Article: 214095 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: uchinews!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.erols.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: "O. Sharp" <<>> Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-Text: Book II, Chapter X Date: 20 Jul 2000 04:59:04 GMT Organization: "More Weight!" - Giles Corey, _The Crucible_ Lines: 700 Message-ID: <8l60uo$ibt$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.b7.09.72 User-Agent: tin/pre-1.4-19990517 ("Psychonaut") (UNIX) (SunOS/4.1.4 (sun4m)) Xref: uchinews rec.arts.books.tolkien:214095 alt.fan.tolkien:37812 Well, here we go. :) My thanks to Carl Blondin, Steuard Jensen and William H. Hsu for sowing the seeds of the evil plant which is now growing to become Gondor(tm). Mr. Hsu also deserves thanks for his Orcs dressed as trees, a happy accident which actually worked into my plans with surprising grace. :) :) My thanks also to members of the newsgroup who, quite unintentionally, planted the seeds of inspiration on various topics. BOOK II, CHAPTER 10: THE BERATING OF THE FELLOWSHIP Aragon, after ordering Sam to hide their boats in the brush alongside the river, and also mentioning that building a small trailer for each of the boats would greatly increase their resale value, led the party a short distance inland. Near the feet of Momen Hen they found a small glade of green grass among the bushes, with a picnic table carved with countless initials and an overthrown bucket of trash thoughtfully marked ISILDUR SAYS _PLEASE DO NOT LITTER!_ "Here we will rest for now," Aragon said with undue solemnity. "Though it worries me to see that the trash collections are off. Saddened I am to see Momen Llaw and Momen Hen in disrepair! Once, long ago, they were well-known, and income-producing." "Not exciting enough in these modern times," Boromir(tm) said simply. The others filed in and lay down upon the green, and so relaxed and chatted idly about the weather while Sam made their camp, muttering quiet epithets to himself. After a time Frodo stepped aside and talked to Aragon. "Is this place safe?" he asked. "I feel a certain foreboding. Though it might just be that Sam's grumblings about the idle rich being put to slow death on a roasting spit are beginning to annoy me." "I do not know," Aragon replied. "Though a shadow has been on my heart, and a rock in my boot, ever since we arrived. A watch we will set tonight. Tell Sam to take care of it." "Er, well, I'm not sure that would make me sleep much better," Frodo replied. Sam was sitting off to one side by his cook-pots, sharpening a huge carving-knife and looking at him threateningly. Frodo put a hand over his throat and tried to imagine sleeping with Sam as his guard. "Mmmmmmaybe Sam should, er, have the night off, or we can inject him with tranquilizers or something." "Okay, you'll keep the watch instead," Aragon replied abruptly. Frodo blinked, and before he could answer the tall Ranger stood and walked over to Arwen, who said something under her breath about Frodo and laughed. Pipsqueak sat off to one side, asking of Morrie yet again who it was who had pushed him into the well in Moira; and Morrie gave another of his wide, honest, innocent gestures of ignorance. Giggly and Lego-lass stood several feet away arguing heatedly, at first about long-held Elvish and Dwarvish grudges, then about the differences between the sexes, and eventually about the virtues of single parenting. Their voices rose to a fierce crescendo, and they leaned in so closely to shout at one another that almost Frodo thought they were going to stop suddenly and kiss. Boromir(tm), in contrast, sat silently at the picnic-table, idly carving the initials _B(tm)_ into the tabletop with his sword, his unseeing eyes focused on some bitter deep internal turmoil. Eventually the initials were carved completely through the table; and Boromir(tm) continued, inexorably, carving his way onwards into the ground. Frodo refused to look in Sam's direction, though he could feel Sam's eyes boring into his back like twin steel drill-augers, and heard the quiet mutterings behind him grow gradually more menacing as Sam's dialect grew ever more threatening and impenetrable. "Keep the watch!" he said quietly to himself. "Were I surrounded by ten thousand Orcs, and a thousand Balrogs or three, I think I would find sleep easier." Midnight came. The growing Moon passed its zenith and began its slow course towards Valhalla. Frodo looked over his companions. The Fellowship slept fitfully, each waking at whiles to check their pockets for valued possessions before drowsing to sleep again. Arwen and Lego-lass sat quietly in Elf-fashion, not in sleep but in the half-asleep, half-awake, three-quarters real, one-third dream, two-fifths waking daydream, one-over-Pi waking daydream sleeping nightmare idling random thought which the Elves take in place of sleep. At length Arwen stood. "Excuse me," she said quietly, "I've got to go see a man about a wolverine, or something." She straightened her black leathers, adjusted her _shuriken_ and throwing-knives, and stepped into the night. Her black, thigh-high leather boots squeaking quietly through the underbrush, Arwen made her way stealthily to the riverbank, where she crouched near the boats, checked her weapons yet again, and waited. Her Elvish eyes scanned the darkness, while her mind raced. _I'm here!