Live Journal FeedNOTE: 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, ŕ
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“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.
~~~~~~~~~~~
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, Čomer, and Čowyn 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 – “Čomer 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 Čomer
been, anyway?”
“Ask him yourself,” Faramir
said grumpily, “he’s right there.”
Boromir glanced at Čomer, 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!
