and almost everyone in Lorien had been given their medicine. There were still one or two that were elusive. They continued searching for another hour, and another. By now, Galadriel had begun to take notice of Celeborn’s interest. They had returned to the palace, tired and hungry, but not necessarily for food, she noted. She eyed him curiously.

“How much wine did you drink?”

“Not a drop,” he replied.

Galadriel’s eyes narrowed. “I do not believe you. Your hands have been all over me for the past two hours, and you are as flushed as the mice in the grain barn. Open your mouth.”

“No.”

“Open!”

“No, I . . .”

She poured, he swallowed. The last of the mixture was gone. “There, cured,” she announced triumphantly. Less than a second later, she heard a certain impassioned moaning going on in her bedroom. Feeling an impending doom approach, she eyed the empty pitcher and set it aside and stepped into the bedroom . . .and on the bed, kneeling and leaning back on his arms . . .was the last elf in Lórien, the one who had proven elusive. Legolas. If that was not bad enough, having his way with him was a dwarf, and not just any dwarf. Gimli.

In stunned silence, Galadriel and Celeborn could do nothing, but stare as the couple on their bed finished their activity. She looked over her should at the empty bottles on her table. “How many goblets of punch did Prince Legolas drink?”

“Four,” Celeborn replied.

Galadriel closed her eyes. “Oh boy. They will be at it for a week.” She turned to Celeborn, suddenly very angry as she dragged him outside by his shoulder pads and glared at him. “I thought you had drunk it,”

“I told you, I had not touched a drop,” he said. “Why would I need viagra?”

“True,” she conceded. “But you gave some to Legolas?”

Celeborn swallowed. “What are friends for if not to share?” he justified.

Galadriel turned red with rage and did that dark queen thingy, to which he was totally unphased. When she had finally calmed down he spoke. “Who spat on your lembas? Besides, I am the one who should be angry. I wake up feeling frisky for the first time in decades and you give me the antidote! Now, I will have no sex drive at all for a whole century. I am going to go and find some chocolate, I am in a very, very bad mood.” And with that, he minced off to sulk in peace.

“You blond bimbo,” she hollered after him. She brushed back her hair with exaggerated lady-like care and recomposed herself.

“Not all of us are bimbos,” Haldir retorted camply. “I still refuse to be type-caste.”

The hobbits, still woozy-drunk, returned to the dining room to eat. He lifted a plate of food for Frodo, his master, and struck a dramatic pose.

“I bring word from Haldir of Blond Wigs,” he said, faking Haldir’s voice, or tried through his slurring and hiccups. Pippin snorted on his cream bun. Merry giggled helplessly. “An alliance once existed between perian and men . . .”

Galadriel rolled her eyes. “Drunk hobbits . . .”

Sam continued undeterred. “In Lórien we fought and sexed-er-died together. I am here to honour that allee-alleshants.”

Merry fell off his chair, laughing. Pippin laughed loudly, and suddenly remembered the late hour and covered his mouth, snickering behind his fingers.

“Hannon le, Sam,” Frodo accorded and took the plate.

“You are most welcome,” Sam replied and bowed so low he almost fell over and into the plate of food in Frodo’s hands.

And as the hobbits did what all hobbits do with gusto, eat, the noise from the bedroom went on, and on, and on . . .

El fin