The 'I Can't Face a Christmas Without A BagEnders Special'
PseudoBagEnders Christmas Special
'The Passage of the Fangirls'
Part Two
by Bridget and Trojie
Disclaimer; None of the characters herein are ours. The Fellowship, the Twins, Faramir and Eomer all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. Dave, Sandra, and the Legolusters are all from Lady Alyssa and Random Dent's slightly scary imaginations. The characterisation of the Tolkien characters is from LA and RD's BagEnders, which we are trying to emulate.
Kirsten is still ours, as for some reason no-one's decided to claim her. Dotsie and Sadie are of course property of Terry Pratchett, although their peacekeeping is a little less law-abiding in his world. Macbeth quotation owned by Shakespeare, although he's unlikely to sue us for breach of copyright. Complete bastardisation of Faramir's character inspired by Peter Jackson. We're very sorry for the implication that Boromir is harbouring all sorts of nasty urinogenital ailments.
Important Note; This is A Tribute. We're not LA and RD. We know this. We're not even trying to be their 'successors' or anything of that kidney. We're just pinching their characters/characterisations for a bit of fun. NOT that kind of fun, this is a clean episode.
Notes; Klinefelter's Syndrome is mentioned herein. This is a genetic disorder wherein males have 47 chromosomes, with the sex chromosomes XXY. A man/boy with Klinefelter's will display a positive chromatin pattern (that is, one X chromosome collapsed to form a Barr body, which is normally only exhibited by females), a narrow waist, breasts, and will most likely be sterile. Trojie puts away biology textbook
xxx
Aragorn heard the chanting from the depths of Merry and Pippin's bedroom, where, inspired by the Twins' bizarre plans, he was collecting ammunition of a socky nature.
'What do we want?'
'Lars's naked body!'
'When do we want it?'
'Now!'
Elrohir poked his head in from the landing. He looked panicked, and was piggy-backing Dave, who had passed out again, and was drooling on his shoulder.
'They've got Rohan Dude, Gondor Dude and Ithilililllien Elrohir had had quite a lot of lembas by this stage Dude downstairs! And Mirkwood Dude is right next door in the kitchen! Like, what do we do?'
Aragorn, unfazed by the apparent sudden appearance of extra people, hesitated not one whit. 'We will not abandon them to torment and death! Anduril, Anduril for Gondor!' And with that, he leapt into action, trailing Elves and insensible humans behind him.
'To me, Elrohir, Elladan, Dave! Be bloody, bold and resolute!' He hurled himself in the direction of the stairs, somehow managing to acquire a flaming torch in the process, and with a noise perhaps best described as 'Woooorrgh', he leapt over the banister, caught his foot in the railings, fell headlong into the ring of fangirls surrounding Frodo, singeing several of their number in the process, and collapsed.
The Twins watched Frodo's face with great interest as he tried to decide whether to thank Aragorn for the somewhat misguided rescue attempt, or bollock him for nearly setting fire to the carpet. Aragorn had managed to land on top of the flaming torch rather than Merry and Pippin's socks. Whether this was fortunate or not depends on your perspective. Frodo chose to simply roll his eyes as Aragorn groaned very softly and the aroma of singed hair filled the hallway.
Boromir, Faramir and Eomer chose this moment to attack. The fangirls, having rather more sense than they have yet been given credit for, reversed hurriedly, and the Rescue Party (Mk. II) fell on top of Aragorn in a rapidly revolving blur of fists and feet. They completely failed to hit any of the enemies, although Aragorn took a few well-timed kicks in the groin courtesy of Boromir (entirely accidental, we're sure).
After several moments, the total lack of pulverised enemies lying prone before them came to the attention of the brawling heap of bodies. They all looked up (except for Aragorn, who was in his own private little world of pain, and probably wouldn't be capable of anything for at least an hour), and espied Legolas's fans hastily retreating in the direction of the living room.
'Oi!' yelled Boromir.
'Rrrrraagghhh!' roared Eomer.
'Aaaaaiiieeee!' shrieked Aragorn.
'Huh?' said Faramir.
Frodo observed, mildly interested, as the Legolusters™ ran for their lives, a baying mob of Gondorian and Rohirric nobility at their heels. Then he stepped over the softly yelping Aragorn, and returned to the kitchen.
xxx
It was a scene that would not have looked out of place in a Monty Python film. The fangirls were all but screaming 'Run away! Run away!' Unfortunately for them, they ran away into the living room, where Gandalf still held court. Carried away by adrenaline, and their own momentum, they didn't all manage to stop in time.
'Laaaar- ooof,' was the general sound effect, as singed stalkers barrelled into the room and collided with Gandalf and the Chair, the former of whom did his damndest to ignore them.
The rashes started appearing almost instantaneously.
'What's that . . . smell?'
'Alice, I think it's you.'
'It's this . . . chair thing.' A delicate sniff, 'it smells awful. We should get out of here.'
There was a wail.
'What's the matter?'
'I touched . . . I touched the Chair!'
'Oh my god, look at her hands!'
'That looks like psoriasis. My uncle has that. I didn't think you could get it from chairs.'
There was an incoherent bubbling noise from the afflicted girl.
'Don't worry Susan, it'll be fine. Here, use my hanky. You can wipe it clean.'
Five minutes of scrubbing later…
'Wow, I didn't think cotton could draw blood.'
'It's not coming off!'
'No, but her skin is.'
'Susan, I think that's enough. You'll hurt yourself.'
'It's no use! Will this little hand ne'er be clean?'
xxx
Gimli, having sought sanctuary in the living room, peered out from behind the sofa, hoping, praying that they were gone. They weren't. The fangirls, capable of pinpointing a Y chromosome at a distance of three hundred metres, spotted him.
'It's the short guy! Lars's friend! He can lead us to him!'
'LARS IS NOT GAY!'
'He can have a friend without being gay, stupid bint.'
'Lars is MINE!' An avenging, ash-burnt Shirley went to throw herself across the room at the cowering Gimli, until a sudden sensation of . . . heat . . . became apparent. Something that looked like a glowing coal was still attached to the front of her top; the plastic-based fibre the garment was composed of had melted and effectively glued the ember to her clothing. Her shriek alerted Gandalf to their presence.
Fire. Monsters, his brain told him. And Gandalf had only one reaction to fire and monsters combined. Taking a deep breath and actually standing (gasp), he turned to face the fangirls.
'I am a servant of the secret fire!' he bellowed, 'And wielder of the Flame of Anor! The Dark Fire shall not avail you, Flame of Udûn!'
But before he could actually expel them from the house, which would be officially the first useful thing he had done for the Fellowship in over three centuries, Boromir screwed it up.
As Faramir and certainly Eomer would say; did you expect anything else?
As he came charging into the living room, yelling ancient Gondorian war-cries at the top of his voice, he made the mistake of attempting to maintain high speed on a carpet that had recently been used by Merry and Pippin as a table (the kitchen being considered too far away, and Chinese takeaway being considered too unhealthy for Frodo to know about). An overturned polystyrene tub of sweet-and-sour sauce made contact with his foot, and he careened across the room, landing on Gandalf.
