Chapter 21: Toby Ziegler, we need you...
Apologies to Sellar and Yeatman,Tolkien, Shakespeare, Col. Tim Collins, Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, Martin Luther King Jr., the writers of the West Wing, Matt Groening, the Monty Python team (again)... in fact everyone except Walsh, Boyens and Jackson, 'cos they're about the only people I haven't ripped off.
And thanks to TG, who pointed out that it was very dangerous for me to go on a camping trip 'cos such things often led to falling into ME, and doubly so to go on a camping trip with archery session thrown in... (BTW, my google research of archery and the problems of being cross-lateral was spot on – after 10 weeks of being unable to hit the target at all at school, turns out that if you give me a left-handed bow, I am totally kick-ass! Go me! Just drop me into ME and pair me with Leggy – after all, I'm way closer to his age, albeit a bit more wrinkly, than the average GDIME. In fact...)
Errata (how I have always wanted to type that :-D) for the previous chapter, thanks to Certh:
"Bain hacha" should read "hacha bain".
"Nin" (me) should read "Nîn" (mine).
And of course, in tribute to S&Y's masterly history of England, 1066 and all that, "for 'pheasant', read 'peasant' throughout."
So there we were, trekking through Ithilien. We'd managed to find Dobbin, Pet Food and Glue, who were now loaded up with baggage. Julian was proving to be an absolute god-send in that department. He had a real knack with our nags, who he claimed were simply misunderstood and would respond well to a bit of love and affection and buckets of hot mash.
"Standard pony club story plot line," he said. "The clapped out old nag rescued from bad owners who goes on to win every rosette at the local gymkhana." He stroked Glue's muzzle affectionately. I offered up a quiet prayer to the Valar that none of the Rohirrim would overhear the "bad owners" comment.
Despite the uncertain fate which awaited us at the Black Gates, I was rather enjoying wandering the woods of Ithilien. They smelled lovely – pines and herbs, and in the evening, stewed rabbit from the pots over the camp fires. And all the time, I couldn't help but remember a pair of beautiful grey eyes, soulful, compassionate, intelligent, sensitive. And the rest of him wasn't bad either. His body reminded me of some of Ruth's rock-climbing friends. Even better, Éowyn looked like she was going to take up with Boromir this time round, so it wasn't really as if I'd be stealing a canon character. "Princess of Ithilien," I murmured to myself. It had a certain ring to it.
"What's put that dopey smile on your face?" asked Charlize.
"Oh, nothing in particular," I muttered.
We rounded a corner on the trail, and got the surprise of our lives. There, in a small clearing, was a small green tent. A very our-world sort of tent. Ruth muttered in appreciation – she was a tent snob, but it appeared that even in her discerning opinion this was quite a nice one – not quite as nice as a Quasar (whatever they were) but quite good nonetheless, and though one wouldn't want to use it on the Abruzzi ridge (where-ever that was) or the South Col, apparently it would stand up to most of what the British weather could throw at it. There was the sound (quite alien after this long in Middle Earth) of a zip being undone, then a small boy emerged. He had shaggy, shoulder length blond hair and startling deep blue eyes, and could have been mistaken for a small Rohir were it not for the jeans and red batman tee-shirt, and the liberal coating of mud and chocolate spread on his clothing. He was followed by a small, rumpled, plump middle aged woman with glasses and nondescript brown hair in a long plait down her back.
"Mummy," said the little boy in astonishment, "It's Legolas."
The woman did a double take. My jaw dropped open. I suddenly recognised that face – it was the earnest but slightly absent-minded face I saw when I occasionally bothered to peer out of the story through the web cam on the laptop... It was our author.
"Oi, you – yes, you with the cliffies and all that..." I started across the clearing towards her.
"Oh dear," our author said. "Tommy Ginger was right. Camping trips are a really bad idea."
"I've got a bone to pick with you. Several in fact..." The Shirley – our Shirley – grabbed the small boy and beat a hasty retreat into the the tent. There was a brief sound of the frantic tapping of laptop keys, then, with a noise like the TARDIS disappearing, the green tent wavered as if hidden by a heat haze for a moment, then vanished.
~o~O~o~
After a day or so, we arrived at the four cross-roads near Morgul Vale. Aragorn had trumpets blown loudly, and he and Imrahil (who I still thought was extremely handsome, albeit not quite as handsome as his younger nephew) had an earnest debate about whether or not to storm Minas Morgul. While they argued, I saw Julian slipping onto Pet Food's back.
"Julian, you're not changing sides again, are you?" I said anxiously.
"No, no, nothing like that. Just a bit of business to attend to. Back in a jiffy. Won't even notice I'm gone," he said, and trotted off rapidly.
Gandalf entered the "to storm or not to storm" argument, which meandered on for a bit longer, then he and Aragorn rode to the entrance of Morgul Vale with the rest of the vanguard. In mid-argument, Julian returned, with a cloaked and hooded black figure held between his arms, both of them perched on the back of his horse. Aragorn drew Anduril, flame of the west.
"Don't," said Julian. "Please put the sword away. I need Arwen's help. Possibly Ruth's too." He hopped down from the horse, then lifted the cloaked figure down.
