To the Halls of Mandos in a Backpack

Chapter VI: Of Squirrels, Rabbits, and Dirty-Minded Writers

Love is in the Air, Ch. 6- Dance Dance Revolution

            Huchelda couldn't help but smile at her reflection as she brushed her luminous golden hair. Tonight would be the night! She was going to lead Aragorn to the bridge and there they would pledge to spend their lives together. Vienasar had already promised to make sure that Arwen was otherwise occupied, and she knew he would follow her there if she asked him to; with her rival taken out of the picture, Aragorn would be completely unable to refuse her charms. She was absolutely giddy with excitement. Tonight, she would sleep, if one could call it that, somewhere besides this room she shared with her brother. She giggled to herself as she wondered where he would take her for their tryst.

            Across the room, Vienasar's incomparable muscles rippled as he went through his wardrobe, trying to decide what he should wear. Tonight would be the night! He was going to lead Arwen to the bridge, and there they would pledge to spend their lives together. When he had asked Huchelda if she could keep Aragorn occupied enough for him to slip away with Arwen, she replied that she was already planning something with Aragorn tonight that would certainly keep Aragorn out of his way if he could keep Arwen occupied. Vienasar wondered what happy twist of fate it was that both of them were already planning; he would take Arwen to the bridge, she would take Aragorn wherever it was she planned to take him, and both of them would finally succeed in doing what had been denied them for so long.

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            Elrond had collapsed into an armchair outside the room Frodo was in. After days of toiling over the injured hobbit, unable to bring about much improvement in him, he had finally fallen asleep where he stood, the combination of concussions, unpleasant images, mental invasions, alcohol, and extended healing efforts finally overcoming his efforts to remain conscious. His head had fallen against the hobbit's shoulder and chest and his ear had heard more than felt the indescribable noise of a magical knife fragment slowly cutting through tissue like a hobbit on his thirty-eighth fish of the night: very slowly, but with a grim determination to achieve its goal.

            Finally discovering the reason for Frodo's continued struggles gave him one last burst of energy, with which he managed to retrieve and destroy the weapon of the Witch King. He was now entirely spent. He had called Erestor so he could give orders regarding the feast to be held that night, formally welcoming the hobbits, elves, man of Gondor, and, much to his chagrin, dwarves who had converged on Rivendell for the Council. Then he would sleep as long as humanly (elvenly?) possible.

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            Upon hearing Erestor walk by, Huchelda decided to follow him. Her brother's indecisive pawing through the closet was really getting on her nerves and she was beginning to realize that, contrary to popular belief, there indeed was a point at which hair could not become any shinier.

            Erestor unknowingly led her toward Frodo's bedroom, where she surmised from the number of hobbits running in and out that the injured one was indeed awake. She shrugged to herself; his survival was probably a good thing, since he was rather cute if nothing else. Not that cute could match Aragorn's delightfully rugged manliness, but still…

            As Erestor entered the room, Huchelda remained behind, listening to a groggy and sick-sounding Elrond address his advisor. "Frodo's awake. Big feast tonight, for him and all the visitors I haven't had time to properly welcome. With singing afterward."

            Erestor nodded, and Elrond began to nod off when another idea came unbidden to his mind, and he was too weary to question it. "And dancing."

            In the hallway, Huchelda grinned as he heard him speak. She hadn't lost her touch entirely.

            "Dancing, my Lord?" Elrond nodded tiredly, and Erestor knew better than to argue. "We will hold the council tomorrow." As Erestor began to walk out, Elrond's last thought was to wonder whether Galadriel would make it for the council.

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            Some distance away, Galadriel made a mental note, which she then conveyed to Haldir and the rest of her retinue, to not underestimate the powers of these twins. For the first part of the journey, there was no sign of the accelerated travel time and she was mentally cursing herself for undertaking such an absurd quest. She had decided to give it one more day, at which point she would admit defeat, turn back, and look forward to mentally cursing Elrond for suggesting this trip and thereby depriving her of her extensive daily beauty treatments.

            That morning, however, the land was indeed warped. They were through the Gladden Fields before midmorning, were entering the pass through the MistyMountains at midday, and would be at Rivendell in plenty of time for supper. Galadriel was amazed, not only at this phenomenon, but with the power it would have taken to bring it about. These twins were more than an annoyance; they were a threat to the very existence of Middle-earth, and as such they were both more dangerous and more insidious than even Sauron.

