Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: Life in Fandom (#1202)
Author: allamericanreject
Chapters: 4
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Crossovers
Description: They live nextdoor to Harry Potter. Glinda the Good Witch is just down the street. Jack, Will, and Elizabeth are two streets over. Who are they? They're the Fellowship of the Ring, of course. Welcome to Fandom!
Published: 19 Aug 2004
Updated: 30 Nov 2004
Warnings:
Type: Humour
Characters: Fellowship; Other
Chapter 1 - Welcome to Fandom
LONG AND POINTLESS (BUT NECESSARY) AUTHOR’S NOTE: The story of how Life in Fandom came to be is a long and boring one involving the enigmatic papaya that is my brain, a dirty refrigerator, and a spray can of Fantastik. And copious amounts of Angry Beavers-watching. To make a (very) long story short, I was one day bemoaning both the discontinuation of Bagenders and the fact that I wasn’t creative enough to come up with something like Bagenders. And then I thought, well, what if the Fellowship lived together, but not in northern England…in a different sort of place entirely? And Fandom was born.
Fandom is a city, but not a normal city: it’s the city where the main and major characters from every fandom (even the ones I don’t know about) live. Really, it’s like a crossover of every universe there is out there. (Of course, as a major Ringer, I’ll be focusing mostly on the life of our favorite Fellowship, but there’ll be several million cameos.)
Now, you have to remember that Fandom is where major characters from EVERYTHING live, divided up into neighborhoods by their genre. However, I don’t know every fan realm there is out there. (For example, I for one never fell into the Star Wars craze.) If you have a major character from a fandom that you’d really, really like to see make an appearance, let me know. (Unfortunately, I’m not taking requests for Original Character or Self-Inserted Character appearances. Fandom is, ironically, a fan-free zone.)
This first episode (see the Bagenders influence?) is rather a test. If you like it, please let me know. If not, let me know what I could do better. And if you like the idea of Fandom, but want to take your own favorites – for example, the Harry Potter crew – and write about their adventures in this mystical realm of wisdom and flying mangos, let me know!
So with some further ado, but not much…welcome to Fandom!
DISCLAIMER-ADO: Fandom, in all its insanity, belongs to me, as do Digget and the Something. However, the actual fandoms within Fandom belong to their owners. And if anyone knows how to write a Scottish accent, PLEASE give me lessons.
WELCOME TO FANDOM
Mr. Frodo Baggins of number 9 Fantasia Lane awoke quite early to find Digget, his dog with horns, licking his face. He immediately sprang out of bed and into his yoga routine, which took ten minutes but kept him so relaxed. After finishing with a graceful bow, he pulled on his terrycloth robe and slippers and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.
Number 9 Fantasia Lane had the distinct look of being a very messy house that was hastily straightened up to give the façade of clean. Frodo waltzed into the kitchen, where sun was pouring into the windows and Legolas was making coffee and toast. Digget followed, running over to Legolas and peeing on the floor next to his foot affectionately. Legolas gave the dog with horns the sort of Elvish disapproving look that can kill, and handed Frodo a cup of coffee, which Frodo took gingerly and poured in Digget’s bowl when Legolas wasn’t looking. Members of the Fellowship had learned to treat anything that Legolas gave them with extreme caution, as he was prone to “Elven-izing” food, i.e., putting herbs and other salad-y things where they shouldn’t be put.
“We’ve got roaches,” Legolas announced by way of greeting. “The number for the exterminator is on the speed dial. You’ll have to call, I’m going round to number 3 to help Miracle Max collect wolfsbane.”
“Is anyone else up yet?” Frodo asked, filling Digget’s bowl with Cheez-Its and therefore covering the abandoned Elven-ized coffee.
“No, they’re all still passed out,” Legolas said darkly. “The party at the Pirates of the Caribbean house last night, don’t you remem- bloody hell!”
A large black iron ball had flown suddenly through the window. There was a muffled yell of “Impedimenta!” from next door, and the ball stopped, three inches from Legolas’ face. A few moments later, a gangly red-haired boy scrambled over the fence in the yard and dashed up to the kitchen door, pounding frantically on it. Frodo stood and let him in with a polite “Good morning, Ron.”
“Sorry about that, mate,” Ron panted, taking the Bludger from where it still hung in the air in front of Legolas’ nose. “Fred and George are supposed to be playing Beaters, but they’re down at the shop – ”
“This early?” Frodo said mildly, sitting down at the kitchen table and pulling the newspaper towards him. This newspaper was a medley of newspapers from all over Fandom: the Daily Prophet, Chicago Sun-Times, and a Back to the Future newspaper that kept changing between past and present news were apparent within the first three pages.
“Yeah,” Ron said, taking a piece of toast from Legolas’ plate. He spat it out again a moment later. “Bloody hell, that tastes like bubotuber pus!”
Frodo froze. There was silence for a few moments, then Legolas said, “It’s whole wheat bread,” in an immensely cold and threatening voice. Frodo stiffened. The other members of the Fellowship knew from first hand experience that a) Legolas shopped exclusively at Whole Foods, b) Whole Foods was home to many organic things but nothing that tasted good, and c) Legolas became incredibly defensive of his food choices. The neighbors, however, still hadn’t learned this.
“It’s good,” Ron said after a moment. “Yeah. Good. Er, you’ve got something in your garden, did you know?”
“It’s Gollum,” a voice said from the hall. “He’s been living there for three years.” With that, Aragorn strode into the kitchen, veered away from Legolas and his toast, and opened the refrigerator.
“Of course.” Ron backed slowly towards the door; he had been wary of Aragorn ever since the Man in question had accidentally walloped him in the head with Anduril at a block party two summers ago. “I’d better be going, Charlie’s coming round for Quidditch practice.” He vanished out the back door and could be seen scrambling over the fence a moment later.
Aragorn pulled out a Cold One (Legolas frowned disapprovingly) and snapped it open on the kitchen counter. Frodo flipped through the paper until he reached the Welcome Wagon page at the back. “We’ve got a new Frankenstein moving in on Scifi Circle,” he said, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else. “This one’s coming in from Van Helsing. We’ll have to take something round to it; d’you think it’ll like pot roast?”
“The Young Frankenstein Frankenstein liked casserole,” Aragorn reminded him, sitting down at the table. “Or his wife did, anyway.” Legolas sat down on Aragorn’s other side. Both Aragorn and Frodo scooted their chairs a respectful distance from the whole wheat toast.
At that moment, there was a sudden pounding on the ceiling. The windows began to shake. The screen door rattled. The sounds of Blink-182 filled the house.
“Pippin’s up,” Legolas said.
There was the unmistakable sound of someone falling out of a bed above them, followed by cursing.
“Merry’s up,” Frodo said.
A moment later, said hobbits catapulted into the kitchen. They were dressed in regulation sk8er boi clothing but, in deference to their hobbit heritage, wore no shoes.
“I’ve got to go,” Aragorn said abruptly, finishing his Cold One and tossing it at the bin. It missed by a good three feet and landed on the linoleum; however, because Cold Ones come in such extremely durable bottles, did not break. “I’m meeting some of the Ghost Busters for breakfast at the Mellow Mushroom.” He reached for the keys to his Toyota, then noticed that Legolas’ back was turned and pocketed the keys to Legolas’ Lexus instead. “I’ll be back around lunchtime.”
“Please don’t be drunk when you come in,” Frodo called as Aragorn disappeared into the hallway, “I’m having Mrs. Potts round for coffee.”
“Ye know, anywhere else it would be considered rude tae drink coffee out o’ the guests,” Pippin said, pulling a frozen pizza out of the freezer and motioning to Merry to turn on the oven.
“The party at Pirates of the Caribbean’s couldn’t have been good if you’re able to eat this early,” Frodo observed. “Usually you’re still too hung over.”
“No, no, it were brilliant, just didn’ get s’much drinkin’ done as usual,” Pippin said. “There were a fight, ye know.” He leaned close to Frodo’s chair, and Frodo leaned away, because Pippin still smelled like rum and pirates, which was rather an odiferous bouquet. “Apparently, Horatio Hornblower didn’t get an invitation, but they showed up anyway.” He grinned, and Frodo made a mental note to stop letting Pippin spend so much time around Jack Sparrow, as he was certain Pippin hadn’t had those gold teeth before Pirates moved in two streets over.
“Made a big fuss out o’ the whole thing,” Merry contributed from the oven, where he was slowly watching the pizza cook. “Pulled out swords an’ the whole bit. Aragorn made us leave then. Said he didn’t want us to get hurt, but we think he was jealous because Sam confiscated Anduril after the inc’dent at the blocik party.”
