A/N This peculiar little story came to me while walking across the
quadrangle at an ungodly hour this morning. It's essentially 'LoTR meets
Blackadder' and for those who've seen Blackadder, it's based on the episode
'The Queen of Spain's Beard'. For those who haven't, quick explanation:
Blackadder = historical comedy with Rowan Atkinson who plays Prince Edmund,
known as 'The Black Adder', younger and slimier son of King Richard.
Edmund has a perfect older brother Harry who is the apple of his father's
eye, but Richard can't even remember Edmund's name…you see the connection
here…anyway please review ;-) Many lines are taken directly, or
paraphrased, from Blackadder. Some lines have notes at the end giving the
original names ;-)
Disclaimer: No-one in this fic belongs to me. Characters, locations, situations, and much of the dialogue belong to either the great Tolkien or the great Ben Elton/Rowan Atkinson/BBC.
A young messenger flew through the streets of Minas Tirith, a rolled up parchment in his hand and his eyes wide with terror. For he carried a message for the Steward of Gondor, Denethor, who was notoriously bad tempered, and it was rumoured this morning that the Steward had not received his customary porridge at breakfast.
The messenger - let's call him Dave - arrived at his destination, pelted along endless corridors to the war room, and flung open the door. The Steward and several lackeys were kneeling on the floor, putting model horses in place on an enormous map.
"My Lord, news!" Cried Dave.
"What, have the Mirkwood elves joined forces with Saruman, thus dooming the free peoples of Middle Earth to endless torment and slavery?"
"Er…no, my Lord."
"Then, it must be that the forces of the Enemy have defeated the Riders of Rohan, necessitating an immediate dispatch of Gondor's army to the north!"
"Er…no, my Lord."
"Well, what then?" Snapped Denethor, waving his arms in frustration. Dave waved back.
"My Lord, the King of the Mark has decided that Gondor is full of whinging pups with less fighting skills than a badger, and has refused to assist us in our war against the Enemy."
"Damnation!" Roared Denethor. He turned feverishly to his maps. "This requires the fine art of diplomacy. Beregond, go and kill the King of the Mark immediately."
"May I suggest an alternative, my Lord?" Asked Beregond politely.
"Well?" The Steward replied with suspicion.
"Often the fine art of diplomacy can be accomplished using - well - diplomacy. My suggestion is this: if your son was to marry the daughter of Theoden, relations would be good between the factions."
"Pah! He has no daughter."
"The lady Eowyn is to him as a daughter, my Lord." Denethor considered this.
"But if it fails, we kill him afterwards, yes?"
"As you wish, my Lord."
"Very well. Messenger! Go forth and bring my son to me!" But there was no need, for at that moment Boromir arrived of his own free will and by complete coincidence.
"My Lord, news!" Said Dave unto him immediately.
"Will you get away from me!" Snapped Boromir irritably. Denethor pounced on the opening.
"Ah, my son. Now, Boromir, tell me what you know about diplomacy."
"Very little, father," said Boromir, "but I would like to know." The little creep.
"Well, boy, diplomacy starts *here*." And he pointed to Boromir's groin. The younger man frowned.
"There? I can't imagine anything of interest down there."
"Well…what's this for?" Asked Denethor, patiently, thrusting a hand inside his son's trousers. Boromir winced.
"Er…a couple of things."
"Very good! And one of them is…?"
"Well - best not mentioned, really."
"Excellent! And the other is fornication. And without fornication, there is no marriage, and without marriage, there is no diplomacy. Do you understand, my boy?"
"Oh, yes, father!" Denethor was pleased. It was a red letter day indeed for Gondor when the heir of the Steward understood something at the first attempt.
"And that is why," Denethor went on, "you are to be married to the shield- maiden Eowyn[1]." There was a significant pause. Boromir shifted uncomfortably.
"I am afraid, father, that that is impossible."
Denethor was outraged.
"What?" He roared. "Why, boy?"
"Because," said Boromir, holding his head high, "I am betrothed already." A gasp went up from the lackeys. Denethor went an interesting shade of purple.
"What did you say?" He hissed, and before Boromir could reply, "who to?"