_ she thought proudly. _I've made it into the movie for sure now. No getting rid of _me_! No way I'm going to sit around at Dad's, writing poetry and knitting ugly banners while all the action's going on down here. But I'm not taking any chances. Not even one._ In this manner her thoughts ran wildly through the long-secluded corridors of her mind, until at length she heard the splashing of icky little feet just upstream. She went still. A slipblade dropped silently down her wrist and into the curve of her right hand. She held her breath and waited. A webbed hand, pale and slimy in the fading moonlight, reached from the water and grabbed the blunt end of one of the boats. A pair of luminous green eyes rose up behind it, and suddenly an ugly wet slimy horrible pathetic little fish-eating geek splashed out of the river and flopped squeaking into the boat. "Ick! Ick! Icky icky ick! Ssssss!" hissed the creature. "Musst search backpacks. Musst feel for secret compartments. Musst work on mastering tricksy idiosyncratic dialect. Yesss! Yesss, _pringles_. Yesss- _urrk,_" the figure added, as Arwen grabbed it by the head with her left hand and flashed the slipknife up to the creature's throatwith her right. "Listen to me, Gulible, or Gullible, or however the hell it is you spell your name," Arwen hissed in a quiet whisper. "I need your help." "Ach! Ssssss! Nassty Elven bitch! Sets us up, it doess. Stoods us up, humiliates uss, yesss, _saddam_! Dinner reservations we hads, yesss; flowerses, nice gowns it boughts for you in Moira-land. Even Orcs who play the violin we finds, yesss! But it stoods us up; it humiliates us; it leaves us with a hell of a minimum to drink up! Complete personality change it has wreaked, _saddam_, in convenience to plot, fortunately. Poor Gulllible! Tricksy Elven sstrumpet! Nassty sweet-talking tight-fisted leatherbound harlot! Guliblle will help you not. Voice lessons have I taken from Yoda." "Find the Orcs," Arwen continued, pressing gently on the air supply to the creature's lungs. "Tell them where we are. Tell them to attack the Fellowship exactly as the Sun reaches noon. You got that? _Exactly_ at noon! Do that, and I'll make up for Moira. Fail, and you'll be here for dinner the next time I see you. As the main course. Got that?" "Ssssss! Nasssty crawdad! Wench! Think about it I will. Let me go! Give me libertine or give me death!" Gulible flapped its paws pathetically, fear and hatred fighting lust, and all three fighting common sense, which was in somewhat short supply at the moment. Arwen looked hard and searchingly into the creature's eyes, then released her grip. Gulible flapped about ludicrously and flopped over into the water with a _splash_, and immediately began retreating, muttering something unintelligible about the treachery of Emma Peel. Arwen looked after him in satisfaction. _Arwen Saves The Day!_ the headlines rang in her mind. Some Orcs would attack, and then she would arrive heroically and singlehandedly drive them off. So simple! _Strong-willed daughter of Elvenhome saves heir of Elendil, and Ring-quest! Surprise Orc-ambush driven back by fierce counterattack from beautiful and mighty Elven-princess!_ Glossy pictures in magazines and "Arwen the Morningstar" fan-clubs were soon to replace her current bleak future of appendices and the occasional scholarly comment about her geneaology. A major part in the movie would certainly be hers after this! She adjusted her tight leather tunic, checked her spring-darts and tasteful belt-flail, and made her way back quietly to the sleeping camp. Red dawn rose from the East, and the wind carried a smell of burning leaves and fiery marshmallows. Above them Tol Brandir stood, proud but rundown, a once-mighty mountain now waiting for a redesign and new weather-resistant siding. Momin Hen stood oily and desolate next to them, a great attraction in years gone past, now dusty and forlorn. Across the River Frodo could catch the rays of dawn alighting upon Momin Lhaw, and was saddened to think of that high place of the Atlanteans now held by the Enemy and used as a third-rate Orc casino. Sam prepared breakfast, and the Fellowship ate it in silence. Frodo even decided not to comment on the razor blade Sam had placed in his eggs. After they had finished, and Sam had completed the washing up, Aragon called everyone together to discuss the Quest. "The day has finally come," he began, "when we have to decide, once and for all, what the hell it is we're supposed to do next. Gandalf, El Rond and Galadriel all thought it incredibly important that we speed directly to Mount Viagra and destroy the Ring without delay. Of course, none of them are here to actually _help_ or anything, but that's what they thought we ought to do for them. Boromir(tm), of course, wants to return to his native land-" "What time is it?" Arwen suddenly cut in, oblivious to the conversation. She was sitting quietly off to one side intently oiling and polishing her weapons. "Hm? Oh, uh..." Aragon answered, taken off-guard. He gazed at the sun and the shadows. "Oh, about ten-thirty, I think. So, Boromir(tm) wants to-" "Are you sure?" Arwen cut in again. "Yes," Aragon answered, somewhat less calmly, "I'm sure." After a pause he continued. "Boromir(tm) wants to return to his native land, the Magic Kingdom of Gondor(tm), and the great City of Minas Tirith(tm), which has long stood as a place of Magic(tm) and Wonder(tm). I, of course, want to go there and claim my rightful Kingship to it