Article: 274835 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: news.uchicago.edu!newsswitch.lcs.mit.edu!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed1.uni2.dk!news.get2net.dk!not-for-mail From: "Raven" <<>> Newsgroups: alt.fan.tolkien,rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: Etext: Book V, chapter 10 Lines: 743 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Message-ID: Date: Thu, 17 Jan 2002 23:43:21 +0100 NNTP-Posting-Host: 195.82.196.62 X-Complaints-To: abuse -aaatt- get2 -daht- net X-Trace: news.get2net.dk 1011307754 195.82.196.62 (Thu, 17 Jan 2002 23:49:14 MET) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 17 Jan 2002 23:49:14 MET Organization: get2net Internet Kunde Xref: news.uchicago.edu alt.fan.tolkien:117281 rec.arts.books.tolkien:274835 Sorry for the exceptionally long delay since the previous chapter, but here it is. A few notes: this chapter is not wholly humorous. There are some dark sections, but it ends very kindly, I hope. I have put in two allusions to Black Tuesday. I hope I have done so tastefully, and so don't offend anyone. Probably like many others, I remember precisely where, when and how I learnt about that tragedy, and roughly how long I stood before the TV before sitting down to continue to watch. I have also taken a potshot at one author of previous chapters, and done a bit of a parody of another chapter. The potshot may be difficult to detect, though the individual concerned should be able to. I have put in some instances of swearing, a little in English and somewhat more in Weejun. For this I do not apologize. I have not done it for some sort of style, but because it plays a small role in the narrative. I could have used some sort of circumlocution, of course, such as "...he swore." But in an etext with lots of sex and lots of violence, if any have too sensitive tastes for explicit cusswords they have no business reading the etext at any rate. As usual, I have put used both *bold* text and /italics/. And, as usual, I have emailed the original version in RTF to O. Sharp and to Steuard. =================================================== THE BACK ORIFICE OPENS "Arwen! Arwen!" A rapidly approaching hobbitish voice accompanied by the absence of the flapping of bare feet on the flagged street made the Elf-maiden turn. It was Pipsqueak. "Arwen! I must talk to you. Someplace where you-know-who can't overhear us." "Very well. First you can tell me what you're on. Why aren't your feet touching the ground?" "Morrie and I had Ment-draught in Fungang. We've been hovering like this ever since. Didn't you notice at Isengard? Look ---" "Last I saw Morrie he was not hovering. Houses of Healing, as they marched him into quarantine. He was a foot or two taller than you but his feet were on the ground." "..." Pipsqueak suddenly looked puzzled. "Now you mention it, there was something different about him after he came in from the battle. That too, now you mention it. Well, no matter. Probably just his wounds. Look ---" "In here." As they stood in a deserted old souvenir shop, Arwen turned her gaze upon the squeaky hobbit. "Well?" "It's Gandalf. He's up to no good. He ---" Drily: "I had noticed." "He-killed-Aruman-he-killed-Boromir-he-wants-to-kill-Ariellė. He-wants-Sauron's-Ring-destroyed-but-this-will-only-turn-Sauron-evil-aga in-he ---" "Woah! Slow down, Pitya. He killed Aruman?" She fixed her intense gaze on the little one. Pipsqueak explained, suddenly calm and focussed. Arwen's gaze grew more intense. She said: "I was there. I have blurred memories of that day, but I don't remember him killing Aruman. I remember Aruman deserving it." "I remember better than you. I had a memory freshener when Denethor(tm) would put Gandalf to trial. I saw all on Denethor(tm)'s laptop Palantarium. Then Gandalf threw a smoke grenade, killed all but me, and made an explosion to cover up the evidence. He thinks I've forgotten all of that, or I should be dead now. Think back, Arwen, *think back*! Remember his expertise with drugs, and remember that he passed a bottle round among us." There was a pause. Arwen's gaze grew distant, then pained. Then it hardened. And hardened. And hardened even more, until she looked more perilous than Pipsqueak had ever seen the warrior maiden before. Suddenly, remembering his childhood, he wished fervently that Arwen had been his mother --- --- for a moment he had that expression that children often imagine on a puppy-dog in a pet shop: /adopt me/! Arwen noticed, smiling inwardly; then: /not yet, you idiot, remain unfettered a while still/ --- --- then she relaxed a smidgen and took a deep breath. "And Boromir?" "I saw him push Boromir out of the window. I was hiding in the conference room where you told Aragon about his family relations." "Then I can reassure you. That boy is a toon. Normal people falling twenty meters onto stone will turn into rattle-sacks of broken bone and blood. I have seen it more than once in battle in the mountains. Boromir - didn't you forget the (tm)? - made a hole in the street and climbed up from it. Showing his true self, finally. I saw it. Many did. But I'm not surprised that Gandalf would try. He