Disclaimer: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I sure don't own this, And neither do you.
Further Disclaimers: I think I missed my calling… I was obviously meant to be a poet.
(To any fellow scholars who might be following the progress of this, er, highly informative saga, the historian would like to issue a sincere and heartfelt apology in regards to the recent hiatus. Contrary to popular belief, the aforementioned historian has not lost her primary typing digits in a dubious accident involving a bad-tempered Bichon Frise and the ugly side of a plastic picnic knife. A peek at a few of her favorite forums, where she has been busily posting lascivious remarks about Sean Bean and David Wenham, will alleviate any suspicions in this quarter.
The real reason behind the protracted delay was a particularly messy and largely unfathomable court case between Aragorn and Boromir—which will doubtless go down in the history of fandom as "Grimy vs. Undead"—over whether Boromir, being dead, had any right to appear in fanfic at all. Boromir argued that his claim to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was protected by law and that he'd appear in fanfic if he bloody well wanted to, to which Aragorn replied that dead men didn't have any rights and that this wasn't America anyway, was it. To which Boromir replied that he wasn't quite dead, was he, and that okay, it wasn't America, but he had tried to steal the Declaration of Independence in an alternate reality. To which Aragorn replied that that was neither here nor there, and that Boromir was most definitely dead. To which Boromir replied that he was standing there talking, wasn't he, you (censored) moron, to which Aragorn replied that he might just be hallucinating, and that you weren't supposed to use profanities in a court of law. To which Boromir replied that if he really was dead, then the court of law might as well go (censored) itself.
This was followed by various and sundry arguments concerning whether Aragorn had any right to bring a suit against a dead man, and whether Boromir, being dead, should be allowed to testify. Then there was a still more lengthy debate about whether Boromir was even dead at all, which resulted in Aragorn conceding that, okay, maybe Boromir was alive now, but he had most definitely been dead at one point or another. Aragorn then went on to state that, having been instrumental in the resurrection of Boromir after each of his subsequent expirations, he ought to have sole jurisdiction over whether Boromir was allowed to live or die. Denethor and Faramir then interjected, saying that, as nearest of kin, they ought to be the ones who controlled Boromir's fate. To which Boromir said that it was his mortality, wasn't it, and he'd bloody well decide when to die all on his own. To which Aragorn said shut up, dead men can't talk. To which Boromir said that he thought they'd long since decided that he wasn't dead, to which Aragorn said that that was ridiculous, because if Boromir wasn't dead, then what was this case all about, anyway? To which Boromir replied that he hardly knew anymore, and urged the scribe to consult the minutes. The scribe duly informed Aragorn that he had, in fact, admitted that Boromir was alive earlier in the proceedings. Aragorn ordered the scribe to be beheaded, and Boromir pointed out that he wasn't even King yet, and didn't have the right to behead anyone. To which the jury said for the love of Eru, let's not get talking about rights again.
The case continued in this vein for some three hundred-thirty and a quarter hours (notwithstanding brief recesses for drinks at the Green Dragon), during which Aragorn and Boromir argued vociferously and Aragorn and Boromir's lawyers, who had not yet slipped a word in edgewise since the start of the trial, exchanged politely awkward glances. Finally, when the debate turned to the subject of what the meaning of the word 'is' is, the jury voted unanimously for the premature adjournment of the case, as the whole thing had long since descended into the realm of the Ridiculous. They then pointed out, quite reasonably, that, as Boromir and Aragorn were both fictional, and did not, in the most abject sense of reality, even exist, mortality hardly even entered into the situation, and added that, all technicalities aside, fanfiction itself wasn't even quite legal anyway. Boromir and Aragorn were then fined ten cents and issued a sedative apiece, after which they both awoke with no memory of the incident, and the story, mercifully, could continue as planned.
Again, apologies for any inconveniences caused. We will now return to Chapter 12 of our scheduled programming—where the plot, not unlike chocolate pudding at room temperature, has begun to thicken.)
