I'm a little embarrassed about the uneven tone of this story. The idea is that the two worlds begin influencing each other, but I'm not sure how well I've conveyed that. It doesn't help that I leave it so long between updates! I'm VERY embarrassed about my long delays.

Highvalour: It is set after Thud, before Snuff.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and especially to those wonderful readers who leave a review.

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'Will you look into the Mirror?'

Vimes saluted. There was no way he was looking in that Mirror, but he didn't want to offend Galadriel. She waited for a response. Vimes searched for a polite way to refuse.

'Er… I've already shaved, thanks, I don't need a mirror for-'

'The mirror shows many things,' she said. 'Things that were. Things that are. Maybe even the Pisk…'

'I... that's fine, thanks. I had a nasty experience with time-travel before. I'd rather stay in my own time and place. Even if that time and place isn't my own time and place.'

She nodded gracefully - she did everything gracefully, it was a bit superfluous, thought Vimes, to notice - and bent her head over the mirror herself. 'I see a… I see what could be charitably called a city,' Galadriel said. 'A river oozes through it, and… oh dear … I am glad this mirror is not immersive. Thank Eru it doesn't do smell. I see a small boy, wearing his father's helmet, a woman putting ointment on the flaky scales of … is that a dragon? A tiny dragon. Amazing.'

Vimes swallowed. Homesickness punched him in the lungs.

'And that's Vetinari. Ah, this must be Ankh-Morpork!'

'You know Vetinari?'

'Who doesn't know Vetinari? He is talking to a red-headed watchman, a fine figure of a man,' a note of admiration crept in Galadriel's voice. 'Fine. What's his name?'

'Eh? Carrot; that would be Carrot.' He was itching to have a look in the mirror himself, but so far his distrust of the Mirror was winning out. It didn't even look like a proper mirror. It had water in it.

'Karat. Elvish for 'big muscles'. How fitting. Well, he's showing Vetinari something… a small ornament; no, a badge. Yes, it's a badge. A crown-shaped badge. Vetinari looks… oh dear.'

'What? What is it?'

'Vetinari looks mildly concerned.'

Vimes gasped.

Galadriel met Vimes' eyes gravely. 'By your own free choice, you have come to help us, and are caught up in the fate of Middle Earth. And now your own world is in peril. Truly, you have a great heart, Watchman.'

But Vimes hardly heard her. He'd gone pale. 'Royalists…' he whispered to himself. 'The Royalists are back!'

XXXXXXXXX

Gandalf's smoke-ring blowing seminar was a huge success, as was his advanced lecture in Manipulation and Meddling. He found he rather enjoyed teaching, for the first few days. He liked having access to the library (Glamdring had earned him respect from all but the most predatory and defiant of the books) and he liked striding around the corridors with his cloak swishing. He liked joining Ridcully in scorning the overfed, sleepy wizards who made up most of the staff. He liked hinting at his exploits in battle. He liked muttering vague statements that eager students hurriedly wrote down. He liked the steady supply of Pipeweed, even though he hadn't quite got used to its harsher flavour.

After the first few days, though, he'd had enough.

He wasn't like Saruman, living in a tower all his life. He was used to the wind and the rain and the land, following the road and talking to people and creatures of all different types, campfires and small comforts. Being inside without a view of the sky was making him restless, on top of his anxiety for Frodo and the others.

He didn't feel academia was really for him.

He decided he would visit Ponder Stibbons and see about getting home.

Unfortunately, Galadriel also decided she would visit him. Inside his head.

'Gandalf! There you are! Elrond's been sobbing for a week over you. Blames himself. I certainly don't. What the Mandos are you playing at?'

'Ah. Galadriel. Elen Sila Lumen'Omentielvo. A star shines… '

'Cut that out,' she said firmly. 'Terrible accent. Still, after all these Ages. Embarrassing. And get back here. I've just been talking to Elrond. Do you know what he said? Fool said he wasn't going to order Arwen to take the ships to Valinor because 'that wasn't very modern'. And the rumours are that Theoden of Rohan's niece is learning how to swordfight!'