“Did you see – er – Will Turner?” Legolas asked forcedly, looking as though he had swallowed a lemon. The hobbits jumped; apparently, they hadn’t noticed he was there.
“Yeah,” Pippin said thoughtfully. “Wasn’t too pleased wit’ the fight, I think. Didn’ approve.”
“Even though he joined in after a while,” Merry added.
Legolas made a “harrumph” noise in his throat. He heartily disliked Will Turner and his “Dwarvish blacksmithing”, as he called it. Gimli had been quick to point out that Dwarves didn’t blacksmith, they mined, but Legolas’ opinion of Will hadn’t improved at all at this revelation. He thoroughly resented the fact that Pirates of the Carribbean had a house both on Historical Fiction Place and in St. Disney Park.
“Merry, we’re goin’ tae be late,” Pippin said suddenly.
“The pizza’s cooking.”
Merry and Pippin had, to the shock of the other members of the Fellowship (Gimli had actually had a heart attack), been the first to find new employment in Fandom. As soon as the Weasley twins had set up shop for “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes” downtown, they had found themselves with two eager employees who demanded sufficient discounts on all merchandise.
“Fred and George went in early today,” Frodo said, with the air of someone who had just remembered something that they don’t particularly care about but is incredibly important to someone else. “If you get in on time for once, they might give you some new Skiving Snackboxes for free. Yours are almost empty.”
“Are you tryin’ tae get rid o’ us?”
“No.”
Pippin eyed him suspiciously, then checked his watch again. “Merry!”
“Pizza, Pippin!”
“Merry, we need new Snackboxes!” Pippin grabbed his comrade and they dashed out the door. After a few minutes of noises usually related to the hotwiring of a car, Frodo and Legolas heard Aragorn’s Toyota pull out of the driveway.
Silence fell over the kitchen. Legolas chewed his toast morosely. Frodo shifted in his seat. They were saved from this horribly unnatural peacefulness when Sam trooped in through the backdoor, covered in mud.
“Good mornin’, Frodo, Legolas,” he said chivalrously, then sniffed the air. “Whose pizza – ”
“Merry and Pippin’s. You can have it.” Frodo gave Sam a suspicious glance. “Where have you been?”
“Out,” Sam said vaguely.
“Out where?”
“Just around the neighborhood.”
“Why?”
“It’s a nice day.”
Frodo could not deny this, as he looked out the screen door and onto the backyard, where sunlight was streaming down through the trees. He could see small shapes on broomsticks rising from next door’s backyard; Gollum was sniffing around the compost heap; Galahad from number 5, the Monty Python and the Holy Grail house, was attempting to sneak onto the Fellowship’s trampoline.
“Oy! You! Off there!” Sam shouted through the screen; apparently, he had followed Frodo’s gaze. Galahad turned, saw the small displeased hobbit at the door, and made a run for it.
“Legolas, are you doing anything today?” Frodo asked pointedly; the Elf had been taking up space in the kitchen for approximately half an hour, and Frodo wanted to get the day’s cooking done. Legolas jerked and swung his head around to look at Frodo.
“Only going round to help Hagrid get rid of some pixies that are – ”
“Taking over Shrek’s swamp, I know, Fiona told Buttercup and Buttercup told me about it over lunch yesterday.” Frodo beamed. Within his first few days of life in Fandom, he had quickly set up a thorough and complex communication network that ran throughout the city. Gimli had likened this to the Mafia on a number of occasions; he was now banned from Historical Fiction Place by direct order from Don Vito, who didn’t like people making unfavorable comparisons. “Why don’t you get over to number 7, then? I’m sure Hagrid won’t mind if you hang around for a few extra hours. As a matter of fact, Sam, why don’t you go with him?”
“No, I’ve got plans for today.” Inexplicably, Sam blushed bright red.
“Well, no time like the present,” Frodo said briskly, standing and putting Aragorn’s fallen Cold One in the bin. “If you’ve got plans, best to get them over with, I say.”
Sam seemed to take these words to heart, and immediately disappeared out the back door again. Frodo whisked Legolas’ toast plate away from him and put it in the sink. “If you happen to see Aragorn later, talk him into getting me a dishwasher,” he said over his shoulder. Digget, whose face had been happily buried in Cheez-Its and Elven-ized coffee for the past half hour, barked and ran out his doggie-door into the backyard.
Legolas looked disgruntled for a moment – an expression which life with the Fellowship had perfected for him – then rose to his feet. Frodo was standing on a footstool which that sweet Granger girl from next door had bewitched to carry him around the kitchen; she had been very sympathetic to the plight of the hobbits, who were too short to get around the kitchen the normal way, although she had learned very quickly not to call them cute.
“Aragorn’s taken my keys,” Legolas said suddenly, staring at the key rack.
“Take his.”
“I can’t, Merry and Pippin have stolen his car.”
“Take Gimli’s.”
“Urgh, he drives a Saturn.”
“Then walk, it’s only to next door and you’re an Elf, and anyway it’s not as though the houses here are far apart or something, you take three steps and you’re there.”
“All right, all right,” Legolas said crossly. He did not mind being cross when it was only Frodo or Aragorn around, as Frodo was likely not to tell anyone and Aragorn was likely to forget, but he had an image to maintain in front of the other members of the Fellowship, and that image was aloof and composed Whole Foods cult member, which did not bode well with crossness. He pulled on his Elven-cloak – pixies had been known to bite – and swept out of the kitchen like a true Prince of Mirkwood.
Frodo hummed softly to himself as he cleaned up the kitchen. When he happened to glance at the corner with the stove in it, however, his happiness came to an abrupt halt.
“ROACHES!”
Flying out of the kitchen, Frodo raced past the muffled mess of the rest of the house and dove into Legolas’ room, which was kept neurotically clean. The Elf even did hospital corners on his bed. He sat there, shaking, taking in the surgical cleanliness, until Boromir’s head popped around the doorframe.
“Frodo?” he said, in a rare moment of concern.
“Roaches,” Frodo managed.
“In the kitchen, I know, Legolas was complaining about them last night. D’you have a can of – ”
“Exterminator,” Frodo said reverently and yet darkly, in the same way that an Arnold Schwarzenegger fan might say “Terminator.” His eyes were glinting maniacally.
“It’s only a few roaches, we just need insecticide, I could call Legolas on his mobile and have him bring home some of Hagri– ”
Frodo shook his head. “Exterminator. Number’s on the speed dial. You call, I’m not going back in that kitchen until those monsters have been obliterated.”
Boromir turned away and trudged down the hallway, muttering random curses against hobbits, roaches, and speed dials as he did so. Upon reaching the kitchen, he examined the scrawling writing on the speed dial. Due to the fact that Legolas, who had been known to call the exterminator if he so much as saw a daddy longlegs, was one of his housemates, the exterminator was number two on the dial, second only to Pizza Hut.
The button was pressed. The phone was ringing. Boromir leaned against the stove, reconsidered, and moved as far from the stove and the corner that contained it as the phone cord allowed. He might not be a pansy, but he didn’t want a roach scuttling up his leg.
“You’ve reached the Mouse Hunt residence, number four Comediac Circle. We can’t come to the phone right now, possibly because we’re in some outrageous and hilarious situation, but please leave a message after the beep and we’ll get back to you as soon as we get ourselves out of this mess in a funny way.”
“This is Lord of the Rings -- number 9 on Fantasia – and we’ve got a major infestation of roaches.” Boromir considered the three innocent roaches sitting benignly in the corner, then continued. “Our house-hobbit is hysterical, if you could come round as soon as possible, we’d really appreciate it.” He hung up and backed slowly away from the stove corner, retreating into the safety of the television room, where he spent most of his time anyway.
Gandalf was asleep in the automatic massage chair in the corner, but as he was almost always asleep in said chair, Boromir ignored him. Long days of shared television room space had brought them to an understanding; Boromir would let Gandalf sleep, and would put closed caption on the television so that he could hear over the snoring. He would also forget to take closed caption off, thereby annoying the living beans out of the other members of the Fellowship, none of whom knew how to take closed caption off.
It was a Rocko’s Modern Life marathon, and Boromir relaxed into the state of oblivion well known to all professional television watchers.
The arrival of Aragorn three hours later went unnoticed by Boromir until Aragorn ceremoniously entered the television room, tripped over Boromir’s outstretched foot, and landed face down in a pile of unexplained and unclaimed laundry. He cursed into a pair of someone’s shorts.
“You’re drunk,” Boromir said, eyes never leaving the television. “Go back into the kitchen, I can’t hear the television when you talk, and you always want to talk when you’re drunk.”
“Frodo’s got one o’ hish – hish girlie mates over,” Aragorn said, sitting up and giggling drunkenly. As his head was blocking the television, Boromir craned his neck to look around him.