"…A-and then w-when I was tw-twelve… D…daddy gave me a… a… a-another c-clothes hanger for my b-b-birthday! And—" (sniffle) "—and then I a-asked him, 'D-dad-ddy, why—" (sob) "—why d-did you give me a-another clothes h-hanger?' And th-then he said, 'B-bec-cause I-I wish you'd g-go hang yourself and d-do us all a f-favor!' A-and th-then he laughed, l-like he th-thought it was f-funny!"
Privately, Gandalf thought that this was rather funny himself, but he kept his expression as somberly benevolent as possible as he handed another monogrammed handkerchief to his weeping protégé. "That was quite wrong of him, Faramir, and very traumatic for you, I'm sure. But you did tell me all of this three hours ago."
Hiccupping and wiping his reddened eyes furiously, Faramir frowned. "I-I did, didn't I?" He paused. "D-did I tell you about the t-time when he k-kicked…"
"Your puppy? Yes, that was thirty minutes ago," interjected Gandalf patiently.
Faramir shook his head disbelievingly. "Ai, Mithrandir, what's come over me these days? I'm just—just so miserable all the time! And—and I'm always crying and not knowing why—and, and feeling grumpy, and I never used to feel grumpy…"
"I wouldn't sweat it, mate," put in Éomer, crossly yet sympathetically. "My sister does the same thing every month, and she's more of a man than any of us."
Faramir ignored him. "Mithrandir, am I d-dying?"
Gandalf frowned, stroking his silvered whiskers contemplatively. "I should say not. There are a couple of possible explanations for your recent change in mood, but the one I think most likely is that you, Faramir," and here Gandalf paused to clear his throat, "are trapped between parallel dimensions."
There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand people humming the Twilight Zone theme music in various discordant keys.
"P-parallel dimensions?" Faramir stared at Gandalf as though he had just sprouted several additional heads—which, to Faramir's tear-blurred vision, it very nearly appeared that he had. "W-what the h-hell does th-that mean?"
Gandalf sighed. "Well, it's a bit hard to explain, really," he said, and, when Faramir continued to gaze at him expectantly, sighed again and continued. "Suffice to say that, in this universe of ours, there are multiple Middle-earths. Infinite Middle-earths. And each of them is a bit different. This Middle-earth would appear to be a rather unlikely intersection between several different possibilities, and you, Faramir, are feeling the ill effects, in that your personality—and later, possibly your appearance—has begun to… to change."
Faramir trembled. "You mean… you mean I really am changing into another person?"
"No, not quite," Gandalf hastened to reassure him. "You're not changing into another person. You're changing into another Faramir. Does that make sense?"
Faramir paused, blinking contemplatively. "No."
"I told you this was complicated," grumbled Gandalf, struggling to think of the best way to illustrate the situation to an emotionally distraught Faramir. "Well, think about it this way… I used to be Gandalf the Grey, correct?"
"Right."
"And now I'm Gandalf the White. I'm still Gandalf, but not the same Gandalf."
"But you are the same Gandalf!" objected Faramir. "You're just wearing a different sodding color!"
"Yes, well, the change is a little less… demonstrative in my case than in yours."
"Y-you can s-say that a-again!" cried Faramir, close to sobbing once more. "W-what am I g-going to do? Am I g-going to be at it l-like a leaky f-faucet for the r-rest of my life?"
THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 11
And don't even get us started on leaky faucets, you bloody perverts.
"No, no, I think not," said Gandalf. "This is just a period of adjustment. For a while, you may find yourself a little—er, high-strung—as you begin to conform to your new character patterns, but in all likelihood it will settle down given some time. I suspect that the new Faramir will be somewhat more emotionally sensitive than the old, but other than that you won't have much to worry about." He patted Faramir's tear-moistened hand gingerly. "You're not the first to have to undergo this kind of metamorphosis. What color was Boromir's hair the last time you saw him?"
Faramir gave him a strange look. "Black, of course."
"Well, he's blonde now. I imagine he's undergone some personality changes as well—perhaps none as drastic as yours, but…"
"… Boromir's blonde?"
"Yes."