The heir of Gondor pulled out a long piece of parchment, cleared his throat, and read,
"Berrian of Dunland, Salvia of Arnor, Julivia of Hobbiton,, Celebaria of Rivendell, Bernard of Isengard…I beg your pardon, that should be *Bertha* of Isengard…and Jeremy of Mirkwood[2]." There was another pregnant pause. Denethor looked furious and crestfallen. Boromir shrugged apologetically, then inspiration struck. The light of intelligence dawned in his eyes (several lackeys fainted from the sight).
"You do have…another son, father."
"Of course!" Exclaimed Denethor. "The neurotic one…whatsisname…Felicity[3]!"
"Er - Faramir, my Lord." Corrected Beregond.
"Yes, of course, of course. Well, that's settled, then. Flora can marry Eowyn."
"Hurrah!" The lackeys roared in approval. The mood in the war room was very jocular from then on until…
"My Lord, news!" Dave exclaimed, rushing in.
"Well?" Demanded Denethor.
"The riders of Rohan have the Uruk-hai on the run."
"Excellent!"
"Hurrah!" There was much jubilation.
"My Lord, news!"
"Yes?"
"Saruman has gone into hiding."
"Excellent!"
"Hurrah!" More jubilation.
"My lord, news!"
"Go on."
"Eomer son of Eomund is dead[4]." Sudden silence filled the room. Denethor scowled.
"I like not this news. Bring me some other news."
"My Lord?"
"I like not this news! Bring me other news!"
"My Lord, news!"
"What is it?"
"Eomer son of Eomund is *not* dead!"
"Excellent"
"Hurrah!"
Meanwhile, in his rooms in another part of the yet-to-be-burnt down House of Hurin, Faramir was engaged in conversation with his companions and servants, the Hobbits Pippin and Merry[5].
"What's that on your neck, My Lord?" Pippin was asking curiously.
"What? Oh, they're love bites, actually."
"Look more like dog bites to me." Merry put in.
"She was very beautiful, actually!" Snarled Faramir.
"What, wet nose, silky fur…"
"She was a woman! A *woman*!"
"You know," remarked Merry, "they *do* look a bit like dog bites.."
"All right!" Howled Faramir in frustration. "All right, they're dog bites. A girl pushed me off a rampart because she thought I was so horrendously unattractive and I got bitten by a bloody great dog. Satisfied?"
Pippin shrugged. "Fair enough, my Lord. Of course, Boromir gets all the girls." Said the diplomatic Hobbit. A knock at the door saved him from Faramir's wrath.
"My Lord, news!"
"Hello, Dave, what news?"
"You are to be married to Eowyn of the Rohirrim!" Faramir turned in excitement to the Hobbits.
"Eowyn! I've never seen her but she must be very beautiful…this is my lucky day, boys!"
A grand reception was held in the Citadel a week later, with all the important dignitaries of Middle Earth (including Boromir's numerous fiancees) in attendance. Faramir, Pippin and Merry stood in the Great Hall awaiting the arrival of the Lady Eowyn. Boromir wandered over with a stunningly beautiful Elven woman.
"Ah, Faramir, have you met Celebaria?"
"Hello, Celebaria."
"I've jotted down some suggestions for what you might say to Eowyn, you know, to break the ice." Boromir continued, as the Hobbits stared open- mouthed at the elf maiden.
"Oh, thanks very much." Faramir accepted a sheet of paper on which was written 'welcome to Minas Tirith. I hope you find the security measures to your satisfaction[6].'
"Well, must be off." Said Boromir cheerfully, and departed with Celebaria in tow.
"Did you ever see anyone so seething with jealousy, my Lord?" Hissed Pip to Faramir. "If he goes on like that, he'll turn into a seethe. Eowyn must be beautiful indeed!"
Faramir nodded vigorously and grinned in expectation. As he was pulling out a mirror to check his appearance, however, an enormous swordsman, presumably one of Boromir's men, stalked up to him. Faramir scowled. The last thing he wanted while waiting for his betrothed was a six-feet-ten twenty stone soldier hanging about the place.
"Good afternoon, my Lord." Growled the soldier in a deep bass. Faramir scowled.