“Buttercup again? She was round here yesterday, doesn’t she have her own house?”
“No, thish one’s a teapot.”
Anywhere else, this statement – in this context – would have sounded rather out of place. In Fandom, however, it elicited only a shrug and a quick shove to the head that was blocking the television screen.
“Ouch!”
“I can’t see when your head’s there,” Boromir said patiently, stretching out his legs and using Aragorn’s shoulders as a footrest. Aragorn fell silent, mesmerized by the sight of a male kangaroo in cartoon form prancing about on the television screen.
It was to this cozy domestic scene that Legolas entered later, covered with small teeth marks and in a very bad mood. Aragorn noted this and made a tactical retreat, as Legolas always liked to bring up old arguments and things that had happened that morning whenever he was in a bad mood, and the stealing of the Lexus would probably be dredged up within a few minutes.
“I don’t want to watch this,” Legolas said flatly to Boromir, who was slightly disappointed from the disappearance of his footrest.
“I don’t care.”
“Change it.”
“To what, the Weather Channel?” Boromir meant this to be scathing, but unfortunately Legolas was an Elf and therefore both impervious to sarcasm and master of the art of sarcasm, so the bite was lost on him.
“The Englishman’s on channel seven, change it.”
“Why? We live two streets over from The Englishman, you can go round there and ask them to re-enact the whole movie whenever you want!”
His only answer was a sharp kick to the knee. Boromir eyed Legolas warily. Not only was he an Elf, and therefore good at combat, he was also in a very bad mood and probably not adverse to the idea of fighting dirty.
“Channel seven it is, then.”
“Take the captions off.”
“But Gandalf’s snoring – ”
“I don’t care, I’ve got Elvish hearing, haven’t I? Take the captions off!”
Boromir started to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell playing the overture from The Producers. Legolas had had Gimli rig the doorbell up specifically. There was a crash from the kitchen, and Sam flew through the television room to the front door, face red. Boromir muted the television and Gandalf’s snores stopped abruptly.
After a few minutes of whispered conversation in the foyer, the front door shut again and Sam hurried back through the television room, face still red. Boromir turned to Legolas.
“What was that?”
Legolas, however, had an insanely annoying smirk on his face and refused to tell Boromir anything that his miraculous pointed ears had heard. The gong sounded for supper, which made Merry and Pippin snicker, and they all converged in the Dining Room.
The Dining Room was not a frequent place of residence for the Fellowship. There were doilies everywhere, and floral wallpaper, and a tablecloth. The Fellowship stood against the wall, looking lost, aside from Frodo, who had a determined glint in his eye.
“Er – Frodo – ” Aragorn said after a bit of uncomfortable silence, “why, exactly, are we in the Dining Room?”
“Roaches,” Frodo said, shuddering. “Sit. Eat. We’re having salad.”
“Salad does not a supper make,” Boromir muttered, but he was quiet, as Frodo tended to get rather violent if his cooking (or, in this case, lack thereof) was insulted. They took their seats at the table, shifting uncomfortably in the chairs with crocheted covers, and took the salad that Frodo offered (well, thrust at) them.
Normally the dinner conversation would be full of people’s daily conquests – Gandalf would talk about going round to the Wizard of Oz house to hit on Glinda the Good Witch, Aragorn would regale them with tales of his drunken adventures at the Mellow Mushroom, Merry and Pippin would describe the various clientele that they had served at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes that day. However, such conversation seemed out of place amidst flower wallpaper and doilies, so an awkward silence fell around the table as the Fellowship chewed and digested, in that order.
It was then that the kitchen exploded.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Whoo, never thought I’d get that finished. This is mostly an introductory chapter, and therefore not very funny, so don’t form a definite opinion yet. And don’t worry, there will be many more cameos in the next chapter. Oh, and I’m taking requests for cameos starting…now!
Chapter 2 - In Fandom, We March On
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This chapter has actually been hiding in the depths of my hard drive for some time now, but I’ve been too busy with all of the Important Stuff going on right now that I haven’t posted. Triple danka to all those who reviewed! Tell your friends about me, you’ll receive a 10% discount on all Elven-ized foodstuffs! And to answer the reviewer who e-mailed me to ask what Digget was…he’s a dog with horns, obviously! A Jack Russell terrier with little pointy bits on top of his head!
DISCLAIMER-ADO: I’m not sure why I’m still using that disclaimer. Ah well…Fandom and all of its Fandom-ness belongs to me, as does Digget. All of the fandoms therein belong to whoever first came up with them.
IN FANDOM, WE MARCH ON
“Fr’t last time, it wasn’ oor fault!”
Aragorn had Merry and Pippin cornered in the cupboard under the stairs, each of them tied to one of the crocheted chairs from the Dining Room (all of the kitchen chairs had been blown to bits). A small lightbulb dangled between them. The scene would not have been out of place in one of the dozens of old mysteries that resided in the Mysterio Condominiums and Apartments, if it were not for the shelf of discarded board games behind Aragorn’s back. (There had been a time when the Fellowship had enjoyed board games, despite the fact that all of them had been beaten soundly by Gimli on several occasions, something that nobody could quite understand. That time had lasted until the day Star Wars came round to watch the Quidditch World Cup on the Fellowship’s television, as their cable had gone out, and they all ended up playing Scrabble after the Cup. Yoda and Gimli had been on a team together, and had ended up winning $379.84 and a T-shirt that said “Fleetwood Mac 1994” collectively from everyone else. Since then, everyone on Fantasia Lane had steered well clear of board games.)
“It was your pizza, wasn’t it?” Aragorn snarled, interrupting the authoress’ backstory tangent. “You left it in the oven to explode, didn’t you?”
“It weren’t oor fault the bloody thing exploded!” Merry snapped. He had been tied to this chair for forty five minutes, and wasn’t happy about it. “It should’ve just burnt the kitchen down!”
“And that’s so much better.”
“Look, y’cannae blame us for things blowin’ up instead o’ burnin’ down,” Pippin said in as condescending a voice as he could manage while secured to a crocheted chair with Hèrmes scarves (Gimli had won them from Queen Clarisse, over in St. Disney Park, in a ferocious game of Trivial Pursuit that had lasted for twenty-seven hours straight, with the necessary coffee breaks). “Tha’s just Fandom. Things like explodin’ here. It weren’t oor fault the kitchen exploded any more’n it were your fault the grill blew up at the barbecue last June.”
Aragorn leaned forward very suddenly and hastily, accidentally hitting his forehead on the lightbulb, and grabbed Pippin by the shoulders. “How many times have I told you,” he gritted out, “not to bring that up!”
“Even if we do say it was our fault,” Merry interrupted, “it won’ solve anythin’. T’kitchen’s gone.” He eyed the traces of ash and other explosion-related residue in Aragorn’s hair ironically.
“At least the roaches are dead,” Pippin said after a moment.
----------------------\r\n\r\n
Aragorn was Grilling.
He hadn’t been allowed to use his beloved Charbroil Big Easy since June, when it had blown up. Well, the grill itself hadn’t actually blown up, but the things on it had, and since then the Fellowship had roped off the corner of the back porch that contained the Charbroil Big Easy and even gone so far as to hide the George Foreman Grill that had once graced the kitchen with its presence. Incidentally, the safety of the George Foreman Grill had been his primary concern when the kitchen exploded, but Sam had assured him that it hadn’t been in the kitchen anyway, and so was perfectly unharmed.
Now that they had no kitchen, however, the Fellowship had put Aragorn on grill probation, which meant that if anything went wrong that was even indirectly grill-related, the grill would be taken over and donated to Hidalgo. Initially, Legolas and Frodo had both protested the idea of grill probation – Frodo because he felt that grilling was unhealthy, and Legolas because he felt that it was unnatural (however, when Boromir informed him that Whole Foods sold veggie burgers, he had been considerably less opposed to the idea). But the fact that there was now no kitchen in the Fellowship house (and nobody felt like driving up to EatZi’s to pick up any food) had led both of them to agree in the end, although Frodo had immediately called for a carpenter to come repair the kitchen.
And so now Aragorn was Grilling. His menu included seven hot dogs, four hamburgers, two chickens, one veggie burger, and a mishmash of vegetables (which Frodo had insisted was good, really). The rest of the Fellowship was sat around the picnic table that they had stolen from a city park a few years ago, playing a card game that involved the very loud yelling of “BS!” every so often.
It was a rather peaceful scene, and Aragorn was starting to enjoy it (aside from the mosquitos that seemed to have some strange fascination with his butt), when he heard a voice that he was certain none of the Fellowship had made.