Faramir blinked. "I can't picture that."
Gandalf quirked his bushy eyebrows. "Hair color is the least of Boromir's worries—he's lucky enough just to be alive at this point, or something like it." He immediately regretted this statement as Faramir's eyes filled with tears again and his lower lip began to quiver. "But don't worry! Boromir was perfectly healthy when last I saw him." Well, as healthy as a mortally wounded Starbucks addict who's just been brought back from the dead and subsequently gotten into a fistfight with the future King of Gondor could ever be under the circumstances, anyway, the wizard thought inwardly, but kept this tidbit to himself "We'll see him when we get to Helm's Deep—I imagine he's helping to defend the fortress as we speak."
"Speaking of which, " interrupted Éomer crossly, riding up alongside Gandalf, "oughtn't we to be moving just a bit faster? Considering we're supposed to reach Helm's Deep by first light on the fifth day, or whatever other poetical nonsense you promised them…"
"My dear boy, don't worry yourself on that score," remonstrated Gandalf. "Remember, in this world, time and space have no congenital meaning. We'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Mithrandir," said Faramir hesitantly. "You did say that there were a couple of possible explanations for my erratic behavior."
"Yes, I did."
"What's the other one?"
"Well… you could always be pregnant."
"You ordered the Tagalongs?"
Boromir, sword brandished aloft, paused mid-war cry and stared at the rat-faced Orc in abject astonishment. "What did you say?"
"The Tagalongs. You ordered them?" repeated the Orc patiently, while the battalion behind him looked on curiously. One of them had seized Legolas by the collar and hauled him to his feet, dusting him off expertly. "Sorry about your friend there. We got a bit overexcited coming through the door—we get so few customers these days. No one trusts door-to-door merchants anymore. I know three encyclopedia salesmen got killed in the last week alone."
"But we need the Merit points," added another Orc. "Not to mention the money. Our troop leader says we can go on a camping trip in the Misty Mountains if we raise enough."
Boromir gaped. "Do you… do you mean to say you're actually Girl Scouts?"
The first Orc frowned. "Of course we're Girl Scouts—we're selling Girl Scout Cookies™, aren't we?" He paused frowning. "Why do you ask?"
"Well…" Boromir began, unsure of whether there was any polite way to phrase the point. "Well, you're… you're Orcs, aren't you?" He inserted a genteel cough for good measure.
"Yes, we're Orcs. Your point?"
"Well, er… aren't Orcs more accustomed to things like, well, pillaging and hacking and burning and, oh, I don't know, committing random acts of horribly gratuitous violence?"
"Some are," replied the Orc. "Then again, so are a great many humans. Would you have us judge you by their standards?"
Boromir frowned, not quite liking where this conversation was going. "Well, no. But that's an entirely different case."
"How so?"
"Well… you're Orcs."
The Orc threw his clawed hands in the air and groaned in palpable irritation. "Well, isn't that fine! I'd always heard that humans were bigoted, self-satisfied creatures, but I never dreamt that they'd be so…"
"Look, no, hold on!" cried Boromir, dimly wondering why he was going out of his way to avoid offending an Orc. Perhaps it was because his finer sensibilities were touched. Perhaps it was because he was surrounded by a horde of Orcs armed with cutlasses and claiming to be Girl Scouts. The whole situation was far too confusing for him to be quite sure. "I didn't mean it in a bad way, or anything. It's just… surprising, is all. I mean, I didn't even know that your species had any females."
"And so what if we're not girls?" said the Orc heatedly, while the others murmured in agreement. "Are we to be tied down to traditionalist gender restrictions as well as species-related prejudices? Who's to say that gender isn't just an illusion propagated by the machinations of a delusional society?"
"Here, here!" interjected Legolas warmly.
"Er… I think we'd better hurry up and give you your check," said Boromir hastily.
"Legolas, could you…?"
The Elf frowned. "Could I what?"
Boromir grabbed him by the back of the jerkin and hauled him aside. "Hurry up and write the check so that they'll leave. It's bad enough being under siege from a multitude of blood-crazed Uruk psychopaths without having Queer Theory spouted at me all day, too," he hissed.
