Lord of the Rings: Trackstars – chapter 1

One sunny day of an Imladris April, Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli decided to go out for track and field, a new dissipation directed by Glorfindel. Elrond mentioned something about it being detrimental to their health, so Legolas attempted to assuage the elf-lord’s fears with a subtle shrug and a meaningful, “we’re only doing it to stay in shape.” Elrond nodded, smiled (mentally bidding them all farewell) and strode back inside his illustrious abode to have some chai tea — and perhaps afterwards a nap.

Erestor met him just slightly inside the doorway.

“Are you certain this is such a good idea?” he asked, manifestly concerned.

Elrond raised an eyebrow tellingly, and Erestor smiled.

“Oh, I see. Yes, I think Glorfindel could use some more patience.”

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Track and field subsequently became more dangerous when the “Disastrous Three,” as Elrond had recently dubbed them, signed up. (Actually, the “Disastrous Three” were only disastrous because of a certain ranger that seemed [without fail] to provide them with a multitude of mishaps. Legolas and Gimli were only considered disastrous because they associated with him the most.)

Glorfindel studied his clipboard with scrutiny. “Y–you want to do track?” he asked, looking somewhat shaken.

The trio nodded.

“Uh–er–well… we actually… uh–um–hm… I’m not sure that–”

“Aw, come on, Glorfy!” Aragorn pleaded.

“Oh, very well. So what events do you want to do?”

“All of them.”

“All–” Glorfindel nearly choked on the word. “Uh — actually I was just thinking I had somewhere else to be at–”

“Where?”

“Well, Elrond had mentioned he wanted me to… uh… take out the trash, and–”

“Lilith took it out this morning already,” apprised Legolas.

“Oh. Well, then… uh… the other athletes already left for the warm-up jog, so first let’s have a lesson in the… javelin. See? Here’s one.”

Glorfindel turned and grasped the hand-guard of a sturdy silver javelin that had been leaning against the white stone wall of the gymnasium, amongst other similar athletic contrivances.

“Now,” continued Glorfindel. “You hold it like this.”

He extended his right arm all the way back, keeping the tip of the javelin above his elegantly pointed ear.

“Now, you try,” he urged Aragorn.

“Do we really have to do all this practice? I mean, how hard can it be to throw a javelin? Here, I’ll show you.”

Aragorn snatched it from Glorfindel and flung it haphazardly away.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO–!”

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Elrond observed the satisfying scene from his balcony window, enjoying a definite smirk of, “I tried to tell them.”

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Six weeks later, Gimli was allowed out of the infirmary. He had missed a good deal of track practice, but at least he had been relatively safe from Aragorn’s excessive amount of blunders! (Actually, that’s not entirely true. Once, Legolas and Aragorn had come to visit him in the infirmary, and Aragorn had thoughtfully brought a beautiful bouquet of tulips for his dwarvish friend. Unfortunately, the flowers were filled with angry bumble bees, which stung Gimli on the nose eighteen times.)

The regional track-meet was in three days. Legolas prayed for a natural disaster. (Actually, it would be more along the lines of a “supernatural disaster,” but never mind.) The distressing notion of Aragorn’s clumsiness would have been acceptable for the definite contrast it would provide for his own skill, but what if there was another accident? What if he was injured? The dramatic mayhem it would cause would certainly ruin his career! Such a pity that they were both attending the same track-meet! A natural disaster, now… that would certainly provide an excuse for him to cancel and reschedule. If only the others could see that the seemingly innocuous ranger was really a huge threat! The lack of answer to his prayers disgruntled him. He had a brief mad inclination to assassinate Aragorn, but he realized that indulgence of this would only land him in the nearest penitentiary. He decided to act temperate – calm and collected. If his natural disaster did not occur… he would have to think of another excuse. Premonitions being what they were, he really could not attend. He certainly didn’t want the sad fate of Gimli to happen to him. Someone as amateurish as Aragorn should never have been allowed to participate in the art of track!

Gimli hobbled out of the infirmary on crutches. Somehow the javelin had severed a nerve and rendered his body slightly spasmodic at times. It also affected the use of his limbs and his speech. (The bee stings didn’t help either.)

Legolas gulped as he observed the dwarf’s struggle to even do a portion of the activities he had enjoyed before. A scream worked its way out of his throat. He would not be injured! He would never suffer Gimli’s fate! Something had to be done – fast! The elf smirked evilly. He would get Aragorn disqualified. Somehow.

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Aragorn scooped up a nearby discus.

“Glorfindel! Watch this!”

Glorfindel was carried to the infirmary on a stretcher. He had a goose egg on his head the size of Gondor.

“Oops.”

TBC…

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