            However, she would cross that bridge when she came to it and hope that Haldir's brothers did not take forever assembling the weapon. Further, Mithrandir had contacted her to enlighten her regarding the other crisis in Rivendell at the moment, mainly the presence of Frodo, all his friends, and the Ring. Dealing with that issue would also require much thought, but that was another bridge she would cross later. All she had to worry about at the moment was her travel-weary appearance. Being the renowned Lady of Light, Galadriel absolutely had to look good for her arrival in Rivendell. With that in mind, she pulled out her compact and began powdering her face. As she did so, she decided that she might as well use the Mirror contained therein. Her own reflection faded into that of a wide-eyed Halfling with a ring around his neck. "Frodo," she breathed, wondering how so small a creature could bear so great a burden. She then gasped with mingled fear and delight at the rapid succession of images before her.

            Goblins on the borders of Lorien. Joyful. Elessar sleeping under the stars. My, but I suppose there is a good reason Arwen is attracted to him. The assembled Nazgul in thunderous pursuit of a rider on a white horse. My granddaughter! It's bad enough that those horny incorporeal jerks have a thing for me. Must they chase her too? Frodo without his shirt on. It's amazing how much hot muscle can be fit on so small a frame. Uruks massed outside the Fortress of Rohan. Damn. I bet I'll get stuck bailing them out. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, changing out of seemingly filthy robes. Denethor? What the? I don't need to see this! Orcs attacking Lorien. Damn. Just what I needed. Legolas bathing. Just don't think about it, focus on Celeborn. Celeborn. Celeborn. Orcs sweeping through Osgiliath. As if that city hasn't been taken enough. Or really merits defending now. Faramir sweating as the fire blazed around him. And in such a manly fashion. Wait a second. Fire? Orcs attacking Lorien. Damn. Not again. Eomer washing his hair. Wow. I didn't realize that he ever did that. Trolls entering the gates of Minas Tirith. Not good. Though better than the Witch King, I suppose. A dwarf with his back to her admiring what appeared to be a lock of her hair. A dwarf? Why would I give my hair to a dwarf? I'm not that crazy, am I? Orcs engaged in combat with Thranduil and his people. At least I'm not the only Elf Lord having to deal with the bastards. Elrond beating his head against the wall in frustration. I wonder if that's for something I did. Orcs attacking Lorien yet again. You'd think they would learn. Pippin, clad in an unusual teal vest, singing lustily before a crowd of swooning females. Damn, but he has a nice voice. I wonder if I could charm him into serving as a, um, entertainer in Caras Galadhon.

            Galadriel blinked back into reality. She wondered how many of those things would come to pass. She still had serious doubts that Eomer ever washed his hair. Along the side of the road sat a white rabbit. It did not flee, as she might expect, but seemed to stare, first at her and then at Haldir, before scurrying off in the direction of Rivendell. Odd.

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            In Rivendell, most everyone was outside, enjoying the pleasant afternoon, but not venturing far from the buildings. Now free of his guard duties, Elladan had hastened to join his brother in his effort to generally make Legolas wish he were in Mirkwood, being, if the rumors Huchelda had told were true, tortured or whatever by his father. But Legolas had skipped sleep that night (for who could sleep on that mattress) and had established a fairly extensive network of traps in the woods that he intended to lead his foes through. The twins were wise enough to coerce Glorfindel into triggering the first (a concealed vat of blue dye normally used for confections but also somewhat effective on light garments and exposed skin), but Glorfindel, now bearing the physical signs of a less than pleasant prank in addition to the psychological scars from the Uruk incident, had refused to believe that the Prince was responsible and merely stalked off, repeating his vow to get back at Elrohir and now Elladan.

            Not expecting that Legolas had taken the time or had the cleverness to create the gamut of tricks awaiting them, the twins followed his trail through the woods. With the help of his pet Nutsy, Legolas had recruited the squirrels of the woods to assist his efforts. The sudden weight of one would bring an overhanging branch down to hit the twins and snag their clothes, thus putting rips in otherwise quite stylish elven garments, scratches on otherwise smooth elven skin, and sap and leaves in otherwise shining elven hair, not to mention slowing their progress.