'Er, that may not actually be Vimes' fault,' said Gandalf. 'She's been learning to swordfight for years. In fact, she's probably already learnt.'

'I don't care,' she said. 'If we're not careful, Middle Earth's whole narrative arc could be disrupted.'

'Oh no,' said Gandalf. 'It isn't that serious, is it?' He went from being amused to deeply worried so quickly he tripped on his robe and nearly swallowed his pipe. Galadriel waited patiently for the fit of coughing to cease.

'Yes,' she said. 'It is. The bad guys could win,'

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Nobody wanted to leave. Vimes overheard Gimli rhapsodising about Lorien, how it was like a dream.

A small, snarky part of Vimes muttered that it was soppy and unrealistic to compare things to dreams, when really dreams were full of teeth and waltzing with your neighbour's pet cat who was also your grocer. But he knew what Gimli meant, there was a real-yet-unreal quality to the place, and time passed strangely, and he did not want to wake up…

Lothlorien was beautiful; it was also safe. Vimes was quite enjoying not having an arrow or two whistling over his head every five minutes, and he did not miss being woken by the shout of 'orcs!'

Another reason they didn't want to leave was the hovering sense that the Fellowship were going to have to have a really difficult discussion soon. Vimes was vaguely aware that Boromir and Aragorn had been discussing whether they would the ring to Gondor or go straight on to Mordor. He knew Mordor was the whole point, and that there was no firey volcano in Gondor to destroy the blasted ring, but he had to admit he liked the idea of being in a city again.

A proper city. Not this giant gardening centre.

Like all difficult decisions, Frodo was probably going to have the last say. Vimes felt a pang of sympathy. He was only carrying the entire fate of the world on his shoulders. Why not give him more responsibility!? Great! It wasn't like they were supposed to be easing his burden, or anything!

And … Frodo was really in the best state of mind for such decisions. He looked slightly more rested after his stay in Lothlorien. He no looked longer quite as grief-stricken. But the ring was obviously bothering him quite a bit. Worse, Vimes had noticed that the ring seemed to be bothering Boromir a bit, too.

He wondered if he should say something about this to someone, and considered his options. He should probably tell Aragorn, but he was ninety percent sure Aragorn had already guessed. Gimli was sighing like a lovesick teenager; Merry and Pippin were (sensibly) spending as much of their waking time eating or sleeping as they could, and Legolas was literally away with the elves. Sam was spending most of his time at Frodo's side, though on one occasion he stamped around in a fearful temper, muttering about something called the 'Party Tree' and 'that Ted Sandiman.' Vimes didn't want to add to his worry for Frodo, and was also fairly sure that Sam would concuss Boromir with a frying pan if the subject was raised, which would not be productive. So Vimes went back to worrying about Boromir on his own. It was a nice change from missing his family and worrying about himself.

Boromir talked about his dad, Denethor, a bit as well. Vimes immediately decided he liked Denethor, simply because he was not a King. Vimes bristled when Aragorn dropped hints about how he would waltz back in and take over Gondor because of his 'lineage' or 'royal blood', and was surprised that Boromir did not punch him on the nose. But, he reminded himself, yet again, that is not how things worked in Middle Earth. And he had to admit that his respect for Aragorn had been slowly, grudgingly, growing. The nasty, critical part of his mind was being dragged kicking and screaming, fighting tooth-and-nail, into acknowledging that Aragorn was… might be… possibly… maybe if he became King… it wouldn't necessarily be the absolute worst thing ever to happen to Gondor. Not the worst.

He still hated the word 'lineage' though.

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The day came to depart Lorien.

'And what gift would a policeman ask of the elves?'

'Treacle,' said Vimes firmly.

Galadriel narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'Did Vetinari put you up to this?'

