Author's Note: I warn you now, there's a bit of strong language in this chapter. Nothing earth-shattering, just a word or two.

Five: Julian

The world vanished.

So caught up was he in this fierce bout of passion, of heat, of raw desire, that he found that he could not see straight. His senses were all at once numb and sparked alive, almost overloaded.

She filled his entire being. He felt her, tasted her, inhaled her, devoured her, and was in turn devoured. She smelled like cigarettes and Nag Champa, like apples and wine. Her aroma was heady, mingling with his own scent of marijuana and soap.

They moved as one, melting together like drops of water. Nothing mattered, nothing existed but the two of them. He wasn't aware that he was speaking until the words were out of his mouth and in his ears.

"Mela le, a Vanatuilótë!"

She froze beneath him. "My name is Suzanne," she said, slowly and coldly.

He stared at her blankly. "I know that," he said, confused.

"You just called me 'Mel,' or 'Melly,' or something!" She angrily pushed his lithe form off her and began hurrying around the room, picking up pieces of her discarded clothing.

"What? No," he said as realization dawned on him. "No no no no no no no—"

"Save it, Julian," Suzanne glowered. "Who is she?"

"'She' isn't anyone," Julian sighed, "because 'she' doesn't exist."

"Stop playing games," Suzanne turned to him, livid. "I should have known. We never see each other anymore, 'cause you're always 'training with Barry."

"I have been training with Barry," Julian protested. "Come on, you know the Renaissance Faire is only a few weeks away!"

"Bull," she sneered. "You've been playing around with some girl on the side!"

"Come on, Barry's my best friend. Ask him if we've been training all the time."

"I can't," Suzanne said. "Because in all the time you and I have been together, I've only met him a few times. If he's such a good friend of yours, why haven't I met him more than that in the last six months?"

"Because…" Julian trailed off, unable to answer, because part of him honestly didn't know.

Suzanne glared at him, pulling her vintage sequined party dress back over her creamy shoulders. "I can't deal with this," she sighed, biting her lip. "I can't deal with you." She opened the door, taking her purse and velour blazer from their hook by the door to his apartment. "I'm sick of your games, Julian Mantovani. Call me when you're… when you've… You know what?" She turned on one heel and headed out the door. "Don't call me."

Julian didn't move for a long time after she shut the door behind her. He simply lay on top of the tangle of Egyptian cotton sheets and goose-down duvet. Most nights in his cozy little New York apartment were chilly, but the warm air of a typical night in July let him lay there in relative comfort while he mulled over the last few moments in his mind.

Things had been going so well. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth? He'd meant to be romantic, whisper a soft "I love you" into her ear.

It was his own fault for losing his hold. Every time he let his mind go just a little bit, gibberish, strange words started to infiltrate his speech, even his thoughts. He fought to keep focus, to prevent this unfamiliar language from pervading his mind.

Even now, as his mind wandered over such occurrences in the last few weeks, the words crept into his head. Shaking away such confusing ideas, he rolled over and plucked his cell phone from the bedside table. Pressing down the number 7, he sat up, holding the phone so close to his ear that it scratched against his tiny diamond stud.

"City Morgue."

"Very funny, Barry," Julian sighed.

"Sorry," said the voice on the other end of the line. "What is it now, two in the morning? I have to be careful, scare off the freaks who might be calling this time of night."

"You have caller ID, moron. You knew it was me."

"Like I said, freaks call me this time of night."

Julian rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"So what's a pretty girl like you doing on a phone line like this?" Asked Barry.

"She left," Julian sighed.

"Dude, that sucks. What happened?"

"I'll explain everything later. Open up the training room, I'm coming over."

"Since when do I take orders from you?" Julian swore he could hear Barry smirk. "I could have a girl over for all you know."

"Except that you don't."

"Yeah, but what if I did?"

"You don't."

"But what if I did?"

"You don't."

"But what if I did?" Barry whispered dramatically.

"Then I'd set up camp in your guest room until she left, and then I'd make you open up the training room."

"Fair enough," conceded Barry.

"I may as well live in your guest room anyway," Julian sighed. "I stay in there enough as it is."

"Yeah, but then you'd get in my way all the time."

"'Get in your way'? You have a floor of the building to yourself!"

"Hey, I don't see you complaining when we use the training room!"

