Fic: One Wet Boot
Finally posting some fic again! Woohoo! Just a silly little thing I came up with a while back, but hopefully it will amuse!
One Wet Boot
By illwynd
Disclaimer: Not mine! All Tolkien’s.
Rating: G
Characters: Boromir, Fellowship
Notes: Thanks to lilan14 for looking it over!
X-posted to sons_of_gondor and lotr_fanfiction
Squish plod squish.
That doesn’t even begin to cover the reality of the sounds his boot made as he walked on the cold stone. If there was a more annoying noise, he had, thankfully, never been subjected to it.
Squish plod squish.
But there was nothing he could do about it. He had poured out all the remaining water when they stopped to unburden the pony, wrinkling his nose at the brownish-green color of it as it spilled onto the ground, and then cringing as he shoved his foot back into his boot, which was now not only still plenty wet, but also cold after the absence of his warm foot. He had no other pair of boots. He shouldn’t have needed any. His boots were fine leather, waterproof from the outside, and high enough for most of the puddles and streams he might have to cross on foot.
Squish plod squish.
Footing in this stream, though, had been treacherous indeed. It was a wonder none of them had fallen. Merry had nearly slipped, once, but fortunately he had been close enough to Pippin to catch his arm and save himself. Pippin had overcorrected and flung an arm out to his side to catch his own balance, but had instead caught Boromir in the stomach. The surprise of the unexpected blow had caused Boromir not to look where he stepped, and it happened to be the one spot they passed that was more than ankle-deep. Splunk, and his leggings were soaked to the knee, and water flowed in over the top of his boot.
Squish plod squish.
The fact that it had also soaked the bottom of his tunic and the end of his cloak mattered very little to him. His clothes, even the fur of his cloak, would dry more quickly than his boot would. His boot might be damp for days, and in the meantime it would chafe. Now, he could endure a lot of things without complaint or ill effect. He could go on short rations for as long as he had to. He could endure wounds that would incapacitate most men. He could brave the cold at the peaks of the White Mountains. There was very little in the way of discomfort that he could not tolerate. But wet boots were one hardship he would not endure quietly.
Squish plod squish.
He might have tried to convince the others of the drastic need for a fire to dry his boot, but all their kindling had been left outside in the rush to get in, so that was not a possibility. He was sorely tempted to merely sit down where he was, and go into what his father called a “snit,” and just wait for his boot to dry before being persuaded to continue. He might have, except he didn’t particularly like the idea of being left behind, as he suspected he would be, in the utter darkness of Moria. Also, as his father always reminded him, it isn’t appropriate for Lords of Gondor to go into snits. So, there was nothing for it but to keep walking, or rather… squishing.
Squish plod squish.
He would have been complaining, loudly, if the silence had not seemed a fragile thing that ought not to be shattered. Thus it came as a surprise when someone else broke it.
“The stone is fairly smooth here. Why don’t you just take them both off? You’d be more comfortable that way,” said Merry, appearing beside him.
“And we wouldn’t have to hear that noise the whole time, worse than usual for the Big People,” said one of the other hobbits. It sounded like Sam, but whoever it was spoke in a whisper, and he couldn’t be sure. “Now I’m gladder than ever that I don’t wear any shoes. Squish squish squish for hours!” The voice continued until someone jabbed the speaker in the ribs.
True. Painfully, annoyingly true, thought Boromir. But he had no tough soles and furry covering on his feet, and didn’t relish the idea of walking barefoot through these dark depths. He hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place. He didn’t want to be here barefoot. He certainly didn’t want to be here with one wet boot.
Squish plod squish.
It felt like he was getting a blister.
Squish plod squish.
Yes, definitely.
Squish plod squish.
Or maybe several.
Squish plod squish.
That does it, he thought. He was nearly ready to throw propriety to the wind and go into a snit, let them leave him behind, he did not care. He simply did not walk with wet boots, and most particularly not over long distances. That was his rule (and the exceptions he had made after swimming across the Anduin, and again at Tharbad, well, those were understandable lapses, weren’t they?) and he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Fortunately that was the moment that they came to the choice of paths, and the guardroom, a halt and sleep. And a chance to be free of his boots.
Squish-squish as he tugged at it until at last the boot released his foot, and he peeled off the soaked sock as well, and wiggled his toes in the chill air.
If it was not dry by the time he woke, he resolved to find out if Aragorn, or Legolas, or even Mithrandir, shared his shoe-size.
