AN: I can't believe it's Chapter 9 already. Maybe I should make them longer...
MrsVladMagpyr: Thanks, and - well - Nobby wouldn't be Nobby without a little boot theft. But Frodo does it in canon, too... I'll get to that soon enough.
Lyra: (Nice to see an HDM fan for once) Yes you did, yes he is, not telling, and you'll see!
Lyggy: Thank you!
Ozodrac: Thanks! I'm not normally into crossover myself, but you know what it's like when you have a plot bunny buzzing around and can't concentrate on anything else...
Chapter Nine: Staying in Character
"Come in!" screamed the voices in Carrot's pocket as he sucked his cut finger.
Frowning slightly, he reached cautiously into his pocket and drew out a gleaming shard of glass. Ponder Stibbons, Mustrum Ridcully, Reg Shoe and Constable Visit looked eagerly back at him. Reg seemed to be holding a stapler to his head.
"Contact established!" said Ponder triumphantly.
"Shut up, Stibbons. We can see that." The Archchancellor resurrected his grin from the pits of annoyance. "Captain Carrot! How are you getting on?"
"We're all right-" Carrot began, but Vimes snatched the piece of Omniscope from his hands.
"Where the bloody hell are we?" he demanded. "I thought we were going to turn up near Sam!"
Ponder licked his lips nervously. "Yes, well, there seems to be a problem with that..."
"I can see that!" cried Vimes. "Where's my son?"
Ponder went off-screen for a moment. Then he came back. "He's about 600miles away. And closing."
Vimes gave him a look of icy blankness. Then he swore and shoved the Omniscope back at Carrot. "Let's see who's in charge of this mess," he said, striding on across the plateau, bound for a particularly lavish red tent.
Carrot was acutely aware of the people peering out of their tents, apparently to look at Vimes, who was oblivious to the whole thing.
He's not himself, Carrot noted, and for once in this story there were no interjections in his train of thought. This whole thing with Sam is making him vulnerable.
Vimes' head was less tranquil. In fact, it was buzzing. 600 miles! That was two weeks' straight riding!
"How fast can these... elves... travel?" asked Carrot.
"We're not really sure," said Stibbons, "but we know someone who is..."
It was starting to get colder. The huge horses of the elves could easily run twice as fast as normal ones, and they were racing across the uneven terrain towards Eregion. A normal horse would have taken half a day to get that far; the elves had taken two hours.
The future duke of Ankh was getting cranky.
"Where's Mummy?" he whined in that up-and-down singsong employed by three-year-olds across the multiverse. "I want Daddy."
"Now, now precious," cooed the Queen, "just try to go to sleep."
"But I'm - not - tired!"
The Queen made soothing noises and passed her hand over the boy's head. He fell asleep instantly.
"I am beginning to tire of this one," she said.
When Nobby pictured his own face, he didn't see exactly what the rest of the world saw. Everyone does this. No amount of imagination could make Nobby easy on the eyes† but even so, stepping into someone else's body had sheared clean through his own minor self-delusions; when Nobby saw his reflection, it was that of a Hobbit, accompanied by disconcerting flashes of a face that was not completely unfamiliar. There were subtle, dismaying differences.
Shocked, Nobby focussed on his true self for the first time in about 34 years. A couple of his boils were bigger. His nose was slightly longer.
"Mr Frodo?" asked the being called Sam. "Could you..." Sam waved a piece of dried meat.
"Oh - right," mumbled Nobby. He tore his gaze away from the dark water of the cooking pot and sat down by a tree. What am I? he thought.
A Hobbit.
It took Sam quite a long time to hush him this time.
†(Author's note: AARRGGGHHH!)
The Bursar was beginning to enjoy himself. There were some odd people around here: hideous, but jolly good chaps all in all. They brought him anything he wanted.
"Lord," simpered one, "we are having difficulties in carrying out your task. The... pink, sir."
"Pink!" grinned Bursar. "Paints in the meadows, Hogfather!"
The one now known as Hogfather bowed deeply and deployed a host of Orcs to the fields of Rohan to find some pink paint.
"What news?" asked Vetinari.
"Osgiliath has fallen, lord," said the sombre messenger. "Our men have fled; a great force of Morgul-orcs passed through the city."
"How long ago?"
"An hour, perhaps?"
Vetinari nodded and rose from his stool. He crossed to the window, arms clasped behind his back in classic overlord style. "Where have they gone?"
"That's the strange thing, lord," said the messenger, "they march north, towards Rohan."
"They would cut us off..." He let the words hang in the air. Then his voice became crisp again. "What news from Amon Din?"
"There is none, lord. We have heard nothing."
Vetinari closed his eyes. The messenger couldn't hear the bickering going on behind them.
Dead! Dead! All dead and gone! What hope is left, you deluded old fool?
Old? I'm barely half your age.
But I perceive your mind. It is much older than your years. Reptilian.†
I can hear yours, I can see what you've done, I know what the men call you. Dinosaur. We are not so different, you and I.
Dinosaur indeed. All men love me!
I have heard it asked whether it is better to be loved or feared: you've fallen on one side but I think you're a little confused. Let's put it down to senility, shall we?
Vetinari smiled slightly at the ensuing mental roar, and opened his eyes. He turned back to the messenger. "No news is good news," he said. "We would have heard if they'd seen something."
"Yes, sir."
Vetinari turned back to the window. "Light the beacons. It is beginning."
Far below, the men working in the fields saw the flames atop the White Tower and redoubled their efforts. It was starting.‡
†There might have been more truth in this than Denethor realised. A few years earlier, Vetinari had been turned into small lizard by a rogue Sourcerer.
‡Unfortunately the Gondorians thought the war was starting, when it was in fact just the redecoration of Barad-dur and environs. Waste of drama, eh?
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