and subjugate it to my will and put Boromir(tm) out of a job. Though I'm sure we'll find something else for you, Boromir(tm)," he added hastily. "Maybe an associate vice-president in charge of production, or something. Anyway, there is also this subpoena from Isengard to deal with, written in Aruman's own hand." "It looks a lot like Gandalf's handwriting to me," Pipsqueak cut in obnoxiously. "Yes, well, you know, wizards' handwriting all looks the same," Aragon replied, looking quickly at the document. "Anyway, we must now decide which of these three causes we shall take up first. I suggest we now all go directly to the fastness of Minas Tirith(tm), and there take counsel and supplies and thirty or forty thousand of my heavily-armed subjects to aid us in our other missions East and West." "Sounds good to me," Lego-lass replied. "Me too," chorused Morrie and Pipsqueak together. "I liked it the last time I was there," Arwen added, looking up briefly from her toe-spikes. "'Corsairs of the Tampalas' was fun." "From that great fastness we may strike a mighty blow against the Scum-lords of the East," Boromir(tm) agreed heartily. "Along with other traitors," he added darkly, his eyes boring into Frodo's back. "We Dwerrows have long held the long-standing and proper opinion that Gondor(tm) is a gruesome, dishonorable hell-pit of leeches and vipers," Giggly stated. "But if we're stuck with having to go visit Mordor and Aruman as well, I admit I wouldn't mind having a few divisions of armoured cutthroats and vicious attorneys handy to back us up." "Nobody cares what I think anyway," Sam said sullenly. "Well, then, it's settled," Aragon rejoiced. "We're going to Gondorland(tm)!" "Well, but, uh-" Frodo began. Aragon stopped and stared at the puny Hobbit. Legions of his future subjects were awaiting his holy edict; yet here was Frodo, delaying him. "Yes?" he demanded. "Well, you see, I still have an estate in Mordor to claim! _Sir_ Frodo Baggins of Nurnenshire, remember? My own little estate by the lake, with lots of vast hemp fields, and legions of cowed slaves to tend them? Nobility? Respectability? A title? Cucumber sandwiches, and one of those big long robes? You think I came along on this stupid useless low-budget shark-infested holiday because Gandalf had some chores to take care of? No, we need to go straight to Mordor! I suppose I can do something about the Ring once I get established, if you think it's important. I'll have Sam take it to the Fires of Doom once he's got my luggage rounded up. And yes, Sam, I'll even give you a raise for that. And one more hour of unpaid time off per week," he said, glancing round for his servant. Not finding him, however, he paused then plunged ahead. "Well, maybe skip the raise, then," he continued. "But Mordor calls me, and there I must go. Minas Tirith(tm) will still be there for you after I've claimed my estate. Probably, anyway." "But everyone else has voted to go to Gondor(tm)," Aragon insisted. "We outvote you, so it's decided." Democracy was, after all, still a useful tool until he actually _became_ a monarch. "But I have to go to Mordor!" Frodo answered. Seeing the glares he was getting from the rest of the Company, Frodo relented somewhat. "Well, okay," he agreed sullenly. "Just, uh, I, I just need a few minutes to think about it, is all." Aragon nodded. "Just be back here by noon," he replied. "Arwen's been very insistent about leaving just past noon." The meeting ended. Deeply annoyed, Frodo began wandering upwards along the path to the top of Momin Hen. _Maybe things will look less bleak from higher up,_ he thought. Unnoticed by the others Boromir(tm) rose, his soul carrying enough bleak to cover four or five epic novels, and began ascending the path behind him. The others resumed their various arguments and obsessions from the day before, creatures of habit which they were. Arwen checked the angle of the sun once more. With another quick adjustment of the poison dart compartment at her breast, she strode back into the wilderness. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty paces. Nicely inconspicuous. Room for a running start. But enough? She increased it to fifty paces. Okay, be fair, sixty. Had to have the advantage of surprise, after all. A nice, round seventy-five paces would be perfect. She and the Fellowship could no longer see each other at all through the brush. Good, good! Complete advantage of surprise. She slipped on her spiked platinum knuckles, tied her hair back to increase visibility, released it again to increase desirability, and waited. Noon. She was impatient, but she forced herself to wait. After waiting two thousand years for a heroic opportunity like this, she could wait another hour and fifteen minutes. _Gondor(tm)!_ Frodo stomped his way along the path leading up Momin Hen, hands clenched into fists, occasionally uprooting delicate flowers or throwing rocks at small animals in his fury. _Gondor(tm)!