“Oh, are you guys having a barbecue?”
The Fellowship turned as one to face Elle Woods, who was standing on the porch, looking expectant. Bruiser was at her side, looking up at Digget with an unmistakable air of superiority. Digget barked enthusiastically.
“Not exactly,” Aragorn replied carefully. “We – it’s – our kitchen exploded.”
Elle nodded sympathetically. “The same thing happened to one of my girlfriends back in August,” she said. “You might know her – Betty Anson, over on Historical Fiction? Anyway, do you mind if I join you? I haven’t got anything good to eat at home.”
“Och, have a seat, lassie,” Gimli said gruffly. Elle beamed and seated herself next to Boromir, who looked completely nonplussed. “I’ll have a veggie burger, by the way,” she said to Aragorn (Legolas gave her an approving look).
And so the peaceful evening continued, until there was a most unwelcome sound.
“We’re the Knights of the Round Table, we dance whene’er we’re able…”
“Not them,” Sam groaned. “They’ve got a bloody castle to live in, can’t they stay there?”
Legolas stood, his keen Elven-eyes piercing the gathering dusk. “Apparently not.” He squinted almost imperceptibly.
A head popped over the fence from nextdoor. “Are you grilling?” Arthur Weasley asked in fascination.
“Why don’t you come on over, Mr. Weasley?” Elle called cheerily. Mr. Weasley didn’t need to be asked twice – as a matter of fact, he probably didn’t need to be asked once – and immediately scrambled over the wall in an undignified manner that would have made both his wife and the Minister of Magic die of shame.
“Halt!” King Arthur called out loudly, and the four knights (and Patsy, who was sporting a black eye) behind him halted obediently. “Good sirs and sweet lady, may we dine with you this eve?”
“Only someone’s delivered a dozen boxes of coconuts to our house as a joke, and we can’t get ‘round the kitchen ‘cos there’s coconuts everywhere,” Galahad said, looking disgruntled.
“Come, sit,” Aragorn said, looking surly. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you just ask the whole neighborhood to join us?”
“Ah! A feast!” Arthur turned to Patsy, who procured a horn from nowhere and blew it loudly. Heads began popping out of windows all over the neighborhood and the neighborhoods on either side.
“Please, sir, some of us need to sleep!” Jack Aubrey – whose house was behind the Fellowship’s, on Historical Fiction Place – shouted.
“Oy, drinks all around!” Jack Sparrow shouted from nextdoor to Master and Commander, emerging from his own house and climbing, with annoying agility, over the fence at the back of the yard. “Salutations,” he said to Gollum, who hissed peevishly.
“Svine! Svine!” a distinctly German voice shouted, and a moment later Franz Liebkind – the movie version – strode onto the scene and marched up to Aragorn. “Zat is not how we cook ze wurst!” he bellowed, and Aragorn hastily surrendered the grill. Close ties to his grill be damned, he thought, Liebkind had been known to shoot at people.
“Hey, baby,” a voice said from behind Liebkind, and a hippie dressed as Adolf Hitler emerged. “Lorenzo St. Dubois at your service, but most call me LSD. I don’t think we’ve met before, baby. What can I call you? No, wait, don’t tell me,” he said, holding up a hand, as Aragorn opened his mouth. “Let me read your aura.” He closed his eyes and hummed for a moment, then opened them again. “Your name is Flower-brother.”
Merry and Pippin snickered. Legolas smirked at Aragorn, who tried to send the message “It’s better than Greenleaf” using mainly his eyebrows.
Arthur was eyeing the horn in alarm. “This bloody thing’s louder than we thought,” he said to Patsy, “if they heard it on Mel Brooks Marketplace.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Fetch the coconuts, Patsy, we’re leaving.”
“Leaving, my lord? We haven’t even got our food yet, my lord.”
“What do you suppose will happen if Young Frankenstein arrives?” Arthur shot back. “I don’t want you and Igor starting another rough-and-tumble. You’ve barely recovered from the last one.”
Patsy frowned but fetched the coconuts, muttering darkly under his breath as he did so. The Knights of the Round table cantered gallantly out of the backyard. Jack leaned across the stolen picnic table until his face was inches from Legolas’.
“Dear William sends a message.”
“Oh?” Legolas managed to look disgusted, disdainful, and long-suffering at the same time. All assembled marveled.
“Oh.” Jack grinned and made a rude hand gesture in Legolas’ face, then leaned back. “Or perhaps he didn’t send that message, but it’s certainly what he would’ve done if he’d been here, eh?”
Legolas turned pink and began cursing in various forms of Elvish. Frodo and Aragorn, the only two present who could understand him, stared in mingled amazement and horror.
“Legolas!” Frodo admonished when the Elf paused for breath.
“Ze wurst is done!” Liebkind roared suddenly, and there was a mad rush for the grill. Frodo watched sadly as his neat stack of paper plates, which he had placed carefully beside the grill, was completely ignored in favor of good old-fashioned hand eating.
There was a sudden shout and Boromir dashed into the backyard. The Fellowship and company, who hadn’t noticed he was gone, looked around in confusion.
“Fans approaching,” Boromir gasped. “They – oh, thank you,” he said, as Mr. Weasley handed him a hot dog. “They’re coming with one of the tours.”
The effect this sentence had on the rest of the company was astounding. The Cursed – Jack, Legolas, Aragorn, Frodo, and Pippin – paled. Mr. Weasley swore and Apparated back to his own home, presumably to protect his sons and Harry. Jack gave a weak, “So long, mates,” and vanished over the fence. The Fellowship raced for the house. Elle, Liebkind, and LSD looked puzzled.
“Fans, fans, what is zis fans?” Liebkind asked, but there was no answer, and the three departed after a few minutes of random and unnecessary silence.
Inside the Fellowship house, red alarms and sirens were going off. Frodo pressed a red button in the television room marked CODE F.A.N and all of the blinds in every room went down. Steel bars appeared over each window and door. Life-size blow-up dolls of the Fellowship appeared in the living room window. The real Fellowship dove into the hidden bomb shelter in the hall.
“We’re going to have to talk to Miracle Max about giving Fandom tours,” Sam muttered. The bomb shelter was rather small and very uncomfortable, and he was currently sitting on Legolas – he desperately hoped it was Legolas, at any rate, as Legolas was the only member of the Fellowship who had bathed anytime in the last seventy-two hours – with Pippin’s foot in his face.
“How did you see them, Boromir?” Aragorn asked somewhere to the left. “We thought you were with us.”
“I was going to ask my brother if he wanted to come round since everyone else was,” Boromir said. “I got lost, though, and ended up on Horror Street – ”
“How could you get lost?” Legolas asked from under Sam. “They live three houses down!”
“It was dark!”
“Not that dark, it’s only seven!”
“Well, anyway, I ended up on Horror Street, and I heard all these screams coming from the The Ring house, and I was thinking, hell, most of the people on this street are at least as frightening as Samara, she shouldn’t frighten them – and then I saw this bus, so I ran back to warn y—”
They were interrupted by the sound of hundreds of high-pitched, enraptured shrieks from the front door. Immediately, the Fellowship caught their collective breath and fell silent. After what felt like an hour, and most likely was, there was the sound of hundreds of high heels boarding a bus. The Fellowship exhaled.
“Thank the Valar that’s over,” Frodo murmured. Legolas whispered an Elven prayer. The Fellowship waited a few extra moments for safety, then extracted themselves from the bomb shelter. Gimli – who most fans found uninteresting – was sent to look out the living room window. After a moment, he gave the “all clear” signal. Legolas press the CODE F.A.N button again: the steel bars vanished from all the windows and doors, and the blow-up Fellowship deflated again.
“Go turn off the grill, Aragorn,” Frodo said briskly. “We don’t want another explosion.” Aragorn disappeared out the back door. Boromir vanished into the television room, where Gandalf was still asleep, and immediately fell into a three-hour Full House special. Merry and Pippin, after a few minutes of continuing to snigger over the name “Flower-brother”, followed. Sam hurried out the front door, muttering that he had to “make sure everything was all right.”
“I think everything’s fine, Sam,” Frodo called, but Sam was scurrying down the street and didn’t hear him, so he shrugged and went to play chess with Gimli.
An hour later, the Fellowship’s normal evening activities were interrupted by the doorbell, which played the overture from The Producers. They looked at each other uneasily. In Fandom, people generally didn’t use doorbells, unless they were being very polite, which was unlikely; they preferred to just walk into a house and surprise the jigging hell out of its occupants. Once again, Gimli was sent to investigate for lost (or perhaps just very sneaky) fans.