            When two sizable buckets of water hit them, they shrugged it off and continued their pursuit, unaware of the danger until Legolas, having doubled back, came up behind them and knocked each of them out by striking the backs of their heads with the buckets. When they came to, Legolas was nowhere to be seen and both elves had hordes of ants crawling over them, plus a hummingbird or three zipping around, at which point they realized that they had been doused, not just in water, but in sugar water. Both would need nice long baths to dispose of all the ants that had gotten into their hair and clothes as well as a few days to get over the twitch that both from that unpleasantly skin-crawling experience.

            And despite this, the worst was yet to come. Legolas had led them unusually deep in the woods before they came to a stop. Snagged fairly obviously in the low-hanging limb of a particularly large tree were a couple of long blonde hairs, proof that they were still on the right track. Elrohir took them to show to his brother and the ground beneath them suddenly heaved up, trapping them in a rope net. With them securely trapped, at least for the minute or so it would take Elladan to free his knife, Nutsy and several of new Rivendell friends changed the direction of the net's swing and then bit through the knot holding it together. Legolas, sitting in the tree above them, laughed his head off as they tried to free themselves from that into which they had been dropped: the freak of nature known as the Top Secret Woodland Rodent Waste Deposition Facility or, to translate Nutsy's name for it into more vernacular Westron, the Shit Pit.

            Before any of them could say anything, a horn blew in the distance. Despite the squirrel droppings clinging to them, both Elladan and Elrohir reached for their swords, the former crying "Orcs!" as the latter declared "They're coming for the Ring!" Legolas looked at them, raised his eyebrows in an expression of enigmatic joy, and declared "That is no orc horn!" before turning around skipping off in the direction of the Last Homely House, Nutsy, having made his daily contribution to the Deposition Facility, chirping happily on his shoulder.

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            Huchelda and Vienasar were among those talking outside. The former had left the building to get away from her brother's continuous worrying about his garb, while the latter feared that, with no one else in the room, his excitement over what would happen that night might lead him to do that again. Outside, Huchelda was talking to some of her friends from Nantaurea while Vienasar conversed with Frodo who, having been on the receiving end of some of Merry and Pippin's jokes, could sympathize with him. And also the fact that, when Frodo was a young hobbit, the lass to whom he had given his heart had come into his bedroom, seen something that she had thought was evidence that Frodo had done the same thing Vienasar had done, and left him forever, leaving him heartbroken and, try as he might, unable to love another as he had her. Though Frodo's story was that a rat had been steeling feathers from the mattress for its nest, Vienasar wasn't sure the degree to which he believed that.

            When the horn had sounded, most of those outside had hastened to see who else had arrived and were surprised, with varying degrees of pleasure and annoyance, at the arrival of the Lady of Lorien, Haldir, and a few others.

            Galadriel rode into the courtyard of Rivendell and was surprised by the large number of visitors present to greet her. Of her immediate family, only Arwen was present, and her eyes spent more time looking at Elessar than her. Much of the household, led by Erestor, was milling around as well. It took her a moment to realize that the blue elf, whose face and arms were the color of the sky, was indeed the great Glorfindel. She had to bite her tongue when she got the vision of him confronting the Witch King (or a Balrog, if one prefers the theory that there is only one elf named Glorfindel) and his adversary only laughing at his bizarre appearance. There were many other elves who, like her, were present solely for the council. She recognized representatives from Lindon and Mirkwood, the latter headed by its prince, who was looking as handsome as ever. Other elves were not for easily identifiable locales. She spotted two similar-looking elves who were beautiful beyond plausibility and guessed they must be the twins in question. One was standing in the midst of a crowd of women who looked like nothing so much as humans who had received ear augmentation and elvish beauty treatments.

            Other than the elves or the beings that most closely approached being elves, Mithrandir and the four hobbits were present, as were, standing closer to the woods like the outsiders they were, Boromir, some men presumably from Dale and, Galadriel wrinkled her nose slightly, a contingent of dwarves.

            Glorfindel stepped up, helped her dismount, and inquired as to her husband's whereabouts. "He went to meet someone else and escort her to Rivendell. And how did you manage to turn yourself such a lovely shade of blue? Some new magic I am unaware of?" Glorfindel muttered something about his Lord's twins.

