It's been a while since I updated, I'll admit. I blame the ridiculous amount of essays I've had to write lately, along with the piles and piles of paperwork I've had to get through, bah.

Anyways, it is now onto Rohan, yay! Updates should hopefully be quicker from now on, since I have the next few chapters more or less ready :D

XXX

Aragorn stirred, as the sound of distant rumbling met his ears.

"Their pace has quickened," he muttered. "They must have caught our scent."

After running non-stop for several days in pursuit of the Uruk-hai, the ranger was exhausted, and keeping up such an annoyingly tireless façade had not helped matters. When his legs were about to give out, then, he had volunteered to put his head to the ground and listen for their prey, with the ulterior motive of maybe catching a few winks whilst he did so. After three hours of snoring, he had an inkling his companions might be a little suspicious, so, grudgingly, he forced himself to wake up and clamber back to his feet.

"Hurry!" he yelled, running off into the distance. Legolas followed him, bow in hand.

"Come on, Gimli!" the elf called.

The dwarf leant on his axe and frowned.

"Why couldn't we have just gotten a bloody cab?"

"Shut up, Gimli."

So they ran. They ran and they ran and they ran. And when that wasn't enough, they were inclined to run some more. Never mind the fact that Aragorn had broken toes, Legolas had broken ribs, and Gimli had a dislocated knee. Never mind the fact that there was a helicopter following them everywhere they went. Never mind-

"Ooh," said Aragorn, seized by a sudden kleptomania, "shiny!" He knelt down, and picked up a green leaf-shaped brooch from amidst the grass. "Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," he said.

Legolas frowned.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Aragorn shrugged.

"Haven't the foggiest. Come on. Plainly this random brooch on the floor means they are less than a day ahead of us or something."

He sped off. Legolas followed him. Behind them, a rather heavy dwarf rather heavily rolled down a hill and fell with a heavy thud.

"Come, Gimli!" cried Legolas. "We are gaining on them, apparently!"

Gimli hurried after them, panting and sweating up a storm.

"I am wasted on cross-country!" he gasped. "We dwarves are natural sprinters! Very dangerous over short distances!"

Rolling their eyes, they climbed to the rise of the hill, and looked down upon a sea of golden plains.

"Rohan," said Aragorn. "Home of the horse-lords, y'know. There is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us."

"Yeah," panted Gimli, with his hands on his knees. "It's called Peter Jackson."

"Legolas," said Aragorn. "What do your Elf eyes see?"

"Elf eyes?" He snorted. "What other kind of eyes would I have?"

Aragorn smacked him upside the head.

"I'm trying to subtly reacquaint the casual viewer with your character you idiotic…" He flailed his arms about, in search of an insult. "…idiot!"

"Oh," said the elf. "Well then. Hi! I'm Legolas Greenleaf, Mirkwood elf and teen heart throb." He turned towards the camera, and winked. Half of the female population of the audience fainted in their seats, along with a few of the men.

"Legolas," seethed Aragorn, "your surname is not Greenleaf! Your name means 'greenleaf'. You just introduced yourself as Greenleaf Greenleaf!"

The elf was too busy painting his nails to care.

"Argh." The ranger turned to the camera next. "Hi there. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir of Gondor, Elessar, Elfstone, Longshanks, Wingfoot-"

"Aragorn!" grunted Gimli, "you haven't been given that name yet!"

Aragorn shoved him off the hill.

"I will be your sexy ranger/would-be-king for the evening." He winked at the camera. The other half of the female population of the audience fainted, along with a few of the men.

Gimli huffed and puffed his way back up the hill, and jumped in front of Aragorn crying: "I am Gimli, son of Gloin! I am the one and only dwarf, and I will be your comic relief for the evening! Hey, here's a joke for ya… How many dwarfs does it take to screw in a light bulb?... None! Y'know why? Cause light bulbs don't exist in Middle Earth!" He burst into raucous laughter at his own joke. The entire population of the audience was now comatose, whether from the hotness of his ranger and elven counterparts, or from the heart attack-inducing awfulness of his light bulb joke.

Aragorn and Legolas made a point to ignore him.

"So," said the ranger/would be king, "how about those Elf eyes Legolas?"

"Ooh right." The elf sprang forwards. "The Uruks are turning northeast." He squinted his eyes, and then added, in a randomly musical fashion: "They're taking the hobbits to Isengard-gard-gard-gard-gard! The hobbits-the hobbits-the hobbits-the hobbits… To Isengard! To Isengard!"

Aragorn and Gimli both stared at him like he'd grown another head.