wants to kill Ariellė?" Pipsqueak explained. "Destroying Sauron's Ring will make him evil again?" Pipsqueak explained. "What more?" "He tried to kill me, but was interrupted. Then he tried to make me forget with magic, and he thinks that he did it. He also killed Denethor(tm). I shouldn't be surprised if he is after you next." "I should. If he tries, the surprise shall be his. Briefly. Is Aragon part of this?" "Yes, at least partly. Gandalf wants to install him as King ---" "That is old news." "I think Gandalf has some sort of hold on him, and he doesn't tell him everything." "I should think so. The Aragon that I loved was a bit shady, but would never have stooped to such evil." Then Pipsqueak took a deep breath. "Have you seen the Star Wars movies?" "Yes?" "You know how Obi-wan was killed but could still advise Luke with some sort of disembodied voice?" "Yes." Another deep breath. "I think Aruman is still around in the same way as that. He has talked to me. He wants me to find an eagle and send it to Mount Doom and prevent Frodo from throwing the Ring in." A short pause. Then: "Ah. Leave it to me. Pitya, you have done very well in telling me." "Boromir(tm)! I thought I..." "Killed me? Can't be done. Do you know what rabbits are like? Toon rabbits are worse. Mother knew one called Roger." Gandalf sighed, reached into the recesses of his robes, then produced a small bottle. "Ink eraser?" "Yes, Aragon, ink eraser." But when Gandalf returned his attention to Boromir, there was only a Boromir-shaped hole in the stone wall, silhouetted arms frozen in mid-flail. Peering through it, they saw a progression of Boromir-shaped holes through the other walls clear to the outer one. Some ball-shaped dust clouds slowly dissipated along the beeline. A cry of /meep-meep/ accompanied by the sound of an engine faded into the distance towards the River. Boromir would not soon warn Gondor(tm) against Gandalf. "What's with the /meep-meep/," asked Aragon. "This is a Disney place run by a Disney-franchise family, right?" "Toon humour." Sitting on a stone parapet, Pipsqueak was reading. So consumed was he that he didn't notice the figure approaching him from behind until a hand grabbed his shoulder. "Still reading that feminist bastard, Pipkin?" "Morrie!" A swift look down. "And hovering again, like me! How did you escape quarantine? You never should have let Gandalf know ---" "Never stopped hovering. It's Otto you mean, pretending to be me. Not very good at it, or he wouldn't have been in the isolation tank now." "Sweet Jesus! I should have guessed! Who is Otto?" "Yes, you should. Would the real Moribund Brandibuck have been so confused? But let the saps think the real Morrie is in the cell. You know my family's rep in these parts, whatever we've done to earn it. I'm Moriarty now. Solicitor. See who I brought with me?" "Yeah. Why *d-don't* you do it in the road, you two?" Pipsqueak swung his legs across the parapet and jumped down on the flags. "Look," he whispered. "Stop whispering. These two love-birds are part of the plan." "Oh are they? Well, how far have you come?" "Two inches away from contacting Aragon. I need him to give me a shellfish export license from Tampala Bay to the Shire." "Oh, I wouldn't pull Aragon into it," replied Pipsqueak. "He is neck deep in shit already and getting cold feet about it. He might try to do the righteous thing and stop you. Just to soothe his conscience by doing *something* right these days. *He* would guess what you want to put into those shellfish of yours. Or Gandalf might get wind of it. He would *not* stop you. He would take over. You think your family is ruthless? They must have taken classes from Gandalf, the old motherfucker." Pause. "Pipsqueak! What has gone into you? Swearing?" Morrie grinned. The love-birds blushed. Dwarves blush by their beards stiffening, since so little of their facial skin can be seen. Giggly's beard was like a steel brush. "I've grown, Morrie. /Faens kuse i rųddryppende drittfitte/ ---" "Point *taken*, if maturity is cued by adult cussing. Which it isn't, it takes more. What's wrong with Gandalf, that we didn't know of before?" Pipsqueak drew his breath, and let drive. Afterwards, as the three others stood fuming, he smiled to himself. /I am like a contagious virus against the wizard. Whenever I come across one of those present at Aruman's death, I make them remember like I do./ "Arwen!" Coldly: "Yes?" "Arwen. Do you still want to marry a king, or a queen?" "Yes." Aragon sighed. "Then you did right in ditching me. Gandalf has a plan. I serve in it. I'm confused. I'm tired of it. All this scheming and killing. Now he wants to restart the war between Gondor(tm) and Mordor. That's why he wants the Ring melted down, if you'll believe it. Arwen, that's not the price I want to pay for the throne. The price I want Gondor(tm) and its people to pay, I mean. Shitshitshit." He turned and left. Softly, Arwen called after him: "How much weight have you lost? I see you have lost some." "Then you see with sharp eyes," replied Aragon without turning back. "I outweigh one horse fewer than yesterday, that's all. My appetite is gone, and I don't much miss it." "Arwen!" Warmly: "Yes?" "I have thought about this. You want to be with me when I become queen?" "You will need me when you become queen." "Two queens in one hive is trouble. You, Arwen, cannot be the queen's consort and not in practice be queen yourself, that is evident." Pause. "Yes." Another pause. "We would always be fighting." One more pause. A grin. "And you would constantly lose." Coldly: "I might lose one fight. Then I should give an order, and lose no more fights against you." "So you choose between me and the rule of Gondor(tm), and you choose the rule? Sensible." "Exactly. Glad we see eye to eye. The last two nights were pleasant, but that is not enough." "Aragon,. my boy!" "Yes, Gandalf?" "You have lost weight. That is not good." "My knees are happy with it. So is Babar." "Then eat Babar. You must reach a /pondus/ worthy of a king." "I have weight worthy of a whole platoon of kings, and you can see it! A little more of this and I can outlard a whole division of lairds." Coldly: "Consider it an order." Even more coldly: "Give it to yourself. The order for food. *You* be king!" "Aragon!" But Aragon had turned and was leaving. Gandalf tried to rush past him and face him down, but the walk around proved too far. Then he grabbed Aragon by the shoulder to force the fat man to turn back and face him. He might as well have tried to turn a small planet. From beyond the bulk before him he heard Aragon's voice: "Maybe I'm a toon too. A normal mortal could not be so fat and live." Then, in a brighter voice: "And you have not enough eraser to be a threat to *me*." "Aragon! Hey, Aragon, wait!" "Why?" Arwen was far more agile than Gandalf. She could leap onto the roof of a bus, and often had. Twice in London. She could even leap onto Aragon, and she did now. For a moment she sat cross-legged on his chest. It was like sitting on the mother of all water-beds. "Stand still!" Then she jumped down on the street and fixed him with her gaze. "Do you remember the death of Aruman?" "No. Hm. No ---" "Think back on that day. Think hard." "What day?" "The day at Isengard, when Gandalf spoke with Aruman." "I remember that day." Pause. "Sort of. That's a funny look in your eyes. I haven't seen it since those distant days when you loved me." "There is something inside that mountain of butter that I still love. Now, if that means anything to you, remember the day at Isengard. Think hard. I have. It pained me, and I suppose it will give you a splitting headache as well ---" "I'll get a splitting headache, or just a split head, if I don't do as you ---" "/No joking/, Aragon! Just do as I say! Please!" "Please? From you? Then this must be important indeed!" "It is." Aragon stood still. He even ceased to wobble after a while. Then he clasped Endurit. "There is more," said Arwen. "I have it from Pipsqueak." She explained. Aragon drew Endurit. "I'll trim down. The lard from me by dieting and the lard from a certain wizard with Endurit!" "Excellent. But first things first. I have a plan. I must leave you for a while, east." "I think we should simply cut Gandalf's head off. But wait. I need to trim down before I'm physically fit for it. One reason why he wants me to be fat, I think. I bet it's his fault. At any rate, he has many weapons. A direct assault on him may end in disaster." "It is not Gandalf's fault that you are so fat, nor your own. He just took advantage of it. But pretend that you don't know these things. Play along. I have a plan for Gandalf too." She laughed, and for a moment her eyes shone with an oily green. And so the plans of the forces of Good and the forces of Shady but Basically Decent (Plus Morrie) ripened. Ariellė was contacted, and all knowledge shared with her. With the upcoming peace-conference with Sauron and Arwen hunting east for the Ring, the future looked bright. Even Morrie, who knew a powerful rival when he saw one, was on the anti-Gandalf team. Also he realized now that it was probably not Aruman who had supplied Lotho with the machine guns that the Sackville-Bagginses had killed Norbert and Clovis with, but Gandalf. Yet the plots and schemes of Mesprendeur Valóma the Crafty were not so easily defeated. Many were his contacts in the east. Many were the flokarinos that he sent secretly east as bribes. Many were the blackmailing letters that went the same way. He may have lost part of his power in the City, and more of it than he realized, yet he was not impotent - save perhaps in the biological sense. Two days later came the message from Mordor that there would be no peace. Whether Sauron himself sent the message or someone else did without his knowledge and consent this chapter does not tell, though a hint will be provided. In any event Ariellė's plan for a peace conference at the Gates of Mordor was shattered. The Armies of the West prepared for war. Gandalf led the War Council. It was very short: "We shall march to the Black Gate. There we shall hold Ariellė's peace conference. We shall make peace, and we shall make it with our blades! Let Ariellė stay home and do her knitting! King Aragon shall lead us." Pipsqueak also had to go, by Gandalf's order. Gandalf did not know that Pipsqueak's reluctance was