_ Stupid useless little kingdom on the edge of being obliterated, populated by big clumsy Men who thought trademarks were a sign of nobility. Frodo was obviously more noble and genteel than the lot of that commercial money-grubbing rabble, that was certain. And now they wanted him to set aside his Eru-granted rights, his clear and unquestioned claims to nobility, his big castle and army of paycheck-free agricultural workers, and further delay the manifest destiny he obviously deserved! Oh, sure, the legalese of El Rond demanded that he destroy the Ring before he could claim his Estate; but that was just a petty legal detail. The good offices of Sauron would certainly take care of that minor technicality. Just like El Rond to needlessly complicate everything, the bloated million-year-old dolt. With these thoughts Frodo made his way to the peak of Momin Hen, where he stepped up to the observation platform. A plaque next to the railing, long ago damaged by weather and the graffiti of ancient tourists, could just be made out, though Frodo could not understand the forgotten language: SCYNIC VYEW Myghty Gyndor strytches yut byfore yyu. Ty thy lyft ys thy myghty fyrtress yf Mynas Dynald, whyre yur fyne rytating rystaurant cymmands y splyndid vyew yf yur vynquished fyrmer ylly, Myrdor. Ty thy ryght ys Mynas Myckey, Tywer yf thy Mygic Kyngdom, lyoking fyrward ty thy Wyst ynd wynderful Ytlantis. Bytween thym, stynding pryudly yver thy Ryver Ynduin, stynds Dysgiliath, thy Cyty yf Tymorrow. Tyrning ty thy Nyrth yyu cyn sye Gyndor's syster kyngdom, Yuroarnor, whych wy're syre wyll by y rysounding syccess! By syre ty vysit nyarby Mymin Lhyw, whyre yyu cyn lysten yn yn cynversations yn thy yctive bydrooms yf Gyndor ymployees! 1 QYATLOO - 3 MYNUTES Looking out Frodo at first saw only a grey mist, like a fog in a deep morning vale, or an overly-steamy bathroom mirror. After a moment, however, the ancient dust gave way, and Frodo found himself able to see remarkable distances. Facing West he looked upon the green fields of Edoras, where many horses ran, with Men riding them - great tall Men with golden hair and a look which was, even to Frodo's untrained eyes, clearly and unmistakably Anglo-Saxon in every regard, pre-Normanic, possibly Mercian though it was hard to tell from this distance, though rather inexplicably they all seemed to be wearing kilts, and occasionally throwing a Frisbee. At the very foot of the Musty Mountains Frodo could just make out a tower of shimmering white, surrounded by a splendid garden of great beauty and ringed with a wall of beautiful, translucent marble. Obviously the tower of the evil heinous wizard traitor Aruman. Frodo quickly hurried on. Frodo's gaze quickly turned North. Following the line of the Mountains he came to the three high peaks which crowned Moira. For a fleeting moment he thought he had seen an old man in white sitting in a lounge chair beside an old man in red, drinking cocktails and laughing at some unheard joke; but the vision passed, and he realized that looking North was making him really jittery for some reason. He wheeled around once more to face the South. He saw the Sea. He saw the Off-White Mountains, proud, cold and pointy. His gaze picked out Minas Tirith(tm), and he looked upon it in amaze: a beautiful city, clean and immaculate, surrounded by seven walls of stone and surmounted by a castle with tall narrow spires of storybook beauty, where Frodo could just make out large numbers of people standing in incredibly long lines trying to look like they were still excited about whatever the hell it was they were waiting such unbelievable lengths of time for. Many of them carried souvenirs. A surprising number of them seemed to be wearing round black helms with mysterious protrusions, like Boromir's(tm). Every single one of them looked like they had spent too much money. Frodo was about to turn away when he saw - or thought he saw; it must have been a mistake, it _must_ have been - some sort of giant rat walking through the avenues, waving at the people; who did not scream or run away, as sensible people would, from a grinning six-foot-tall rodent. Frodo blinked. It _couldn't_ have been. Perhaps it was just a reflection, or something. Saving the best for last, Frodo turned East towards Mordor. Somewhere out there was the wonderful land of Nurnenshire, soon to be his home. His gaze crossed the River Anduin, gazing only briefly at the heavily-dated ruins of Disgiliath; then going further they came across the great dome of Minas Epcot upon the mountain-range. The sanitized commercialism of Gondor gave way to the hideous neon glitz and media bombardment of the Enemy. Frodo's eyes unwillingly crossed the plain, passing billboards innumerable and countless one-hour motels. Gas wars were being fought. Commercialism was rampant. Film crews were busy with remakes of "Flipper" and "Mr. Ed". Orcs lit bonfires upon the plain and toasted marshmallows by having slaves hold them into the fires for them with their bare hands. In the center of the hideous arid plain he saw the deadly sputtering fire of Mount Viagra, which no man would admit to seeing. Its purple flames raged up unexpectedly, then crashed down to silence with a dozen undocumented side-effects. And then Frodo saw it: a tower great and terrible, with buttresses of knife-edged iron, walls of impenetrable stone, doors of heavy adamant all marked "ENTRANCE ONLY"; battlement upon battlement, chamber upon chamber, window office upon window office, tall, black, immeasurably strong, laughing at flattery, filled with self-confidence, cracking its gum, telling bad jokes, and ringed with a thousand heavily-sharpened dinner forks: the Barad-dur, Fortress of Sauron the Terrible. Frodo stood as one turned to stone, unable to look away. The Ring suddenly felt heavier on its chain, like a great weight, dragging him downwards. In the Dark Tower Frodo felt an Eye which never slept; and then it became