"Yes, yes, hello, do you mind, I'm waiting for the most beautiful woman in Middle-Earth, my fiancee, to arrive." To Faramir's astonishment the swordsman grabbed him by the head and kissed him.
"My love! My love!" He cried. Enraged, the Steward's younger son bopped the felon on the nose. The swordsman gave a cry. Boromir came running over to see what was happening.
"Aha!" He exclaimed. "I see you've met the Lady Eowyn already, Faramir…" with a shriek, the younger man leapt into his brother's arms. Eowyn beamed adoringly upon her fiancee.
"I am in love with you already…" she purred, or rather, growled. With another scream of horror Faramir bolted for the door, followed by his faithful Hobbits, leaving Boromir and Eowyn staring at each other.
"He's a little shy…" the Steward's heir explained. Eowyn sighed.
"Oh, how I love him…"
Back in his rooms, Faramir was barricading the door with every piece of furniture he could find.
"It won't keep her out forever, my Lord!" Pippin pointed out.
"I know, I know. Oh, my God, I'm dead."
"Not necessarily, my Lord." Pippin tapped his nose conspiratorially. "I have a cunning plan that just might get you out of this unhappy situation."
"Well?" Gasped Faramir eagerly. Pippin moved closer.
"Why not make the Lady Eowyn believe you prefer the company…of men?"
"So I do, Pip, so I do."
"No, my Lord…the *intimate* company of men." Faramir was shocked.
"What…you don't mean like…like the *Prince of Mirkwood[7]*?" He gasped.
"I mean *exactly* like the Prince of Mirkwood, My Lord."
"But he's…I mean…Legolas Greenleaf, Pippin, has been riding side-saddle since the First Age!"
"But who would marry the Prince of Mirkwood, my Lord?" Asked Pippin meaningfully. Light dawned.
"That's it! No one would marry the Prince of Mirkwood - except perhaps Haldir of Lothlorien[8]. Pippin, it's brilliant! What do I have to do?"
"Well, first we'll get you looking right. We just need something effeminate draped around your shoulders…"
"Any of the Mirkwood elves would do[9]." Said Faramir dryly.
Pippin soon had Faramir dressed appropriately. "Now all you need to do is practice with Merry." He said.
"Practice?"
"Yes, my Lord. You know, presentation. It's got to look genuine. Now you stand here my Lord, and Merry, just there. Now, Merry, Lord Faramir is going to try to make himself attractive to you."
"Eh?"
"You know, like the Prince of Mirkwood."
"Oh, right." The two faced one another awkwardly. Faramir made peculiar pouting movements with his lips.
"This isn't working…" muttered Pippin. "Hang on, I'll find some more stuff…" He trotted off. Faramir and Merry continued making the effort.
"Let's try a conversation." Suggested Merry. "Hello!" He falsettoed. " Have you heard? Lord Faramir's going to marry the Lady Eowyn!"
"No he bloody well isn't!" Cried Faramir, incensed, and leapt on Merry, throwing him face down on the floor and straddling him as he tried to choke the Hobbit. At that moment Pippin chose return.
"Yes!" He exclaimed. "That's much more like it…"
The plan was put into effect in the Great Hall that evening. Faramir, dressed as effeminately as possible, stood in plain view, with Pippin and Merry on either side of him, trying to look coquettish. Eowyn came striding through the doors.
"Here we go!" Hissed Pip. Eowyn , seeing her lover, burst into tears.
"It's working!" Faramir whispered, delighted. But Eowyn, to his horror, flung herself upon him.
"What a love this must be!" She cried. "That you dress like the Riders of Rohan to make me feel at home. What a love!" She kissed him passionately, and Faramir, squirming, pulled out of her iron grip long enough to hiss,
"I'll get you for this, Pippin!"
----------------------- [1] This was originally, of course, the Spanish Infanta.
[2] The end of the list originally contained Bernard (or Bertha) or Saxe- Coburg and Jeremy of Estonia.
[3] King Richard referred to Edmund variably as 'Enid' 'Edith' 'Osmund' and others.
[4] Originally 'The Earl of Wessex is dead'.