It was difficult to say who was more surprised, or horrified.
xxx
By eight o clock that night, the fangirls had been evicted, via a combination of brute strength (Eomer and the three Gondorians forcibly dragging any too foolish to seek cover to the door), misdirection ('Hey Frodo, did you see where Leg- I mean, Lars, went?' 'Yes, I think I saw him going to the shops.') and threats to tell their parents when the above techniques failed. Injuries to Fellowship members had been limited, although Pippin's pride had been dented slightly when he had managed to clear the living room completely simply by entering and saying 'hello ladies'. It was now time, the Hobbits insisted, for tea.
Aragorn, however, was determined to have one last shot at proving his manliness (his groin having now stopped throbbing with excruciating pain every time he so much as breathed). And so it was decided, by a majority vote of six to three, that Merry and Pippin would be dealt with first, so that they would be 'suitably attired' for dinner, as Legolas put it. The Twins', Dave's and Gandalf's votes were vetoed, as no one wished to spend the night in a strip club or a gay bar ('Dude, it'll be, like, funny!').
And so the Fellowship convened around the kitchen table.
'Hacksaw!'
'Stat!' said Legolas, tossing it out from the cupboard. Don't ask why it was in the cupboard. Gimli was in the habit of storing miscellaneous tools all over the house, in case nuclear war ever did strike and he needed to build a new civilisation out of the materials to hand.
Merry, 'Peak Practice' addict, scowled. 'S'not fair, using ERisms against me.'
'You use them against us,' said Aragorn, readying the hacksaw against the chain linking the two cuffs. 'Action stations everyone!'
'Aargh!'
'Merry, if you stopped kicking then this would be easier.'
'If I stop kicking, then it'll be easier for you to chop me arm off!'
'I wouldn't be chopping your arm off if you weren't kicking!'
'Aragorn, I've seen you doing woodwork. All the kicking does is add an element of doubt as to whether it's only his hand you're amputating, or whether you're going for the whole arm,' said Legolas from the depths of his refuge. A roll of bandages flew out of the cupboard and bounced off Gimli's helmet. 'For Merry,' the Elf added. 'I expect he'll need them.'
xxx
Five minutes later . . .
Merry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed to any gods he'd not yet managed to mortally offend.
'Are you sure it's meant to go that way up?'
'Should you be doing this on the kitchen table?'
'Is his face supposed to be that colour?'
The newly incarnated were trying to help, in the only way they knew how. It was high time the handcuffs came off, although Frodo had protested, given their usefulness in limiting the extent of mischief Merry and Pippin could get into, but he had been overruled, and Aragorn was now preparing to saw through the chain linking Merry's wrists together. Eomer and Faramir were offering 'helpful' advice, and Aragorn was rapidly losing his temper. Boromir's persistent leering was doing nothing to calm the imminent explosion.
'Yes, it is! And yes, I should! And no! It's not! Now will you please sod off and let me work?' He gesticulated wildly with the hacksaw, and Pippin, still be-dreaded, perched on the sideboard and awaiting his turn, ducked hurriedly. Gimli and Boromir decided that while discretion may be the better part of valour, having all four limbs intact was by far the best, and retreated to the safety of the doorway. Eomer and Faramir, however, were having none of Aragorn's attempt to assert his masculinity and incidentally his sovereignty.
'Why does this remind me of Eowyn?' Faramir wondered, prodding at the handcuffs.
'Because she used to chain you to trees when you were being pathetically annoying?'
'Ah, yes. Thank you so much for reminding me.'
Boromir snickered, albeit in a slightly worried way.
'Excuse me, but can you hurry it up a bit? This is not doin' anythin' to improve my mood.'
Aragorn bent over and began sawing.
'It's no good. Faramir, go and get me the chainsaw from the shed.'
'What!'
'Quiet, Merry, it's for your own good. Do you want full use of your hands or not?'
'You're not comin' anywhere near my hands with a bloody chainsaw!'
'Don't be silly, it's perfectly clean-'
'Sure, it is now!'
'Wwwwzzeeeeph,' went the chainsaw.
'Aargh!' went Merry.
'Help!' went Aragorn, trying valiantly to stop the chainsaw from removing any of Merry's wildly flailing limbs.
Eomer obliged, by standing behind Merry and holding the squirming Hobbit's hands firmly on the table.
'Not like that! Let me go! I'll scream rape!'
'No-one will hear you, little Hobbit… you're ours now…'
Amid the horrible flashbacks, Merry whimpered. The sound of the chainsaw filled his mind, along with desperate wondering about how the hell he was going to get through the rest of his immortality with two bleeding stumps in place of hands. He was interrupted from this reverie of fear by what was quite possibly the worst thing anyone had ever heard in such a situation, except perhaps 'whoops':
'Okay, someone go and get the axe.'
xxx
Some time later, the Fellowship sat around the kitchen table, discussing the day's events.
'So why were you being besieged by little girls?' Boromir asked. Somehow, he managed to make this seemingly innocent question sound incredibly perverted.
'They were after my body,' came a voice from the depths of the cupboard. Legolas was not taking any chances, and had decided to remain where he was for the foreseeable future, or at least until his plane ticket to Madagascar arrived.
'…Right. So why's this one still here?'
'She's in love with Sam.'
'…Riiiight.'
'Don't worry, I think she's harmless.'
'Are you sure? They can be pretty cunning at that age.'
There was a moan from the slightly burned and severely bloodied heap at the far end of the table. Aragorn was finally coming round. Merry shuffled his chair a little further away; Aragorn was not likely to look too kindly on the Hobbit when he remembered that, fearing for his safety, Merry had smartly bopped the maniac-inexpertly-wielding-a-chainsaw over the head with a frying pan held between his teeth (Fun Christmas Fact: Hobbits have amazing muscular control in their jaws). That in itself should not have sent Aragorn to sleep for so long, but the accumulated blood loss of the day's activities had taken its toll.
'Well she hasnae gone for me, an' Ah'm a Hobbit.'
'That's 'cause the one you went for's probably going to end up in an institution.' Merry had still not quite forgiven Pippin for getting them arrested, although he had yet to explain the details of their 'protest' to the others.
Aragorn shifted slightly, and moaned a little louder. Unfortunately, of the only people who might have cared, one was still in hiding and the other two were now up a tree in the back garden, 'just in case', although what they mostly appeared to be doing was attempting to shoot tin cans off Dave's head. As he was once again comatose, they had currently scored forty-seven out of forty-seven each, and the game looked set to continue for some time yet.
'It's no' my fault she doesnae know quality when she sees it.'
'S'not her fault you don't know sexual harassment when you're committin' it.'
'It wasnae sexual! Ah didnae even touch her!'
'Pippin, of the twenty-three women who've currently got restrainin' orders against you, how many did you actually get as far as touchin'?'