feigned: ere she left, Arwen had told him that she had a plan for the disposal of the wizard, and he must be present when it came to fruition. Aragon, hearing Pipsqueak's voice, turned in surprise. He recognized it easily, but it was not as squeaky as it had been. "Aragon, why is this chapter called 'The Back Orifice Opens'?" Aragon patted his sword. "We intend to hack our way through the gate." Then he looked up, puzzled at the groans of the readers. As the armies made ready to leave the City, Aragon tried to mount Babar the Mūmak. But he could not. The Mūmak knelt down, but with Aragon on its shoulders it could not rise. Nor could there be found or swiftly constructed a scaffolding that would support Aragon as he mounted the standing Mūmak. "It was an ill wind that brought me this fate. Long have I been tired of being this huge. Well can I understand my Arwen when she says that if I don't lose a landslide of stone she will uproot a certain grove of turnips." The others looked at him strangely at this. Then he sighed. "I did ask the author of this chapter to do some voodoo to trim me down fast. The dumb shite just mumbled something about having been burned on drastic alterations in a previous chapter." Then he drew his sword, with customary difficulty: "You shall not be sheathed again until I can see my toes!" "Until you are slim again to be able to," came the snicker from Morrie. "That too," replied Aragon. "Be careful how you tease me, mobster. I can roll onto you. I may be too soft to crush you, though my weight is easily mastodontic enough, but I may smother you." He smiled. He knew that he was on the right path: even the day before, he had weighed more than Babar. Now he did not. He reached out and down and patted Morrie on the shoulder. A little later the Armies of the West began their eastward march, Babar happily carrying no weight beyond his own. The last that Pipsqueak saw of Morrie's face was eyes brimming with uncharacteristic tears. This was some moments after Aragon had patted his shoulder. The Mobster was clutching something beneath his tunic, though so innocuously that only the experienced eye of his younger cousin noticed. Pipsqueak was absolutely befuddled. He had never ever seen his morose cousin weep before, out of courtrooms. He could guess nothing, no parting gift of any kind, that Aragon would have given Morrie, let alone one that could have moved him in any way whatsoever. Line after line they went, infantry of Gondor(tm) and cavalry of Rohan. This early on the march the moods were high, and the banter between the two armies friendly. "Hey, why are you wearing skirts, you women?" "At least we're wearing *something* below the waistline. Some of you streakers don't!" They made their first night-camp some distance past Disgiliath. Some stragglers, eager to explore the decrepit old city of the Atlanteans, came in late and were caned. Pipsqueak recognized the canes and shuddered. "/Hey/", cried out Aragon in the evening murk. "/Where are those two bottles of Westfarthing Chinook I had? I know I had them before we left the city!/" Pipsqueak wondered at this for a moment, trying to put two and two together. Then he smiled. /Four!/ He was no longer befuddled. It was near the end of the second day of their march from the Cross-roads that they first met any offer of action. For a small orc-village had been spotted by the scouts a few miles upland of the Road. Gandalf at once gave his orders. Six hundred men separated from the main body of the army and followed the wizard through the thickets, east and up. "Hey, come here, lad!" he cried to Pipsqueak. "Your training isn't ended yet!" The hobbit reluctantly followed. From a small plastic bag extracted from his extensive clothing Gandalf took a pinch of dust and deftly inhaled it. Pipsqueak recognized the bag and the dust. /He *still* has some of the Vala dust from Charadhras? Or has the old snorter replenished it? I wish I hadn't let the others find out about it when Morrie found it./ The going was swifter than might be expected in a landscape like this: jungle, or almost so. But the scouts knew their business. They found the swiftest way, winding round knolls, wading up creeks. Twice they detoured around patches of leafless forest and withered bushes of some kind. "/Agent Orange or something like it,/" Pipsqueak overheard a soldier explain to another. "/Against the coca fields. We don't want to pass through *there*!/" "/Right. Round and up./" After an hour and a half of careful march through the uplands of Ethelien they arrived at the village. The orcs were going about their business, making ready for the night. "/This is not what I expected,/" Pipsqueak thought. "/These are mostly women and children. I didn't know that orcs *had* women and children. Where are their weapons? I see one guy lugging around a bow and a quiver. Why is that female caressing its imp?