Oh, this story. I don't even know. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. Super-long update to make up for it.

All of the humour or plot I manage to scrape together is really thanks to the much more wonderful writing of Pratchett, Tolkien and any random author who happens to wander near enough to be ripped off. I don't claim to own anything they've created.

Thank you so much for reading!

Thank you so much to those of you who have written encouraging reviews – especially those of you who have nudged me to update.

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The Fellowship did, indeed, get lost. And that was fine, because Orcs weren't chasing them. The scowling, occasionally swearing troop of blindfolded elves tried to follow them, tripping over into streams and each other, and experiencing blundering for the first time in their long lives. Eventually, Aragorn took pity on them – Haldir wasn't their fault – and told them they could probably remove the blindfolds now because the Fellowship was well and truly lost.

They reached Caras Galadhon, amidst the mellorn trees, and Vimes felt something he'd never felt in response to trees before. He felt... no, it was ridiculous, they were just woody bits with leafy bits on top… but they were pretty. Yes, these trees were all right. He patted one on its silver bark as he passed it. An elegant, silvery stairway curved above their heads into the canopy. Lights seemed to float down to meet them. It was like walking in a dream. He breathed in the pleasant, leafy smell (he couldn't be any more specific than that).

Vimes still missed the smell of fried rat, but… maybe… maybe this would do for now.

Then they began climbing. Trees, fine, Vimes thought as he puffed upwards, but these stairs were too much. Haldir stopped to enforce a View upon them. 'Admire,' he said, 'the heart of Elvendom on Middle Earth…'

The hobbits nodded politely, though their view was blocked by another tree. Gimli seemed more interested in the mechanics of the stairway's construction, and was heard to mutter keenly about 'mine shafts' and 'back-up for elevator failures.' Vimes caught Boromir's eye, and instead of looking at the view they took the opportunity to roll their eyes behind Haldir's back and catch their breath. Aragorn looked somewhat misty-eyed; Vimes thought it best not to enquire why. Legolas said something in Elvish, which caused Haldir to look puzzled, then somewhat miffed as he realised that Legolas was talking to a tree, and not him. Realising these were the only reactions he was going to get, Haldir marched upwards, shoulders set.

Reflecting on how much of a mystery he sometimes still found the Fellowship, Vimes re-shouldered his pack and started climbing after him. The view – yes, it is rather stunning, he thought, beginning the next spiral. Despite himself, his gaze travelled out through the woods. A singing began from high above them, softly, without fanfare, as if it had been going a long time and Vimes had only just become aware of it or strayed within earshot. It was as if he'd woken up, or fallen asleep, perhaps.

'A lament for Gandalf,' someone said softly.

The singing and the evening light falling through the branches did something odd to Vimes. His breath caught a little, and his eyes moistened. Allergies, he told himself firmly.

It wasn't like he missed Gandalf, anyway.

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It wasn't like he missed Middle Earth, anyway, Gandalf told himself firmly. He hastily smothered a cough – what did they put in Discworld pipeweed? Tar? – and returned to the matter at hand. He needed an excuse to leave, before the earwax he'd cultivated since the Second Age began to melt at the sheer volume of Ridcully's heartiness.

Considering he'd died a few hours ago, Gandalf had had a productive morning. He'd paced nervously, lectured a gaggle of students on the impertinence of hobbits, discovered and been disappointed by Discworld pipeweed, corrected Ponder Stibbons' ideas about space-time, thought angry thoughts about Balrogs, thought angry thoughts about Galadriel (and hastily revoked them, just in case), and winkled a cup of tea out of a passing manservant.

Now, however, he found himself wedged in an armchair in Ridcully's study, where worries about Frodo and the rest kept sneaking into his mind. Funny, he'd been so confident about the damn Balrog before they entered Moria, because he was not the sort to cower before his fate. He hadn't been afraid for himself at all. It was only now he realised how reckless he'd been.

There was no way they'd possibly survive without him.

Ridcully patted him on the back, causing Gandalf's pipe to shoot across the room and shatter a whisky decanter. 'Takes some adjusting to, this stuff! This is real man's tobaccy. You wouldn't get this in your Middle World!' he said.

Gandalf sniffed gingerly at the pipeweed once again. If this was for mere mortals, surely he, an Istari, could handle it? He sighed. He felt uncharacteristically downcast, and very far from home.

'Worried about your Middle place?' Ridcully asked, eyes twinkling knowingly.

'Preposterous,' Gandalf muttered. 'They'll never even reach Lorien.'

Ridcully nodded understandingly. 'Tell me about these hobbits again.'

