A/N Thanks for the encouraging reviews! Sorry for the rather-too-much character exposition, should be getting into some action soon.

Aragorn lovers: I apologise for nothing.

You Can Always Trust a Sam.

In an impressive display of the complete and utter lack of common sense displayed throughout the organisation of the Quest, they set off for the wilds on Hogswatch, in the middle of winter. A nasty, cynical corner of Vimes' mind was quite pleased about this.

There was countryside. Lots of it. More than Vimes was used to. He missed cobblestones under his feet. His practically-cardboard boots, which he'd hung onto when Elrond had provided him with more suitable gear, weren't used to all the countryside either.

Boromir and Aragorn strode manfully about, inhaled deep lungfuls of fresh air, struck poses and made boding comments about the perilous and treacherous nature of the terrain, the weather, the hidden enemies that no doubt surrounded them, the weather, the pebbles, and the terrain. They boasted, brooded and stroked their massive weapons.* They were clearly enjoying themselves hugely. The Hobbits, who weren't very Nac-Mac-Feeglish after all, supported each other, kept their tempers up and were generally cheerful in the face of being short. Gandalf muttered to himself, smoked, and refused to answer questions directly, just like the wizards Vimes was used to. His staff even had a knob on the end. Gimli trudged on, occasionally darting wary looks at Vimes, (probably in case he tried to offer him another rat or speak Khuzdul again) and looks of bemusement at Legolas. Legolas trailed along behind, squinting vaguely at flowers. ("Let Legolas, whose eyes are keen, be the rearguard", Gandalf had said.)

Vimes had a stitch, and thought about how he was getting older.

They walked for a whole day. He hadn't realised the Quest would involve so much walking. Vimes coped because he often walked all day/night on the beat at home. He used his special policeman's walk, 'proceeding', but even he was exhausted by the end of the day. A whole day! He really hoped they'd reach Mordor soon.

He collapsed onto a large rock, jumped up hastily to check he had not inadvertently sat on a troll (he had had enough of causing cultural offence for one day) and collapsed again, rubbing his aching calves. The hobbits, he noticed, were starting dinner, and after a few minutes of groaning and feeling sorry for his leg muscles, Vimes decided to join them.

He knew Frodo by sight. The other three he had been introduced to, but had only seen the tops of their heads and so he couldn't remember who they were. He'd avoided them in their long stay in Rivendell, because they made him feel uncomfortable. They were about the same size as young Sam, his son back home, and Vimes had to try really hard not to treat them in the same way. At least Sam had grown out of Where's My Cow, but he kept expecting the hobbits to rush up to him and demand that he join them in building a tree house, slaughtering foes, or experimenting on one of Sybil's dragons. ('What if we feed it Nobby, Daddy?')

"So," said Vimes, settling next to the hobbits. "Dinner?"

"Sam's cooking," Frodo said helpfully, casting the aforementioned hobbit a friendly look.

"Sam, eh? Well, well… they do say you can always trust a Sam." Ye Gods, thought Vimes, now there's three of us. And I sound like their favourite uncle.

Sam gave him a strange look, and decided to ignore the comment. "Do you like bacon, Mister Vimes?"

Mister… The word sparked a difficult mix of emotions. Vimes accepted 'Mister' from those who had earned it, those who knew him well. But of course, Sam wasn't to know that. And, come to think of it, he called Frodo 'Mister' too…

Withholding judgement and comment, Vimes returned to the bacon. "Yes, if it's cooked properly." He cast a look of barely concealed disgust at the plate Sam offered him. The bacon was crisp but not too crisp, done perfectly. Vimes doubted whether he'd be able to finish it.

"What's the matter?" asked Merry (or was it Pippin?), watching his face closely. "Not like the bacon you're used to?"

"Sam's a great cook." Pippin (or Merry) added, through a stolen mouthful of bread.

"He knows that, Pippin. But maybe they cook bacon differently back in the Pisk." Frodo was clearly keen to keep the peace and avoid hurt to anyone's feelings. Ah, Vimes thought, the smallest one's Pippin. But what was the Pisk? he wondered, while hurriedly assuring the hobbits that the bacon was fine, just fine, and it was merely that they cooked bacon in a strange way back home – cultural, you know- no slight to Sam's cooking at all.

Legolas wandered up and stared at them for a while. They stared back. Legolas wandered away.

"Is he…" Merry began, wondering how to say this politely. "normal? Are… are all wood-elves like that?"

Merry was not the only one to wonder this. Vimes' fellow feeling with Legolas had quickly evaporated when he realised that the elf didn't seem to notice that the other elves considered him to be a representative from the immortal equivalent of the hillbilly (treebilly?) relations that you tried not to invite to Hogswatch. He didn't notice many other things, either, like whether people were talking to him, or (Vimes noticed after a shameful cooking incident which had further dragged Ankh-Morpork's good name in the mud, all because Vimes missed burnt crunchy sausages) whether the building was on fire. He'd even asked Erestor, another elf, whether an unfortunate accident had not happened to Legolas at a young age, such as being dropped on his head (possibly out of a tree). The pitying glance the elf sent Legolas told him everything.

"If he's a bit dim, why are they sending him on the quest then?"

"He has his uses," the other elf told Vimes conspiratorially. He thought for a bit. "Apparently," he added, for honesty's sake.