"Queer Theory is a reputable anti-essentialist study!" objected Legolas.
"Yes, but it's terribly anachronistic."
"Haven't we just about done fussing about anachronisms already?"
"No," said Boromir stubbornly.
"Then we have a problem."
"What? Why?"
"Because checkbooks are anachronistic. I can't pay them."
Boromir rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, you're terribly clever, Legolas. Just write the damned check, would you?"
"But I thought you just said—"
"Forget what I just said!"
"You just said for me to write the check!"
"Not that, you imbecile! Forget what I said about the anachronisms!"
"But I thought you said we weren't done fussing about them!"
"I just told you to forget that I said that!"
"No, you told me to forget what you said about the anachronisms, not what you said about fussing about the anachronisms!"
"It's the same bloody thing!"
"No, it isn't!"
"Yes, it is!"
"No, it isn't!"
"Yes, it is!"
"No, it isn't!"
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" asked the head Orc-cum-Girl-Scout politely.
"No, we're just sorting out our finances," snapped Boromir curtly, before turning back to Legolas. "Look, I don't trust this lot. The sooner we get them cleared off, the better, and the sooner you write the check, the sooner they'll leave. Now, would you just pay for the cookies so that we can leave off this strange narrative tangent and get back to killing things like we're supposed to?"
"You do realize that you are aiding and abetting an anachronistic activity?"
"To hell with anachronisms already! Write the check!"
"I can't."
"What?"
"I said I can't."
"Why? What is it now?"
"I haven't got a checkbook. I was planning on making you pay."
Any number of strange things had happened to Aragorn, son of Arathorn, in the midst of battle, but when Legolas came dashing over the battlements, braids streaming behind him, and, panting, cried, "Hurry, Aragorn, there are Girl Scouts holding Boromir hostage and they said they won't let him go until we pay for our cookies", he still found it in him to do a double-take.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me!" gasped the Elf. "Come on, we've got hurry; they've got a nasty look about them." He grabbed Aragorn's wrist and tugged at it frantically, but Aragorn remained solidly in place, his brain sluggishly and wordlessly struggling to digest the information that had just been dealt him. His right eyebrow, meanwhile, had taken refuge in his hairline, and his jaw was wandering somewhere around the vicinity of his knees, but these concerns were secondary.
"What did you just say?"
"I said we've got to pay them! Have you got any money?"
The jaw snapped to attention, and the eyebrow migrated northward another improbable two inches. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the West, Bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, the Eflstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor! What do you mean, 'Have you got any money?' The entire treasury of Gondor is mine by rights!"
"Valar, let's not get talking about rights again," groaned Legolas. "I meant have you got any money with you? They want paying now. Besides, don't you owe the larger part of your treasury to the Lórien tabloids?"
Aragorn reddened. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that again."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
"And I still maintain that those photographs were bogus."
"Of course," agreed Legolas, and, in a move of rare intelligence, restrained himself from commenting on the anachronistic nature of Aragorn's remark, thus sparing the general reading public from another page and a half of tedious bickering.
"Suffice to say," the Dúnadan went on presently, "I do also have some money on my person at present."
"Good," said Legolas, pawing at Aragorn's wrist again. "Let's go."
Again, Aragorn stood immobile. "Remind me again what this is for?"
"We're rescuing Boromir."
Aragorn stiffened. "Oh, no. Oh no no no no no."
"What?"
"I see what this is about. And the answer is no."
"Oh, come now, Aragorn, don't be silly…"
"No. I refuse. I will not. Never again. No."
"There will be cookies involved."
"Say that again?"
"Cookies. Girl Scout Cookies™. Tagalongs, to be precise."
Aragorn paused, mentally weighing the situation. Boromir, cookies. Cookies, Boromir. Big-nosed, bigheaded, blockheaded, bumbling, bleeding Boromir. Peanut-buttery, chocolaty, processed-sugary, deliciously decadent cookies. It was certainly a confusing, convoluted, complex, and somewhat alliterative conundrum.