aware of him, a fierce will, unknowing of mercy, and now as it turned towards him he felt unable to move, unable to resist; and the Power came ever closer, reaching past Momin Lhaw, reaching towards him like an arm of terror; and then suddenly all went black, and there was a _click_, and Frodo could see no more. "Pesky things," Frodo muttered to himself. "No _wonder_ nobody uses them any more. You'd think a quarter would give you more than three minutes. And now I'm out of change." And he kicked the great coin-operated binoculars on their pivoting metal base, limped back a few feet, and sat on a stone bench. After a moment Boromir(tm) came into the clearing. Seeing Frodo he immediately ran forward, drew his sword and prepared to cleave the puny Hobbit in half; but just as Frodo was about to scream he stopped, looked at his sword as if it had just been placed in his hand by a passing street-vendor, and laughed self-consciously as he put it back in its scabbard. "I, uh, I was just thinking about getting you a quarter," he explained lamely. "Halfling. Cut in half. Uhm, so, a quarter, you see. Get it? Ahh ha ha ha ha ha. Uhm. No, Really, Frodo, I am ill at ease. I came to talk to you. May I not sit down? The view's beautiful from up here. I'm surprised more people don't come by. I think a quarter for three minutes is very reasonable. Quite a bargain, really. Uhm. Oh, look, you cleaned the lenses. Jolly good. Though that's Union jurisdiction, you know. Could get in a lot of trouble. But I won't tell anyone if you don't. I mean, it's no big deal, you know, really. Um. Uh. So, uh... I guess you were really wanting to go to that estate in Nurnenshire, hm?" "Yes," said Frodo. "The one that the Great And Terrible Enemy Of All The Free Peoples is offering you." "That's the one," said Frodo. "And you believe it." "Well, of _course_ I do!" Frodo snapped, irate. "I've got a piece of paper and everything. It's all official. Look," he continued, reaching into his jerkin and pulling out the envelope from the Nazdaq, "it's got official-looking seals on it, and signatures in blood-red ink and everything. Yes, I'm _sure_ it's only ink." "You _trust_ this?" Boromir(tm) demanded. "Well, of _course_ I do!" Frodo replied haughtily. "Sauron's a big and important man. I'm just an insignificant little hobbit who has, by chance, the blood of great and honoured nobility coursing through my veins. Why would he deceive _me_? He knows I'd be a valuable asset to Nurnen, that's all. And he's right." Frodo held up his head and looked to the East, hoping the light would catch his face just the right way and let Boromir(tm) see, just for a moment, the nobility of ancient and powerful Sea-kings in his visage, but the sun went behind a cloud and he continued to look like a puny insignificant little hobbit who was sticking his lower lip out obnoxiously. "Maybe you aren't aware of the wiles of the Enemy," Boromir(tm) responded. "Here in Gondor(tm) we have been fighting a terrible battle against the Evil One for uncounted centuries. Once Gondor(tm) was a fair land, powerful and well thought of in the tourist trade; yet now it is but a shadow of its former self, bare and desolate, its concession stands all but closed, its parking lots bare-" "Looked pretty crowded through the binoculars," Frodo cut in. "_That?_ A cruise ship from the Havens. We get those but twice a year, and had to make a big concession on the hotel fees even to get that. The rest of the time Gondor(tm) is a ghost town, our people unemployable, idle and bored. Yet that is but a part of our woes. The Nazdaq have conquered Minas Epcot, and made it into a place of horror-" "I heard it was a place of horror already," Frodo interrupted. "-and the Leech-king killed Eisner, the last King, in single combat; Eisner held two Aces and a Jack, and the Leech-king held a repeating crossbow with barbed and poisoned quarrels and a battleaxe-" "So did he bluff?" Frodo asked. "-and Disgiliath has fallen, and our Great Monorails can no longer run, and every day our defenses grow weaker. Even a single division of musketeers-" "Mouseketeers?" cut in Frodo. "_Mus_keteers," Boromir(tm) corrected, "could aid us greatly; but we can't get them, because gunpowder hasn't been invented yet-" "But we've got fireworks," Frodo interrupted pedantically. "Do you realize you've interrupted _five times_ in the last ten paragraphs?" Boromir(tm) said angrily. "I'm trying to make you realize that Sauron is a damned _liar!_" "What?" Frodo demanded. "A liar! A teller of falsehoods! A deceiver of men's hearts! Why the hell do you think everyone's been calling him _evil_? Why do you think we refer to him as 'Sauron the Base Lord of _Treachery_'? That document you're clutching and carrying everywhere in your sweaty little fist is a trap, you know - a trap devised by Sauron and delivered by the Nazdaq to reel you in and bring you to the Dark Tower!" "But _why?