Similar thoughts were also crossing the hobbits' minds, but bacon and its appropriate method of cooking was of higher importance than the mental capacity of their travelling companions.

"How do you eat it, then?" Pippin asked.

"Burnt." Vimes told them firmly.

"Burnt?"

"With cold grease, and little black crunchy bits you can't identify."

"I'm sure I could give it a shot…" Sam said, his expression telling Vimes that Legolas was not the only one whose sanity was under doubt. "If that's really how they do it on the Piskworld…"

"I'll show you," said Vimes. Why should Sam cook for everyone? Finally, he could demonstrate that he did have useful, mysterious skills. He reached for the pan, but in his eagerness burnt his hand.

"Bloody hell!"

Across the clearing where they'd stopped, Aragorn sprang to his feet. "Are you injured?" he asked, his voice the finely tuned mix of concern and bravery that made Vimes want to be sick. Vimes began to splutter in protest but not before Aragorn could stride long-leggedly over to him.

"I will aid you," Aragorn insisted, taking Vimes' wrist.

"No, really, I just burnt my damn finger-" He tried to snatch his wrist back.

"Calm yourself, Samuel Vimes, I am well versed in the healing arts- "

"What arts would these be? Hygiene?" That was a low blow, but Aragorn was unruffled.

"Your courage aids no-one! None of us must travel while injured!" Aragorn – there was no other word for it- commanded. Vimes' forbears had snapped to attention at voices like that. Vimes just snapped.

"I'm fine. Leave me alone-

"It must be seen to-"

"-for Io's sake!"

"It may be poisoned-"

"I just burnt my damn finger!" Vimes snatched his hand back from Aragorn, glared at him, and then became aware of the fact he'd just indulged in a tug-of-war with enother grown man. And of the ringing silence all around them. Eventually, Gandalf coughed, and the others looked away.

Well, at least that was some light entertainment for the rest of the Fellowship, Vimes thought bitterly. He was doing so well.

Aragorn's Sense of Honour radiated from him in much the same way as his smell. In fact, it was hard to tell them apart. Somewhere in between the place where Aragorn's smell left off and his Sense of Honour began, Vimes supposed, there must be a personality somewhere. And that personality was not one that Vimes had taken to. Having been politely but firmly banned from cooking, Vimes had plenty of time to sit and analyse why this was.

Vimes knew that grounds existed on which he could be accused of bias against kings. He knew that Aragorn was a good man, a sort of policeman of the wilds, whom he could probably trust with his life. He knew there must be a good reason that Gandalf and Elrond had chosen him for the quest. He knew enough to trust Gandalf and Elrond (or at least, trust them to make illogical but noble decisions). But…

Maybe it was the posture. The posture didn't help. The general uprightness of Aragorn's figure set his teeth on edge. And, well, maybe Aragorn hadn't meant to be patronising when he'd offered to teach Vimes how to smoke a real pipe, instead of the 'attempt' Vimes was smoking. It wasn't Aragorn's fault, Vimes told himself, that they didn't know what cigars were here. But…

Vimes sighed, and tried to work out exactly where his dislike of Aragorn stemmed from. He hoped that it was not the mere fact of his royalty that had put him off. That would be too predictable. Oh, Vimes. they would say, he hates royalty with a passion… not Aragorn's fault.

He wanted it to be Aragorn's fault.

It wasn't that Aragorn was aggressively clean or anything. In fact, he smelt. But he smelt in a superior way to the way that normal people smelt. He smelt bad, but he smelt bad with style. He was practically sending out eau de smug along with the wafts of rancid sweat and swamp mud that preceded him into rooms. Yes, I smell, he seemed to be saying, because I'm a Ranger. I'm busy, ranging. But I don't have to smell this bad. I get away with smelling this bad because I'm the King. In disguise. The disguise, in fact, drew attention to itself. Vimes knew he was being ridiculous, even as he thought these thoughts. But…

Vimes shook his head. You're just looking for a reason to hate him. He'd been trying to justify his aversion to Aragorn to his innermost self, but his innermost self was a cynical bastard, not unlike his outermost self, and was not having any of it. If it wasn't the Smell, what was it? As far as Vimes could tell, there were only two aspects to Aragorn's personality. If it wasn't the Smell, it must be the Sense of Honour.

Aragorn's Sense of Honour was in every line of his body. It was in the inflections of his speech, the way he inclined his head when listening, how he blew his nose. But it wasn't Aragorn's Sense of Honour that pissed Vimes off so much. Vimes had a sense of honour too. Admittedly, it wasn't worthy of capital letters, but it was there. It had stuck with Vimes through some bad times, and Vimes could generally rely on it. Sometimes, it even won. It annoyed Vimes that people thought he was without honour, just because he'd occasionally been known to knee a criminal in the region of his reproductive capabilities. That wasn't true at all- that was just common sense, survival. Vimes would never hurt someone- much- who wasn't immediately likely to hurt him back. Vimes was a policeman. His soul was never darker than a murky sort of grey.

Aragorn's soul was probably like some kind of precious metal: blindingly shiny, and likely to break your teeth if you bit it. Vimes wondered sourly if it went gloinggg if you bounced metaphorical rocks off of it. OK, the symbolism could use some work.

Thankfully, Sam saw fit to interrupt Vimes from his sulk at this point. He presented him with a plate of streaky bacon with a hint of charcoal, and then watched anxiously for Vimes' reaction. It was a start.

* It was all a bit cissy really.