After a moment, he shouted “Och, it’s all right, ye kin come out!” into the living room. The Fellowship looked at each other again, aware that Gimli was not always the best judge of character; however, they gave a collective shrug and gathered in the foyer.
Upon their arrival, they were confronted by every single member of the Money Pit household.
Walter Fielding tipped his baseball cap cordially at the Fellowship.
“I hear you’re in need of a carpenter,” he said.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: For those of you who haven’t ever seen Money Pit, it’s the story of a couple who buys a gigantic dreamhouse that needs desperate renovation, so they hire carpenters. It’s a carpentry movie. It’s funny. It starts Tom Hanks and Shelley Long. Rent it.
Anyway, I realize this was a short chapter, but I’m desperately typing this before my parents whisk me off to someplace I really don’t want to go for a week. Read and review, and there’ll be more when I return!
Chapter 3 - More Fandom
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Well, I’m back…I have no clever or emotionally charged messages to put here, so suffice it to say that I’m home and am writing this in a flurry before our French exchange student arrives in two hours for a three-week visit, during which time I will have to be on my toes in the entertainment department, and therefore unable to spend much time on the computer. Sorry if this chapter is a bit short, but as a cop-out, I’m offering at least two, probably three chapters right when she leaves. Oh, and as regards to one of the cameos in this chapter – sorry if I don’t spell “Westley” the way you spell it, but in all of my online ramblings I have seen it spelled “Westly”, “Wesly”, “Wesley”, “Westley”, and “Weslie”, so I just chose the one that I liked best.
DISCLAIMER-ADO: Fandom and all its Fandom-ness belongs to me, as does Digget. All of the Fandoms therein belong to people who are much more creative than I am.
To Lady K4: How did you know what I was going to do with Paris? My God, are you psychic or something?
MORE FANDOM (Thanks to a LegolasRockz123 for inspiring the title)
“Baby, baby, whenever you’re near…”
Boromir, behind the wheel of Aragorn’s Toyota, gave a furtive glance about him to make sure that nobody he cared about impressing was anywhere near the car. The coast was clear; he turned the music up and began to hum along.
“I hear a symphony…a tender melody…”
The Toyota, with quite an unnecessary amount of fuss from the engine, turned onto Fantasia Lane. Boromir could see Aragorn and someone blond who wasn’t Legolas on the front porch of number 9, sipping at something brown in glasses. Hurriedly changing the radio over to a punk station, which was currently playing a punk-ified version of the Cheers theme, Boromir pulled up in the driveway, accidentally knocking over a few trash cans in the process.
A tender melody was most certainly not what was coming from inside the house – the mingled sounds of construction and Fleetwood Mac emanated from the open windows, two things that did not mix well. Boromir opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway, which was currently covered with an alarming amonut of sawdust.
“Please tell me you remembered to get Windex,” Aragorn called in greeting, “Frodo is in a foul mood.”
“He’s only in a foul mood because he can’t do any cooking,” Boromir responded, throwing open the trunk with a force that made Aragorn wince, “and who’s playing Fleetwood Mac?”
“Gimli.”
“Aragorn, forgive me if I’m right, but Gimli doesn’t know how to work a CD play- oh, hello.”
The last part was directed at the blond person who wasn’t Legolas who was, in fact, Westley from Princess Bride, across the street. Westley, who was taking a rather large sip from his glass at the time, raised a heralding hand. Aragorn stood, stretching, and came down the front path, presumably to help carry in groceries.
“You did remember to hit the dashboard every time you turned on your indicator?” Aragorn asked anxiously, examining his Toyota.
Boromir eyed the Toyota with distaste. “That car is useless, Aragorn, it’s even worse than Gimli’s Saturn.”
Aragorn stared at him, apparently horrorstruck. “Nothing is worse than Gimli’s Saturn.”
“All right, but still – ”
“This car has been with me forever!” Aragorn’s eyes took on the manic look that always indicated a tirade. “We’ve been through thick and thin – we moved to Fandom in this car, I’ll have you remember! We moved everything in it, even all the boxes of Gandalf’s old Chucky collectibles!” He sounded slightly tearful. “Don’t you remember any of that, Boromir? Don’t you remember, or did you just want to forget? I love this car!”
“You steal Legolas’ Lexus every chance you get.”
“Well, I can’t meet Ghostbusters without a nice car, can I, they all drive Deloreans,” Aragorn said reasonably. “Except when we’re in the van, of course, then they drive the van.”
Boromir stared at him, then wisely hefted a bag of groceries in one hand and went into the house.
He came across Frodo first, scrubbing madly at a burn mark on the wall with a portable CD player on. Seeing Boromir, Frodo ripped off his headphones and glared at Boromir.
“Who lived here before us?!” he snarled. Boromir took a step backwards. Frodo was generally a very mild-mannered hobbit; to see him snarling was frightening, to say the least.
“Reign of Fire,” said a voice to the left. They turned to see Westley lounging against the wall. “That was before the Reclassification, of course, when they moved to Action-Adventure Avenue.” He grimaced in an irritatingly dashing manner. “I have faced pirates, giants, ROUS’s, death, miracles, and pompous pigs, but I have never seen anything like those dragons.”
Neither Boromir nor Frodo could think of anything to say to this, so Frodo put his headphones back on and Boromir simply said “Ah” in an interested way and continued in the direction he had been going. He liked Westley well enough, and enjoyed their frequent swordfighting discussions and anecdotes, but there were occasions when Westley completely and utterly bewildered him. He supposed this air of slight madness came from living in Fandom since the eighties, and particularly on Fantasia Lane, where there was always something not-quite-right hanging about, but it was still unnerving.
Entering the construction area, Boromir nodded to Walter Fielding, barely resisting the temptation of remarking that it looked as though the construction crew was doing more harm than good, as he was certain those holes in the wall hadn’t been there before. Walter, who looked more as though he were just watching people work rather than working himself, tipped his hat good-naturedly.
“Did you know there was a whole nest of cockroaches in here?” he shouted over the roar of a power drill. “They’re all dead now, fortunately, or you’d have to pay for worker’s comp as well.” He grinned.
Boromir shouted something incoherent about pansies in response, and continued out to the porch, which was currently serving as their kitchen. Legolas and Gimli were settled on two of the porch chairs, Legolas playing Tetris (the only video game he didn’t object to) on a Gameboy and Gimli nodding his head enthusiastically to Fleetwood Mac. Boromir deposited the groceries in the large china cupboard that Aragorn had found on eBay, which was currently serving as their pantry. A moment later, Aragorn himself bustled in with the other bag of groceries.
“There’s someone at the door for you,” he said to Legolas.
“Who?”
“I haven’t ever seen him before. Looks like you, only with dark hair,” Aragorn added helpfully.
Legolas sat bolt upright. “What?” he hissed, his teeth clenched.
“No, Legolas, it’s not Will, I’d have recognized him, wouldn’t I?”
“What do you mean, you’d recognize him?” Legolas said accusingly. “You don’t spend that much time around him, do you?”
At that moment, Sam came through the door, whistling “Big Rock Candy Mountain”. Legolas shot Aragorn, who looked like a deer in headlights, a purely venemous glance, threw down his Gameboy, and exited stage left.
In the hall, Westley was watching Frodo scrub at the burn mark with a look of gentlemanly amusement on his face. “You’ll never get those marks off, my friend,” he told Frodo, but Frodo had his headphones on again and, fortunately, didn’t hear. Frodo took his housekeeping very seriously, and the suggestion that he couldn’t get a mark off was a suggestion that was not to be made. Legolas and Westley bowed cordially to one another, and Legolas glided into the foyer, every inch the composed Elven prince that he had not been a moment before.
“Paris!”
“Good afternoon, Legolas,” the Greek prince said with regal warmth. “I find you well, of course?”
“Very well, and yourself?” The two princes gave each other their best imperial smiles, which were oddly similar, although each was trying hard to outdo the other. The tension between Legolas and Paris was nowhere near the frightening animosity between Legolas and Will Turner; however, there was a certain princely rivalry between the former pair, which never evolved past a gracious competition.
“I am very well indeed.” Paris smiled.
---------------------\r\n\r\n
“Bloody hell!”
Bludgers flying through the windows were one thing, and could be stopped with a quick wave of the wand, but sharp Greek arrows were quite another thing, a point which was being made very clear as one of said arrows embedded itself in the tree behind Aragorn.
“Off the archery range!” Gimli shouted gruffly. Aragorn lifted his sunglasses peevishly and kicked Gollum away from his lemonade and whiskey as he stood. Westley, who had grown bored of watching Frodo clean and consequently been recruited as arrow retriever and part time cheerleader, strode towards him.