/" From talk that he overheard he realized that some of the Gondorian(tm) soldiers were equally baffled. Yet they surrounded the village quietly. Many of them seemed to know their business well. Pipsqueak grew more and more uneasy. "Lock and load," whispered Gandalf. "What, our swords?" came hushed replies. "CHAAARGE!" rang Gandalf's cry. There was a great flapping noise in the nearest trees; some leaves and feathers came drifting down. The Gondorians(tm) poured their arrows into the village like a dark hail, then drew their swords and ran forward, converging. Two of the Gondorians(tm) fell with sudden shafts sticking from their chests. Some more fell to their own men's mis-aimed arrows. But to the orcs it was no use. The three orc-men who had weapons soon looked like sliced hedgehogs. Then the slaughter began in earnest. When afterwards Pipsqueak followed the men back to the Road, not one orc remained alive behind them. But Gandalf's eyes were shining with an ecstatic light. We shall mercifully pass the gruesome details by, save one happenstance. One scene burned itself into Pipsqueak's memory. It was a young orc-boy and an orc-girl, apparently in their late teens. They stood hand in hand, staring wide-eyed at the attackers. They made no attempt to escape or defend themselves: it was no use, and they knew. "Hey you!" cried Gandalf to one of the Gondorians(tm). "Grease those two, you moron!" "No... no..." mumbled the soldier. Pipsqueak saw that he was weeping soundlessly. There was a broad smear of blood near the point his long sword. An orc-child lay some feet behind him, neck almost severed. The child's dead hand was still clutching a small stone. "Aah, spineless swine!" cried Gandalf. He strode three long steps and pushed the soldier violently to the ground. Then he pointed his hand at the orc-pair. /Zap. Zap./ The girl fell dead, then the boy, each with a smouldering hole in the chest: Pipsqueak was off fried bacon for months. Gandalf started flinging his evil lightnings at the orc-children. /Zap Zap Zap./ "Get the goblin-imps too!" he cried in a great voice, insane and happy. "That race cannot be redeemed! /Arbeit macht frei! Nits make lice!/" As the party returned to the main body of the army, there were many howls of protest: not all the soldiers of Gondor(tm) and Rohan enjoyed the sight of orc-heads on the tips of the spears of some of the returning men. Some of these heads had belonged to orc-children. As Pipsqueak tried to fall asleep, he overheard the celebration of that minority of the Gondorian(tm) soldiers who had enjoyed their little evening out. They were drinking heavily, and boasting. /I was at Srebrenica. This was better. We got them all this time. Gandy's not like that wimp Mladic./ /Hey, I was at Tuol Sleng. That was better. We got thousands. Had time to play, too./ /Can't beat Auschwitz, you amateurs!/ /Heh heh, does what I did in Rwanda count?/ /Urg, we wuz too drunked up at Sand Creek. Good thing I wuz sober this time./ /You aren't so sober now, are ye?/ /Heh heh heh./ /Attaboy./ /Heh heh heh heh./ /...Calley, you amateur.../ /...Sabra, Shatila.../ /...wading in gore.../ /...what, can'tcha bend your knee?/ /...heh heh heh heh.../ /...Nanjing.../ /...Belgian Congo.../ /...more than threescore stubborn monks hewn down on the shore.../ /...you are *old*, Viking.../ /...ten captured Chinese soldiers each of us, to kill as we pleased.../ /...Jerusalem.../ The night that followed, and the night after that, were the blackest and most painful thus far in Pipsqueak's short life. These conversations that he overheard did not improve matters. The night after the massacre at the orc-village Pipsqueak had a strange dream. He dreamt that he fell awake. He could remember no details. All that he remembered when he awoke from his dream was having been awake, and that he hadn't enjoyed it. Upon the sixth day from Minas Tirith(tm) they came at last to the end of the living lands. Only parking lots and malls stretched before them, league upon ugly league. At this horror some of the host were unmanned, already sick to the hearts with the massacre of the orc-village. Aragon looked at them, and there was pity and understanding in his eyes. These were young men from Rohan, from Westfold far away, or husbandmen from Lotstarch. They were not made for the slaughter that Gandalf had led them into. Nor was he, for that matter. He quailed at the thought of looking Arwen in the eyes. "Go!" said Aragon. "But keep what honour you may, and do not run! March instead quietly back to Minas Tirith(tm), and prepare your reports. There will be investigations following this campaign." "Hah!" cried Gandalf. "Wimps! No guts for a little bloodshed in a noble cause! Good riddance to maggots! Yaaah!" Slowly the reduced army marched northwards towards the gate. Or slowly may not be the proper word: Pipsqueak felt as if wading through treacle. He could walk ten painful steps forwards and andvance only a few inches. The soldiers around him apparently experienced the same, by the talk that he overheard. The army made their last camp on the march, north and a little west of the Black Gate. No enemies were to be seen, yet fear lay heavy on most of the soldiers. The treacle became thicker. Suddenly Pipsqueak realized that he was no longer in the camp. He stood much closer to the Black Gate, together with Gandalf, Aragon, Giggly, Lego-lass, Eonard, Dr. Imrahil, Armadillo and a few others whom he could