Pippin was not going to stand for this slur on his pulling power. He launched himself at Merry. The others took absolutely no notice.
'Do you think we should make him a cup of tea?'
'I vote for sending him to sleep again.'
'Shut up, Boromir, or I'll make you go and sit with Gandalf.' Suitably chastised, Boromir nibbled at the edge of his scone.
'What're these black bits? They look like dead flies.'
'They're raisins, and no, they're not poisonous. Be quiet.'
Aragorn moaned again, even more loudly. Legolas-in-the-cupboard appeared to notice at last:
'Aragorn? Are you alright?'
'I'm not sure… I have a large- ow! A very large bump on my head. And I seem to be bleeding…'
The cupboard door opened a tiny crack, and a single Elven eye could be seen peering out. Rummaging noises could be heard, and then a packet of Ibuprofen came sailing out of the cupboard and landed on the throbbing lump on Aragorn's forehead.
'Stop whingeing about it. At least they didn't pull out great chunks of your hair. This is going to take months to grow back, you know.'
Aragorn raised an eyebrow, and immediately lowered it again as the pain grew exponentially. 'They got your hair?'
'It was only a few strands. You'll be fine. Are you going to come out yet?'
'…I think I'm bleeding too, you know.'
Eomer, who had been listening to this exchange while watching the Hobbits' fight (which had now rolled under the table), wandered over to the cupboard, opened the door, grabbed hold of Legolas and yanked him out. Sure enough, blotches of red littered Legolas's clothes.
Eomer sniffed the blotches, then gingerly stuck his finger on one. He licked the glistening red gloop from his fingertip.
'It's jam,' he announced.
There was a 'thunk', and Merry emerged backwards from under the table. Or at least, he tried to. Pippin was attempting to stand up at the other side of the table, and it rapidly became apparent that they had somehow managed to attach their handcuffs together. They both fell over, and immediately began hurling abuse at one another.
Eomer, Legolas and Aragorn looked at one another. Eomer shrugged.
'You know, I'm sure that's physically impossible.'
'Why? Magicians do it all the time.'
'Yes, but Hobbits are distinctly unmagical. The closest those two get to conjuring is pulling a fake ID out of someone else's pocket.'
'If they got them stuck together, they must be able to get them apart.' Legolas seemed convinced of this, despite all evidence to the contrary, such as Pippin trying to punch Merry and realising that if he got the timing and the angle just right, he could make Merry punch himself in his own nose.
Frodo, meanwhile, had just remembered something.
'That's not raspberry jam, by any chance?' he asked Eomer.
'Not sure. The only jam flavours they had when I was alive all tasted the same. Like rotten fruit.'
Boromir and Faramir winced at the recollection. Visits to the Meduseld in their youth had always been irreparably tainted by Eowyn's home-made jam, which on a good day only clung onto the spoon for a few seconds.
'Merry…' said Frodo, in a menacing tone. But Merry was too busy trying not to punch himself to notice.
'It's probably better off if you just leave them to it,' Aragorn suggested.
'I'd rather like to know why Legolas is covered in jammy handprints and the two jars of raspberry jam I left in the cupboard last night have mysteriously vanished.'
'Yes, but of all the questions you've ever asked them, when have you ever liked the answer?'
xxx
Sam ambled down the street, idling counting the number of streetlights with blown bulbs, with thermos and industrial-sized lunchbox in hand. He was whistling. Life was grand, and he was looking forward to a sumptuous dinner, and by the smells emanating from the house as he walked up, he was not going to be disappointed.
Gimli was coming out of the garden gate, presumably on his way to work. As Sam acknowledged him with a nod, a thought occurred to him. Frodo's best dinners were usually preceded by some disaster. And so it was with trepidation that he entered the house.
A shriek of 'Sam!' alerted him to danger. But before he could escape, something emerged from the kitchen and enveloped him.
'Eeek! Choking!' he tried to protest, but the attacker (he suspected one of the offspring of Shelob by the way it was throttling him) paid no heed. Under the thundering of blood in his ears he could hear thudding noises, and then the light came back and he could breathe again.
'Little dude, are you ok?'
'Like, we thought you were a goner!'
The Twins tended to Sam, while in the background an argument was going on.
'I told you it was a mistake to let her stay!'
'I didn't think she'd actually stampede him! She seemed so nice, compared to the others!'
'Yes, but that's roughly what you said about Gollum, and where did that get you?'
Frodo curled his hand defensively around the place where his finger used to be. 'Fine. You were right, I was wrong. And if you'll excuse me, I have to go and cook.' The hobbit stormed off in high dudgeon.
Sam decided that it was probably better off all round if he just didn't ask.
xxx
'The forensic lot have looked at it, and they're sure that isn't human hair. Oh, one of them's seeing a medical pathologist-'
'Which one?'
'John.'
'Bugger. I was going to ask him out for a drink after the Christmas Do.'
'Anyway, he's going out with this medical pathologist, and he reckoned she almost had a coronary when he mentioned the name 'Frodo Baggins', so he suggested we ask at the hospital about him.'
'Well let's get onto it then. I for one would like to have Christmas at home, not at the station.'
'So would we all.'
'The thing that really puzzles me though, is the banner. I mean, why?'
'I know. She's got such silly hair.'
'I didn't think eight year olds were allowed to watch Star Trek anyway.'
xxx
Extra chairs had had to be set out so that the entire extended household could eat dinner together, rather than in shifts, as had been proposed by Aragorn. Due to Merry and Pippin being inextricably entwined (again, we remind you all; clean episode) they did in fact have to share a seat; Pippin, as the lighter of the two, was sitting on Merry's lap. Legolas, still protesting his ignoble removal from the sanctuary of the cupboard, was pointedly Not Talking to Eomer, and Faramir and Boromir had to be seated at completely different ends of the table to stop them from kicking each other in the shins. Once Frodo had everyone seated and not annoying anyone else too much, he started dishing up. Unfortunately, the resurrected members of the group were having trouble with the concept of 'vegetables'. Again.
'Faramir, do you want broccoflower?'
'Brocco-what?'
'What horse?' piped up a Twin from the other end of the table.
'Dude, is that horse?' said the other one. 'I'm not eating horse!'
'It's not horse,' said Legolas.
'He said 'rocco'.'
'And that, like, means 'horse'.'
'He said 'brocco', as in 'broccoflower.' Legolas paused. 'Frodo, what is broccoflower anyway?'
'It's a cross between cauliflower and broccoli,' said Frodo, snatching Faramir's wavering plate and plonking a portion of steamed broccoflower on it.
'I'm not eating that, even if it isn't horse,' said Boromir, eyeing his brother's plate warily from afar. 'Green means something's going off.'
'Boromir, it's not going off. Sometimes we eat vegetables that aren't boiled yellow.'
'We never ate vegetables boiled yellow.'
'No, you never ate vegetables full stop,' said Pippin.
'Neither did you,' said Sam. 'You were the only Hobbit in the Shire to get scurvy. Ever.'