Aragorn was about to answer, but then something struck him, and instead he fell silent, contemplating this rather disturbing thought.

"Legolas?"

"Yes?"

"Umm… isn't Isengard northwest of here?"

The elf scratched his noggin, and then pulled out a rather crumpled map from his pocket. It unfolded several times until it was as big as a picnic blanket. He spread it on the floor in front of him, and then scrutinized both it and the world it represented.

His eyes widened. He picked up the map, and turned it around 180°.

They all groaned.

XXX

Meanwhile, northwest of the plains of Rohan, Saruman was brooding in his chamber and speaking to Sauron via the Palantír.

"The world is changing," said Saruman. "Who now has the strength to stand against the armies of Isengard and Mordor? To stand against the might of Sauron and Saruman and the union of the-"

"Yes, alright," said Sauron, with a roll of his flaming eye. "You don't have to be so bloody dramatic about it."

"Well, sorry. I'm just trying to make conversation, y'know."

Thoroughly affronted, Saruman decided to go downstairs and inspect the refurbishing.

XXX

Everywhere across the plains of Isengard, trees were being ripped down and fed to the huge industrial furnaces. In the caverns below, hundreds of orcs hammered molten iron into a varied array of weaponry. Saruman strolled amongst this activity, speaking with his head orc.

"The old world will burn in the fires of industry," he explained. "The forests will fall. A new order will rise. We will drive the machine of war with the sword and the spear and the iron fist of the Orc. We have only to remove those who oppose us."

"Yes, that's all very well," said the orc, ticking off something on his clipboard. "But have you spared a thought to your carbon emissions?"

The next moment, the orc had been thrown into a nearby furnace.

XXX

"So, yes," said Saruman, "I know you've all had a long journey…"

The wizard was standing amidst a huge gathering of Dunlendings, who were busy fidgeting with gears, turning over rocks, climbing in trees and generally making a mess of his beloved Isengard.

"As I was saying..." he continued, raising his voice to make himself heard. "I wanted to run something by you if I may-" Suddenly, there was a huge flash and a bang. Saruman was left with singed eyebrows and a rather agitated expression on his face. "Okay," he growled, "who has my staff?"

Silence descended. One rather guilty-looking Dunlending came forward and handed it over. Saruman wrenched it from his grip, and dusted down his robes with a scowl.

"As I was saying..." he continued. "I have gathered you all here to discuss the problem of Rohan. The horsemen took your land. They drove your people into the hills to scratch a living off rocks."

 "Murderers!" someone yelled.

"Take back the lands they stole from you!" urged Saruman. "Burn every village!"

Someone raised their hand.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just take the villages for ourselves?"

Saruman thought about it for a moment.

"Well, yes, but-"

"Ooh, and some of the women too – they are all blondes after all."

"Aww, but I prefer brunettes."

"Yes, but gentlemen prefer blondes."

"WOULD YOU ALL PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP?" yelled Saruman, flapping his arms about. "You took a blood pledge for me, and you will do as I say and not question my logic!"

"The blood pledge is in the extended version, though."

"I don't care about the extended version," gritted Saruman. "I die in the extended version. The extended version is not my friend. Would you all please just go and rape and pillage and burn Rohan, kthanx?"

The Dunlendings let out an almighty roar of approval. Once said roar had died down, however, silence descended upon the group.

Saruman gave a sigh, and thrust his arm out to the side.

"Rohan is that way." He watched the Dunlendings shuffle off, and put a hand to his forehead in dismay. "This is really doing nothing for my image…"

XXX

After a little help from the wonders of Sat Nav, the Dunlendings finally located Rohan, and set to raping and pillaging and burning its peripheral villages, which nobody really gave a crap about anyways.

In the midst of one of these aforementioned villages, a woman named Morwen was attempting to round up her children.

"Éothain!" she called. "Éothain!" She couldn't find the boy anywhere. She turned to his sister, who was currently clinging to her leg. "Where in Eru has your brother gotten to?"

The little girl just shrugged.

"I have no clue. I don't even know why I'm in this movie."

"I don't know either, Freda," her mother fussed. "But we're getting more screen time than some of the other characters, so just enjoy it while it lasts." She finally located Éothain, and dumped him rather unceremoniously onto the back of their horse. She then lifted Freda up too.

"Listen to me," urged their mother. "You must ride to Edoras and raise the alarm. Do you understand me?"

Éothain looked terrified.

"But I don't even know how to ride a horse!"