not name because the lazy author of this chapter could not be bothered to look them up. Without needing to be told, he knew that a parley was about to be held. A man, richly dressed, appeared on the wall that arched above the gate. Presenting his left side briefly to the delegates of the West, he showed them his empty scabbard in token of peace. The device of his shield was the text "Mouth of Tauron". Then he spoke. His voice was melodious. "Well? Why do you disturb us further? Will you give us no peace by night or day?" Its tone was that of a kindly heart aggrieved by injuries undeserved. "But come now," the voice continued. "Some of you at least we know by name. Gandalf we know too well to have much hope that he seeketh counsel here, nor forgiveness. But thou, Aragon, lord of the Rangers of the North, art declared by thy well-worn travel clothes, and more by the noble countenance of thy forefathers. Though thy waistline surprises us. Why hast thou not come before, and as a friend? Much have we desired to see thee, especially now, to save thee from the unwise and evil counsels that beset thee! Is it yet too late? Despite the injuries that have been done to our country - in which, alas! thou hast had some part - still my lord would save thee, and hope to keep thee from the ruin which draws closer. Indeed he is among the few, though not the only one, who has resorted from scheming and insults to influence thee." Aragon opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. He looked deep into the eyes of the Mouth standing above him, and then to Gandalf at his side; and he seemed to hesitate. There was a silence. It was Gandalf who broke it suddenly. "The words of this messenger stand on their heads. But in the language of Mordor, help means ruin and culture means glitz and clichés, that much is clear." "Peace!" said the Mouth. "I do not yet speak to thee, traitor to both sides. Pray allow me first to speak to the Ranger, whom my lord has hopes for. "What hast thou to say, Ranger of the North? Wilt thou have peace with my lord, and all the aid that his knowledge, founded in long years, can bring? Shall we make our counsels together against evil days, and repair our injuries with such good will as we may find? Shall we have peace, thou and we? It is ours to command." "I will have peace," Aragon answered at last, thickly and with an effort. All the Gondorians(tm) present cried out gladly, till Gandalf lifted his hand. "Yes, the King will have peace," he said, "he will have peace, when you and your master and all your works have perished." Suddenly Aragon noticed a very large bottle of ink eraser in the wizard's hand, though only he realized its significance. As the flabbergasted man on the wall above turned his gaze upon him, he only looked down and nodded mutely. --- Pipsqueak's mind worked slowly and labouriously. The treacle seemed to have reached his brain, impeding no longer only his physical progress. He had a strong sense of deja vu, but he couldn't place it --- "You are a liar, Mouth of Sauron!" continued Gandalf. "You speak of peace. You hold out your hand to us, and I for one see only a finger on the claw of Mordor. Cold and cruel! What will you say of your armies besieging Minas Tirith(tm), and the incendiary bombs showering the city? When your master hangs from a gibbet for the sport of his own crows will Gondor(tm) have peace with Mordor!" The Mouth looked puzzled. "Our armies besieging the City of Gondor(tm)? We know of that attack, but apart from those renegade Nazdaq thou mayst be certain that Mordor had nothing to do with it. Tanks and automatic weapons were used in that attack, weren't they? Mordor has very few such weapons, and thou knowest this." "Yeah right. And where did those armies come from then?" sneered Gandalf. "Tell thou us," replied the Mouth. "Yet we have our suspicions. The Turquoise Wizards that thou broughtest east, Attila and Pinafore, are still active. Running guns, among other things. And we know that the Nazdaq had dealings with them." Aragon looked up. Gandalf moved the bottle of eraser menacingly. "Liar," he said simply. "We will listen no more to your lies." With that he calmly reached into his bag --- --- Pipsqueak's sense of deja vu increased sharply --- --- and produced a whip of many thongs. Lashing them skywards, he caught the Mouth of Sauron around the knees. Then he pulled, and the Mouth fell, crashing on the stone flags before his own master's gates. As the gaudily dressed man died, Gandalf casually threw a smoke grenade at him. The smoke covered him completely. At the same time, a great cry of rage rose behind the wall. Then a breeze wafted the smoke towards the west. The edge of the smoke cloud covered the delegation of the West briefly, and Pipsqueak distinctly felt a fresh and pleasant fragrance that he did not associate with Gandalf's smoke grenades. It could have been the Mouth's perfume. Then they had to retreat rapidly from the gates, as the host of Mordor poured out to avenge the Mouth of Sauron and the indignity of murdering their envoy at a parley. Blades flashed brightly in a bloody melee. Shafts fell like fletched sleet. Pikes pumped like pistons, drawing water that was red. Gandalf strode foremost in the army of the West, lightning after lightning lashing out from his right hand. Pipsqueak, who had often wondered at this power of the wizard, looked closer. /He had rockets before. But what's a bloody Star Wars prop doing in *this* world?