_" Frodo demanded. "It doesn't make any sense! What would Sauron have to gain by trapping _me_? Use your head, Boromir(tm), or take stronger medications-" "Because of the Ring!" Boromir(tm) snapped, finally getting to interrupt Frodo for a change. "You have the Ring. It's Sauron's Ring. Sauron wants it back. And he'll torture and destroy you for it." "Not true! Not true!" screamed Frodo. "Of course it's true, dolt! Gandalf told you Sauron was a fool. El Rond told you too. But Sauron is no fool. He has been searching for his Ring, the power of which will make him stronger a thousandfold, and you're willing to go up and _hand_ it to him! And then he would crush all resistance! He will destroy Gondor(tm)-" "I'm not listening! I'm not listening!" Frodo screamed, sticking his fingers in his ears. "La la la la la la la-" "And then Lorien," Boromir(tm) shouted, "and then Rivendell, and Edoras, and then he will trample the Shire and put its inhabitants all to torture and slow death as the price for your keeping the Ring in his despite - will you stop singing! - and all your precious Bagginses, or Bagginsi, or whatever they are, will die, and all the Brandybottles will die-" "No! No! No! No! No!" Frodo yelled in agony. "-and all the Tooks will die-" "_No!_" screamed Frodo. "_No!_ Sauron would _never_ hurt Cassiopeia! _You damnable liar!_" And with that Frodo drew Sting and stabbed Boromir(tm) through the abdomen. "Aaaaaaaaaggggghhhh!" screamed Boromir(tm), and fell. Frodo looked at Boromir(tm). The powerful Man was trying to raise himself up onto his hands and knees, gasping desperately. _Oh my Eru!_ Frodo thought. _What have I done! I've killed Boromir(tm)! It's murder! Oh my Eru!_ He dropped Sting but then picked it up again to wipe it free of fingerprints, which only succeeded in getting even more of Boromir(tm)'s blood onto his hands and tunic. _Damn,_ he thought. Boromir(tm) crawled away into the brush. _Maybe nobody will find him,_ Frodo thought, looking after him. _Yeah. That's fine. Or maybe we were attacked by Orcs. Everybody'd be fine with that. Maybe I'll say he attacked me first. After all, he's been acting pretty strange lately. I'll say he wanted the Ring. And I had to stab him._ _But who'd believe that?_ Frodo answered himself. _We were going to go to Gondor(tm). Why would he take the Ring _here_? What would he want the Ring _for_, anyway? No, nobody'll buy a story like that. It's too implausible an idea._ "I've got to get out of here," Frodo said aloud to himself. "I'll go to Mordor alone. Sauron will protect me. Diplomatic immunity. After all, I'm a nobleman. And Boromir(tm) was an enemy of Mordor, after all. I'll have done Sauron a service. He should be grateful." And with that Frodo looked about, chose a path that would take him back to the boats without going near the others, and departed. A pair of eyes gleamed from the underbrush. Underneath them could just be seen a mouth frowning in consideration. Then the eyes departed, also going down Momin Hen but by a faster way. "Are you telling me Feenamint wasn't an inventor?" Lego-lass demanded. "No, that's _not_ what I said," Giggly answered with some heat, "I'm just saying he didn't do anything _original_. Now Oolee, now _he_ made some truly original things. _He_ was creative! Feenamint had good crafts skills, but he didn't really make anything very _inspired_, now did he?" "I'd like to see you make a _slipcast_," Lego-lass said pointedly. "Oh, sure, the _slipcast_; but he couldn't make the _light_, now _could_ he?" Giggly said, triumphant. "Nooo, he got _that_ from the _plants_," Lego-lass smiled archly. "And that was Lavanna's work. Nothing to do with ol' Oilee whatsoever." "_Oolee,_" Giggly corrected. "Anyway you don't see Dwaerrowseses making light or great jewels or anything, but they burn plenty of plants for firewood, or just for fun-" "I'm not willing to listen to these _add himinem_ attacks-" But just then their engaging conversation was interrupted as Boromir(tm), his hands over his bleeding midriff, stumbled headlong into the clearing. "Frodo!" he gasped. "It was Frodo-" And then he fell forward upon his face. "Ai! Ai!" Lego-lass shrieked, and she and Giggly threw their arms around one another. The Dwarf drew his axe. "Fear nothing!" he giggled. "If I see that halfling bastard I'll protect y-..." And then with a sudden mutual impulse they leaped away from one another, both fighting shock and horror and some idea even more terrifying. Aragon jumped to his feet. "The Ringbearer!" he yelled. "He's gone amok. We must now bring him to justice. Gimlet! Legless! Find my beloved Aardvark! Mungo, you and Piglet guard Boring(R) here. Meet me back at the boats!" And with that Aragon drew his sword and dashed up the path of Momin Hen. "_Endurit! Endurit!_ Fear me, little Shire rat-bag!" he shouted. Giggly and Lego-lass, themselves caught in a moment of utter emotional uncertainty, made for the west-path together, then for separate paths, then paused; then wordlessly reaching a decision the two followed Aragon up the trail, close after one another, but not _too_ close. A long silence fell. Moribund thoughtfully pulled out his pipe. "Soooo, Boromir(tm)," Morrie said slowly. "I think I've got some bandages in my pack... How much are they worth to you?" Pipsqueak, sitting on a log watching Morrie bargain with the wounded Man, looked about the clearing idly. The grass was green, the trees and brush provided gentle shade and protection from the winds, and the foliage was beautiful to look upon. But then he saw something else, something subtly different in the trees, and a new and somewhat disquieting thought occurred to him. _When we came down the River,_ he thought to himself, _there were those Orcs jumping around on the plains who looked a lot like trees. Being out on the plains it wasn't very effective camouflage, like Strider said. But in a place like this, with trees and bushes all the way around you... boy, if they looked like trees, I bet a whole battalion of Orcs could creep right up on you and you wouldn't even notice - unless you happened to look up at just the right moment._ "Uh, Morrie?" Pipsqueak said aloud in a quiet falsetto. "Uh, you might want to stop talking for a minute and look over here..." _Killer! Butcher! Murderer!