Disclaimers: What, do you want a trivia question? Oh, fine then: Which of the following persons does not own LotR? A) Eggo Waffles, B) Eggo Waffles, C) Eggo Waffles, D) Eggo Waffles, or E) Eggo Waffles? (Hint: Pick C)

A/N: omg!111tank u 4 all teh culio reveiws!11111omg u rox mysoxx!11lol

(cough) Anyway… thanks for reading. Also, thanks to everybody who enlightened me on the origins of the fourth wall. We learn new things every day!

Also, about the whole "guess who?" thing—if there's a natural disaster, they do actually ask everyone who isn't evacuating to write their name on their arm in permanent marker. Freaky, huh? (I wrote "None of your business").

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"People of Rohan! We are Under Attack! This is not a drill! Do not panic! Listen closely! The proper Running Like Hooligans Away From Ravenous Wargs Procedure™ is to progress thus! All civilians are to position themselaaaaaaaarggghhhh!"

The premature termination of Háma's public safety broadcast was met with grief by some and relief by most others.

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Boromir, still somewhat under the weather as he was, felt rather lost amidst all the confusion.

Surrounded on all sides by sweaty horses, sweaty Riders, and sweaty Rohannic villagers that were so singularly dirty as to give Aragorn a run for his money, he craned his eyes for the sight of a familiar face. Legolas was at the head of the column, showing off his archery skills in the most appallingly ostentatious manner; Gimli's horse and its inebriated rider had galloped away to who-knows-where; and Aragorn was busy ralphing his guts into a nearby gorse bush, the sudden life-threatening turn of events having excited the overlarge helping of Éowyn's stew within his digestive system. Boromir mused to himself that this would have been an exceptionally convenient opportunity to put Aragorn out of commission for the throne, but presently decided that offing any man while his back was turned did not suit his warrior's scruples. Besides, there were children watching.

After a few moments of impassioned retching, the Ranger dashed back into the foray, wiping his mouth on his filthy sleeve. "Boromir!" he shouted at the Gondorian. "Where is our horse?"

"Our horse?"

"Yes. Our horse."

"Er… what horse?"

"Our horse!"

"Oh. That." Boromir paused. "We haven't got a horse."

Aragorn stared at him for a moment. Then, comprehension dawned in his eyes.

"Eru,you're right! Gah! See where venturing outside the bounds of canon has landed us!"

"I think that I can probably sympathize with that sentiment more thoroughly than anyone else on Arda," said Boromir pointedly, "but you just broke the fourth wall again."

"Oh, (censored)the fourth wall! That was so last chapter!" replied Aragorn dismissively. He cast his eyes around the chaotic scenery, the flippant expression he was wont to wear when conversing with Boromir fading away to be replaced by one of slight desperation. "What are going to do? Battle is at hand! We must have a horse! Sir! Sir!" He attempted to attract the attention of a nearby Rider. "Have you a spare horse?"

The Rider ignored him, jamming his helmet onto his head firmly and adjusting his reins. Aragorn trotted alongside him, waving his arms. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" When this produced no effect, he stamped his foot belligerently and cried, "The Lord of the Dúnedain would have your attention!"

"Piss off," grunted the Rider, and galloped away, leaving a thoroughly enraged Aragorn fuming in his wake. "Hria cuilë! Naneth gîn thia orch!" he bellowed at the retreating figure before trudging back over to Boromir's side. "Well, so much for that. Whatever will we do now?"

"Well, do we really need a horse?" said Boromir. "I mean, isn't running headlong into fully pitched battle against a hopeless number of heavily armed foes with only a sword and minimal body armor to our names sort of… well, sort of our trademark?"

"Yes," conceded Aragorn, "but that kind of heroism is much less impressive when you get mown down by one of your own side's warhorses ten seconds in."

"Too true." Boromir thought for a moment. "I suppose another diversion is in order?"

"Somehow, I think that yelling 'Nazgûl' in the middle of a skirmish with Wargs will breed a rather ill effect," said Aragorn.

"I have a better idea." And, so saying, Boromir reached for his hip, where hung the Horn of Gondor. Lifting the silver mouthpiece to his lips, he blew a long low note, proud and poignant and almost mournful in its resonance, evoking thoughts of white towers and bright banners and the glories of the Lords of old. It rang over the battlefield, louder at first, then fading away softly like gray mist over the Sea.