'Ah were the only Hobbit in the Shire to do a lot o' things,' said Pippin proudly.
'Like making an arse of yerself in front of Elrond?' said Merry nastily, because he wasn't enjoying being sat on. Pippin shifted on his ample behind. Merry went cross-eyed.
'Frodo! He just farted on me!'
'Duck and cover!' The entire Fellowship dived beneath the table, the usual procedure when a Hobbit farted. The general idea was that since hot air floats, the farts would rise. This left Boromir, Faramir, Eomer, the Twins and Dave (who had been given a wing armchair to sit in in the hopes that it would prevent him from falling into anyone else's dinner should he pass out) looking very puzzled, before the smell hit them.
Underneath the table, Merry, in his panic to get low, had managed to land on top of Pippin, not surprisingly winding him quite badly. Aragorn had bumped his head again, and was leaning on Legolas's prone form and whimpering. And Frodo had found the crust of a mince pie from earlier, which reminded him that he'd not yet started on the final week's frantic baking for Christmas Day. That clinched things.
'Right, bed everyone!'
'What, Frodo? We've only just started dinner!'
'I don't care, you're all going to bed! Take your dinners with you. But you're all getting out of this kitchen!'
'Where's everyone staying?'
'Legolas, the Twins are in with you. Aragorn, Eomer and Faramir are in your room, Boromir is staying with Sam and I and Dave is with Merry and Pippin, because he's the only one who'll be able to withstand their room. Now out, the lot of you!'
Picking up their plates, the extended edition of the Fellowship trooped dutifully up to bed, and Frodo prepared for a mammoth all-night cooking session.
xxx
'Dude, what's this, like, springy thing?'
'It's a slinky, Aragorn gave me it for no ascertainable reason, are you going to shut up and go to sleep soon?'
'Dude, it moves!'
'Like, cool!'
The Twins swayed from side to side on the end of Legolas's bed, each holding one end of the bizarre metal contraption and following its movement. Legolas gritted his teeth.
'Hey Mirkwood-dude!'
He ignored them.
'Mirkwood-dude! Mirky-dude!'
Elrohir took up the chant.
'Mirkydudemirkydudemirkydude!'
'What?'
'Why are you so, like, grumpy?'
'I'm not grumpy.'
'You are.'
'You're, like, grumpier than dad-'
'-And that's saying a lot.'
'He always seems to be grumpy.'
'That's because he doesn't like you, and I'm NOT grumpy! Now will you let me sleep?'
'Is it because of the, like, crazy stalkers?'
'Yeah, 'cause if it is, we could, like, sing you a song-'
'-To soothe you and send you to sleep-'
'-And then you'll, like, stop shouting.'
Legolas stuck the pillow over his head and closed his eyes.
'At least you're not stuck in the Tent of Chastity any more-'
'-Yeah, that was, like, totally not cool-'
'-We still haven't learnt Braille!'
'Dude! Let's go learn Braille! Mirky-dude? Have you got any, like, books about Braille?'
Legolas decided to go and sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. It had been a long time since he'd gone to sleep standing up, and it wouldn't do to get out of practice.
As he left his bedroom, the Twins began to try to make up a language involving the movement of slinkies.
xxx
'My toes are cold.'
'Blame Faramir, he's the one hogging the blanket.'
'Faramir, stop hogging the blanket.'
'Piss'ff,' Faramir mumbled. This may have been a mistake.
Aragorn lay scrunched up in the middle of his bed, as a fist flew past his face and hit Faramir in the nose. Which began to bleed. He responded with a punch in the jaw, and was dealt a hearty kick in the kidneys in return. Eomer, standing on the bed, laughed at Faramir's shriek of pain, and then shrieked himself as the ex-Prince of Ithilien launched himself across the bed and into Eomer's knees. They toppled to the floor and began brawling in earnest, Faramir's overly-large nose dripping blood all over the floor.
Frodo wouldn't be very happy about that, Aragorn mused. That said, Frodo didn't have to try to sleep through this racket.
'Come back here, you coward! Turn and face the wrath of Gondor!'
'The wrath of Gondor is too slippery with blood to get a hold on. Anyway, anyone would think you enjoyed being beaten to a pulp.'
'In case you hadn't noticed, not a lot of beating-to-a-pulp is going on here! It looks more like retreat.'
'I'm regrouping! Fighting without being on a horse is foreign to me!'
'A good warrior is resourceful and inventive!'
'A good warrior is well-prepared!'
'So if you're so well-prepared, why don't you have this horse you seem to find necessary?'
'Thought I'd found one, but it turned out to be your wife.'
'She's your sister, you pillock, and she's going to be really pissed off you said that when we get back to the after-life.'
The alarm clock, thrown with some force, served only to enrage Eomer further. The scale model of a siege weapon, while causing a rather curiously-shaped bruise, did not deter Faramir.
'Gondor is victorious once more!'
'You were only victorious the first time because of my sister and some assorted Hobbits!'
'Are you forgetting the forces of Gondor?'
'Aragorn was the only one of the lot of you who was any use, and look at him now!'
Aragorn decided to ignore that comment, because protesting it would only prolong the argument.
'Oh, and you were really useful! You were late!'
'At least I was there for more than five minutes!'
'There were extenuating circumstances!'
'Like being knocked silly by a bunch of orcs?'
'Like being fevered and unconscious?-'
'Like being burnt alive by your own father!'
'-at least I wasn't banished by my insane old uncle!' Faramir shouted in the middle of Eomer's retort, leading them both to bellow 'He was possessed!' simultaneously.
Aragorn gave up. Snatching the forgotten blanket off the bed, he left the room. Frodo and Sam's room was out of the question, as they had been unprepared for Boromir's arrival and anti-snoring measures had not been taken. Gimli's room was undoubtedly locked, and Merry and Pippin's room was simply not an option.
Aragorn decided to go to sleep in the bathtub.
xxx
Frodo was putting the finishing touches on a magnificent marzipanned fruitcake at five-thirty in the morning when he heard a screech from upstairs, followed by a thud and some muffled cursing. Moments later, Sam strolled into the kitchen, looking surprisingly cheerful for someone who had been mid-way through relieving his bladder when a grunting snore had alerted him to the presence of an unwashed, slightly bloodstained man in the empty bathtub.
'Morning Frodo.'
'Morning Sam. Sleep well?'
'Fine thanks. Have you been up all night?'
'Um, yes?'
'Don't overdo it,' warned Sam, filling his thermos with hot water and grabbing a few teabags.
Frodo registered that something was amiss.
'Sam, it's only a couple of days before Christmas, shouldn't you be off work by now?'
'Oh, I am off work.'
'So where are you going at five-thirty in the morning?'
'Oh, just, um, somewhere,' said Sam. 'Bye then,' he added, and positively skipped out the door. Frodo shook his head and pulled out a new bag of white icing.
xxx
'Sadie, we've got a lead on those kids with the banner. One of the psychologists at the hospital gave us an address. But he says he thinks they might have moved since then.'