"Fuck you, rich boy."

"Language," Barry clucked. "Someone's been watching Trainspotting too much lately."

"Quiet, ya doss wanker."

"Wow… you really need to work on your Scottish accent."

"Bite me."

Barry laughed. "So get over here, Manto."

"Hoobastank."


A five-minute cab ride later, Julian pressed the buzzer to Barry's apartment.

"Excuse me," said the voice that answered. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Barry, it's too early for me to think anything's funny. Buzz me in."

"Fine, you're no fun," said Barry as the building's front door unlocked. Crossing the deserted lobby of the apartment building, Julian stepped into the elevator and pressed in the button for the fourth floor. As usual, it didn't light up; Julian didn't know whom, but someone long before Barry's residence here had broken the button. Julian personally liked it that way. In such a fancy Manhattan apartment building, the little imperfection was a familiar quirk.

Once the elevator reached Barry's floor, Julian walked the eight feet that spanned between it and Barry's front door. Julian knocked out 'Shave-and-a-Haircut', and bobbed his head to the song stuck in his head as Barry flung the door open.

"Julian, old bean! How are you?" The young man grinned, brandishing the cigarette holder he held between two fingers.

'Old Bean' was not amused. "For the love of God, why are you so happy today?" He grumbled as he threw himself onto a sofa.

"My stock went way up today," Barry beamed. "Like private island high."

"I'm surprised you don't already have a private island," Julian remarked. "You have more than enough."

"You'd be surprised how expensive islands are."

"Don't tell me you've checked!"

Barry shook his head, grinning. "If only Dad could see me now," he sighed.

"He can," said Julian. "It's not like he's dead or anything."

"Yeah, but he may as well be. Did you know we haven't talked in over a year and a half?"

"Wow, has it really been that long?" Asked Julian.

"Yup," replied Barry. "Not since I told him I didn't want an MBA after all."

"You mean he's really still mad about that?"

"You don't know Daniel Grayson." Barry looked at the floor, his jubilance suddenly subdued.

Julian sat up. "He should talk," he said indignantly to his friend. "Didn't he make all his money as a bohemian artist or something?"

Barry nodded. "And yet he doesn't want me to join the Peace Corps, because it's not a 'lucrative career decision."

Julian was incredulous. "Like you haven't made enough with your stock investments to keep you more than comfortable for the rest of your life?"

"I don't know," Barry rolled his eyes. "Less talk, more fight."

"Good plan."

"Foil or broadsword?"

"Foil, then broadsword. I want to get my heart pumping." The two men stood, and crossed the hall to the other half of the floor, the training room.

Barry had not been the owner who converted the floor into one residence. He had bought it from one of his father's wealthy artist friends back when he was at college. They were entering what used to be a spacious workshop and studio, but Barry had gotten it professionally altered to become a state-of-the-art training room for his and Julian's athletic passion: fencing. That had been four years ago, when the best friends had been naïve twenty-one year olds, heirs to a pair of sizeable fortunes, out on their own for the first time. They had since expanded their horizons, and not just by picking up broadswords as well as fencing foils. Julian had all but renounced his family's money, choosing instead to make his own way in the world as a freelance photographer. Barry, while keeping a substantial income through stock investment, had left business school in order to find a more fulfilling calling; not having found enough satisfaction with Habitat for Humanity, Greenpeace, or the ASPCA, his latest plan was to join the Peace Corps. Julian admired his friend's intentions, but sometimes it seemed as if Barry were doing this more out of a desire to defy his father than one to actually make the world a better place.

The two men suited up. Barry slipped a CD entitled "Julian and Barry's Bitchin' Training Mix" into the stereo system built into the wall, before stepping up to face his opponent.

"I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan," Barry said in a deep voice. "We meet again, at last. The circle is now complete. When I met you I was but the learner. Now, I am the master."

"Only a master of evil, Darth," Julian remarked, grinning uncontrollably underneath his mask. They crossed blades, and the fight began. Both were agile, and quick with their swords, but they were evenly matched.

"The Force is strong with this one," Barry managed to say about ten minutes in, but such smart comments broke one's concentration and took too much energy. They went back and forth for a long time, though neither was keeping track. Finally both were exhausted; they pulled up their masks and sat down on a padded bench, downing bottles of water.

