So sorry about the delay (blame broken computers and backpacking). Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews, and happy Christmas! This chapter is more 'getting to know the characters'. We'll get to some action soon.

Middle-Earth and its inhabitants are Tolkien's. Pratchett's creations are Pratchett's. I'm just mucking around with the works of much greater writers.

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Vimes wasn't the only one who occasionally had his doubts about the common sense of Elrond's decisions. Gandalf, too, considered them Noble but Stupid. For example, it was all very well getting idealistic and having a representative from each of Middle-Earth's free peoples in the Fellowship, but had Elrond thought what that meant in practice?

No, Gandalf concluded (as he leant sideways to avoid a small throwing axe), he had not. Elrond had not thought it through, because if he had, he would have arrived at the inescapable conclusion that it was a very bad idea.

"You see," Gandalf explained to Vimes, with whom he was sheltering behind a large rock, "Dwarves and elves don't really get along".

"I gathered," said Vimes, who had made his own observations, both on Gandalf's habit of understating the obvious and on the fact that Middle Earth dwarves had at least some things in common with their Discworld counterparts. Homicidal tendencies, for one. He winced. "That was a close one. Don't you think someone should put a stop to this?"

"Well..." Gandalf looked wistful for a moment, but then seemed to pull himself together. "You're right. We can't let them kill each other. It's only the second day of the quest." He stood suddenly and sent the two combatants a quick glower. They immediately dropped their weapons and stood ashamed.

"Besides, Ten Walkers has a certain ring to it. If we let them carry on, there'd only be nine walkers- maybe only eight- and who could take a Fellowship of nine seriously?" One fearsome eyebrow dipped in a wink. Vimes felt confused.

The thing is, he thought, Gimli and Legolas didn't really seem to hate each other. It was as if something deeper than their own respective personalities were driving their quarrels. Vimes was reminded of the Koom Valley situation in his home world. 'Koom Valley' was a rallying cry for both sides of an ancient battle which neither side could remember winning or losing. They only remembered that they needed revenge on those bastard trolls/dwarves.

Middle Earth was similar, although elves couldn't be more different from trolls (except in sheer pigheadedness, he was beginning to learn, in which elves and trolls seemed evenly matched and were equalled only by dwarves). Elves and dwarves couldn't remember why they were fighting. It was the differences between them rather than any real past injustice. Pathetic, really.

Was this hatred between two peoples something that sprung up organically in every community and dimension? Was it a sign that all sentient life needed to grow up and learn some tolerance towards those different from them? Or could it be that dwarves (the common factor) just pissed people off that much?

Vimes felt briefly nostalgic for the smell of cordite and singed beards that accompanied troll/dwarf conflict back home. He missed fireworks. At least he had experience making trolls and dwarves work together and Damn Well Stop Bickering back home. Inter-species friendships were forged in the Watch, and maybe Vimes could help forge them here.

Feeling briefly confident, he strode towards Gimli and Legolas. It was a shame he tripped over a hobbit before his peacekeeping career truly started. All his optimism vanished in the face of what became known as the Squashing of Pippin, which took a) much soothing of hobbits, b) much avoiding of hobbit wrath and c) much self-control in not punching Aragorn for snickering.

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A few days later, Vimes was trying to help Sam cook dinner. It wasn't easy as he had been made to promise that he would stay a full six inches from all cooking equipment at all times. It wasn't that he was such a bad cook, Vimes reflected bitterly as he passed Sam a carrot. He wanted to burn the food, that was what nobody else understood. Sam did his best, bless him, but...

He missed his burnt crunchy bits. And he missed Sybil. And he missed little Sam. What if the time warp went wrong, and he was missing out on little Sam growing up?

At this, Vimes became both homesick and befuddled (too many little Sams!) and decided to stop thinking about home. He tried to interest himself in getting angry about Middle Earth's class system (because Sam did all the cooking) but couldn't find the energy. All this fresh air was quite knackering. Still, he was sure they'd reach Mordor tomorrow.

But if he had to eat one more perfectly-cooked sausage, well, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

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Boromir had been watching Vimes with curiousity. He was short of natural allies in the Fellowship, distrusting everyone who wasn't a Man, and distrusting those who were trying to put their bums on a throne that had been quietly collecting dust for generations. That left Vimes. Boromir was lonely. He was used to being part of the soldiery, surrounded by other men to joke with. He had no one with whom to share manly Affectionate Punches. He had tried it with Aragorn, but Aragorn had made some snide comment like 'we future kings do not stoop to violence.' Aragorn was such a wimp.

Sadly, Vimes was clearly insane. He kept setting fire to things. That was a shame, as Boromir would have liked to get to know him despite the slightly dismissive way Vimes treated him. Boromir knew what he was thinking. 'More muscles than sense'; 'more patriotism than sense'; 'silly looking armour' . Skinny types always looked down on Boromir for being muscly, as if that meant he wasn't clever. And it wasn't his fault his armour was a bit silly looking.

Vimes was probably just jealous.