[5] Blackadder, of course, is attended by his servant Baldrick and Lord Percy, heir to the Duchy of Northumberland.
[6] Originally 'I hope you find the drains to your satisfaction'.
[7] Originally the Earl of Doncaster.
[8] Originally the Duke of Beaufort.
[9] Originally 'either of the Beaufort twins would do'.
Disclaimer: No-one in this fic belongs to me. Characters, locations, situations, and much of the dialogue belong to either the great Tolkien or the great Ben Elton/Rowan Atkinson/BBC.
A young messenger flew through the streets of Minas Tirith, a rolled up parchment in his hand and his eyes wide with terror. For he carried a message for the Steward of Gondor, Denethor, who was notoriously bad tempered, and it was rumoured this morning that the Steward had not received his customary porridge at breakfast.
The messenger - let's call him Dave - arrived at his destination, pelted along endless corridors to the war room, and flung open the door. The Steward and several lackeys were kneeling on the floor, putting model horses in place on an enormous map.
"My Lord, news!" Cried Dave.
"What, have the Mirkwood elves joined forces with Saruman, thus dooming the free peoples of Middle Earth to endless torment and slavery?"
"Er…no, my Lord."
"Then, it must be that the forces of the Enemy have defeated the Riders of Rohan, necessitating an immediate dispatch of Gondor's army to the north!"
"Er…no, my Lord."
"Well, what then?" Snapped Denethor, waving his arms in frustration. Dave waved back.
"My Lord, the King of the Mark has decided that Gondor is full of whinging pups with less fighting skills than a badger, and has refused to assist us in our war against the Enemy."
"Damnation!" Roared Denethor. He turned feverishly to his maps. "This requires the fine art of diplomacy. Beregond, go and kill the King of the Mark immediately."
"May I suggest an alternative, my Lord?" Asked Beregond politely.
"Well?" The Steward replied with suspicion.
"Often the fine art of diplomacy can be accomplished using - well - diplomacy. My suggestion is this: if your son was to marry the daughter of Theoden, relations would be good between the factions."
"Pah! He has no daughter."
"The lady Eowyn is to him as a daughter, my Lord." Denethor considered this.
"But if it fails, we kill him afterwards, yes?"
"As you wish, my Lord."
"Very well. Messenger! Go forth and bring my son to me!" But there was no need, for at that moment Boromir arrived of his own free will and by complete coincidence.
"My Lord, news!" Said Dave unto him immediately.
"Will you get away from me!" Snapped Boromir irritably. Denethor pounced on the opening.
"Ah, my son. Now, Boromir, tell me what you know about diplomacy."
"Very little, father," said Boromir, "but I would like to know." The little creep.
"Well, boy, diplomacy starts *here*." And he pointed to Boromir's groin. The younger man frowned.
"There? I can't imagine anything of interest down there."
"Well…what's this for?" Asked Denethor, patiently, thrusting a hand inside his son's trousers. Boromir winced.
"Er…a couple of things."
"Very good! And one of them is…?"
"Well - best not mentioned, really."
"Excellent! And the other is fornication. And without fornication, there is no marriage, and without marriage, there is no diplomacy. Do you understand, my boy?"
"Oh, yes, father!" Denethor was pleased. It was a red letter day indeed for Gondor when the heir of the Steward understood something at the first attempt.
"And that is why," Denethor went on, "you are to be married to the shield- maiden Eowyn[1]." There was a significant pause. Boromir shifted uncomfortably.
"I am afraid, father, that that is impossible."
Denethor was outraged.
"What?" He roared. "Why, boy?"
"Because," said Boromir, holding his head high, "I am betrothed already." A gasp went up from the lackeys. Denethor went an interesting shade of purple.
"What did you say?" He hissed, and before Boromir could reply, "who to?"
The heir of Gondor pulled out a long piece of parchment, cleared his throat, and read,
"Berrian of Dunland, Salvia of Arnor, Julivia of Hobbiton,, Celebaria of Rivendell, Bernard of Isengard…I beg your pardon, that should be *Bertha* of Isengard…and Jeremy of Mirkwood[2]." There was another pregnant pause. Denethor looked furious and crestfallen. Boromir shrugged apologetically, then inspiration struck. The light of intelligence dawned in his eyes (several lackeys fainted from the sight).