"So," gasped Barry, clearly out of breath. "Why'd Suzanne leave early? I thought you had a big night planned."

"I did," Julian admitted, opening a second water bottle from the refrigerator built into the wall, "but things got a little… awkward."

"What happened?" Asked Barry, giving Julian a look.

"I said… something." Julian blushed furiously as he spoke, staring at the floor.

"Oh no," groaned Barry. "No way, man. You've got to stop speaking in tongues. You might think it's cool and mysterious, but it's really just kinda creepy."

"I told you, I can't help it," sighed Julian, brushing back a few sweat-soaked strands of his long, dark hair with one hand. "Besides, it gets worse."

"What?"

"I said it while we were… you know…"

"Oh my God," Barry choked, laughing so hard he fell over on the bench. "No way, Manto. No bleeding way!"

"See," Julian remarked, blushing again, "I'd have been fine if she'd started to laugh. She thought I'd said some other girl's name."

"Oh, man," grinned Barry. "That sucks, I'm sorry." He lit up a cigarette and offered one to Julian, who declined.

"Nah, man, I'm quitting."

Barry looked impressed. "Everything, or just cigarettes?"

"Everything," said Julian.

"Really? 'Cause the smell on your jacket when you came in suggests otherwise."

"I haven't been at it for long, that's all."

"How long is 'not long'?"

"Since about ten minutes before I called you, just after she left."

"That's not quitting," remarked Barry.

"Yes, it is," Julian shot back. "I really want to stick to it this time. Suzanne was a big 'anti-anti-smoker,' so since we're breaking up, it's a good time to make a fresh start."

"And what happens after the fight's over and you two make up?" Asked Barry.

"You know, I really don't think we're going to. I don't really want to."

"Why not? She was smart, funny, charismatic, not to mention smokin' hot. I'd think she was the perfect woman for you."

"She was," admitted Julian. "But something just didn't feel right. I felt like I was just staying with her because she should have been perfect, and not because I actually wanted to."

Barry nodded sympathetically. "You need to get out of here, man," he remarked. "We should take a vacation, spend some time in a foreign country. Be spontaneous, get into trouble with some young European girls who don't speak a word of English…" The man trailed off, clearly enjoying the thought.

"Is this for my own good or yours?" Julian asked, one eyebrow raised bemusedly.

"Both," Barry shrugged.

Julian grinned. "Maybe you're right," he said, "but let's finish training before we start making plans." He hefted his broadsword into both hands, gripping it comfortably as he stood up. Barry nodded, taking up his own.

Fencing had kept them from speaking, being such a quick, concentration-hungry sport, but the slower pace of this second round let them converse.

"Did you have anywhere in mind?" Julian asked as he lunged.

"Not really," Barry grunted, countering. "Paris?"

"I'm tired of France," Julian shook his head. "We went to Nice last summer."

"London then?"

"I don't feel like spending the rest of the summer in the same place I spent last winter. Besides, the people who run the youth hostel don't like me."

"How about Madrid? Barcelona? Rome?"

"No," said Julian forcefully, lowering his sword. "Nowhere we've been before, nowhere I can hide and gripe."

Barry looked thoughtful. "What about… Prague, then? Never been to the Czech Republic before, have we? Heart of Europe?"

"Sounds good," Julian said, raising his sword to again clash with his friend's.


"Aragorn."

Julian looked down at the kneeling man in the leather jacket, startled, then looked back up at Barry. His friend mouthed something that looked like "your problem now," waving jauntily before continuing down to their gate. Normally he'd shake off this weirdo and catch up with Barry, but something stayed his hand.

"W-what did you say?" Julian stammered.

The man's smile widened. "You see it, don't you? You see me." He stood, embracing a slightly shaken Julian. "It's in your eyes," the main said. "Gimli, look."

A man standing a few feet away whom Julian hadn't noticed stepped forward and stared into Julian's eyes for a moment or two. "You're right," he said to his companion. "It's been a long time, Aragorn."

"Sorry," Julian cut in, shaking his head, "but I think you're mistaking me for someone else. My name's Julian, not Aragon, or whatever."

"Aragorn," the first man said forcefully. "With an r. 'Aragon' is a region of Spain."

"Sorry," Julian repeated, shrugging.