“They’ve got quite good aim, haven’t they?” he said pleasantly to Aragorn, pulling the arrow out of the tree with some effort. “Although personally, I believe your Elven friend is a bit more accurate. He has had three thousand years to practice, after all.”
Aragorn grunted, dragging his lawn chair away from the “archery range” while trying to keep his lemonade and whiskey from spilling. Westley flung the arrow back in the general direction of the archers and followed.
“I didn’t come round just to get in everyone’s way, you know,” he said confidentially.
“You’ve been doing a bloody good job of it all afternoon,” Aragorn snapped.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Westley continued, as though Aragorn hadn’t spoken. He ducked as another arrow, this one Elven, whizzed over his head.
“Does it involve an invisible man sleeping in your bed?” Aragorn asked, unable to resist.
“Fortunately, no. It’s a tad more mundane than that, although I don’t believe any part of Fandom life can truly be called ‘mundane’, as I’m certain you’ll agree.”
“All right,” Aragorn said, a bit uneasily. He had learned the difficult way that, whenever anyone pointed out the inherent strangeness of Fandom, it meant that they were going to involve him in what was probably a very bad idea.
---------------------\r\n\r\n
Night stole over Fantasia Lane like some sort of big dark thing. Bats flapped about blindly; owls hooted; there was the occasional small explosion from a few of the houses.
The Fellowship were seated in the television room, watching What Not to Wear, much to the concern of the more butch among them (Aragorn and Boromir, namely, with a hint of Gimli on the side, and the suggestion of Merry and Pippin). Legolas wore a look of supreme smugness on his face, which wasn’t much different from his usual expression, although the smirk was a bit wider and more visible. Aragorn was seated on the far opposite end of the room from Legolas, shooting the Elf nervous glances every so often that everyone else in the room completely failed to ignore. Merry and Pippin were home from work, and snickering madly over whatever malevolent item of torture they had received on discount that day. Digget was asleep in his dog bed. All in all, the scene was unusually quiet.
One by one, the members of the Fellowship got up and went to bed, until it was only Aragorn and Legolas left (unless, of course, one counted Gandalf, but no one ever really bothered to do so, so it was rather a moot point). Eventually, Legolas turned off the television and stood.
“I suppose I’ll be going to bed, then,” he said, turning towards the door. Aragorn stood abruptly.
“Er…Legolas.”
“Yes?” Legolas turned back to face Aragorn again. The Man looked frightened, which didn’t make any sense, as Legolas currently wasn’t armed and was in a good mood.
“You’re my best friend, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
Aragorn considered. It wasn’t exactly the immediate and unquestionable “yes” he’d been hoping for, but then again, he was dealing with an Elf.
“So…you couldn’t, er, you couldn’t hate me, could you?”
“I’m certain I could,” Legolas said matter-of-factly. “But at the moment, I do not.” His eyes took on a hardened glint, and he crossed his arms warningly. “Why, pray tell, are you asking?”
“I’ve…I’ve agreed to something.” Aragorn raised his head defiantly. “I’ve agreed to do something with Westley.”
“What you do with Westley is none of my business.”
“No, no, it’s – it’s a swordfighting thing. A club, sort of.”
“All right.”
“And…we’ve made a list of prospective members. We’re just going to have them all round here tomorrow, to ask them to join and such.”
“All right.”
“And…er…” Aragorn crossed the room in three strides and gripped Legolas by the upper arms to prevent any personal damage to himself. “You have to promise you won’t kill me.”
“I can’t promise until you tell me what you’re trying to tell me.”
Aragorn leaned very close to Legolas’ pointed ear and whispered something. The yell that followed shook not only the Fellowship’s house, but the houses on either side and across the street as well.
“YOU WHAT?!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: All right! Again, sorry if it’s a bit short, but I promise I’ll have more when three weeks have gone by. Erggh…three weeks…I’m terribly terribly sorry, all my friends (and my loyal cactus)!
Chapter 4 - The Fandom Swordfighting Association of Fandom
VERY LONG AND BORING AUTHOR’S
NOTE: Whew, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I’ve missed the good old “The page cannot be
displayed” message whenever I try to go somewhere. Once again, I don’t have anything really
important to say here, except to some long and boring replies to two messages
that I’ve received, correcting me.
To Kelsey, who writes: “I
would like to point out that although the movie of the Princess Bride came out
in the 80's, the book came out much much before that.
Originally, the book was written by S. Morgenstern a long, long, long time ago.
I can't find the original publication date, and the original book is hardly in
print. Goldman made it seem in his introduction like it was written in early
European times, but I'm not sure. In the 70's or 80's William Goldman abridged
the book. (Yes, it is spelled Westley)The book is 10
times better than the movie. It explains everything you didn't quite understand
from the movie. (Fezzik's rhyming, Domingo Montoya's
murder, how Fezzik found Inigo,
how Buttercup met Humperdink, etc.)”
Actually,
I did know this – I own the book, ‘smatter of fact, and would like to mention
that it was not, in fact, written by S. Morgenstern, as he doesn’t exist (go
here
for the full story) – but this deals with a bit of information about Fandom,
which I have not mentioned before due to the sad fact that I am making it up as
I go along. It refers to the Reclassification
that Westley mentioned earlier, although not the
famous Reclassification, when so much of Fandom was Reclassified. You see, Fandom is divided into three
boroughs, a bit like New York only larger and less important. There’s a Books borough, a Television
borough, and – of course – a Movies borough.
Each of these boroughs is divided up further into categories, as you’ve
already seen – fantasy lives with fantasy, near science fiction, to avoid
traumatizing comedy, etc. Whenever a book (such as The
Princess Bride) or a television show (such
as Lizzie Maguire)
is made into a movie (i.e., The Princess
Bride or The
Lizzie Maguire Movie…no, I haven’t seen it,
and don’t intend to), the book/television show-made-movie is moved into
the Movies Borough, and given a house in the correct neighborhood. Therefore, Westley
has lived on Fantasia Lane for around twenty years, while the Fellowship only
moved into number 9 three years ago, although they’ve actually been living in
Fandom (in the Books Borough) longer than Westley. You see?
Makes sense, doesn’t it? (This is
not counting the Ralph Bakshi Fellowship, who have a modest little hobbit-hole on Cartoon Court.)
And while my mind
is at it, referring to the comment made about Legolas’
jealousy that Pirates of the Carribbean has a house
“both on Historical Fiction Place and in St. Disney Park” – some characters
have homes in more than one area (although nobody has a home in two separate
boroughs – once you’ve moved, you’ve moved).
For example, Shrek is classified as both comedy and fantasy, and so has
a home both on Comediac Circle and Fantasia Lane.
Now
to answer Laitoste_of_Rivendell, who said “Cute...although
Paris was Trojan, not Greek.” Oh
gosh! I know that story, really I do,
but my brain tends to go on vacations to Monte Carlo and leave me wallowing in
its dust, so that must have been part of what I forgot. Tell you what…eventually I’ll come out with a
digitally remastered Fandom, in which I correct all
the mistakes and also re-word all the parts I don’t like (which is quite a
bit), and I’ll correct the error in there!
I have nothing else to say, I’m afraid, except that
the three new chapters plan is going to have to wait, as I just found out that
I’m going on vacay to the Bahamas for two days,
leaving on Friday, and then going to visit my ancient elderly aunt and uncle in
Michigan (oh, how exciting) right after I come back. However, as the rest of my summer is as
lifeless as a dead thing, I’ll post like crazy until the end of August, and
which point the craziness will most likely subside.
And that is all I have to say. Thank you and goodnight!
DISCLAIMER-ADO:
Fandom and all its Fandom-ness belongs to me, as does Digget.
All of the Fandoms therein belong to people who are
much more creative than I am.
THE
FANDOM SWORD-FIGHTING ASSOCIATION OF FANDOM
Gimli had gone to bed
quite early, as watching Clinton and Stacy dissect all the various reasons
tartan slacks were only worn by old men had reminded him that he did,
embarrassingly, own a pair of tartan slacks, back in the back of his closet,
and he was certain his beard couldn’t hide his blush for long.
He hadn’t
gone to sleep, though, and had merely lain awake watching old reruns of Gilligan’s Island
on Nick-at-Nite (muted, so that Boromir
nextdoor wouldn’t wake and come in to mock him for
watching old person shows) and wondering idly how Gilligan and the crew were
doing. He hadn’t been round to visit
them in awhile, not since Ginger had begun asking him how Aragorn was doing
whenever there was a lull in the conversation.
A sudden
earthquake, however, had knocked his television off his dresser and he had dove
under the bed for protection. This
proved to be a bad idea, as his room directly above the television room, which
was apparently where the earthquake was emanating from.