Boromir glanced at Vimes, to see if he could detect any jealousy, and instead caught Vimes gesturing wildly with a carrot to a distressed looking Sam. Sam had just cooked some sausages. They smelt good. Boromir changed Vimes from 'jealous' back to 'insane' in his mental filing system, and went to get some dinner.

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Merry was exhausted. Well, we all are, he reminded himself. Except the big people, but they had twice the length of legs. He was glad for the rest, though it was still drizzling and he knew they'd be on the move again soon. He needed a rest, and a proper rest meant a smoke. He reached for his pipeweed and was pleasantly surprised by its weight. He had more left than he thought! That was a good thing, considering it was only the second day of their journey and Pippin was already making wheedling eyes at Merry's stash. Pippin hadn't learned how to ration his weed, and was burning through his quickly.

Pippin smoked too much.

Oh well, Merry wasn't prepared to share, yet. He would hold out til he needed someone to take his turn on watch, or an extra bit of blanket, and then Pippin would have to barter.

Merry smiled grimly, marshaling his resources. Pippin would find him a merciless trading partner. Merciless Merry, they'd call him. Pippin would never smoke all his share in one go (and then be sick) again. A brighter future awaited him.

Enjoying this vision, Merry rolled a few damp pipeweed leaves between his finger and thumb. Wait. What? Damp? Pipeweed shouldn't be damp!

Merry inspected his pipeweed supply and let out a little groan. That explained the extra weight.

"Pip..." he called. "May I have a little pipeweed? Mine got wet."

"No good," said Pippin mournfully. "I finished mine last night."

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"Sam..."

"Yes, Frodo?"

"Why do you think they sent us this man from the Piskworld?"

Sam had no answer, except perhaps 'to distract you from your burden by exciting your curiousity'?

"It's very interesting, the process by which they sent him from their world to ours. I wonder what it is like..." and with that, Frodo was absorbed in puzzling out the strange journey Vimes must have taken, and wondering out loud about what the Pisk might look like.

Sam smiled, and went back to repacking his cooking gear.

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Aragorn was feeling pretty good. He was on watch, which made him feel important. He surveyed his subj- the Fellowship, and noted that no fewer than three of them were staring at him with expressions of barely contained fury. Never mind, he couldn't help that. He decided to go for a short stroll around his kingdo- their camping spot, and check its borders were secure.

Gandalf was smoking a pipe. Aragorn decided to join him.

"A peaceful night, old friend. There's nothing out there to threaten my Fellowship tonight."

Gandalf looked at him.

"I mean the Fellowship. Whatever."

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As a dwarf, Gimli could endure much. That was lucky, because this Fellowship was pretty near unendurable. Aside from anything else, that damn wood elf with the silly name had nearly killed him, just because Gimli had accidentally crept up behind him and sharpened his axe right by his ear.

It was annoying. He'd spent much of his life secretly hoping he'd get the chance to avenge the humiliation of his father and other relatives at the hands of Thranduil's folk. He was delighted to be selected for the Fellowship for this reason, and was looking forward to defeating both Sauron and the elves. As a child, he'd rather lumped them together. Elves and the Forces of Darkness were all part of the same morass of night fears, interchangeable enemies in daytime play. He'd matured somewhat since then, and no longer saw elves as something to be feared or vanquished. But a bit of humiliation would be good for them.

His father kept reminding him that they needed friendship between the free peoples if they were to defeat Sauron. Gloin had even felt it necessary to remind Gimli that the Fellowship was formed for reasons other than Gimli's desire to restore honour to his family. 'This whole thing isn't for your personal benefit, you know, son'.

'I know, dad. But...' But it all seemed to fit. Otherwise, why bother to send an elf along at all? Oh, of course, Elrond probably had a higher opinion of elves than Gimli did, but that bias was only to be expected. And to choose Thranduil's son- it was Destiny. Or something.

'And if I catch you teasing or beating up that poor... that poor, harmless elf, there will be trouble, understand?'

'I'm not going to hurt him, dad. It's not like he's an orc or anything. I just want to... to win'.

'You had better not do anything at all, except be civil and work together, and do your best to get along. With every member of the Fellowship.' Gloin thought for a bit. 'Except for that madman from the Piskworld. Try and avoid him: he has a strange obsession with rats."

Despite Gloin's advice, Gimli had originally been rather insulted that Legolas didn't seem to be a worthy adversary. He knew that Elrond hadn't selected the wood elf with the specific aim of providing Gimli with a sparring partner, but still... Legolas had all the vicious cunning of a butterfly. How was Gimli meant to defeat him? And if all wood elves were as useless as Legolas, what did that say about Gloin and co, that they could be captured by a race of people who could lose an argument to a fir tree?

And then, just when Gimli had resolved himself to defeating only a rather sub-par enemy, Legolas was suddenly all speed and silence and flashing blades. Oh well, more glory to Gimli when he finally triumphed. Or maybe...

Maybe he should talk to him?

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Legolas was happy: Sam was talking to him about plants.