"And there is no mistake," the man continued, touching the green and gold tips of his spiked hair gently. "You are Aragorn, whether you are aware of it or not."

"No, I'm not," Julian asserted.

"You were right," the second, stockier man said to the first. "The disbelief thing gets old fast."

"Your eyes cannot lie," the first, taller man said. "You know of what I speak."

The second man looked at the first with a large smile. "That's the first time I've heard you sound like you so far. I think things are going better than you think, Legolas."

Legolas. The name brought on a sudden burst of clarity, like a light going on in Julian's mind. "Legolas?" He heard himself speak with a cadence that was not his own, looking from one man to the other. "Gimli? Man bragol amangalad sila ar im pela—" Aragorn stopped himself. "What the hell is going on?"

The first man, Legolas' eyes brightened. "You see now?" He said.

Aragorn froze for a few moments. The light was on in his mind, but it was far too bright. Nothing made sense, and no amount of focus would make the words go away this time. It was as if he were stuck in something, like mud, or maybe pudding. He felt like two people stitched together; both were trying to go opposite directions, and thus neither could go anywhere. He had a headache suddenly; his head was pounding, overfilled with thoughts, with memories, with lives. He broke out in a sprint, running all the way to the gate where Barry sat.

His friend had already made himself comfortable, and was thumbing through a magazine when Julian threw himself into the seat next to him. "What's the rush?" Barry asked, turning to him. "We don't board for another five hours or so."

"Nolan," said Julian. "I adan, úadan, i edhel… rínan— argh!" He shouted, startling passengers around them. "It won't stop! It keeps coming, no matter how hard I try!"

"Don't fight it," a Southern drawl said from behind him. "The more you fight it, the more forcefully it'll reassert itself." Before Julian knew what was happening, two books landed heavily in his lap.

"A little light reading," said another all-too-familiar voice. "It's going to be a long flight."

"Oh no," Barry sighed. "Do not tell me the crazies are on our flight!"

Legolas gave Barry a look of disdain. "And, you are?"

"Bartholomew Alvin Stewart-Grayson," Barry said haughtily. Julian's eyes widened. Legolas was really rubbing Barry the wrong way if he invoked his full name.

"Well, then, Bartholomew Alvin Stewart-Grayson," said Gimli, "if you'll excuse us, we have things to take care of."

"Fine," Barry sighed as he picked up his carry-on and moved down a few seats. "Bloody Dwarves," he could be heard to mutter.

All three heads swiveled in his direction. "What did you say?" Julian whispered, astonished.

"You heard me," Barry said. "Elves, too. Arrogant bastards, all of them, or at least all the ones I met. No respect for a man of my standing."

"But you're not—" Gimli was clearly stunned into silence.

"You can't be," Legolas shook his head as he spoke.

"No way," Julian protested as a huge smile broke across his face. "No fucking way."

"Language," Barry grinned. "And you, a king. Wish I'd lived to see that."

"This is impossible," said Julian.

"You'll find, my lord, that many things are possible," Barry replied.

"Boromir?"

"In the flesh," smiled Barry. "Well, not the original flesh, that'd be kinda gross. Think of me as… Boromir 2.0."

Julian shook his head. "The bounds of your lameness continue to astound me, Barry, or Borry, or whatever."

"Hey, call me Borry one more time, and I'll shove the Horn of Gondor straight up your—"

"Okay," Julian said quickly. "I get it." He shook his head slightly; the headache was starting to come back. "Wait, so how is this possible? When did you know?"

"As soon as the Elf hugged me. For one brief, deluded moment, I thought he was looking for me, until he called me 'king'. Then everything made sense. I knew who I was, I knew who he was, and I knew who you were."

"You did?"

"Yeah, why else would I have handed them off to you? You're the one they were looking for."

"Because you're the kind of moron who would palm off a couple of strangers on me."

Barry rolled his eyes. "Look, can we just get past the whole amazement thing? It's already old." Both Legolas and Gimli nodded fervently.


"Don't tell me we're sitting in the same row!"

"Well, what did you expect?" Legolas rolled his eyes at a surprised Julian. "We have a wizard who would appear to be directing this whole situation."

"Probably from atop a mountain, or some other unnecessarily flashy place," Barry muttered.

"Most likely," the Elf said with a touch of bitterness, rolling his eyes.