Usually, Gandalf spoke only in wise but vague statements, because he was Mysterious. But Mysterious wizard gibberish had to be founded on a credible reputation, or people just laughed at you. Sometimes (Gandalf winced, remembering an undignified episode in the Second Age) the ones who were particularly unconvinced threw vegetables at your hat.

Nobody on the Disc knew who he was. They would assume he was just another Unseen University wizard. If they even deserved the name. Until he found out what sort of standing Disc wizards had, whether they had respect, there would be no point doing his Mysterious Act. People would just ask him to explain himself, or worse, get bored and move their attention elsewhere.

Suddenly, Gandalf felt lonely.

Ridcully was the nearest thing to an Istari in this place. He would not be impressed by Gandalf's vague statements, but at least he might be able to hold a decent conversation. He noticed Ridcully was still waiting for him to speak.

Maybe… maybe he should confide in Ridcully?

Gandalf didn't often confide in people. It wasn't really his thing. Sometimes he pretended to confide in Elrond, bless his little heart, so that Elrond felt included. He had confided in Thranduil once, but Thranduil had advised him that his problem was all the fault of dwarves. Gandalf had called Thranduil a blatant Dwarf –hater. Thranduil had laughed at Gandalf's beard and made a tree drop squirrels on him.

Sometimes Gandalf confided in Bilbo, but that didn't count because what goes on Quest stays on Quest. He thought he'd maybe confided in Aragorn once, but they'd drunk a lot of ale that night so he wasn't sure if it was Aragorn, or just a bar stool that smelt similar.

Galadriel didn't wait for you to confide in her.

He'd stopped confiding in Saruman after that nasty incident with the Tower.

Maybe he should confide in Ridcully.

'It's the hobbits,' he said. 'I miss them,'

That wasn't what he meant to say at all! 'I mean,' he added quickly, 'I'm worried about them.'

'What's wrong with 'em?'

'They… they're so small, but you shouldn't under-estimate them!' Gandalf said, more to himself than Ridcully. 'You think they've gone for good, but they have a knack for surviving tight spots, you know.'

'Fierce?'

'They're fierce when cornered. Even the fattest, timidest hobbit has a spark in him that-'

'Good eatin'?'

'Oh, yes, very good at eating. Why, I once knew a Bolger who managed three lard-cakes in one sitting…' His eyes went misty at the memory.

'So,' said Ridcully, 'how do you hunt 'em?'

'I'm sorry?' said Gandalf, snapping out of his reverie.

'D'you use a cross-bow? Or do you use the double-twin ultra-cross bow?'

Gandalf glared at Ridcully. Back on Middle-Earth, rumour had it that Gandalf's eyes had once been two ice-diamonds carved from a glacier, and his eyebrows the fur cloaks of two angry giants. He knew the rumours; he'd started them himself, and invented ice-diamonds, which was poetic twaddle. But even his famous glare was not enough to quell Ridcully, whose own eyes gleamed back speculatively.

'How big do they grow, these hobbits?'

'Three foot six on average,' said Gandalf. 'But-'

'Like a rabbit, or are they more like a hare? Could we send weasels after them, or is there a special kind of hobbit hound?'

Gandalf spluttered.

He needed to have a serious talk with Radagast about his cousin.

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The Fellowship stood before Galadriel. Celeborn, her husband unfortunately, was drivelling slowly through his second sentence, while she'd already skipped ahead of the introductions and counted the company.

Nine.

Not ten.

Nine.

Come on, Celeborn, hurry up.

'He's fallen into shadow,' she snapped.

Celeborn floundered to a stop in the middle of the word 'Rivendell.'

'Sorry?'

'Gandalf. He's fallen into shadow.'

'Oh,' Celeborn said, momentarily non-plussed. 'Was it… was it fatal?'

'Fairly,' she said. 'Now, eye-contact, please, everyone. Not you, Celeborn! The Fellowship!'

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Sam's mind, or soul, was as honest and true as any could be. It reminded her of the new shoot of a green plant in Spring, finding the light, a root that could quietly crack stone. She smiled.

He seemed quite a nice chap.

Frodo – she thought he'd be frail, a snowflake you couldn't save, and indeed there was the touch of darkness that would weaken him in years to come. Shoddy work, Elrond, she thought. But there was strength there too, strength that surprised her. She thought of water: a clear spring, a deep pool, a stream running downhill, finding its way around obstacles. He'd keep on going, she was sure of that.