"You do have…another son, father."
"Of course!" Exclaimed Denethor. "The neurotic one…whatsisname…Felicity[3]!"
"Er - Faramir, my Lord." Corrected Beregond.
"Yes, of course, of course. Well, that's settled, then. Flora can marry Eowyn."
"Hurrah!" The lackeys roared in approval. The mood in the war room was very jocular from then on until…
"My Lord, news!" Dave exclaimed, rushing in.
"Well?" Demanded Denethor.
"The riders of Rohan have the Uruk-hai on the run."
"Excellent!"
"Hurrah!" There was much jubilation.
"My Lord, news!"
"Yes?"
"Saruman has gone into hiding."
"Excellent!"
"Hurrah!" More jubilation.
"My lord, news!"
"Go on."
"Eomer son of Eomund is dead[4]." Sudden silence filled the room. Denethor scowled.
"I like not this news. Bring me some other news."
"My Lord?"
"I like not this news! Bring me other news!"
"My Lord, news!"
"What is it?"
"Eomer son of Eomund is *not* dead!"
"Excellent"
"Hurrah!"
Meanwhile, in his rooms in another part of the yet-to-be-burnt down House of Hurin, Faramir was engaged in conversation with his companions and servants, the Hobbits Pippin and Merry[5].
"What's that on your neck, My Lord?" Pippin was asking curiously.
"What? Oh, they're love bites, actually."
"Look more like dog bites to me." Merry put in.
"She was very beautiful, actually!" Snarled Faramir.
"What, wet nose, silky fur…"
"She was a woman! A *woman*!"
"You know," remarked Merry, "they *do* look a bit like dog bites.."
"All right!" Howled Faramir in frustration. "All right, they're dog bites. A girl pushed me off a rampart because she thought I was so horrendously unattractive and I got bitten by a bloody great dog. Satisfied?"
Pippin shrugged. "Fair enough, my Lord. Of course, Boromir gets all the girls." Said the diplomatic Hobbit. A knock at the door saved him from Faramir's wrath.
"My Lord, news!"
"Hello, Dave, what news?"
"You are to be married to Eowyn of the Rohirrim!" Faramir turned in excitement to the Hobbits.
"Eowyn! I've never seen her but she must be very beautiful…this is my lucky day, boys!"
A grand reception was held in the Citadel a week later, with all the important dignitaries of Middle Earth (including Boromir's numerous fiancees) in attendance. Faramir, Pippin and Merry stood in the Great Hall awaiting the arrival of the Lady Eowyn. Boromir wandered over with a stunningly beautiful Elven woman.
"Ah, Faramir, have you met Celebaria?"
"Hello, Celebaria."
"I've jotted down some suggestions for what you might say to Eowyn, you know, to break the ice." Boromir continued, as the Hobbits stared open- mouthed at the elf maiden.
"Oh, thanks very much." Faramir accepted a sheet of paper on which was written 'welcome to Minas Tirith. I hope you find the security measures to your satisfaction[6].'
"Well, must be off." Said Boromir cheerfully, and departed with Celebaria in tow.
"Did you ever see anyone so seething with jealousy, my Lord?" Hissed Pip to Faramir. "If he goes on like that, he'll turn into a seethe. Eowyn must be beautiful indeed!"
Faramir nodded vigorously and grinned in expectation. As he was pulling out a mirror to check his appearance, however, an enormous swordsman, presumably one of Boromir's men, stalked up to him. Faramir scowled. The last thing he wanted while waiting for his betrothed was a six-feet-ten twenty stone soldier hanging about the place.
"Good afternoon, my Lord." Growled the soldier in a deep bass. Faramir scowled.
"Yes, yes, hello, do you mind, I'm waiting for the most beautiful woman in Middle-Earth, my fiancee, to arrive." To Faramir's astonishment the swordsman grabbed him by the head and kissed him.
"My love! My love!" He cried. Enraged, the Steward's younger son bopped the felon on the nose. The swordsman gave a cry. Boromir came running over to see what was happening.