'Ring round the local real estate companies, then.'
'Rightio.' Dotsie picked up the phone.
xxx
The Twins tumbled into the kitchen, laughing merrily. Frodo half-turned from his latest batch of mince pies.
'Why are you two so cheerful this morning?'
In answer, the Twins produced twisted coils of metal from behind their backs, and began throwing them about the kitchen and themselves. Their complicated dance was met with a bemused stare from Frodo.
Elladan bounced his slinky off the top of Elrohir's head, and Elrohir made his bounce up and down. Had Frodo been able to speak Slinkese, this would have translated as something like:
'Like, dude!'
'We can talk with slinkies!'
'Aren't they, like, cool?'
'Can we have some mince pies?'
Alas that he did not, and so this witty repartee was entirely lost on him. He put the kettle on, trying not wonder about what the hell the Twins thought they were doing, as enquiries in this area in the past had only ever further confused matters. At least they were being quiet, and the noise of the slinkies shunting to and fro as the Twins began to juggle with them was rather relaxing.
As the tea brewed, Frodo fell asleep over the table, occasionally twitching slightly.
xxx
It was Christmas Eve, and Frodo's cooking had gone critical. As Sam was still mysteriously absent, the Twins had been roped in as assistant chefs and fetchers-of-things-in-high-places. Frodo had vowed that next time they moved all cupboards would be at Hobbit-level. Merry and Pippin had been locked in the bomb shelter with a pile of dirty magazines, although as they were still handcuffed together this might prove to be a curse rather than a blessing. Aragorn, Legolas, and the other Christmas guests, except of course Dave (who wasn't allowed out in case the neighbours complained), had been unceremoniously thrown out of the house, and told in no uncertain terms that doom would await them should they return before 10pm.
It was decided that the pub was the best option. Legolas protested, but as his companions were all big, strong men, it was a simple matter to pick him up by the elbows and carry him there. Once seated and nursing a fruit juice, he settled down somewhat.
It was an indicator of how shaken he was, not just by recent events but also by the prospect of so many large and hairy men in his house, that his Elven tastebuds completely failed to recognise the curious tang in the juice as vodka.
Eomer was intrigued by the pool table.
'What is it?'
'It's a game,' Aragorn told him. 'You hit balls with this stick, and you have to get them into the holes.'
Eomer crossed his legs suddenly.
'No, not those balls, the red and yellow ones.'
This time it was Boromir who crossed his legs.
'Looks dangerous.'
'It's not, look, I'll show you.'
Faramir sat down with Legolas, and commenced bitching about the beer. This, he had discovered, was a good way of passing the time in the mortal realm, as there was an awful lot of bitching to be done.
'S'not like the good old stuff. That was real ale. It put hairs on your chest.'
'Faramir, the stuff you drank used to burn them off.'
'It was a man's drink, all right.'
'It was like drinking bread.'
'Good for you.'
'Mouldy bread. And it didn't even work.'
'Didn't work? Weren't you there when we had that party to celebrate… something. That guy from the place. You know when I mean. With the, like, sparkly things.'
'Elrohir?' Legolas asked suspiciously. He could only think of two people who mangled poor, defenceless sentences like that. He surreptitiously checked for pointy ears.
'No, I'm Faramir. Elrohir's less hairy, and there's two of him.'
'Just checking.'
'Anyway, I don't remember what it was about. Because the stuff works! Gets you drunk as a skunk and singing songs about hairy women.'
'And wearing dresses, in the Hobbits' cases.'
'Well, they're a special case.'
'It never got me drunk.'
Faramir gave Legolas a Look. 'I was watching that time when my brother got stuck in your body, you know.'
Legolas sipped his juice, and didn't respond. There was a yelp from the pool table. Given how many times Aragorn had made such a sound over the past few days, neither Man nor Elf took any notice of the fact that Eomer had hit the white ball so hard it had smacked Aragorn in the mouth. The ex-King of Gondor's head had been hit so many times now that it was in effect one giant bump, and every square inch of it was fully dosed up on painkillers. They didn't seem to be helping much, and now, against all reason, his teeth ached.
'Speaking of Boromir, where is he?'
'Talking to the serving wench.' Boromir was, indeed, at the bar, leching at the middle-aged, frumpy, cardigan-clad barmaid, who was desperately trying to ignore him.
'She's not a serving wench. She's a barmaid. People tend to get annoyed if you refer to them as wenches these days.' Especially if they're men, Legolas added mentally, remembering the incident involving Pippin and that poor lad with Klinefelter's Syndrome that had got them banned from the last pub they'd frequented.
Somewhere in the background, Aragorn and Eomer had begun to sing. Legolas sighed, recognising the onset of disaster. It was the song about the Maid from Ithilien. Faramir groaned, and tried to beat himself to death with an ashtray. Unfortunately, this drew attention to him, and the next thing he knew he had been hoisted off his stool and plonked on a table, flanked by Aragorn and Eomer. As they were both still singing valiantly, the subsequent argument was very . . . melodic. And interspersed with interesting lyrics.
'Let me down!' he hissed, desperately trying to fight his way out of the press of flesh.
' . . . sweet laaaady! Not a chance!'
' . . . her gaaaaarter! Do the actions!'
'No!'
' . . . amidst the simbelmyyyynnë! You're the only one who knows them properly!'
Legolas, highly amused by these proceedings, shouted up at the warring trio:
'It's no good! Try another song!'
Aragorn, having obviously spent far too much time around Pippin, knew exactly which one to sing.
'But the hedgehog-' he carolled, '-can never be buggered at all!'
It was at this point that Faramir thumped Eomer over the head with an abandoned pool cue, and leapt off the table. Onto Boromir.
As the apparent instigator of the advanced state of war that immediately erupted, Legolas felt that this might be a good time to beat a stealthy retreat and see if he could still blend into plaid wallpaper. Especially because Faramir and Boromir were now destroying the furnishings. Including the pool table.
xxx
Frodo, in desperation, had had to purchase two turkeys this year. There was no way he could feed a household of fourteen on one turkey when four of them were Hobbits and at least three others would almost certainly have drug-induced munchies. By various underground methods he had contacted his supplier, and money had changed hands in dark rooms and smoky bars, and as a result two turkeys were now lying on the kitchen bench, minus their various internal organs, but still perhaps the best evidence yet that birds and dinosaurs are related.
The sheer size of them had prompted Elladan and Elrohir to switch back to a verbal language, just to express their amazement.
'Dude, where did you get them?'
'Can you pass me the sage please, Elrohir?' said Frodo, carefully ignoring that question. He had no wish to reveal his sources.
As Elrohir complied, there came a knock at the door.
'Get that would you please, Elladan? Before Dave wakes up?'
Elladan rushed for the front door, throwing it open.
'Like, Merry Christmas! Oh no . . . '
'Um, Merry Christmas?' said a familiar voice.
'Is that you Sandra?' called Frodo from the depths of the first turkey. 'Come in!'