_ Voices of guilt rang through Frodo's mind like mighty church-bells. _You fool! They'll give you the Chair for this._ What he meant by that he hardly knew, yet it frightened him. He envisioned a merciless and mighty Executioner beating him over the head with an immense, heavy chair. _Mordor's my only hope. I've got to get to the boats. I've got to get to the boats!_ Frodo stumbled blindly through the trees. He thought he heard some screaming off in the distance towards the camp, but it could just as easily have been the voices pointing fingers and crying _J'accuse!_ in the labyrinths of his mind. There was also a _crunching_ sound, a sound like breaking wood, which he disregarded until he reached the River, where he found Sam smashing the last of their three boats with Giggly's spare axe. "Sam! What the hell are you _doing!?_" Sam looked up. There was an evil look on his face, an evil smirk in his eye. "That's _Mister_ Sam Gamgee to you, ye bourgeois Shire-born hobgoblin," Sam answered, hefting the axe with his strong working-class hands. "An' what I'm doin' is wreckin' these nasty seedy little death-traps afore ye try to use 'em again." "But we've got to escape!" Frodo said dementedly. "There were Orcs! _Hundreds_ of 'em! And they attacked me, and they killed Boromir(tm), and-" "No Orcs attacked ye," Sam replied, his dialect thick and pointed. "It was you as attacked Mister Boromir(tm), of the Royal House of Gondor(tm); and that's _his_ blood there on your hands, it is, and all of Ulmune's oceans won't be enough t' wash ye clean of it. Aye, Mister Frodo, an' there's no denyin' it. I know all aboot it." "That's crazed," Frodo parleyed. "If I had killed Boromir(tm), how would _you_ know-" "Because I followed ye," Sam snapped. "After sneakin' in to the Council of El Rond, and followin' ye t' see the Lady's bath an' all, ye think I'd let _this_ meeting go by unobserv'd? Nae, Mister Frodo, nae; and I do it because I don't trust ye, ye wee cutthroat. I scouted out all the paths, and I watched ye go up the great Hen, and I watched Boromir(tm) tell ye about Mordor an' Sauron's treachery, and I saw ye go nutso an' stab him. An' I knew ye'd be headin' for the boats - the nasty, accurs'd boats," he shuddered - "an' seein' as I had nae the stomach for 'em anyway, I did ye out of 'em an' satisfied meself doubly. So there's no goin' on, Mr. Frodo. Or should I say Mr. Mud." "Sam, Sam," Frodo said, shifting mental gears and trying for supplication. "I had to do it. I had no choice. He was trying to stop me from going to Nurnenshire." "And claimin' your estate," Sam sneered. "Yes," Frodo answered, "and claiming my estate. Sam! I would have agreed to anything, if you could have helped me; but now the boats are smashed, and my hope is lost. I feard it was so. Damn it." And Frodo sat down heavily on the remains of one of the broken keels. Sam looked at his master long and thoughtfully. "You'd've gone straight into Mordor?" he asked. "Yes," Frodo answered. "Of course I would. Where the hell else would I go?" "And you'd agree to anything t'get there?" "Sure. Anything," Frodo said despondently. He played idly with a twisted oarlock. Sam looked at him appraisingly. "So if I had a way to get you into Mordor, you'd go there willingly, and you'd agree to anything to be able t' do it?" Something about Sam's tone made Frodo look up. "Sam? Is there another boat here or something?" he asked, rising to his feet. "If you're holding out on me-" "Keep your hands away from th' sword!" Sam demanded, wielding the axe and producing a handful of deadly cutlery. "I'm only sayin' as I _may_ be able to help you. To go to Mordor. But only on certain conditions." "What conditions?" Frodo said desperately. "Name them!" Sam leaned back, cheerfully. "We-ell," he said slowly, "for starters, I get a pay raise. Fifty percent. An' retroactive to the beginning of last year." "_Fifty_ per c-" Frodo started, then stopped himself. He could almost hear the rest of the Fellowship coming with bright keen Swords of Justice. "Oh, okay. All right. But only if we can leave right n-" "_And_ you has t' carry your half of the baggage," Sam continued, indicating the heavy packs lying next to one of the smashed boats. "Oh, all right," Frodo replied. Under Sam's watchful gaze he shouldered one of the packs. It was astonishingly heavy. Frodo had never done menial labor before. "All right," he answered, trying to inhale. "All right. That's only fair, I supp-" "AND you'll be doing half the cooking throughout the rest of the trip," Sam continued. "And the washing-up. And you'll stand half the watches. And give _me_ the wake-up calls from now on." "Ho-kay," Frodo gasped. He was concentrating on the pack. "And before you go to Sauron to claim your little estate in Nurnenshire, ye'll write up a legal document that gives me complete ownership of Bag End," Sam added. "As a little bonus for years of long service. If you're profiting, I'm profiting too." "Bag End! Oomph," Frodo said, trying to find his new center of gravity. How had Sam _carried_ this thing for so long? "What do you want _that_ for?... Well, all right, very well; I won't be needing