"Damn that Húrin, but I'd kill for some Tagalongs. Let's go."
However, it was not to Be. Moments later, tearing across the battlements in pursuit of glory and glucose, Aragorn and Legolas were accosted by Gamling.
"Théoden King requests your presence in the Keep so that he can treat you to a fatalistic existential treatise of his own composition in the hopes of creating an atmosphere of bleakness so that the contrasting energy enables the final denouement of this scene to seem all the more intense."
"Pardon?" said Aragorn.
"In other words, I have reason to believe we are affecting a retreat."
"Oh, bugger."
They found Théoden in the inner sanctum of Helm's Deep, along with a great many men working to erect yet another barricade, and Gimli, who was lustily singing a rendition of "Auld Lang Syne" in keeping with his new-found patriotism.
The King met them with desolate countenance. "I've decided that all resistance is futile since we're all going to die, anyway."
"Can I mention that I totally called that one?" put in Legolas smugly.
"We twa hae ruuun aa-about the braaaes, and pou'd the gowans fiiiiiine…"
"For the Valar's sake, Gimli, stop that infernal droning," barked Aragorn, before returning his attention to Théoden. "What brought on this resolution?"
"But we've wander'd monie a weary fit sin aaaauld laaaaang syyyne…"
"Well, I was stabbed in the shoulder at the gate."
"And…?"
"We twa hae paaaaidl'd in the-e buurn, frae morning sun till diiiiiine…."
"And it hurt! I mean, I was wearing armor and everything, but I've probably got a bruise the size of the Westfold, let me tell you…" He trailed off forlornly. "So much death. What can men do against such reckless hate?"
"Put their heads between their knees and kiss their asses goodbye?" suggested Legolas.
"But seas between us braid hae roar'd since aaaaaauld laaaaaang syyyyne…."
"Ride out with me," said Aragorn quietly, or as quietly as was possible with Gimli bellowing about "auld acquaintance" and "pint-strowp" in the background.
Théoden blushed. "Oh, Aragorn…"
"Not like that, you wanker!" cried Aragorn sharply. "I meant on horses!"
Théoden frowned. "Well, you could do it on horses, I suppose…"
Aragorn groaned and dragged a bloodied hand through his grimy hair in exasperation. "Oh, for the love of Elendil! I'm trying to suggest a suicide charge here! Can't we leave off those damned Freudian slips already? We just had a whole chapter devoted to them, of which I was the brunt, if I recall!"
"And there's a haa-aaand my trusty fiiiiiiere…"
"Look, Aragorn, we've already banned anachronisms from this fic; if we ban Freudian slips, too, it'll be no fun at all," the Elf pointed out sensibly.
"But isn't Freud an anachronism?" put in Théoden.
"True—I hadn't thought of that."
"And giie's a hand of thiiiiiiine…."
"Look, can we get back to the suicide charge?" appealed Isildur's heir.
"For wrath and ruin?" asked Théoden.
"For Rohan. Have Gimli go blow the horn of Helm Hammerhand—it'll shut up his singing, for one thing."
"And we-e'll tak a right guid-willie waaaught…"
"Yes," agreed Théoden. "Yes! Let the horn of Helm Hammerhand sound in the Deep!" He turned to Aragorn. "Let this be the hour when we draw sword together!"
"I thought we were done with Freudian slips?" objected Legolas. He was pointedly ignored.
"Now for wrath, now for ruin, and the red dawn! Forth Eorlingas!" cried the King, and away they galloped, on horses which had mysteriously materialized for the purpose.
"For Auld Lang Syne!" sang out Gimli, and sounded a great blast on the horn.
There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers snickering like seven-year-old boys, because the resulting sound really was uncommonly reminiscent of flatulence.
A/n: Eru above, if that chapter doesn't score a 10 on the Richter scale for weirdness. I promise we'll finally be done with Helm's Deep next installment. In the meantime, I intend to return to my regular once-a-month update schedule, if I've still got any readers left… :-)