/ In the front line of the army of the West now stood Pipsqueak, and he didn't like it. He was no coward, not now, but he saw men falling on both sides, and to his mind came images of widows and orphans. He must put a stop to this madness. He drew his trusty old flintlock pistol. He did not know whence it suddenly came; it was there, perfectly naturally. He could not remember using it before, but he could remember that he had used it before. Pointing it skyward, he discharged it. /Bang!/ There was no recoil, and very little gunsmoke, but he accepted this as perfectly natural. "Stoooop!" he cried. The nearest men glanced briefly at him. That was all. Pipsqueak reached hurriedly for more powder, wadding and a new ball. Then: /What am I doing? If this is a dream, I have total control. I can do anything I want. If I want to make it so that I have already reloaded my flintlock, it will be loaded./ Without bothering to reload the old museum piece, he fixed its barrel between his ankles and drew the hammer back with some difficulty. Pointing it skyward again, he fired. /Bang!/ "Stoooop!" The nearest men glanced briefly at him. He put the pistol back in his belt, whence it disappeared without making its disappearance noticed. Perhaps a ruse would help. "This is Mom talking to you! You boys stop this ruckus this instant, or you'll be grounded for a year! You're in serious trouble already, d'you hear?" The men of the opposing armies did not hear. An arrow, one of the thousands raining from both sides, came straight towards Pipsqueak's face. It parted the hair on his helmetless head as he ducked, swiftly as the orc-chieftain in Moria in the original text. He gave up. /Let them fight, if they want to fight. When does Arwen's plan turn up?/ Then the storyline changed abruptly again. Some of the readers pricked up their ears at that, before remembering that this is a written text; most shook their heads sighing. The cry rang out in many voices: "Dragons are coming, dragons are coming!" The two armies stopped dead, both the living and those who were already bleeding quietly on the tarmac. The soldiers gaped up at the sky, where dozens of huge shapes sped down towards them, mighty serpents with wings, black or brown contrails. Only Gandalf remained oblivious of them. /Zap, zap, zap/ went the blaster in his hand. Easterlings and Southrons continued to fall. Then Pipsqueak saw two dragons whom he thought that he recognized. /Orm Embar and Yevaud!/ Pipsqueak's mind was made up. The slaughter must be stopped, and now he knew how to stop it. He did not know what a flight of dragons of Earthsea were doing in Muddle-earth, but he had an idea of how to make use of these two. He had never thought that being a Le Guin fan would come of use. /Were these Arwen's plan? She had noticed him reading the Earthsea books in Minas Tirith(tm) and had nodded approvingly./ He cried their Names. His voice was little and the noise in the sky was grown great, but the dragons of Earthsea have keen ears. They can hear the grass grow, and they can hear it on the next island on a stormy day, or so it is said. With an air of surprised reluctance the pair arrested their rushing swoop towards the thousands of men on the ground. Pipsqueak cried to them again, remembering not to look into their oily green eyes. "Orm Embar and Yevaud! Rid me of that wizard, then of yourselves!" He pointed. At once the two dragons turned their attention to Gandalf. These were not dragons of Muddle-earth, like Smaug and Ancalagon that were no more. A dragon of Earthsea must obey one command from one who speaks his true name; but the first part of this command was one that pleased them. Dragons of many western writers enjoy toying with flatlanders, these absurd and amusing little bipeds that cannot fly. Le Guin's dragons of Earthsea are not among the exceptions. Pipsqueak knew these things well. "You too, Kalessin! No man-baiting today!" Perhaps the dragons thought him more than a nervous hobbit with big front teeth. In their experience it was mages who had powers such as being able to hover two inches above the ground. Kalessin did not seem to obey, though, merely hovering back and watching: amused, perhaps. /Kalessin is always amused, I think, even in anger. It must be nice./ It was then that Pipsqueak wondered how he was able to command dragons who spoke (or bothered to speak) only the Old Speech of Earthsea, when he spoke in Westron of Muddle-earth. /Author's prerogative, perhaps. There are inconsistencies enough in this dream. Now get back to the main action, Pip*kin*!