it anyway." "And just in case Boromir(tm) is right about the Ring," Sam added, "I don't want no Dark Baddies takin' over the Shire just when I'm about to come into my own. So ye'll be destroyin' the Ring before ye try to contact any officials or claim any Estate." "Blackmail! Foul, tricky besotted blackm- Well, all right, I suppose; as long as it's on the way," Frodo answered, trying desperately to stay calm. "_And_ there won't be any more lickin' of fingers, or suckin' of toes or any other personal displays o' th' sort; an' if ye try it I'll cut your throat then and there, Mister Frodo. An' _that's_ a _fact,_" Sam added vehemently. "Swear to all that. Swear by the Deed." "The _Deed_?" Frodo asked. "Aye, the Deed," Sam answered. "By the Deed to Nurnenshire. Crooked as a three-dollar bill it may be, but it has a hold o' your soul, and ye'll never break that oath if ye want to enjoy your _estate._" Sam fairly spat out the last word, as though he had just avoided saying _comeuppance_ instead. "All right," Frodo answered. "I swear by the Deed to Nurnenshire that I shall go straight to Mordor, and to give you a fifty per cent pay raise retroactive to last year, and to carry half the baggage and do half the cooking and washing-up, and half the watches and wake-up calls, and give you a legal claim to Bag End before claiming the Estate, and destroy the Ring first, and not try to get you excited or suck on your fingers or toes or any other appendages. So help me Deed. "Now, Sam," Frodo continued, as the pack straps dug painfully into his shoulders, "how do you propose we get across the River? Fly? Swim? Use that fourth boat you were keeping hidden in your mess-kit for later? Smelt some iron, forge a shovel and tunnel our way under?" Sam smiled smugly. "We-ell, Mr. Frodo, I thought we'd walk a little bit farther South, and then walk across on that disused track for Boromir(tm)'s ol' Monorail. See, it goes right across the water, there, straight over to Momin Lhaw." "Sam! You're a genius!" Frodo laughed. And soon later two little figures could just be made out walking across the narrow track towards the Eastern side of the River, one already starting to feel the weight of his great burden, and each with a hope in their hearts. For one of them went to Mordor hoping that the stories of Sauron's hatred and lust for vengeance upon Frodo would prove utterly false, and the other went hoping those same stories would prove satisfyingly true. Time passed. The shadows moved slowly. Before long the sun reached its zenith. "Aaaaiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaia ha ha ha _hahahaaaaaaa!_" The brush burst aside! A burst of deadly _shuriken_ flew through the air, each cutting through the air of the clearing with a searing whine and embedding themselves into the trunks of trees. With a sudden flash of black leather a lithe figure leaped into the clearing, _ronin_-blade in one hand, sharpened darts in the other, keen-eyed, beautiful, confident and vicious. "Fear not!" the figure shouted. "Mighty _Arwen_, warrior-princess, is _here!_..." After a moment the silence continued to greet her. She stopped. She paused. She looked at the sun. It was noon. It was _noon_! Where the hell _was_ everyone? She looked about the empty clearing, angry, yet a desolation crept upon her heart. Did they leave _early_? Why would they do that? And where the hell were the _Orcs_? Was she too late? She checked the sun yet again. It _must_ be noon! Must be. Maybe. Unless... unless they measured noon differently in southern climes. Or something. Anyway, why would they leave _without_ her? Had they forgotten her? Those _bastards!_ There was some blood on the ground, trailing off towards Momin Hen. Probably Aragon had got another one of his nosebleeds. She'd _told_ him high altitudes weren't good for him. There was some black stuff on the ground as well, a lot of it, which she might have identified as Orc-blood if she'd led a less sheltered life. _Tree-sap,_ she thought to herself. _Probably just some sort of tree-sap._ Arwen sat down dejectedly. She began idly throwing her silvered-steel darts at the picnic table. Every step she took went wrong. Every attempt to get more coverage in the movie seemed to backfire on her. She couldn't even get a _mention_ in Chapter Seven. Dammit! What the hell _was_ this? Some sort of _conspiracy_? For a long moment the Elven-maid sat there, alone, her eyes unseeing. Finally she stood. She pulled a few of the less-damaged _shuriken_ back out of the trees where they had lodged. The throwing-darts she ignored. _Gondor(tm)_, she thought. _They were going to Gondor(tm). To Minas Tirith(tm). Everyone was agreed. Well, I'll just follow them and meet them there. I shouldn't miss more than a chapter or two before I'm back with the others again. And Aragon had better have a damn good excuse for leaving me like this, the bastard._ With a final shrug Arwen picked up her pack, tied her hair back for practicality and left it there, and proceeded South, her feet tracking a perfect line straight towards Minas Tirith(tm). She knew her way there, and she knew the others were going straight there as well. _This_ time everything would work out. This time she was _certain_ to be central to the plot. This time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ohh -aaatt- netcom.com .. -daht- I wonder how many chapters will go by before Frodo discovers the rocks Sam added to his backpack. :)