No one paid any heed.

"Philistines," muttered Boromir irritably, and blew a sharp E that caused everyone to fall off their mounts simultaneously.

He used the distraction to his advantage, catching the reins of the nearest riderless horse and leading it over to where Aragorn stood.

Aragorn blinked somewhat dazedly, ears still ringing. "Where do you learn all these diversions?"

"When called upon to provide my father with reports as to the status of Osgiliath in these latter days, Faramir and I have been obliged to think up a great many distractive devices," said Boromir. "The Horn is often useful in that respect… I once managed to shatter all the glass in the Citadel." He proffered the bridle to Aragorn.

He took it, frowning. "Wait a minute… you broke your Horn! At Amon Hen! And then again in the Golden Hall! How on earth did you…"

"I had it fixed in Edoras," replied Boromir. "I felt that it compromised my masculinity, to be the owner of a broken phallic symbol."

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THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 9

Yes, Articles 7-8 still apply, even if the horn, staff, sword, spear, javelin, bow and arrows, dagger, mace, bola, wand, broomstick, or stave in question is broken. Oh, and did we mention knitting needles?

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Meanwhile, the brave, the bold, and the somewhat gastronomically inept Lady Éowyn was having a rather public tiff with her uncle.

"I can fight!"

"I'm sure you can, my dear," Théoden replied in a tone of impatient indulgence.

The Shieldmaiden groaned in frustration. "No, really, I can fight! Just ask Lord Aragorn! I nearly took his head off with my sword this morning!"

"Éowyn! You really mustn't do that," chided the King. "Nice boys don't like girls who flaunt phallic symbols indiscriminately and with too much gusto."

"In that case, I'd better give up knitting."

"Why?"

"The needles. They're long and pointed. They might send out the wrong impression."

"That… that isn't the same."

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Look, this is ridiculous!" cried Éowyn. "We're in the mountains and desperately outnumbered, and you won't allow an able-bodied soldier to fight simply because she's a woman!"

"Exactly."

"But—"

"Look, Éowyn," said Théoden. "I'm not here for my common sense or my tactical know-how. I'm here to expound upon vague philosophical musings of such an obtuse nature that all present have a strong desire to hit me over the head with a heavy shoe, and to make wildly supercilious assertions that will all end up being inevitably contradicted by later turns of events."

"But—"

"So, if it makes you feel any better, you'll probably end up making a big battle debut sometime in the foreseeable future, just because I've stalwartly told you that you can't."

"But—"

"Lead the women and children to Helm's Deep. I've got Wargs to kill." He clucked to his mount and cantered away.

"Bloody chauvinists!" she yelled after him. "Ah, you men are all the same! Why can't I find a man who's good and honest and clever and brave and true and noble and sensitive and caring and gentle and wise? Why? Why can't I find a man who … who isn't afraid to cry?"

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(Note from historian: The following passage contains many incomplete sentences, disjointed phrases, superfluous capitalization, an extreme overuse of bold and italic fonts, and a universal lack of cohesiveness that is generally abhorrent in the eyes of good literature in as a whole. However, the author wishes to make note of the extreme difficulty encountered in attempting to accurately transcribe mid-battle dialogue, which is by its very nature incoherent and very rarely translates effectively to paper. All apologies due, given)

"I still say it isn't—aargh—fair."

"And I—aargh—say that you should shut up."

"Your sense of—gah—honor is certainly commendable."

"RAH! I don't see what—RAH!—honor has to do with it."

"Honor has everything to do with—death to Wargs!—it. I did all the work. I caused the diversion. I got us the—arggh!—horse."

"And your—ELENDIL!—point is?"

"My—gah!—point is that it isn't fair."

"I'm the King. I don't have to be—aiieee!—fair."

"You're not the—argh—King yet. And Kings should still be—FOR GONDOR!—just."

"I never said that I—aaaarrrrraaaghhh!—wasn't going to be fair. I just said that I didn't—DEATH!— have to be."

"You're not being very—argh!—fair right now!"

"I really don't think it's—argh!—that pressing an issue."

"Oh—argh!—but it is!"

"And why is—argh!—that?"