/ /Zap, zap/ went the mad wizard's blaster. /Argh, argh/ went the Easterlings and the Southrons, one by one by one. Then the wizard went /squawk/ as Orm Embar grabbed him with the claws of his powerful forelegs. Although Gandalf was nearly six feet tall and after his tussle with Forlong was grown nearly as wide across the waist, the dragon had no trouble tossing the terminally surprised ball of lard high into the air. The blaster separated from his hand and took its own trajectory through the lower atmosphere of Muddle-earth, until it was destroyed in a blinding flash by a jet of pale blue flame from Kalessin's mouth. There were shock diamonds in that jet, and the dragon sailed half his (or was it her?) own length up and backwards, trailing yellow smoke. Gandalf reached the top of his arc. His mouth grew round and his eyes wide open, but he had stopped squawking. Then Yevaud's mighty tail swung round, thicker near the middle than a man is tall yet faster than a whiplash. Yellow smoke streamed thick from his nostrils. Dragons of Earthsea may yield one mastery to one who speaks their true names, but they will choose the manner so as to best serve (or amuse) themselves. >CRACK< Pipsqueak saw that he had accomplished more than he had purposed. As one the dragons abandoned their play. With the ancient yet vigorous Kalessin in the lead they pursued instead the rapidly receding wizard towards the flaming Mt. Viagra in the far distance. A baseball cap, to Pipsqueak like a large tent, landed on a broken patch of tarmac some distance from him before dissolving back into nothingness. The flight of the dragons, both the arrival and the departure, caused some panic in both armies. Aragon did not panic, but Babar did. Rising on his hind legs, he trumpeted with fear, and Aragon fell to the ground. At that impact, the ground shook. Shopping malls slid and fell, roofs caving in. A great smoke rose. Pipsqueak rejoiced at this sight. The collapse of the two Towers of the Teeth, however, caused him a great unease, though he did not know why. Aragon got back on his feet. Each of his footsteps was a small aftershock. "That was a bad fall, Pipsqueak," he said. "Imagine how bad it would have been but a week or two ago." The sun shone suddenly warm and brightly, though it had not been overcast before. Pipsqueak found himself knee-deep in a basin of warm and pleasant water. It had apparently once been a fountain near the gardening section of an ancient shopping-mall that was still standing, though the last paying customer must have left through the now broken automatic sliding doors when Methusalah wore nappies, or earlier. Pipsqueak's trousers might be drenched, but he felt as if wearing only bathing trunks, and he was: quite an unusual attire for hobbits. This made him feel rather bashful before the eyes of so many, but otherwise he was happier than he could remember ever having been. There was a hush. No sword was raised, though many were unsheathed; no shaft was speeding, though many were on the bowstrings. At this point Pipsqueak noticed that his pistol was gone. It did not worry him. The two armies stood panting. Then a Southron king strode forward, tall and broad-shouldered. He was coal black, dreadlocks inlaid with gold thread reaching almost to his waist. His right arm was missing; only a scorched stump stood out from the shoulder. He was bleeding from many small cuts on the left side of his body. He raised his remaining hand in a gesture of peace, and stopped a few paces before Aragon. He cast a swift glance at Pipsqueak and smiled a little. Aragon *was* grown slimmer. He sheathed his sword. It needed no wiping first: there was no blood on it. Then the Southron spoke. "Now that that meddlesome menace Inkįnush is gone, can we be friends, man? Can we have a little peace again?" The sun continued to shine without malice. End of Book V. =================================================== So Gandalf has finally gotten his comeuppance, although he is probably not dead. He could easily be, of course, but in this etext don't wager your liver on it. And so Boromir is revealed as a toon, the bastard son possibly of Roger Rabbit. And Aragon may be one too. Or a living man thinking that he is a toon. I have not intended the last part of the chapter to be an actual dream of Pipsqueak's. Rather it is his actual experience, but with very dreamlike qualities, to a large part taken or inspired from dreams that I have dreamt. Of course, authors of later chapters may decide that he was dreaming after all, and substitute their own preferred version of the events before Morannon. Arwen adresses Pipsqueak as "Pitya". This is a Quenya adjective, I believe, meaning "little", and by Arwen used as a noun: "Little one." Also I have called Gandalf "Valóma", which I hope is valid Quenya for "Powerful Voice". I did email David Salo for advice, but RL seems to have abducted him for a while, or I used the wrong email address. "Mouth of Tauron" is not a typo. I know that "taura" is a Quenya adjective meaning "mighty", and "Tauron" may therefore be dog-Quenya for "Mighty one": preferrable to "Sauron" which means "The Abhorred", to the character in question. Sauron's role is ambiguous. Was the Mouth sincere when he declared his master's innocence in the attack on Gondor(tm)? Did Gandalf arrange Mordor's war declaration without Sauron's knowledge and consent? I think I have left many loose ends for later authors to have their fun with. Jon L. Beck.