Elladan, looking pale, traipsed back into the kitchen, followed by Sandra and . . . two girls.
'Put the kettle on, one of you,' said Frodo, who still hadn't managed to turn around and actually see his visitors, which, given that he was up to his shoulderblades in a turkey's behind, was not entirely surprising.
Both Twins were frantically rattling in Slinkese to each other, fighting to get into the corner of the kitchen with the kettle, and therefore as far away from the fangirls as possible.
Frodo emerged from the turkey and stripped off the gloves. Then he turned around.
'Frodo, I'd like you to meet my nieces; Alice and Kirsten.' Frodo gave the two girls a careful look. Kirsten smiled nervously and held out a hand, which Frodo dutifully shook, feeling the novelty of shaking hands with someone almost the same height as him. Alice seemed more interested in the Twins, who were almost gibbering under her predatory glare. 'We won't stay long. It's just we were driving past and thought we'd stop off to say Merry Christmas, didn't we girls?'
'Yes, Auntie Sandra.'
'Alice and Kirsten live just over the road, you know. I'm surprised you haven't met before.'
Frodo and the Twins exchanged worried glances.
xxx
'I've never been so embarrassed in my life!'
'What about that time when we were having that party in Ithililillien and-' Legolas successfully clamped a hand over Aragorn's mouth on his third attempt. Faramir decided to take the role of drunken peacekeeper.
'We did say we were sorry.' His attempt at regret was hampered somewhat by the lamp post that, in his version of events, sprung up out of the ground at that moment.
'Thanks to you lot, there are now officially no pubs north of Birmingham that will allow us inside their doors.'
'Most of that was Merry and Pippin's fault,' said Aragorn defensively, as Faramir rubbed his now throbbing jaw.
'Yes, but you put the cherry on top with your stunning rendition of the Hedgehog Song,' Legolas attempted to say. But he seemed to be having trouble controlling his vocal chords.
Faramir and Boromir, in the manner of brothers everywhere, had decided no night of quaffing and carousing would be complete without a few wagers, and Faramir had claimed he could get Legolas drunk faster than Boromir had. Mainly thanks to the fact that he was slipping the poor Elf vodka instead of beer, he had won the bet, which led to an experiment to see exactly how much vodka they could hide in the orange juice before Legolas passed out, with an option on giving him a glass of neat vodka towards the end just to see if he'd mistake it for water and drink it. By the time they were kicked out of the pub, Legolas was up to four shots per glass of juice. Unfortunately for Science, but fortunately for Legolas, they were evicted before this stunning final test could be undertaken.
Legolas gave up on being angry, mostly because he was rapidly forgetting what had got him so annoyed in the first place.
'Takeaway time?'
'Not that thing with the fish.'
'And nothing with horse.'
Aragorn led them in the direction of one of the more highbrow local kebab shops. All five of them linked arms, and all except Legolas (who was feeling a little dizzy and didn't want to open his mouth right now) began singing at the tops of their voices. The pavements were a little on the narrow side, and for a large part of the journey they were in fact walking sideways, but for some reason (and to Eomer's great disappointment) no one gave them any trouble at all.
xxx
'Aha!'
'What?'
'Just got off the phone to the estate agents,' said Dotsie, waving a piece of paper at her partner. Sadie lifted an eyebrow.
'So are we going to pay them a visit then?'
'Not today, love. There's a jumble-sale on this afternoon.'
'PC Andrews was in pretty bad shape before he got to the doctor's though . . . '
'Yes, what was that they threw in his eyes?'
'Turned out to be vanilla essence.'
Sadie drew breath sharply. 'Oooh, that's nasty. It burns.'
'I know. But his testicle retrieval operation went quite well.'
'Poor man.'
'So, looks like we won't be having our Christmas at home after all.'
'This won't take all day. The suspects are apparently only about four foot high. We can take them down no trouble.'
'Mmm. Cup of tea?'
'Yes please.'
xxx
Sam edged in the front door very carefully. After Saturday's horrors, he had been very careful about his approach to the house, just in case he returned to find it overrun again.
He made it into the hallway. This was a good sign. Carefully, carefully past the stairs . . . nothing. Phew. He pushed at the kitchen door and waited, just in case stalkers were lurking on the other side. When nothing happened, he boldly strode forward into the room, only to find his worst nightmare sitting at the table, calmly taking tea with Frodo, Sandra, and one of Legolas's admirers.
Had Frodo had an incident? Was he bent on killing them all?
Was it Sauron? Had he risen with a new and terrible way to take over the earth? Being mobbed to death would be worse than the Nazgûl, Sam reckoned.
Or perhaps it was Merry and Pippin's sick idea of revenge for the attempted handcuff-removal.
'Frodo,' Sam said in a strained voice. 'Won't you introduce me to your visitors?'
Frodo hurriedly said, 'Oh, um, Sam, you know Sandra, and these are her nieces, um, Alice-' Frodo indicated the older of the two girls, '-and, um, Kirsten.'
The girl who had nearly succeeded in asphyxiating Sam by shoving his head in her padded bra waved nervously.
This did not seem to be an overly hostile gesture, so Sam relaxed slightly.
'I've just got in from work,' he said, waving muddy hands. 'I'm just going to go and clean up. Nice to meet you ladies,' he added, and repaired to the bathroom with a sigh of relief.
He really should have locked the door.
Two minutes later Kirsten the Sam Stalker walked brazenly into the bathroom.
'Eek!'
OK, so he was only washing his hands, but that wasn't the point. He could have been doing anything.
Let's stop that train of thought there.
Sam's higher brain abandoned ship right around this point. It had seen what fangirls could do to Legolas, and wanted none of that, thank you very much.
Fortunately, Sam was a father. The parenting nodes of the brain are hardwired into the brainstem; even things like frogs know how to look after their young. So since the forebrain appeared to have buggered off, the hindbrain decided to take over, for its own survival.
'Out of here, young lady!' he said. 'You knock before you go into bathrooms, all right?'
'But- but-'
'No buts. Out!'
Sam slammed the door shut and shot the bolt across, just as Kirsten mumbled in a little voice:
'But I needed the toilet . . .'
'Kirsten!' called Sandra from downstairs. 'Time to go love!'
'Coming!'
xxx
Half an hour later, when the water in the shower had turned freezing cold, Sam got out and poked his head round the door. Seeing no Kirsten, he wandered into the kitchen. Frodo was collapsed over a chopping board, a pile of diced walnuts beside his ear, fast asleep. Sam shook him awake.
'Wstfgl?'
'Is she gone?'
'Wha'?'
'Kirsten. Is she gone?'
'Sam, she left just after you went into the bathroom. Have you been hiding all this time?'
Sam, feeling slightly embarrassed, retaliated with, 'Have you been sleeping all this time?'
Frodo blinked, surprised, then looked at the walnuts. 'I . . . might have been.'
'Frodo, this is getting beyond a joke.'
'I can control my cooking! I can!'
'You need to get some sleep.'
'But I still have croissants to make for breakfast tomorrow!'