* * *
One Wet Boot
By illwynd
Disclaimer: Not mine! All Tolkien’s.
Rating: G
Characters: Boromir, Fellowship
Notes: Thanks to lilan14 for looking it over!
X-posted to sons_of_gondor and lotr_fanfiction
Squish plod squish.
That doesn’t even begin to cover the reality of the sounds his boot made as he walked on the cold stone. If there was a more annoying noise, he had, thankfully, never been subjected to it.
Squish plod squish.
But there was nothing he could do about it. He had poured out all the remaining water when they stopped to unburden the pony, wrinkling his nose at the brownish-green color of it as it spilled onto the ground, and then cringing as he shoved his foot back into his boot, which was now not only still plenty wet, but also cold after the absence of his warm foot. He had no other pair of boots. He shouldn’t have needed any. His boots were fine leather, waterproof from the outside, and high enough for most of the puddles and streams he might have to cross on foot.
Squish plod squish.
Footing in this stream, though, had been treacherous indeed. It was a wonder none of them had fallen. Merry had nearly slipped, once, but fortunately he had been close enough to Pippin to catch his arm and save himself. Pippin had overcorrected and flung an arm out to his side to catch his own balance, but had instead caught Boromir in the stomach. The surprise of the unexpected blow had caused Boromir not to look where he stepped, and it happened to be the one spot they passed that was more than ankle-deep. Splunk, and his leggings were soaked to the knee, and water flowed in over the top of his boot.
Squish plod squish.
The fact that it had also soaked the bottom of his tunic and the end of his cloak mattered very little to him. His clothes, even the fur of his cloak, would dry more quickly than his boot would. His boot might be damp for days, and in the meantime it would chafe. Now, he could endure a lot of things without complaint or ill effect. He could go on short rations for as long as he had to. He could endure wounds that would incapacitate most men. He could brave the cold at the peaks of the White Mountains. There was very little in the way of discomfort that he could not tolerate. But wet boots were one hardship he would not endure quietly.
Squish plod squish.
He might have tried to convince the others of the drastic need for a fire to dry his boot, but all their kindling had been left outside in the rush to get in, so that was not a possibility. He was sorely tempted to merely sit down where he was, and go into what his father called a “snit,” and just wait for his boot to dry before being persuaded to continue. He might have, except he didn’t particularly like the idea of being left behind, as he suspected he would be, in the utter darkness of Moria. Also, as his father always reminded him, it isn’t appropriate for Lords of Gondor to go into snits. So, there was nothing for it but to keep walking, or rather… squishing.
Squish plod squish.
He would have been complaining, loudly, if the silence had not seemed a fragile thing that ought not to be shattered. Thus it came as a surprise when someone else broke it.
“The stone is fairly smooth here. Why don’t you just take them both off? You’d be more comfortable that way,” said Merry, appearing beside him.
“And we wouldn’t have to hear that noise the whole time, worse than usual for the Big People,” said one of the other hobbits. It sounded like Sam, but whoever it was spoke in a whisper, and he couldn’t be sure. “Now I’m gladder than ever that I don’t wear any shoes. Squish squish squish for hours!” The voice continued until someone jabbed the speaker in the ribs.
True. Painfully, annoyingly true, thought Boromir. But he had no tough soles and furry covering on his feet, and didn’t relish the idea of walking barefoot through these dark depths. He hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place. He didn’t want to be here barefoot. He certainly didn’t want to be here with one wet boot.
Squish plod squish.
It felt like he was getting a blister.
Squish plod squish.
Yes, definitely.
Squish plod squish.
Or maybe several.
Squish plod squish.
That does it, he thought. He was nearly ready to throw propriety to the wind and go into a snit, let them leave him behind, he did not care. He simply did not walk with wet boots, and most particularly not over long distances. That was his rule (and the exceptions he had made after swimming across the Anduin, and again at Tharbad, well, those were understandable lapses, weren’t they?) and he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Fortunately that was the moment that they came to the choice of paths, and the guardroom, a halt and sleep. And a chance to be free of his boots.
Squish-squish as he tugged at it until at last the boot released his foot, and he peeled off the soaked sock as well, and wiggled his toes in the chill air.
If it was not dry by the time he woke, he resolved to find out if Aragorn, or Legolas, or even Mithrandir, shared his shoe-size.
* * *