"You're doing it again," Gimli said loudly. Legolas ignored him. Julian looked at the two, and decided he didn't want to know what that had been referring to. He slumped down in his seat and opened one of the books Legolas had dropped in his lap back at the gate. He had stashed the giant tome that was The Lord of the Rings in his carryon bag, opting to leave it for once they'd been in the air a while, and instead started to skim The Languages of Tolkien's Middle Earth. He was surprised to notice that he seemed to know a great deal of it already; he didn't know it well, more like how he recalled the fundamentals of his three years of high school French, but he recognized some words as those he'd unconsciously spoken so many times.

What really fascinated him was the section on tengwar, letters. They reminded him of the calligraphy his mother had written by hand on invitations to social events. He stared at them, transfixed, until he heard an "oof" from Barry as another large copy of The Lord of the Rings was dumped on him.

"What, did you mug a meeting of the D D club?" Barry said, opening the book.

"Of course not," Legolas sighed. "I bought the first two books for Gimli, but I didn't know how much he already remembered."

"More like he didn't know it's been my favorite book since I was nine," Gimli scoffed.

"This copy," the Elf continued, "I bought in the bookstore in the terminal."

"Oh," Barry said, giving Legolas a fake smile. "Thanks."

"Is it accurate?" Julian asked, looking at Legolas with a rather serious expression.

"Mostly," the Elf shrugged.

"This is wrong," Julian said suddenly, pointing at a passage in the language book. "And so is that."

"I know," Legolas sighed. "But it's the best I could find on short notice. We can write an angry letter when this is all over."


"That's not right."

Julian looked up from the last few pages of the appendices at the back of The Lord of the Rings. "What isn't?"

"That isn't," Barry said, pointing behind them. They were in line, waiting to leave the plane. Julian's eyes followed Barry's hand, and saw a tall man in a dark suit and sunglasses seven or eight people behind them.

"Still not following."

"That's an Armani suit," Barry said in a tone of voice that suggested that what he was implying was obvious.

"So?"

"So, we were in the last row of business class. No who flies coach wears Armani."

"I'm sure plenty of people who fly coach own Armani suits, Barry."

"Maybe," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "But how many of those people fly while wearing their Armani?"

Julian pondered this for a second. Like it or not, Barry had a point.

"None, right?" Barry smiled, satisfied. "No one who flies coach wears Armani on their flight… much less four."

"Four?" Julian said skeptically, but sure enough, there were three other men in identical dark suits and sunglasses, two in each of the airline aisles, all of whom appeared to have been seated in economy class. He quickly looked ahead of them, and sure enough, four more identical black suits were just exiting first class.

"They've cased the joint," Julian muttered.

"What?"

"They knew where we were sitting. They've got us surrounded, damn it." The young man quickly got Legolas' eye and made the Elf aware of their situation with a couple of head jerks in either direction. "Good work, Barry. For once your shallow judgment of others has been an asset."

"Thanks, I try."

The line was moving faster now. The four companions were careful to maintain an even, brisk pace all the way to the baggage claim. Try as he might to keep his cool, Julian kept looking over his shoulder, hoping to see that the men had disappeared, but they continued to follow the four travelers, all eight in a row (looking a little too Reservoir Dogs for his taste).

Luckily (or, like everything else they'd experienced, perhaps more than luck), their bags came almost immediately. Julian strapped his sword and scabbard to his belt, feeling a little less vulnerable. He stared off into space for a second or two, gazing at the group of men holding signs for passengers, when one sign caught his eye.

"Look," he said, elbowing Legolas. "That sign, there in the middle. That's… that's tengwar, isn't it?"

"Good work," the Elf smiled mysteriously. "Can you read it?"

"It says… istuvalye. 'You will know'?"

"Well done, rookie."

"Elves say 'rookie'?"

Legolas, who had seemed to open up and brighten as the trip went on, was suddenly withdrawn once again. "I'm not an Elf anymore," he said softly. Julian reached his hand halfway out as if to offer some form of comfort, but decided against it. He turned, approaching the nondescript little man holding the Elvish sign.

"Uh, sir?" He said nervously. "I believe my companions and I are who you're looking for."

The little man smiled widely. "Well met, sir," he said brightly, reaching into his pocket for a set of keys.