Morwen wasn't listening though: "Off you go dear!" she cried, slapping the horse in the backside. It went rocketing off into the distance. "Make sure you're back in time for dinner!"

XXX

Across the plains, a group of horsemen were riding with haste towards Edoras, capital of Rohan. At their head rode Éomer, Third Marshall of the Mark, who was attempting to both ride a horse and balance his mortally wounded cousin upon its back. Needless to say, the constant jolting was probably ensuring him a speedier death.

In their wake, a young blonde named Éowyn ran up the steps towards the Golden Hall, the folds of her green dress billowing in the wind. Hurrying through its corridors, she burst into a darkened bedchamber, and was taken aback at the sight that met her within.

"Théodred!" she gasped, as she ran to his side. The wounded man stirred a little, and turned his bloody face towards her. "Alas! for your fangirls! They never even had a chance."

Éomer nudged her in the side.

"Psst, take a look at his wound. It's so gross!"

Éowyn drew back the covers, and closed her eyes in despair as she saw the gaping hole in Théodred's torso. Éomer just stood there, poking at it.

XXX

Realising they had very little time to renegotiate Théodred's will, Éowyn and Éomer went to go and see their Uncle Théoden, who just happened to be King of all Rohan, and proprietor of said will. Perhaps he could also explain the ridiculous amount of accents in their names, but they didn't hold out much hope.

When they arrived in the throne room, however, it was to general indifference; Théoden barely looked up from his game of checkers.

"Your son is badly wounded, my lord," said Éowyn.

Her brother stepped forwards.

"He was ambushed by orcs. If we don't defend our country, Saruman will take it by force."

"That is a lie!" Gríma Wormtongue emerged from the shadows. He was a pale man, with matted black hair, heavy-lidded eyes and no eyebrows. He'd never had much luck with razors.

Éomer frowned.

"How long have you been standing there?"

Wormtongue shrugged.

"About an hour." Off Éomer's look he added: "There's nothing to do in this bloody country anyways…"

Éomer shrugged.

"I suppose."

"But yes, anyways. Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally, y'know."

Théoden mumbled something incomprehensible; they both just ignored him.

"Orcs are roaming freely across our lands," said Éomer. "Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will. Orcs bearing the white hand of Saruman."

He dropped a helmet onto the floor which toppled over, revealing a white hand upon its surface, surprisingly enough.

Wormtongue looked at this, cautiously.

"Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind?" He drew closer to Théoden, and looked back at Éomer with a snarl. "Can you not see? Your uncle is wearied by your malcontent, your war-mongering."

"Huh?"

"You bitch a lot."

"Oh." Éomer pouted, and slammed Wormtongue into a pillar. None too gently really. He knocked the guy out, and had to splash a nearby goblet of wine over his face to wake him up again. "As I was saying..." he continued, as Wormtongue spluttered in distress. "Saruman is evil, you're evil. It's a whole big evil thing really. How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Gríma? When all the men are dead you will take your share of the treasure?"

And just at that moment Éowyn began to walk away, since this whole tense conversation about the future of her kingdom was getting rather boring really. Wormtongue's eyes flicked towards her, and he put on his most charming smile, which on his face frankly looked like someone had just macheted him in the back.

"Perv," she muttered, storming off with her head held high.

"Hey, hey!" Éomer grabbed Wormtongue by the chin, and forced him to turn and look into his eyes. "Do you mind not ogling my sister? I'm trying to make a dramatic point here. It's extremely rude."

Wormtongue noticed something behind Éomer and smiled.

"Ah," he said, smirking, "my goons are here."

And Wormtongue's newly acquired goons clapped their hands on Éomer's shoulders and pulled him away. He began to struggle like a (rather sexy) wildcat.

"Goons?" he cried, between the punches. "Since when do you get goons?"

Wormtongue smiled.

"Since I wrote you out of this movie."

"What?"

"That's right! The scriptwriters decided to minimize your part in this movie, all because of me! And they gave me a bunch of spiffy new goons as a present too." He grinned. "Aren't unfaithful book adaptations fun?"

Éomer growled, and struggled some more.

"You can't write me out, dammit! I fight valiantly at Helm's Deep!"

Wormtongue leant in close, and whispered: "Not anymore!"

And then he turned away, and signaled to his goons, saying: "You see much Éomer, son of Éomund. Too much. You are banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan. Under pain of death!" He waved a hand. "Throw him away with the rest of the discarded characters!"

And as he was dragged away, Éomer's agonized screams resounded throughout the hall.

"Not Bombadil!" he cried. "Anything but Bombadil!"