            Speaking of whom, there was a sudden motion at the far edge of the courtyard as the Elladan and Elrohir came out of the forest. In the same instant, Galadriel became aware of a most delightful aroma, namely the perfume she so loved. "How sweet," she thought to herself, "my grandsons are such lovely and thoughtful individuals," and, like a moth in the presence of a light, she was drawn toward them.

            As she got close to them, however, the pleasant scent was overwhelmed by a stench much more (she struggled to come up with a dignified word for it) fecal. And, now that she looked more closely, both looked like they had, against the wishes of the inhabitants, spent the night in a den of weasels. Giving up on her reeking grandsons, Galadriel put her head back and began rigorously sniffing the air, trying to find the source of that intoxicating perfume. She noticed that Boromir seemed to be thinking that the Elf Witch was doing a good impression of a Nazgul with her sniffing. She silenced his thoughts, and those of everyone else in the immediate vicinity, by blasting a ring of charm at them.

            Her nose led her toward the dwarves and to one dwarf in particular, a younger and, curiously, more attractive specimen than the others. She went to one knee before him and, with one last whiff to confirm that she had found what she sought, she kissed his forehead and, sticking her face in his hair, began reveling in the smell of the perfume.

  

            If any had seen his face, they would have observed that Gimli was wide-eyed and stunned at being approached by the Elf Lady who all the non-elves believed made Thranduil look like a good, kind, perpetually fair, and respectful (at least with regard to mental autonomy) king. However, he was shocked even moreso because her unusual attention to his hair was giving him a very surprising faceful of her chest. The few dwarf maidens of his age in Erebor had nothing that could compare to this. Perhaps elves weren't as bad as he thought.

   

            Satiated for the moment, Galadriel pulled back but did not stand up, instead addressing the dwarf, who wore the same expression as Haldir did after being charmed to within an inch of his life. She addressed him, curiously but not unkindly. "Why would a dwarf choose to wear elven perfume, Master…?" she prompted.

            The dwarf did not respond and seemed to be having difficulty breathing. An older dwarf answered her. "Gimli, son of…" Galadriel cut him off. "Master Gimli. Why are you wearing elven perfume?"

  

            Upon hearing his name repeated by the lovely voice that somehow perfectly matched her lovely body, Gimli started. "I… er… mmm… I fell into a vat of the perfume while attempting to dive out of the way of Master Elrohir as he ran through the house."

  

            Galadriel whirled on her grandsons. "Why would you tear through the house so carelessly as to bring harm to this poor, kind dwarf? Get inside, both of you! Clean yourselves up! And don't let me see you again until you are ready to apologize to Gimli!"

  

            As the twins hurriedly slinked away, several people, including the blue elf, Arwen (who somehow did not look anywhere nearly as attractive at the moment as she had the day before), and the son of his father's despised captor, snickered. The latter also looked quite deliberately at Gimli with suggestively raised eyebrows, which he acknowledged with a slight nod and a sly grin.

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            Boromir remained in the Hall of Fire after most of the others had proceeded to the dance in the adjoining room, curiously enough dubbed the Terrace of Funk. He wondered if Elrond had been as drunk when he named it that as he had looked tonight. If Merry the Halfling had not kindly enlightened him regarding the strange situation prevalent in Imladris, he might have thought that the supposedly wise elf with whom the Free Peoples of Middle-earth would consult was either half-orc or more than halfway to becoming one. Having heard the story, he almost pitied the guy. At least he had spent himself in an act of healing; the only reason his father would so recklessly expend energy was in an attempt to light a fire. Not that Denethor's pyromania bothered Boromir that much; he just wished that said pyromania would be directed toward the field of weapons development rather than funeral planning.

            Boromir did not just linger to contemplate Lord Elrond or his father, though. The beauty of the songs the elves sang had touched an underused and overly sensitive part of him. For the first time in his life, he could seriously say that he understood the distant look his brother got when he talked about the history and culture of the elves. So Boromir had sat, able to almost hear the echoes of the lovely music floating through the room. Perhaps elves weren't as bad as he thought.

            To test the theory, he decided to finally get up and join the dance. He doubted it would be as fun, frivolous, or bawdy as the dancing in the taverns of Minas Tirith that he so loved to frequent with the soldiers, but he still held out the hope that he might get to dance with an attractive elf wench.