"Wait," Julian said quickly. "We might not want to go just yet. You see, there are eight men who seem to be following us, and we were—"

"Nine," said the man. "Your pursuers met up with their ninth comrade at the baggage carousel."

"Oh," Julian bit his lip, wondering if this bit of news had been meant as comfort or warning.

"No worries, sir," said the man. "We currently have twenty identical cars in our employ, one of which will contain you young men and myself. If all are sent in different directions, it would seem to be highly unlikely we could be effectively traced."

"Well," said Julian, a little thrown. "That's a relief."

"May I take your bags, sir?"

"Sure, why not?" Julian shrugged as he handed the man his suitcase. Something about the man kept setting off a little bell in his mind. "Sorry, but are you… one of us?"

"One of who, sir?" Asked the little man, smiling widely.

"One of… oh, hell. Frodo?"

"You thought I was Mister Frodo?" The little man seemed on the verge of giggles.

"Sam, then? Merry? Pip?"

"Apologies, sir, but no. You'll meet them soon enough though."

"But you are a—"

"A hobbit?" Finished the little man. He didn't respond, but Julian noted a knowing twinkle in his eyes. "We haven't been properly introduced," he said. "My name's Fred."

"I'm Julian."

"Oh, I know who you are, sir," remarked Fred.

"Your reputation preceding you, J-Man?" Barry quipped as the rest of their party joined them.

Julian gave him a sort of half-smile. "Let's just get in the car, funny man."


The four travelers and their guide arrived in front of a steel-and-glass hotel in the center of the city. Julian shielded his eyes from the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the building. Fred handed them each a room card.

"You have the Junior Suites," he smiled, before driving off.

"Posh digs," remarked Barry, nodding approvingly as they entered the lobby. Arriving on the floor of their rooms, they split up to check out their suites separately.

Julian set his bags down on the floor next to his bed before switching on the television. He flipped through the channels for a while, his jet-lagged mind taking a few moments to register that he could not in fact understand Czech. Just as he gave up and turned it off, there was a knock on his door.

"Sir? You're expected in the London meeting room, on the first floor," said the voice on the other side of the door.

"Oh," answered Julian. "Thank you." He threw on a clean shirt and slipped his shoes back on before heading to the elevator, where he met up with Gimli, Barry, and Legolas.

The four didn't need to wonder which meeting room they were looking for; they could clearly hear the merrily chatting voices from all the way down the hall.

"Hey, where'd all the food go? I'm still hungry," said one voice.

"Yeah, what kind of second breakfast was that?" Said another.

"What are you talking about?" Asked a third. "You guys are such pigs.

"Oh, don't act so innocent, Jamie," countered the first. "I saw you shoveling in the bread and cheese."

"It's Jimmy, and I did not."

"Don't deny it," said the second voice. "And you, a vegetarian!"

"Lacto-ovo vegetarian! I can eat cheese!"

"You stick to that story," said a fourth voice in a rich Scottish brogue. "Where's that one bloke, Fred? Maybe he could get us some more."

"Dunno where he went, Sam," said the third voice, Jimmy. "He's been gone for a while."

"Has he, Mister Frodo? I hadn't noticed," remarked Sam.

"Jimmy."

"He went to pick us up at the airport," said Julian as he finally opened the door and regarded the four young men seated there. They were clustered at one end of the long table, with great stacks of empty plates before them. They sat in an array of positions; one with blond hair and green eyes sat up straight, his hands neatly folded, while the black-haired youth next to him was slumped forward with his chin in his hands. The other two were even more informal; one, with light brown hair and warm blue eyes, had his feet up on the table, while the other was slouched down so far in his chair that all Julian could see of him was a mop of brilliant auburn hair and two bright hazel eyes. He was currently covering the other half of his face with an open paperback copy of Animal Farm. All four looked up at Julian as he entered the room, the other three flanking him.

"And who's this one, then?" Asked the redhead from behind the book.

"Dunno, Pippin," answered the one with his feet on the table.

"I reckon he's the king," said the blond. "What do you think, Mister Frodo?"

"Jimmy!" Exclaimed the dark-haired one.

"I'm Julian," he cut in, sitting down next to Jimmy.

"Well, that doesn't answer the question, does it?" Said Pippin, rolling his eyes and sitting up. "We want to know who you are, not who you are."

"I don't quite understand," said Julian, looking from one to the next.