Merry was amused. This surprised her. Yes, he was. He knew what she was doing and was wryly amused by it. He was sharp, that one. And he… apples? He was thinking about apples? Right. And toast. Now he was thinking about toast. Was he trying to trick her? Hide a secret from her? She concentrated. No, he genuinely wanted some toast. Damn it, now she also wanted toast! She cleared the thoughts of toast from her mind. Who was Merry? That's what she wanted to know. He was a friend. He cared about his friends. He was going to carry on with this Quest no matter what because it was the right thing to do and because it was Frodo's. And there was courage there. Still new, but he was becoming more aware of it.

Pippin was thinking about apples too! What was this? What were hobbits? Was this some kind of conspiracy? Who could stand here before her, Galadriel, in the Heart of Elvendom on Middle Earth (as that twerp Haldir called it) and think about apples?

She was getting a headache.

She saw immediately she didn't have to worry about Pippin yet either. Another one driven by hope, and friendship, and all those things Gandalf kept going on about. Pippin was curious; half his mind was on what would happen to the platform among the trees if a storm came, how they built it, whether he could find someone who would answer his questions, whether there were elf teenagers, whether Galadriel was wearing a wig (impertinent!), whether there would be a meal soon, whether the meal would be vegetarian, whether Lothlorien elves had second breakfast, whether they would have to sleep in a tree.

And he was so young, and he missed Gandalf terribly.

The thoughts of all four of the hobbits turned constantly to each other, to the Shire, to their companions, to the loss of Gandalf, to open admiration of the beauty of Lothlorien. She decided she liked hobbits.

She delved quickly into Aragorn's mind and just as quickly out again. Her face went bright red, and he met her eyes and went bright red as well. Her granddaughter! Really! She gave him a couple of seconds to clear his mind, and looked again.

Nobility. Purity. Courage. Goodness. Really, Aragorn was so predictable. She was pleased though, if she were to be honest. Her great-children would be well-cared for. She wondered if she should tell Elrond to give it up: Now he was claiming he was having 'visions' in which things went the way he wanted them to go, for a change.

Sad, really.

Boromir was similar in some ways. But where Aragorn was steady, Boromir had a seething resentment that shifted like smoke so that his true character was in and out of focus. And there was love here, for his city, for his people. Where Aragorn was wary and somewhat distant, Boromir was marked by warmth and protectiveness, especially for the hobbits. But so much doubt.

He wanted to do the right thing, but he hadn't yet realised that he couldn't separate the fate of his city from the fate of all of Middle Earth.

And what was this… winter is coming? What? Well, obviously. And summer, autumn and spring. Every year in fact. A blur of cycling seasons, and they never varied. Boring. She'd seen thousands - hundreds of thousands of winters. What was so special about winter? What was he talking about?

Legolas' was just: Trees. Fine, she expected that. She wondered what, if any, thoughts were going on underneath, hidden from her. A mix of botany, grudges, unflattering thoughts about the Noldor and dwarf-baiting, probably.

The first time she tried to read Thranduil's mind, she'd woken up half an hour later with a headache, surrounded by acorns. Maybe Legolas was adopted? Anyway, he wouldn't steal the ring anytime soon. Unless it turned into a tree.

Gimli's was a revelation. Dwarves… these strange little creatures, and yet there were whole worlds inside their tiny, hairy skulls. Impressed, she looked closer. She sifted through layers of familial pride, recipes for rat casserole, thousands of carefully filed types of ore, beard-grooming tips and warrior-gusto (men in all species were the same). It was so orderly! So different from an elf's or a man's, yet still rational and sentient and capable of emotion. At the moment it was mostly curiosity, grief at Gandalf's fall, a touch of nerves, awe. And he… he actually wasn't doing this quest for gold!

e...

Oh, she knew thisin theory of course. Gandalf was always rabbiting on about it. 'Dwarves are sentient blah blah blah…' 'Their beards aren't funny blah blah blah…' Well, he would say that. But until now, she'd never fully realised.

Gimli would kill and die for Frodo, she saw. And under everything was a connection forged of fire, rock and iron, a connection to the Mountains. Home.

So, dwarves understood something she'd thought was very elvish. The longing for home.

It wasn't every day that Galadriel learnt something new.

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She couldn't read Vimes at all. There was a policeman standing in the way. He had a truncheon and he wouldn't let her past. 'Who watches the watchers?' she mused, impressed despite herself.

'I do,' said the policeman.

He frowned. 'And I'm not having any ruddy blonde hippies intruding on my watch.'

'I see,' she thought.

'The Quest stands on the edge of a knife,' she said out loud. It was only a few seconds after Celeborn had spoken. 'Stray but a little, and it will fail… '

She'd already known that. It was the Ring after all. But who could blame her for being nosy?

Now, where was the aspirin?