            Needless to say, Boromir was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him, and he was unsure whether he should laugh out loud or find the nearest trash receptacle and introduce it to partially digested elvish cooking. He settled for crossing his arms upon his chest, adopting a disgusted but amused smirk, and seeking out Mithrandir, with whom he was not close but hoped, based on his brother's friendship, might be able to explain this strange custom of the elves.

            Most of the elves were dancing, in what could delicately be described as a romantic fashion, in pairs that suggested absolutely no common sense at all and could only be described as wrong. Elrohir (or Elladan, he could not be certain which) and Vinegar (or whatever his name was), who even Boromir had to admit looked like a god, Erestor and Legolas, Glorfindel and Haldir, and myriad others sashayed around the room like the fairies they obviously were, often switching partners without discrimination toward sex or hair color. Presiding over it all sat Hugelda (or whatever her name was; Vinegar's twin), her face glowing with unbounded joy and her gaze shifting around the room but most often settling on the ranger Strider, who stood next to her, his eyes glazed over and worshipful. Along the wall behind her stood a number of females giggling amongst themselves as they pointed at the dancers and sipped their wine. He might have asked one of these to dance, since they all looked fairly attractive and their mannerisms were far more suggestive of young, tavern-going human females than elegant elves, but there was no way he would venture onto such an obviously cursed floor.

            Having found the grey wizard, he asked him "What is going on? I do not know much of the elves, but I recall no references to such couplings in the scrolls Faramir read…" He trailed off, but his eyes got wider. "Faramir admires elven culture. Does that mean that he's… queer?"

            Mithrandir sighed as the frightened man looked at him imploringly. "Elrond had the right idea, slipping off to bed before this started, though admittedly that was because he was so tired that he even allowed Tanglinna to help him to his room. When fully lucid, Elrond has never forgiven Thranduil's Master Archer for his role in the 'spiked Dorwinion incident' all these years ago. And Tanglinna is probably back in the library by now; he has hardly left it in the past few days, though I cannot imagine what he might be seeking."

            Boromir's concern grew as Mithrandir failed to answer, but the wizard then turned and met his eyes. "No, this is not normal elven behavior and no, your brother does not wish to emulate it. These elves have been infected with GPS."

            Vienasar, now dancing with Arwen and looking much happier, though his eyes were still shooting daggers at his sister, interrupted. "How did you find out about our Global Positioning System?"

            "Your what?" Arwen inquired.

            "Exactly what the name implies, my sweet. The Global Positioning System allows us to position the globe any way we like, so we could insert Nantaurea and shorten the journey from there to here and… Nevermind, love." And he led her away before either the Maia or the man could ask any questions.

            The former continued. "That explained a lot. Galadriel and Elrond will be most interested in hearing about that. No, Boromir, the GPS from which the elves suffer is Generic Promiscuity Syndrome, a disease that a group of elves sometimes contracts in the presence of someone like her," he said with a gesture toward Hugelda. "Fortunately, this is only a mild strain. Elves with the worst variation will spend all hours of the day and night engaging in what Galadriel calls 'other nocturnal activities' with whatever elf or elves happen to be in the proximity, regardless of gender, marital status, stamina, and other things that normally serve as moral and physical limits on such practices."

            Boromir winced and lifted his eyes to survey the room, thinking that finding the trash receptacle would probably be a very good idea at this moment, when Galadriel stepped in front of him, grabbed him by the cheeks, and kissed him on the lips. Stunned, Boromir just let his mouth hang open as she pulled back and addressed him. "My, but you look handsome tonight. It's a shame you won't live long enough to marry." She then released his face and resumed her sensuous dancing, this time with Arwen.
 

            Huchelda's face glinted with laughter as she watched the dancing. She called Princess Oiralimpe, one of her friends, over to her and pointed at Galadriel and Arwen, who were now kissing and stroking each other's hair as they danced. "It isn't Eowyn, but you were certainly correct about Arwen's team of choice." Oiralimpe nodded. "Not only could Vienasar not convert her, it looks as though Elladan and Elrohir have converted him," she said, gesturing at the threesome dancing in a circle. Huchelda grinned. Her brother was trying to oppose her will, but there was no way he could overcome her when she was drawing power from her friends.

            Galadriel pulled back from Arwen, her inexplicable but undeniable lust satisfied for the moment. Glancing around in search of her next partner, she spotted a white rabbit sitting under an archway. It looked similar to the one they had followed that afternoon to the land of insanity and wonders that was Rivendell. Odd.