The brown-haired one took his feet off the table. "What I think Pip's trying to say is that—"

"You were right," Barry said loudly. "He's the king."

"I am not!"

"Fine, he was the king," Barry sighed.

"Strider?" The blond man's eyes lit up.

"I guess," Julian shrugged.

"Then who are you?" Asked the brown-haired man.

"Aw, don't pester them, Merry," said Jimmy.

"He's Boromir," said Gimli.

"Which would make you Gimli, wouldn't it?" Asked the blond (Sam, Julian assumed).

"Aye," Gimli replied.

"No need to ask who you are," Pippin smiled widely as he looked at Legolas, the only one of the four travelers still standing. "You haven't— well, you have changed a bit, but you're still mostly the same Legolas I remember."

"That's because he never died," said a new voice from the door.

"Hullo, Gandalf," said Pippin dismissively. "Really? You really never died? Not even once?" Legolas shook his head. "Wow," glowed Pip.

Julian looked to the new arrival. For the most part, Gandalf hadn't changed much. The same benign features and twinkling blue eyes decorated his face; granted, the short hair, clipped goatee, and light-coloured business suit were a bit different, but all in all, it was the same old Mithrandir smiling at him.

"So we meet again," Julian murmured, smiling softly.

"No one really says that," Barry remarked.

Gandalf chuckled. "I see you've all met," he commented.

"Of course we have," Legolas replied. "You called us here."

"I did," Gandalf admitted, nodding. "But I cannot take credit for such an idea. That praise should be given to my current successor."

"I don't understand," said Jimmy.

"Surely you didn't think the job of Guardian of Middle-Earth had belonged to Mithrandir for all this time?" Asked Legolas. "I'm surprised he's even doing this."

Gandalf shrugged. "Indeed, this is not the Middle-Earth I kept," he assented, "but those of us who did keep it do not simply disappear into nothingness. It has been a great need that has called me back, called you back."

"What great need?" Asked Merry.

"Alas, I am not the one to explain," said Gandalf, sitting down at the table. "Perhaps the man who is waiting outside the door would be better equipped to explain." With that, the door opened to reveal yet another man.

At first glance, such a man was not especially impressive. His dark brown hair hung just past his ears, and looked to be wild but well-tended. Rich brown eyes shined from behind a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses. He looked to be a great deal younger than Gandalf, and likewise, his dress differed greatly from the wizard. He wore a blue-striped Baja pullover and white linen pants that ended just above his ankles, exposing his Birkenstock-adorned feet. His nose had a distinct shape that suggested it had been broken at least once, and looked faintly aquiline; his skin tone didn't give conclusive evidence of where he was from, but instead suggested that he came from everywhere.

"He looks a bit like John Lennon," Pip whispered, elbowing Jimmy.

"I knew John Lennon," Legolas said loudly, "and that is not John Lennon."

"You knew John Lennon?" Jimmy exclaimed, looking at the Elf in awe.

"I lived at the Dakota," Legolas shrugged.

"Seriously?" Jimmy looked like he was on the verge of wetting himself in excitement. "Jesus Christ!"

"Actually, now I usually go by Randall," said the man in the doorway.


Author's Note:
This may be the quickest I've ever posted a chapter of this. It's also indubitably the longest chapter yet. Yay my team!

Thanks, as always, to my reviewers, without whom this story would have most definitely retreated into the depths of my imagination by now. Three new reviewers last chapter: Catta-mese, the wanna be dwarf, and Gaerwen.

Credit must go where credit is due. The use of the word "Hoobastank" as an expression of coolness is the brainchild of The Lonely Island, a website that is utterly (in their own words) ka-blamo.

As per usual, shameless plug time. Visit my Fanfiction LiveJournal (the link's in my profile). I actually did halfway-interesting things in it this chapter, including some animated pictures of my favorite lines in the story so far, and the actual playlist of "Julian and Barry's Bitchin' Training Mix."

Another shameless plug: I'm now a staff member in Laseri's C2 Community, LotR Cutting Room Floor. It's a fantastic little collection of stories that I highly recommend (I'd better; two of mine are there!).

Next Chapter: The Council of… Randall, I guess. We also get to see my hometown, beloved San Francisco, California.

Love, happy thoughts, and Thai food for all. Namaste, dear readers.