The
shouting had stopped surprisingly quickly, which Gimli
assumed meant either Legolas had gone into shock or
Aragorn had been knocked unconscious, and he had crept out from under the bed,
wincing as he realized he’d banged his shin when he dove. Limping to the door, Gimli
had looked out; it looked as though Aragorn had been knocked unconscious, as
there was a distinctly Elvish
body carrying a distinctly Human body up the stairs with something less than
tender loving care. Gimli
had watched them pass, heard the sound of a Human being dumped roughly on the
floor, and shrunk back into the shadows as Legolas
stalked past.
The idea
of going back to bed didn’t really appear to Gimli at
that moment, and he made certain that Legolas’ door
was slammed and bolted shut (their first day of living there, Legolas had come to him with a request to make several
strong locks for his door) before stealing down the stairs with surprising
stealth and slipping into the kitchen.
It was
only after Gimli stubbed his toe on several
two-by-fours that he remembered their kitchen was currently under construction;
moodily, he took a seat on a painter’s stool and rested his chin in his hands.
The sound
of the screen door sliding open startled him from his train of thoughtlessness,
and he looked up as a short dark figure attempted to slip, à
la James Bond, through the gap between door and wall before getting stuck and
swearing creatively.
“Och, do ye need help?”
If it had
been able to, the short dark figure would have jumped out of its short dark
skin. As it was, however, the door-wall
situation was preventing any type of movement, and the short dark figure
settled for a deer-in-headlights stare.
“Gimli?”
Gimli had never been good at telling the hobbits apart,
aside from Frodo of course, and he settled for the most generic response he
could. “Master Hobbit?”
“Help
me,” Master Hobbit said, sounding slightly tearful, “the bloody thing’s got
stuck, I don’t know how to fix it, I don’t know what to do.”
Gimli began feeling uncomfortable. Dwarves, as a rule, didn’t cry; therefore, he
had no idea what one was supposed to do when someone was crying, and liked to
avoid the situation as much as possible.
“There, there,” he said ineffectively.
“Help me!” Master
Hobbit said again. Gimli
scuttled Dwarvishly over to the screen door and,
after several grunting pushes, managed to free Master Hobbit, who tumbled into
a beam of moonlight streaming through the window above what used to be the
sink.
The
moonlight revealed that Master Hobbit was, in fact, Sam, and Gimli sighed with relief.
Out of all the hobbits, he probably got along best with Sam, both of
them being hardy and down-to-earth and such.
“About at this hour?” he rumbled.
This,
however, proved to be a bad topic, as Sam’s face immediately took on a slightly
mournful, crumpled look. “Yes,” he said
in a small voice, sounding again as though he might cry. Gimli backed
away. He had never seen Sam cry before
(although Frodo insisted that it had happened) and had no desire to. “Och,” he said, in
what was meant to be a comforting way. “S-somethin’ wrong, Master Samwise?”
“No,”
said Sam, and his eyes shone with tears.
Gimli backed away further.
“All
right, then,” he said uncomfortably, and began to make a dash for the
stairs. However, Sam suddenly grabbed
his arm.
“If I
tell you what’s wrong, you won’t tell anyone, will you?” Sam asked
urgently. Gimli
nodded, the icy hand of fear closing over his heart. Worse than
Wargs, he thought,
allowing Sam to pull him into the now-dark television room. They settled on the sofa, carefully avoiding Boromir’s butt-print.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Och,” Gimli said again, casting
about for something else to say.
“All
right, I’ll tell you,” Sam said, as though Gimli had
threatened him. “You can’t tell anyone,
especially not Merry and Pip, they’ll never let me live it down, never.” He took a deep breath, as though steeling
himself.
“There’s something to live down?” Gimli grunted. Sam
stared, never before having met someone who could finish a grunt with a
question mark, then shook his head to clear it.
“You know
how Gandalf goes over to Wizard of Oz when he thinks we’re busy?” Sam began finally. Gimli grunted his
affirmative. “He’s not the only one who
goes over there. I’m just more sneaky about it.”
“You love Glinda?” Gimli asked, a note of grumbly skepticism in his voice, then
reconsidered. It wasn’t so far-fetched,
really, not when one considered that he himself had fallen in love with
Galadriel.
“Not Glinda!” Sam sounded
offended. “Someone much more
beautiful…” He gazed off into space for
a moment, a dreamy look in his eyes, then shook his
head again. “Someone
else.”
“Dorothy?”
Gimli tried.
“Elbereth, no. She’s
– er – a Munchkin.”
Sam blushed.
“Dorothy’s
a – ” Gimli
stared. You’d think Gandalf would have mentioned that, he thought.
“No, not
Dorothy, HER! The one and
only her in the world!” Sam had
by this point leapt off the couch and was pacing the floor.
“No need
to get defensive.”
Sam
stopped pacing and glared at him. “Her
name is Della,” he said sharply, in case Gimli had
any doubts that it wasn’t.
“Della.”
“She’s
the mayor’s daughter,” Sam said miserably.
“I’ve been going over to see her, only haven’t ever told anyone until
tonight, but now she’s got to marry someone else.”
“Och.”
“I can’t
be mayor of the Munchkins, you see.”
“Och.” Privately, Gimli wondered why the Munchkins needed a mayor at all, as
currently their only territory was a house in Fandom, but he thought it better
not to voice this thought aloud.
Sam threw
his hands up in despair and flopped down onto the floor, which may not have
been a wise idea, as the floor was hardwood and covered in sawdust from the
kitchen. “Ouch,” he said despondently.
Gimli’s Dwarf senses began tingling, a sure sign that Sam
was going to turn tearful again, and he slid off the couch, crouching down next
to the hobbit.
“I don’t
know what to tell ye, Master Samwise,” he said
gruffly.
“That’s
all right, it helped to talk about it.”
The scene
was getting dangerously warm and fuzzy. Gimli, who had nothing else to say, crouched there for a
moment before shrugging, standing, and making his way back upstairs to his
bedroom. Sam remained where he was, on
the floor, arms flung out to either side of him in a severely glum position.
~~~~~~~~~~~\r\n\r\n
“AARGH!”
Frodo
reeled backwards, clutching at his heart, and fell against the wall. Sam opened his eyes and turned his head to
look at him.
“Good
morning, Mister Frodo,” he croaked.
“Sam, you
nearly gave me a heart attack!” Frodo
had come downstairs, perfectly cheerful, and entered the television room, only
to find a body lying on the floor. “Warn
me next time you’re going to sleep downstairs!”
“I didn’t
plan on it,” Sam said, wincing, as he sat up.
“You’ve got a crick in your back, haven’t
you,” Frodo said swiftly. “I knew it,
it’s from sleeping on the floor, you could have at least gotten a sleeping bag,
you know.” He watched Sam stand
gingerly. “Let me go find you a hot pack
for that.”
And he
went bustling off.
Sam stood
in the middle of the television room, his body aching, unsure if Frodo was
upset with him or simply startled to find him there. He hoped it was the latter, as the stubborn
burn marks on the walls in the hallway had put the househobbit
in a Foul Mood as of late, and everyone had been tiptoeing cautiously around
him.
There was
silence on the stairway, then Legolas entered the
room. “You’re covered in sawdust,” he
said.
“Don’t
you ever say good morning?”
Legolas eyed him in annoyance. “What’s good about it?” he said grumpily.
“It’s…” Sam considered. What, indeed, was good about the
morning? “The morning’s good about the
morning,” he said firmly, his hobbit optimism lending him determination despite
his predicament. Legolas
snorted and went to fetch the paper.
“Here,”
Frodo said, coming back into the room with a hot pack in his hands. “Lay on your stomach on the couch and put
this on your back, it’ll help.”
“Breakfast…?”
“You can
fetch your own, I’m too busy to cook.”
Frodo whipped a damp rag out of nowhere and proceeded to the front
hallway with an expression of utter resilience on his face. At the doorway, he turned back. “When Legolas comes
in with the paper, tell him I want the Welcome Wagon,” he said as a parting
shot.
Sam lay
delicately on the couch, shoulder aching as he turned to put the hot pack on
his back. The effect was ruined completely,
however, when Gimli came in and whacked him hard on
the back in what was meant to be a supportive, companionable manner.
“Good
morning, Master Samwise.” He leaned closer, glancing around
furtively. “How’s what we talked about
last night?”
“Not much
has happened in the last six hours,” Sam choked out, tears of pain stinging his
eyes.
Gimli nodded sympathetically, his resolve much stronger now
that it was daylight and birds were singing.
“Och, sometimes these things take time, Master
Samwise,” he said encouragingly, and went back out
the way he had come.
There was
blessed, if unusual, silence for a few minutes.
