In Which Introductions Are Made, And An Astonishing Story Is Told
Perry and Mippin, pleased as pleased with their new, unique names, paraded around the small camp and proudly introduced themselves to everyone. They gave full credit for their new identities to Boromir, and the son of Denethor blushed a furious crimson as his bearded counterpart laughed. After having shaken Gimli's hand, the two flat Hobbits marched over to where Frodo and his double lay unmoving.
"Frodo! Frodo!" they called. Neither Frodo responded. Sam pulled away from his double and collapsed to his knees between the two Ring-bearers, frantically shaking first one, then the other.
"Aragorn! Gandalf! Help me!" Sam called in a panic. "It's Mr. Frodo, sirs. He's not waking up!" Aragorn knelt by the Frodo he knew, bent down and listened for a breath.
"Frodo lives," Aragorn reported. "As does the other, I surmise. Why they do not respond, I do not know."
"It was our doing," Mithrandir said. "Mine and Gandalf's. Both Frodos are under a spell of deep sleep. They live, but they will remain asleep until both of us choose to wake them."
"What on Earth did you go an' do that for?" wailed the tiny Hobbit who had been propping Sam up. "Look at em, all asleep an' defenseless, an' —" the thought was clearly too much for the small, flat Sam to contemplate, and he threw himself into the larger Sam's arms and sobbed.
"Peace, Little Sam," Mithrandir said. "It was regrettable, but necessary. Each Frodo bears a Ring of Power. Gandalf and I feared the consequences should both Ring-bearers be conscious and the Rings active. Together, we constructed a spell that temporarily bound the Rings to the minds of their bearers and sent the bearers themselves deep into the realm of dreams. They will remain unharmed, and we will awaken them when we have found a way to limit the doubled power of the Rings."
"Well," Sam sighed, "as long as they do remain unharmed, it's all right, I suppose. Did you hear that, Little Sam? Your master and mine, they're as safe from each other as they can be." Little Sam's sobs slowed, and he turned around and fixed both wizards with a piercing glare.
"As long as it's the truth you're tellin'," he muttered.
Pippin carefully walked over and knelt down by Sam. "Why do you call him Little Sam?" he asked.
Sam smiled. "He's little, ain't he? Littler than I, at any rate. And it seems his name is Samwise, same as me."
"We all share names," the second Aragorn said. "But I think this state of affairs cannot continue much longer. We brought you to this land without your knowledge or consent; we will take other names, that we may distinguish ourselves one from another. Gandalf and Mithrandir have chosen their names, and Perry and Mippin have new ones. Sam and Little Sam are also spoken for. You may call me Strider, I think. I was always fond of that name."
"I'll be Greenleaf," volunteered the white Elf. "Though I admit there's not much green about me, oh dear, more's the pity —"
The tall Dwarf beside Gimli smacked Greenleaf into silence. "I wish to be known as Timkin Rumbleguts," he said. Everyone turned and stared. "I read it in a Terry Pratchett novel, if you must know," the Dwarf said indignantly. Strider sighed and rolled his eyes.
"All right, Timkin Rumbleguts it is," he said. Then he turned to the bearded man with the horned helmet. "What of you? What name will you take?"
Boromir's double gazed at Strider with an odd, unreadable expression on his face. "I think you know already," he said.
Strider's brow furrowed for a moment, then comprehension dawned. He raised his eyebrows, and Boromir's double nodded at him.
"Bigwig," they chorused. Strider shook his head slowly.
"I had nearly forgotten," he said. "Very well. You are Bigwig."
Gandalf nodded. "Well then," he said, "I think we have cleared up all the names that would trouble us for the moment. The Ring-bearers we shall leave for now. It is time for answers. Where are we, who are you, and what do you want with us?" He turned to the nearest of their captors. "Mithrandir, what have you to say for yourself?"
The pointy-nosed wizard harrumphed. "Let us be seated," he began. "This is not a simple tale to tell. I am aware that our guests are only now regaining the use of their legs, but I believe it would be better if we were all sitting." Both Companies seated themselves obediently. Mithrandir stood and faced them.
"You are in Middle Earth," he began, "very near the mines of Moria, to be precise. What is the last thing any of you remember?"
Eyes flashed around the circle. Finally, Legolas spoke up. "We had just come down off of Caradhras. I was the rearguard. I heard Boromir and Gimli shouting, and I saw the others sliding forward. There was a hole in the air. I remember no more."
"This doesn't look a bit like Middle Earth!" Pippin huffed.
"How would you know?" Merry asked him. "You've never been outside the Shire before. Maybe there really are places in the world that look like this." The two young Hobbits shuddered at the foggy flatness of the landscape around them. Parts of it seemed as dead and lifeless as their captors, while parts glowed with an oily voluptuousness. None of the parts were truly convincing as the rocky trail they purported to be.
"You are partially correct, young Pippin," Mithrandir said. "This is not the Middle Earth you know. Nevertheless, you are in Middle Earth, and precisely where you left it — at the foothills of Caradhras."
"Do you mean to say that this is a different Middle Earth?" Gimli asked.
"That is precisely what I mean to say," Mithrandir replied. "It is difficult for you to stand and walk in our world because it is different from yours. Yours is the world of live action and three dimensions. Ours is a world of two-dimensional animation, both pure and rotoscoped, save for certain parts of Bree and Rohan, which are merely painted-over high-contrast photography."
"You would like those lands, I think," Bigwig said thoughtfully.
"What are you saying, Mithrandir?" asked Aragorn, beginning to sweat a little.
"We are an older, more primitive permutation of your tale," said Mithrandir. "We have inhabited this strange land since 1978, reviled by all save small children who do not know any better for our shoddy animation and butchered characters."
"Some of us have escaped from time to time," Strider said. "Bigwig and I spent time in the meadows of Watership Down, and Greenleaf — ai, poor Greenleaf! He has never quite been the same since he fled for the vastness of that galaxy far, far away. We do not know what befell him there, as he will not say, but oftentimes he is haunted by the ghosts."
"Come now, that is most certainly not fair, Master Lu — Strider! Strider" Greenleaf finished with a shriek as Timkin Rumbleguts began to finger his axe meaningfully.
"However, most of us remain trapped," Mithrandir continued. "We are doomed to wander this world, moving between dimensions and animation styles, with the threat of the Ring and the special effects it induces ever present. Some of us despaired; others went mad. Timkin appears to have survived by reading Terry Pratchett obsessively. Finally, we nine, by dint of much effort and toil, discovered the key to our doom, and it is this. Our story was never finished. For decades, we have been left hanging, with no resolution to our tale in sight. The eternal question hung over our heads. What happened next? We made the decision to act. We came to this point, where we were all together in the open air, and I crafted the spell that brought our later incarnations to our world. We need you desperately. You must tell us how our story ends, or we will die!"