Vimes pulled an extremely crumpled and travel-stained piece of paper from his pocket and read woodenly from it. '300 tonnes per year at ten dollars a barrel. I want priority access and first-refusal rights for Ankh-Morpork; most favoured nation status; a concession on export-import tariffs and a waiver on the Inter-Dimensional Fictional Border Tax,'

'Hmmm,' said Galadriel. 'Well, I can do ten dollars a barrel but we have a long-standing agreement with Honeydukes in Hogsmeade, so if we waive the IDFBT for you we'd have to do it for them too, and we can't afford that.'

Vimes scanned the list until he found the correct response. 'Reduce it to five percent instead of seven percent, and we have a deal.'

'Done. I will have to clear if with the rest of the White Council, of course, but frankly that's a formality. Gandalf's fallen into shadow, Saruman has done what I always predicted he would, and Elrond… Well. Elrond is Elrond.' She smiled suddenly at Vimes, like the sun in the morning, and Vimes knew that Galadriel was acting more out of kindness and graciousness than anything else.

Vimes held out his hand for a handshake and Galadriel looked at it politely. Vimes withdrew his hand, coughed in embarrassment, and then settled for nodding in what he hoped was a contractually binding manner.

'Hang on,' said Gimli. 'Can I change mine?'

'What?'

'Weeelll… three pieces of hair? Compared to that deal? I mean, the hair is very nice, but… That will save Ankh-Morpork thousands on treacle, not to mention treacle-derivatives! I didn't know we could ask for anything trade-related. Maybe we could negotiate mining rights for the edge of Lothlorien? Prospecting in the Nimrodel? Good gold deposits there.'

'Out of the question,' said Galadriel. 'Mining? You can't chop a single small tree down around here without the whole lot of them protesting. Occupy Caras Galdhorn, it was, last time, and it lasted for centuries.'

Not long ago, Gimli would have snorted something uncomplimentary about tree-hugging hippies, but his attitude towards elves was changing. 'Well,' he said. 'How about you sell us the blueprints for your clever staircase out there? They're remarkably resistant to the pressures of people walking on them, and they move with the trees! Amazing!'

'Oh, you noticed?' Galadriel looked pleased. 'I designed it myself.'

'The design is riveting,' said Gimli enthusiastically. 'And the rivets are so well designed. Our engineers could make use of those plans, and it could be very useful indeed to improve the safety of our Halls in the Blue Mountains. We can pay in gold.'

'Consider them a gift,' said Galadriel. 'And you may keep the hair,'

Gimli went pink in the face and smiled shyly.

'Hang on,' said Legolas. 'Can I change mine?'

'Oh no,' said Galadriel. 'No, no, no. Absolutely not. I am not entering into any type of trade relationship with Thranduil. No business, no contracts, no negotiating, no discussions of any kind. I wasn't born last Age. I'm not repeating that mistake. I've only just got the Southern edge of my forest back the way I like it.'

'No, not that. It's… it's just the bow. Everyone always gives me bows. I feel so… so typecast.' He looked crestfallen.

'You may need it,' said Galadriel. 'I see war ahead of you. Ahead of all of you. Battle and bloodshed.'

'In that case,' said Vimes. 'I also need new boots…'

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Vetinari placed the small crown-shaped badge in a drawer he kept for that sort of thing and smiled thinly.

Around him, the city was in chaos, which was normal. But the chaos was following patterns. The balance of narrativium was tipping. Vimes' absence was certainly being felt.

Things were slithering into Ankh-Morpork and into people's minds. Shaping their dreams, changing their ideas, whispering to them of Destiny; of princesses for the rescuing; of shining castles and happy endings… They were the Tropes, and they had returned.

He briefly considered bringing in Granny Weatherwax from Lancre. He would if things got more serious. For now, though, Middle Earth was getting the shake-up it needed.

He wasn't too worried about Ankh-Morpork. He was certainly keeping a close eye on developments, but Ankh-Morpork's citizens were remarkably resistant. They were responding to the forces of Narrative as they responded to everything. With capitalism.

He took a careful bite of the complimentary rabbit-and-bluebird pizza he'd been sent by the Seven Dwarves' Fried Woodland Animals Bar & Bistro, and smiled. There was almost no gristle this time.