Arwen came hurrying over.
"Arwen, this is my chum Bunty. She's got the most frightful pash on Nazgûl number seven, and needs a good stern talking to. And Ruth's copy of The Feminine Mystique."
~o~O~o~
It was a couple of days later that I overheard a conversation that made me feel like I'd intruded somewhere I shouldn't have.
"Aragorn," Boromir said, his voice serious.
"Yes?"
"About my vambraces..."
"It's okay, I promise not to nick them again."
"No, it's just... If I... If I... die. Can you take them back to Éowyn? And tell her to find someone really nice who treats her like the wonderful woman she is and have lots of children, and think of me fondly but know that the thing I wanted most was for her to be happy?"
There was a long silence, then Aragorn said in a choked voice, "Of course."
"Just... One other thing..."
"Yes?"
"Make sure I'm actually dead first, yeah?"
~o~O~o~
Five days later we finally made camp on the edge of the wastes near the Black Gate. The next morning, Aragorn arranged his army in an incredibly impressive line, then he rode out with banners and heralds and trumpeters, accompanied by the usual suspects (Gandalf, the terrible twins, Éomer, Uncle Sex God, Leggy and Gimli, and, in a slight change from book-verse, Arwen and Haldir). We loitered near enough to eavesdrop.
The heralds did their job, and announced that Elessar, the King of Gondor, wanted to kick Sauron's arse sometime into next week (albeit in much more heraldic language), and played a few trumpet voluntaries. There was a long silence then a thunder of drums and tremendous, out-of-tune braying of trumpets (which made even our school's brass band sound good - no way was anyone ever going to mistake the trumpeters of the Black Gates for the Black Dyke Mills Band).
The gates creaked open, making an ominous sound, and out rode a fearful figure. He had once been a man, but had been so twisted and perverted by Sauron's evil will that he was now fearful to look up. At least, fearful till he spoke out loud.
"Welease Woger!" he declaimed proudly.
"Oh, for Morgoth's sake, you've got the words wrong again," said the Nazgûl standing at his shoulder (in a fearfully posh voice which made me think we were in fact in the company of yet another of the deputy Nazgûl, probably Tarquin).
Gandalf strode forward. "Just give me the stuff you grabbed from the two hobbits in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, and let's get on with the plot and the battle." He snatched a parcel wrapped in dirty sackcloth from the Mouth of Sauron, and stomped back to our lines.
"So," said Arwen, "Does anyone have any idea at this point whether we're in Book-verse or Movie-verse?"
"I vote Movie-verse," said Aragorn.
"That's just because you want to do the 'big speech'," said Arwen, waving her elegant hands and describing air quotes with them.
"Well, wouldn't you?" said Aragorn with a grin. "Now, how did it go again..." He paused for effect, cleared his throat, brushed a lock of dishevelled hair back from his face and started to declaim:
"From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition..."
"Oi," said Haldir, "Ripping off Shakespeare's my thing."
"And the scriptwriters, I always thought," murmered Arwen, supposedly sotto voce but actually in a magnificent stage whisper which carried effortlessly round the assembled host. Aragorn shot both of them a glare, and started again.
"Show respect for them.
There are some who are alive at this moment who will not be alive
Those who do not wish to go on that journey, we will not send
As for the others, I expect you to rock their world.
Wipe them out if that is what they choose.
But if you are ferocious in battle remember to be magnanimous in victory..."
This time it was a growl from Darren which interrupted proceedings. "That's not yours either, that's ripped off from that Irish officer bloke before the Iraq war. My mum's last boyfriend was always watching clips of it on youtube. Fancied himself a hard man, but they wouldn't have him in the army 'cos of his flat feet."
Aragorn gave another glare, and recommenced, "We will fight them on the beaches, we will fight them..."
"Churchill," said Charlize. "Even I paid enough attention in history to recognise that one."
"Four score and seven years ago..."
"Lincoln, Gettysburg address," said Ruth.
"I have a dream..."
"Darling, that's lifted from the American Civil Rights struggle – hardly appropriate for this context," said Arwen.
"I dunno," muttered Shaznag. "I'm not entirely happy with the way things might work out for me post war. A bit of Martin Luther King would go down quite nicely in my books."
"Oh, for eff's sake, I'm never going to satisfy you lot with my masterful oratory, am I? Well, sod it, if I'm going to commit plagiarism, I might as well steal from the best." Aragorn shot us a look of sheer exasperation, turned his back to the Mouth of Sauron and shook his mail-clad booty in the enemy's general direction. He glanced over his shoulder and said, "Bite my shiny metal ass..."
Beside us, Arwen face-palmed.
And on that note, I'm going to leave Sophie in the lurch again... she deserves it for being so rude to me. Next time... it's gonna be another movie competition, written in collaboration with TG, with a big prize... yes, a virtual snog from Uncle Immy (your choice of the James Purefoy version, the Mark Strong version or the Luca Zingaretti version - we are open to other casting suggestions). So get brushing up on those classic movies.
Thank you for all the lovely reviews? Did I mention how much I love reviews? Catnip for authors.