"Because—argh!—every time you kill an—argh!—enemy the blood—argh!—flies back and—aargh—hits me in the—argh!—face!"

"So you'd rather it if I was the—(censored), that hurt—one sitting in back getting smacked in the eyes with—argh!—gore?"

"In a manner of—nrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaggggggghhhh—speaking,—argh!—yes."

"Well—HIIYAHHH!—you'll just have to cope."

"See? It isn't—mwahaha!—fair."

"That's—argh!—too bad."

"You know, I'm beginning to have my—take that—doubts that this whole—and that—thing is even—and that—physically—and that!—possible."

"What—argh!—do you mean?"

"I mean that I—argh!—don't understand how—argh!—this horse is sup—argh!—porting two fully grown—argh!—and not—argh!— insubstantial—argh!—men at one time and galloping—argh!—at full tilt and not buckling—argh!—under the strain."

"It must be—argh!—a very good horse."

"I'm not sure that—argh!—even the best horse could manage—ARRRGGGHHH! DIE, FOUL FIEND!—that."

"Well,—argh!—this one is."

"I—argh!—noticed."

"And—aha!—anyway, isn't there—ahaha!—that whole business—ahahaha!—about time and—ahahahaha!—space not having—ahahahahaha!—any con—ahaha—gen—ha—it—ha—al—haha!—meaning?"

"Yes, but that—argh!—doesn't apply to—nrrrgh!—weight ratios."

"What have—argh!—weight ratios—argh!—got to do with it?"

"Well, weight—argh!—ratios are… hold on, wait a—argh!—minute!"

"Argh! What is it?"

"Those are—gah!—MINE!"

"Wh—argh!—at?"

"Those—aaieeegh!—vambraces you're—AAIEEEGH!—wearing!"

"They—argh!—are not!"

"Yes—argh!—they are!"

"No, they're—argh!—not! Get off—argh!—me!"

"Give them—argh!—back!"

"No! They're mine! Let—argh!—go!"

"Nev—argh—er! Argh!"

"Argh!"

"Argh!"

"ARGH!"

"ARGH!"

"ARGH!"

"ARGH!"

"ARGH!"

"ARGHohmy(censored)godsTURNLEFTTURNLEFTTURNLEFT!"

"WHAT?"

"TURN LEFT! OTHER LEFT!"

"IT WON'T STEER!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

And thus did the valiant steed bearing the lords Aragorn and Boromir go careening directly over a rather large cliff.

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The first of Boromir's senses to return was that of smell.

There was a pleasant scent of resiny wood burning in the fireplace a few feet away, along with the dry odors of clean sheets and warm pillows. Sighing contentedly, Boromir hitched the coverlet more firmly around his broad shoulders, burying his face in the pillow and dimly registering the texture of the blankets and the soothing heat of their surrounding warmth as sense (3), that of touch, returned as well.

Unfortunately, along with sense (3) also came the sudden knowledge that someone was poking him very hard in the back. Before he could think of how best to react to this, the sudden reinstatement of sense (5) also caused his ears to be assaulted by a familiar voice saying "Wake up, you great lummox."

Boromir opened one eye, facilitating the restoration of sense (2), and peered groggily at Faramir, who was standing by the side of his bed with his arms crossed impatiently. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get up."

About this point, sense (4) returned as well, and Boromir could vaguely taste the vague but distinctive flavor of recent sleep lingering pleasantly somewhere in the back of his tongue. "Why?" he asked, snuggling deeper into his nest of sheets. "What do I have to do today?"

"How should I know? I don't have those sorts of particulars; I'm just supposed to get you up," said Faramir. When there was no response, he tugged the blanket away from Boromir sharply, wadded it up, and tossed it across the room. "Hurry up or you'll be late."

"Late?" Boromir rolled over onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head lazily.

"Late," affirmed Faramir, snatching the pillow out from beneath Boromir's head, causing it to knock against the headboard with a dull thunk.

"My dear brother," growled Boromir, massaging his sore skull and reaching forward to seize the pillow back from Faramir, who danced nimbly out of reach, "I have all the time in the world. After all," he went on, his tone contemplative, "in this world, time and space have no con…"

And then something jogged at Boromir's memory.