 

            "Awww, look at the cute bunny." Huchelda followed Oiralimpe's glimpse toward the arch and winced as her friend's sigh changed to a fangirlish scream an octave-and-a-half higher. "Ohmigod! It's Galadriel/Haldir! I must tame that plot bunny!" She rushed toward it and was about halfway there when it suddenly sprang up and, as though attached to a wire, flew straight at Oiralimpe's neck. There was an unpleasantly gory moment as the rabbit savaged the girl's throat with its sharp pointy teeth, and then both fell back to the ground. Not five seconds later, both body and bunny had disappeared as though they had never been in Rivendell.

            At Oiralimpe's shriek, every head in the room had turned toward the archway, giving Vienasar the chance to reposition himself next to his beloved. If his experience with fangirls had taught him anything, it was that plot bunny attacks were not pleasant and that such creatures were rarely solitary hunters. "Come, my love. You do not wish to witness this," and they slipped away together just as the group of bunnies began to hop onto the terrace, with at least one of them for every fangirl Huchelda had brought.

            Huchelda yelled at them to not be so distracted but knew it was futile. Once the bunnies were in view, the fangirls would not be distracted from them. The scene with Oiralimpe was repeated many times, as each friend picked a bunny, moved toward it until it attacked, and then both disappeared. Pyro Faerie succumbed to 'Frodo falls out of a tree and loses his memory.' Krystal was ravaged by 'Elladan loves loquacious elf girl.' Dwelling on the possibilities for her own romance therein, Emily Claire was distracted by 'Hot female gives modern dance lessons to Fellowship in Lorien.'

            By the time all of them were gone, Huchelda's power over everyone other than Aragorn had dwindled to nothing. As the elves came to there senses and, realizing what had happened, began screaming, puking all over the floor, tearing their hair, and announcing their intentions to burn their clothes and take scalding baths alone to cleanse the evil, Huchelda grabbed Aragorn's arm and quietly led him off into the trees.

(Now wasn't that mean of me. I had intended to put the bridge scene foreshadowed at the beginning in this chapter, but the plot bunnies were really nibbling -like sharks circling round a kill as much as anything else- and I figured that, having hit the ninth page, it really was time to stop for the moment.)

Thanks to my wonderful and lovely reviewers.

Makoto-47: I'm glad you enjoyed it, though I'm thinking I should recommend you to a good psychiatrist if my deliberately hideous poetry inspired you.

Dragon-of-the-north: If only it were that simple :-) If Alagaith would enlighten us, Glorfindel would appreciate it (or maybe puke some more, depending). I just figured I would deliberately echo Crowbait's method of creating elf names from the prologue and see if anyone noticed. Remember that other bottle of Dorwinion- it will be back. Brethil may well be in Rivendell, but he certainly does not wish to have anymore attention drawn to him. And your analysis and song of Vienasar's marriage was very amusing, if not quite what I intended.

TreeHugger: Yes, Tanglinna. Well, to shrink your head a bit, you're barely mentioned in this chapter, though I suspect you, if no one else, already know what you're researching and planning, at which point you will take center stage, much to the chagrin of your authoress. I think the description of Aragorn is the voice of the narrator (Theodosia) coming through, rather than Legolas thoughts. Thanks for your kind comments and appreciation of my hideously silly poetry.

Lady LeBeau: They won't learn any time soon, that's for sure. This story has a history of causing readers to get funny looks from their families; I'm sorry I've made you join that list.

Thanks to Pyro Faerie for giving me some advice on Galadriel's visions. I expanded her vision of Pippin specifically for Lady LeBeau and you. Boromir's mispronunciations of the twin's names are the nicknames bestowed on them by Dragon-of-the-north. The canonical characters and settings belong to Tolkien; Huchelda, Vienasar, Princess Oiralimpe, and all the crazy and random beyond the realm of common sense happenings belong to me. The method of the plot bunny attack is, of course, taken from Monte Python and the Holy Grail. A big thank you goes to Pyro Faerie, Lady LeBeau, and Makoto-47, who graciously agreed to make cameos as fangirls in this chapter. I hope my utilization of you did not bring offense. Since this story had already become a way to vent satirize existing fangirl practices, I figured I might as well complain about the 'bring your friends' approach to Mary Sues and the insidious GPS.  Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and please review.