In Which Orcs Are Fought And The Excruciating Beauty Of Rivendell Is Endured

"AAIEEE!"

The battle cry of the Orcs was short, highly pitched, and to the point, as was the battle that followed it. The Orcs were indeed three-dimensional, and had long enjoyed a certain natural resistance to the effects of animated weaponry. The rotoscoped Fellowship fought valiantly against them, but it seemed that two or three blows from their weapons were needed to cut through the mass of their attackers. The Orcs used their weight to their advantage, shoving their two-dimensional foes into each other, fighting with the effects of chaos and confusion as much as with their weapons.

However, the Orcs had long since become accustomed to this method of fighting, and were thus completely unprepared for an assault by the live-action Fellowship. Once they had fully grasped that these Orcs were in fact as live-action as themselves, merely painted to look animated, they dived into the fray. Their weapons had heft and edge the like of which the Orcs had long forgotten. At first, the Orcs used their time-tested battle technique of shoving, fully expecting to retain the advantage of superior weight and mass. They were sorely mistaken. Not only were these new foes solid enough to resist them, but they carried real weapons capable of killing with a single well-placed blow.

The Orcs were not entirely stupid, and most likely could have formed an effective counter-strategy had they all simultaneously understood the change in circumstances. However, as each Orc received the lesson individually at the business end of arrow, axe or sword, there was no time for general knowledge to spread throughout the horde. They died quickly, but in a state of enlightenment.

"You fight with the strength of seven men!" Bigwig gasped, when it was over.

"No. I fight with the density of one," Boromir replied.

"In my travels through the worlds, I believe I once heard an appropriate phrase," Strider said. He turned to the corpse of the nearest Orc. "Go pick on someone your own size."

"I think our counterparts did quite well," Gimli said staunchly, gazing up at Timkin. "For them to hold out against hordes of these things for so many years, well, that takes some courage."

"Gentlemen," Aragorn said. "We have a mission to accomplish. I suggest we find a new campsite away from this carrion and rest for our march tomorrow."

As it turned out, the trip between Caradhras and Rivendell was not so long as Aragorn feared. It seemed to him to have taken but a few days, although he did not trust himself to say exactly how many. This inability to count time nagged at him, and when Rivendell came into view much earlier than he had anticipated, he took the next rest to ask Strider about it.

"How many days would you say we have just traveled?" he asked.

Strider thought for a while. "A week, perhaps?" he guessed. "The distance varies."

"How can it do that?" Aragorn asked, astonished.

Strider smiled a small, tight smile. "Editing," he said. "We were never told how long the journey lasted, moving straight from the Council of Elrond to a blinding snowstorm on Caradhras. Every time I make the journey back, which admittedly is not often, it takes a different amount of time."

"Straight into a blinding snowstorm?" Aragorn asked. "That cannot be."

"I wish it hadn't been," Strider answered. "At least Bigwig and I could have obtained trousers before we left."

Aragorn winced as he looked at Strider's bare legs. He had noticed that Strider and Bigwig both wore only short tunics and boots, leaving their legs horribly exposed to the elements. "Why do you not get trousers on one of your return trips to Rivendell?" he asked.

"It would do no good. They only thing they know how to make in Rivendell are Elven tights such as Greenleaf wears. I would go off and join Aruman's Glee Club Of Isengard before I pranced around in a set of those. You'll see when we get to Rivendell."

"Why? Is not Rivendell a place of light and beauty?" Aragorn asked.

"In a way. It is also a most disconcerting place, as you will discover shortly."

As they marched down into the valley, Aragorn noticed that the colors around them were changing. The sky seemed bluer, the trees greener, the light more golden. Everything seemed lovelier and more vibrant. It seemed to be everything a haven established by a powerful Elf-lord ought to be.

"What a beautiful valley," Sam said.

"Do not speak too hastily," Timkin growled. "You are still on the outskirts."

"What a people you Dwarves are," said Greenleaf. "The beauty of the world is all around you, and you cannot even appreciate it."

"It would be easier to appreciate it if we could see it properly," Timkin replied.

Indeed, the further they went into the valley, the stranger the colors began to appear. No longer merely lush and vibrant, they were now violently, almost unbearably bright. All of the live-action members of the party, including Legolas, squinted desperately to cut the glare. The colors began to bleed into each other and take on an eerie translucency. Small globs of unattached color began to float before their eyes.

"This," said Greenleaf sadly, "is the magic of the Elves of this world."

"Is it like this in all the lands of the Elves?" gasped Legolas.

"No," Greenleaf said. "Lothlórien has it worse. The Lady Galadriel has been saddled with a choir of castrati."

Legolas considered this. "Ouch," he said finally.

"You don't know the half of it," Strider said quietly. "Mithrandir! Can we not work the spell to summon Bilbo from this garden?"

Mithrandir looked around him. "Perhaps," he said. "Yes, I think we are far enough into the valley that the distance between wherever in the Last Homely House Bilbo is and here will not be too taxing for a Hobbit of his years."

"What must we do to prepare?" Gandalf asked.

"Simply clear a space for Bilbo to arrive," Mithrandir said. "And it might be best if Frodo waited by my side to greet him. Best to see a familiar face, I think." Frodo moved to Mithrandir's side and the others stood at a respectful distance as Mithrandir began a complex spell of Summoning.

With a strange violet shimmer, the air began to split apart. Through a hole in reality, Frodo could see Bilbo's room in Rivendell. The old Hobbit was pacing the floor, quill pen in hand. A wind began to blow through the room. Bilbo made a desperate grab for the bedpost, but was too late. The force of the spell swept him off his feet and hurled him through the air to the split between worlds. With a shimmer of light, he went through and landed in a small, unconscious heap at Mithrandir's feet.