'Come on. Bed.' Sam, those parenting instincts still in the driver's seat, started to hustle Frodo up the stairs to the bedroom, or, as Sam would almost certainly have put it at that moment, the Wooden Hill to Bedfordshire.
'But it's not ten o clock yet! Aragorn, Legolas, Faramir, Eomer and Boromir all went to the pub! They'll need feeding when they get back!'
'They'll have got kebabs.'
'But-'
'Frodo, I think you need to accept that you have a problem.'
xxx
Merry was not happy. In the past week he had been arrested, punched repeatedly, attacked by a mad ex-monarch with a variety of sharp things, denied special lembas (Frodo had threatened extreme violence to the Twins if they coated his kitchen in flour again), and, to top it all off, he had been handcuffed to Pippin since Saturday. He was now locked in the bomb shelter with a pile of second-hand pornography, and Pippin was being Pippin. At high volume.
'It's no' that bad. You can shut your eyes.'
'Pippin, our hands are stuck together! You're not goin' anywhere near those magazines, and that's that.'
'Ah'll be quick.'
'You always are. The Fifteen Second Wonder, they used to call you.'
'Ah'll be quiet, too.'
'No!'
'Come on, Merry. It'll be like the good old days.'
'What good old days? D'you mean the ones where Boromir used to grope you, or the ones where I had to listen to you shaggin' everyone in sight? Or maybe the days when-'
Pippin ended that little diatribe with a swift punch in the teeth.
'Ah told you never to remind me!'
'Well which days did you mean?'
Pippin wasn't entirely sure. He decided that a combination of coercion and seduction might be of use at this stage in the proceedings, and as this is in theory a clean episode we shall leave the Hobbits for now.
xxx
Christmas Day dawned in a half-hearted attempt at sleet. The Twins, as usual, were first to rise, and bounded into the living room singing carols. Gandalf, wrapped in tinsel and fast asleep in his Chair, ignored them. The kitchen proved equally lacking in festive cheer, although it did yield two unconscious Men and a large quantity of half-eaten kebabs.
Something was missing. Or possibly someone.
The Twins ran through a quick check. The turkeys were in the oven (quite how Frodo had managed to fit both of them into a normal sized gas oven was anyone's guess), the mince pies were threatening to overflow out of the biscuit tin, and the fridge creaked ominously. Nothing amiss there.
Close inspection indicated that the Men at the kitchen table were Eomer and Faramir. The curious rumbling from somewhere Upstairs suggested Boromir was accounted for. The Twins had a slight problem at this stage, as they tried to list everyone who should be in the house, and Elladan counted Gimli three times. Elrohir, meanwhile, was sure there should be someone called Dopey somewhere about the place.
Eventually they gave up, and decided it was high time the rest of the house were awake.
xxx
'Is this the right house?'
'Why don't we ask the gentlemen on the roof?'
Elladan and Elrohir paused in their search for hoof-prints on the depressingly snow-free roof.
'Dude, are they, like, police?'
'I think so. What do they want?'
'A cup of tea and a mince pie?'
'Shall we, like, go and get Frodo?'
'He might start shouting again.'
'But he loves making people tea.'
The Twins shimmied down the drainpipe, and wandered into the kitchen, where Frodo was trying to wrestle the turkeys out of the oven.
'Frodo-dude?'
'There's, like, some people outside who want tea.'
'What? What people? Why are you in my kitchen? No-one's allowed in my kitchen until I ring this little bell, see?' Frodo tinkled the bell he had bought to alert Fellowship members to the presence of food.
Aragorn stuck his head round the door.
'Is it ready? Can we eat now?'
'No, it's not. Go and see who's outside.'
Grumbling, Aragorn disappeared, and the Twins followed, eager for some entertainment. Watching Frodo roasting potatoes was only interesting for about five minutes. They bundled Dave into the cupboard under the stairs on the way past. No point giving the police extra work on Christmas Day, after all.
Aragorn wandered outside, and stopped when he saw the two police officers examining the garden gnomes.
'Oh no. Who's done what now?'
'Can we come in for a cup of tea, dearie? This might take a little while.'
Aragorn groaned, and wondered how he was going to explain this to Frodo. Tensions had already been running high in the kitchen, and after the incident with Eomer and the sprouts, the entire Fellowship had been banished to the living room. Any more trouble was likely to send Frodo careening down the slippery slope to being sectioned.
He led the officers into the kitchen; he didn't think they'd be able to cope with the living room, especially since Gandalf had woken up and was drunkenly looking forward to the Queen's Speech. No one deserved to be subjected to that. The Twins bounced along in Aragorn's wake.
xxx
'Who's that?'
'Don't know.'
'They're wearing uniforms.'
Gandalf perked up at that information.
'Nurses?' he asked.
'No,' said Eomer. 'They've got these weird hats.'
Legolas sighed, and shoved Eomer out of the way. He peered through the crack in the doorway and groaned.
'They're police. Gandalf, what did you do?'
'Me? I'm a poor old man, and I can't walk. What could I do?'
'Set up a mail order bride company? No, I don't want to know.' Legolas slipped out into the hallway, and pressed his ear up against the kitchen door. The others crowded round him.
'What are they saying?'
'Who's in trouble?'
'Ssh!'
'Have they come to take Frodo away?'
'No, it's the mental health people who do that… The Twins are in there!'
'That's not fair!'
'They're saying… it's about Merry and Pippin.' Unfortunately there was no-one for Legolas to share a meaningful glance with, as Eomer, Faramir and Boromir had incarnated several hours after the Hobbits' last little misdemeanour, and Gandalf had returned to the television.
'Speaking of Merry and Pippin, has anyone seen them today?'
Two shrugs, a suspicious look, and an incomprehensible grunt from the living room were all the answer Boromir got.
'I'm going in.'
'No you're not, I'm going in.'
'Says who?'
'Says me!'
Eomer attempted to pull rank:
'Yeah, well, I was a king, and what were you?'
'A skewered steward?'
'Piss off, Faramir. At least I was more butch and manly than my wife.'
'What wife? No-one would have you! And I made Prince, anyway.'
'Prince beats Steward, King beats Prince. I'm going in.'
Legolas, head pounding and tongue furry, couldn't cope with this argument. He dealt with the problem swiftly, by banging Faramir and Boromir's heads together, and, while Eomer fell about laughing, the Elf pulled open the door to the cupboard under the stairs and shoved him inside. Whether Dave was happy about the unexpected visitor to his cupboard Legolas didn't wait around to ascertain. The hunt for answers and Ibuprofen was more important.
xxx
'Hello,' said Legolas cautiously, opening the kitchen door, slipping in, and closing it with alacrity lest one of the large selection of embarrassing hairy men currently available managed to sneak in behind him.
'Hello,' said one of the policewomen from behind her cup of Earl Grey.
Frodo's face was slightly strained, but he looked to be holding up well.
'They've come about Pippin, and, er, Dave,' he said. At this, the Twins looked up from their mince pies (which they were trying to dismantle into their constituent parts for some unknown reason).