Time. Space. Death. Arrows. Boat. Waterfall. Anduin. Knife. Blood. Gil. Grass. Horses. Rohan. Orcs. Humperdink. Trees. Wizard. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Muffins. Popcorn. "Guess who?" Wargs. Horn. Vambraces. Cliff. Cliff. Cliff!

"Cliff!" Boromir gasped, sitting bolt upright. "Eru, the cliff! Faramir!" He stared at his brother, wild-eyed. "Faramir, are you dead, too? Where's Mother?"

Faramir sighed and patted Boromir reassuringly on the shoulder. "You're not dead. Not this time, anyway. No, actually, you're just unconscious."

"Unconscious?" Boromir's mind reeled. "That was one hell of a cliff. How did I survive?"

Faramir threw both hands in the air. "Don't ask me, I don't have any answers!"

Boromir's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you doing here, anyway?"

"Don't know that, either. It's your dream."

"My dream?" Boromir paused. "I guess it would be a dream, wouldn't it? So you're not actually here? I mean, you're a figment of my imagination? You're not Faramir?"

Faramir frowned. "Well, I'm actually not too sure about that… we have dreamt together before, after all… perhaps I am here."

"Look, it's easy," said Boromir. "If you're sentient, then you're real. Are you sentient?"

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. And I said that I was, would you believe me?" Faramir grinned. "And, then again, maybe this is my dream. Maybe you're just a figment of my imagination."

"No, no, I'm definitely here. I exist, at least."

"I would think that you'd be the last person on earth to be sure that you exist, at this point," said Faramir, rolling his eyes. "But, at any rate, it's neither here nor there. Now, are you going to get up or not?"

"How come you woke me up?" muttered Boromir grumpily. "How come I couldn't have been woken up by… by twelve scantily clad Elf-maidens, or something?"

"Again, it's your dream," said Faramir, shrugging.

"I thought you just said that this was your dream?"

"You know, I really have no idea. Come on, rise and shine," he added, tugging Boromir's arm. "That's enough of a lie-in for you."

"What if I don't want to get up?" said Boromir, wrenching his arm away. "I'm very warm and comfortable—or at least I was, until you spitefully stole my covers—and I really have no desire to wake up and have to face the reality of the fact that I'm either drowning or horribly mangled or being eaten alive by some sort of aquatic beast or… or watching Aragorn snog a horse, or something."

"Oh, come now, don't be a coward. What's the very worst that could happen?"

"Other than watching Aragorn snog a horse? Well, I could die."

"Which you've done, what, three times? I imagine you're fairly used to it be now. Almost a kind of recreation for you by now, no?"

"Oh, don't be flippant, Fara," said Boromir, folding his arms. "Dying's all very well and good in theory, but imagine having to deal with Mother each and every time!"

A spasm flitted across Faramir's face. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I'm not budging." Boromir leant back against the headboard, crossed his ankles, and sat.

Minutes passed, during which Boromir looked at Faramir and Faramir looked at Boromir and the last glowing embers of the fire crackled tentatively. There was also a vague continuous sound not unlike that of ten thousand FaraBoro shippers breathing heavily in unison and muttering that Faramir really ought to get into bed, too, before he catches cold, but this passed unheard by either party in question. Boromir in particular was preoccupied by the other vague continuous sound he was beginning to hear dimly in the background, which was one of running water.

"Can you hear that?" he whispered.

"Hear what?" inquired Faramir.

"The water."

"Nope." Faramir smiled wickedly. "You must be waking up."

"No, I'm not, I'm not!" Boromir gasped, clutching the edge of the mattress as if it might anchor him more securely in his dream. "I'm still asleep!"

But the water trickled on, growing louder and louder and louder, trickling and trickling and dripping and dropping and dribbling and plinking and plunking and splashing and splunking and swishing and swirling until Boromir had to use the bathroom so badly that the eyes he hadn't realized he'd been clenching shut suddenly snapped open.

And all thoughts of seeking out a privy flew from his mind when he saw exactly what Aragorn was doing with Brego.

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Sindarin- "Get a life! Your mother looks like an Orc!"

A/N: I really need to stop putting self-derogatory ANs at the end of all my chapters… it almost makes it seem as I'm (gasp) fishing for compliments! Which is, of course (shifty eyes) utterly ridiculous.

Anyway, (ahem)… read and review.