"Aha!" He exclaimed. "I see you've met the Lady Eowyn already, Faramir…" with a shriek, the younger man leapt into his brother's arms. Eowyn beamed adoringly upon her fiancee.
"I am in love with you already…" she purred, or rather, growled. With another scream of horror Faramir bolted for the door, followed by his faithful Hobbits, leaving Boromir and Eowyn staring at each other.
"He's a little shy…" the Steward's heir explained. Eowyn sighed.
"Oh, how I love him…"
Back in his rooms, Faramir was barricading the door with every piece of furniture he could find.
"It won't keep her out forever, my Lord!" Pippin pointed out.
"I know, I know. Oh, my God, I'm dead."
"Not necessarily, my Lord." Pippin tapped his nose conspiratorially. "I have a cunning plan that just might get you out of this unhappy situation."
"Well?" Gasped Faramir eagerly. Pippin moved closer.
"Why not make the Lady Eowyn believe you prefer the company…of men?"
"So I do, Pip, so I do."
"No, my Lord…the *intimate* company of men." Faramir was shocked.
"What…you don't mean like…like the *Prince of Mirkwood[7]*?" He gasped.
"I mean *exactly* like the Prince of Mirkwood, My Lord."
"But he's…I mean…Legolas Greenleaf, Pippin, has been riding side-saddle since the First Age!"
"But who would marry the Prince of Mirkwood, my Lord?" Asked Pippin meaningfully. Light dawned.
"That's it! No one would marry the Prince of Mirkwood - except perhaps Haldir of Lothlorien[8]. Pippin, it's brilliant! What do I have to do?"
"Well, first we'll get you looking right. We just need something effeminate draped around your shoulders…"
"Any of the Mirkwood elves would do[9]." Said Faramir dryly.
Pippin soon had Faramir dressed appropriately. "Now all you need to do is practice with Merry." He said.
"Practice?"
"Yes, my Lord. You know, presentation. It's got to look genuine. Now you stand here my Lord, and Merry, just there. Now, Merry, Lord Faramir is going to try to make himself attractive to you."
"Eh?"
"You know, like the Prince of Mirkwood."
"Oh, right." The two faced one another awkwardly. Faramir made peculiar pouting movements with his lips.
"This isn't working…" muttered Pippin. "Hang on, I'll find some more stuff…" He trotted off. Faramir and Merry continued making the effort.
"Let's try a conversation." Suggested Merry. "Hello!" He falsettoed. " Have you heard? Lord Faramir's going to marry the Lady Eowyn!"
"No he bloody well isn't!" Cried Faramir, incensed, and leapt on Merry, throwing him face down on the floor and straddling him as he tried to choke the Hobbit. At that moment Pippin chose return.
"Yes!" He exclaimed. "That's much more like it…"
The plan was put into effect in the Great Hall that evening. Faramir, dressed as effeminately as possible, stood in plain view, with Pippin and Merry on either side of him, trying to look coquettish. Eowyn came striding through the doors.
"Here we go!" Hissed Pip. Eowyn , seeing her lover, burst into tears.
"It's working!" Faramir whispered, delighted. But Eowyn, to his horror, flung herself upon him.
"What a love this must be!" She cried. "That you dress like the Riders of Rohan to make me feel at home. What a love!" She kissed him passionately, and Faramir, squirming, pulled out of her iron grip long enough to hiss,
"I'll get you for this, Pippin!"
----------------------- [1] This was originally, of course, the Spanish Infanta.
[2] The end of the list originally contained Bernard (or Bertha) or Saxe- Coburg and Jeremy of Estonia.
[3] King Richard referred to Edmund variably as 'Enid' 'Edith' 'Osmund' and others.
[4] Originally 'The Earl of Wessex is dead'.
[5] Blackadder, of course, is attended by his servant Baldrick and Lord Percy, heir to the Duchy of Northumberland.
[6] Originally 'I hope you find the drains to your satisfaction'.
[7] Originally the Earl of Doncaster.
[8] Originally the Duke of Beaufort.
[9] Originally 'either of the Beaufort twins would do'.