'Dave?'
'Like, what did he do?'
'He's been in the cup-' Legolas grabbed both Twins and jerked them to their feet.
'Why don't we go and see if he's awake yet?' the blond Elf said in a forcedly cheerful voice, yanking the Twins out of the kitchen before they could say anything more.
'Now look,' he said, when they were out of the danger zone. 'For today, Merry is called Dave. Just like when he goes to work.'
'Then what's Dave called?'
'Like, he has to have a name...'
'And we can't have two Daves.'
'Like, that would be confusing.'
Legolas sighed the sigh of the adult-faced-with-annoying-child.
'Alright, what would you like Dave to be called?'
'Shirley!'
'Fred!'
'Like, Luthien!'
'Dude, that's perfect!'
Legolas rolled his eyes.
'Alright, Luthien it is. But he's not coming out of the closet until they've gone.'
'Dude, I don't think he's coming out of the closet anyway.'
'Yeah, he likes, like, drugs way more than dudes.'
Legolas suppressed the urge to smack the Peredhil round the back of their heads. Then something occurred to him.
'Where are Merry and Pippin?'
'Dude! That's what's missing!'
'Like, the short dudes!'
Legolas thought as quickly as his hungover brain would allow. He had a sneaking suspicion that they had left the Hobbits somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where. What had Frodo done with them when he forcibly evicted everyone from the kitchen?
With a horrible sinking feeling in his admittedly already queasy stomach, Legolas remembered.
'We left them in the bomb shelter!' he hissed, hoping like hell that the policewomen couldn't hear him.
'Dude! That's, like, harsh.'
'Yeah, and at Christmas too.'
'You're, like, evil.'
'Like, totally.'
'Ssh! If they find out they'll ring… They'll ring Social Services… And they'll… Yes!'
'They'll throw you in, like, prison for bad parenting?'
'They'll take Merry and Pippin away! They'll put them in a children's home!' Legolas was giddy with glee, or possibly just with alcohol threatening to make a repeat appearance.
'Dude, isn't that, like, bad?'
Legolas didn't reply. He was wondering how best to communicate this amazing new plan to Aragorn and Frodo without the police officers noticing. Frodo, he suspected, might be a problem; Merry and Pippin were his cousins, and despite their constant bickering, he was rather attached to them. Aragorn, meanwhile, was bound to back him up.
He returned to the kitchen, all set to say, when asked 'Where are the children?', 'They're buried in a bomb shelter in the back garden with a pile of pornography'. Aragorn, alas, had vanished. A glance through the kitchen window almost made the Elf faint with horror.
Merry and Pippin were in the garden, slightly muddy and looking distinctly the worse for wear. Aragorn was trying to both hurry them up and bribe them into silence at the same time. Presumably he had caved under pressure from Frodo. Damn!
The handcuffs, he noticed, were still in place. It might still be possible to get the Hobbits taken away – but no, they were proper police handcuffs, and, even worse, the officers in the kitchen might have the key.
Legolas sank into a chair. Thus far, this seemed set to be the worst Christmas since St. Petersburg, 1717, although Christmas 2004 at least smelled better.
The Hobbits were ushered into the kitchen, looking sullen. On seeing the police calmly sipping tea, they each tried to shuffle behind the other. Before this could degenerate into a fully fledged scrap, Aragorn picked them up, one under each arm, and deposited them at the WPCs' feet.
'Are these the ones?'
Dotsie checked the grainy security camera picture. It was difficult to make out the details, but Pippin was instantly recognisable, even with the dreads, which not even the sharpest scissors in the house seemed able to cut through. The Twins had done their job well.
'That certainly appears to be them,' said Sadie. 'Shall we get those handcuffs off?'
Merry and Pippin nodded vigorously.
Dotsie delved into her handbag and produced a small key and a tattered and folded piece of cloth. As she released the Hobbits, Sadie asked:
'Can any of you identify this?'
'That's my bedsheet!' said Frodo suddenly, with an accusatory glare at Merry and Pippin.
'Your bedsheet?'
'Look.' Frodo took one corner of the muddied fabric and showed everyone the label, which said (in English, Westron and Quenya) 'Frodo Baggins.'
'Frodo, no-one speaks Westron any more.'
'You all do. Aragorn definitely does.'
'And is Aragorn likely to steal your bedsheets?'
'Well Merry and Pippin did-'
'So this object is definitely yours then, sir?' asked Dotsie.
'Yes.'
'And did you write on it?'
'What? No!' Frodo turned to look at the foot-shuffling Merry and Pippin. 'Have you been writing on my bedsheets?'
'Just t'one.'
Frodo was outraged. This looked promising, thought Sadie. At this rate there wouldn't be many protests when they made the arrests.
'Dotsie, if you'll take the other end,' she said, holding it out. Dotsie took it and walked to the other end of the kitchen, so that the banner stretched out in front of the stunned Fellowship.
The legend 'CAPTAIN JANEWAY FOR PRESIDENT' greeted their astonished eyes.
Aragorn burst out laughing. Legolas put a hand to his forehead and looked pained, as only an Elf with a tension headache and a stinking hangover can. Frodo looked like he was going to blow a gasket. He'd gone a dark, dull red.
'You drew on my bedsheet,' he hissed. Merry blanched. Hell hath no fury like a Frodo with damaged household accoutrements. He started forward, and Pippin panicked.
'Run like buggery, Merry!' he shouted, and started off like an Olympic sprint champion, Merry closely behind.
'They're escaping!' shouted Sadie, Dotsie and Frodo at the same time. All three ran after the rapidly departing Hobbits, into the hallway.
'Stop! Police!'
'Not on your life!' yelled Pippin back.
'Stop! Or I'll . . . shout 'Stop!' again!' Dotsie cursed the lack of leverage inherent in this threat. All she got from Merry or Pippin was a snigger.
Reaching the front door, Pippin kicked it open and kept running, leaping over the Christmas wreath that his violence had brought down, and into the front garden. Merry was not so lucky. The wreath entangled him and down he went. Sadie grabbed him and held him aloft. This was mainly so that Frodo, who was snapping like a pit-bull, couldn't reach him.
Dotsie was still after Pippin.
By dint of having longer legs, by halfway down the garden she'd caught him up. She launched herself in a flying tackle and brought him down just before he managed to get a hand on the gate.
Normally, being pinned down by a woman in uniform would have made Pippin very happy. This was mitigated by the mud, dreadlocks, the fact that she was as skinny as a rake and vey strong, and that she was intent on arresting him.
'You,' she panted, 'Are coming with me.' And she hauled him up to the house.
To Be Continued . . . when Bridget wakes up and Trojie recovers from her chocolate overdose.
A/N; Well this is somewhat over ten thousand words long, and we'd reached a suitable cliffhanger, and in order to have something out for Christmas/Boxing Day, we've stopped here. Epilogue/Part Three/All Loose Ends Tied Up coming soon!