Sam relaxed into the hot pack, and only looked up when Legolas came back in with the paper.
“Frodo
wants the Welcome Wagon,” he said.
Legolas opened his mouth to argue, then remembered Frodo’s
Foul Mood and extracted the Welcome Wagon delicately from the back of the
paper, starting for the front hallway.
“Frodo
also said to let me have the paper before you read it,” Sam said
hopefully. Legolas
shot him a dirty look, but dropped the paper on the coffee table and went out
again. Sam would have grinned, but
remembered his heartache and instead simply reached for the paper. However, the pain searing his body prevented
any sort of hand-paper contact, and he was reduced to reaching fruitlessly,
whimpering in pain from time to time.
Aragorn,
rubbing a sizable bruise on the back of his head, came in as this was going on,
gave Sam a strange look, and took the paper off the coffee table, settling into
one of the chairs. “Is Legolas up yet?” he asked.
“Who d’you think fetched the paper?” Sam snapped, eyeing said
paper darkly as it rustled in Aragorn’s hands.
Aragorn’s face appeared around the edge of the sports section.
“So he is
up, then?”
Sam
opened his mouth to shoot some nasty sarcastic reply at Aragorn, but remembered
that he was not an Elf and therefore sarcasm probably wouldn’t work. Besides, the open worry on Aragorn’s face was
frankly distracting. “Yes, he’s up.”
“Has he…said anything?”
“I’m
covered in sawdust.”
“Yes, I see – ”
“That’s
what he said.”
Aragorn
visibly relaxed. “Is that all?”
“Yes…oh,
and he asked what was good about the morning, but that was just him
being…” Sam stopped in the middle of his
sentence as Aragorn let out a wail.
“Himself,” he finished.
“He is still
angry!” Aragorn leapt to his feet and
began pacing, much in the same way that Sam himself had paced a few hours
ago. “I should never have listened to Westley. I should
have said ‘no’, right off the block. I
should have…but it’s swordfighting, Sam!” He
turned to the hobbit beseechingly. “Swordfighting! How could I resist?”
“Er,” said Sam.
Aragorn
suddenly leaned his face very close to Sam’s, breathing hard through his
nostrils, his eyes wild. “Where’s he
gone?” he hissed.
“Out,”
Sam said vaguely. Aragorn leapt up and
dashed for Out, which was apparently in the direction of the backyard. He nearly knocked Boromir,
who was coming In, to the floor.
“Where’s
he gone?” Boromir said in a way that indicated he was
not really interested. He settled
himself into his butt-print and turned on the television to I Love the 90’s. Magically, the hours began to fly by.
~~~~~~~~~~~\r\n\r\n
The sound
of the doorbell ringing brought a look of utter hatred to Legolas’
face, a look which should not be seen on a face that is fairer than the measure
of Men. Aragorn, who had been fixing
grilled hors d’oeuvres and simultaneously begging Legolas,
who was seated next to the grill ignoring him, not to do anything “cruel or
embarrassing”, dropped the grilling fork and raced for the front door.
“High-strung
today, isn’t he?” Boromir said, still staring at the
television, as Aragorn raced through the television room.
“Uh,” Sam
replied, also still staring at the television.
They were
momentarily distracted as Aragorn brought someone who was not part of the
Fellowship into the room, but lost interest again upon realizing it was only Westley.
And so
time ticked on. After about half an
hour, Boromir felt someone poke him, hard, in the
chest. He looked up into the face of his
brother, and behind him about thirty other people who definitely weren’t
Fellowship members.
“Er,” he said. “What
are you all doing here?”
“Swordfighting thing,” a gruff voice informed him over Faramir’s shoulder.
“Eh?” Boromir said in mild irritation. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
As with
any multi-household gathering in Fandom, this one had the look of something
distinctly stranges.
Faramir, Èomer, and Èowyn were immediately visible, as were some rangers of the
North, but only because Boromir had met them
before. Jack Sparrow was sitting on the
couch next to him (Sam had apparently made a tactical retreat when Zorro
arrived), drinking out of a hip flask and talking to a small orange cat that
sat purring on his lap. Westley was lounging on Gandalf’s chair – which was
conspicuously empty, now that Boromir looked at it –
talking to two Robin Hoods, one of whom was studiously attempting to annoy the
other by saying very loud British things very often. Inigo Montoya was
standing with three other Spaniards, talking very fast in Spanish. Various sailors were milling about, small
scuffles breaking out between them and the pirates. Several warriors, many of them cartoons, were
wandering about, taking grilled hors d’oeuvres off of plates; they were being
followed about by several interesting-looking knights. Merry, Pippin, Gimli,
and Legolas were standing near the door; Merry and
Pippin had proudly drawn their own swords and were showing them to a tall,
thin, dark-haired Spaniard with a purple ribbon in his hair – apparently swordfighting was very popular among the Spanish – while Gimli stood beside them, looking as lost as if someone had
just burst into tears (or perhaps flames) before his eyes. Legolas stood at Gimli’s shoulder, glaring very hard at something that sat
next to Jack; leaning forward a bit, Boromir could
see Will Turner, who was glaring very hard back.
“Long
time no call, brother,” Faramir said, pushing Boromir into Jack so that he could sit on the edge of the
couch.
“I’ve
been busy,” Boromir said defensively.
Faramir glanced pointedly at the television, which could
barely be seen through the throng of legs.
Boromir tried again.
“I wanted
to give you time alone with your wife.”
Faramir snorted. “No
chance of that, we don’t live alone, you know.
We’re not even alone when we’re in our bedroom – ” Boromir shifted
uncomfortably – “Èomer pops in every five minutes to
say hello.”
“Ah.” Boromir, despite
having shared many things with his brother, deemed it wiser not to mention the
mental images that were running riot through his head at these words. He seized instead on the new topic. “How has Èomer
been, anyway?”
“Ask him yourself,” Faramir
said grumpily, “he’s right there.”
Boromir glanced at Èomer, who
was, indeed, right there. “He looks
well.”
“He looks
good,
not well,”
Faramir corrected.
The old
argument broke the ice (which was, admittedly, not very thick) and the two fell
easily into their old routine of brotherhood, i.e., poking and pushing at each
other, both attempting to get a rise out of the other.
Aragorn
stood nervously next to Legolas, watching the Elf’s
face. He was beginning to suspect that
the Elf secretly liked having someone to hate, as there was no earthly reason
he would be standing here if he didn’t, not being a fan of swordfighting. “Why don’t you go visit Link?” he asked, trying
to keep the tremor out of his voice.
“Someone has used
up all the gas in my Lexus,” Legolas said coldly,
“and stop trying to get me out the way.
I wouldn’t miss this entertaining idiocy for the world.”
“You can
take my Land Rover,” Aragorn offered.
The look of horrified disgust that Legolas
turned on him almost matched the look of pure hatred that he saved exclusively
for Will Turner, and Aragorn quickly got out of the way, in case the Elf was
armed.
“Friends!”
he shouted, leaping on top of the coffee table and praying it wouldn’t
break. “You are gathered here today for
an educated and intellectual discussion on tactics and…er…tactics
of swordfighting.
We – what?” he asked in irritation, as the Spaniard with the purple
ribbon put up his hand.
“Do you
really need Miguel and I here, then?” the Spaniard called. “We’re good at swordfighting,
but we’re more conmen than warriors – ”
“A noble
profession!” one of the pirates shouted.
“You’re
good at swordfighting,” Aragorn said, miffed. “That’s all we need to know.”
“All
right,” the Spaniard said, and proceeded to relieve a passing sailor of his
purse.
“Friends,”
Aragorn began again, “We are here for an educated and intellectual discussion
on swordfighting tactics. Westley and I have
gathered together all those we know of with a certain knowledge or expertise of
the sport – which, indeed, can save lives.
We propose to form an organization, which shall not only protect Fandom
from…things that threaten it, but shall provide a circle of friends. We are, if you so choose, the Fandom Swordfighting Assocation of
Fandom!”
A roar of
cheering split the air. Someone
overturned a plate of grilled hors d’oeuvres.
Legolas and Gimli
vanished out the door. The sailor whose
purse had been stolen noticed, and drew a sword, which caused even more cheers
and drawing of swords. Standing on the
coffee table, surveying the ensuing mayhem like a king surveys his kingdom,
Aragorn smiled for the first time that day.
The Fandom Swordfighting Association of Fandom
had begun on a high note.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Whew, nearly eight
pages – the longest chapter yet! Anyway,
as I mentioned earlier, I won’t be able to write for sometime due to being far
away from home, but I promise to work as hard as I can when I return. Thank you so much for your patience, and I’m
sorry it’s only one chapter!
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