By San Antonio Rose
Somewhere in the dimension where all fanfiction becomes reality, nine figures entered a moonlit glade. In the middle of the clearing stood a short pillar, on which rested a black object that none of them had ever seen before.
"Wondrous strange," breathed Boromir son of Denethor.
"Wha’ is i’?" frowned Peregrin Took.
"An’ wot’s it doin’ ’ere?" added Meriadoc Brandybuck.
"I sense no evil in it," reported Legolas Greenleaf.
Gandalf the Grey looked it over and concurred.
"P’r’aps it’s somethin’ we need for the Quest," ventured Samwise Gamgee.
"Something to eliminate these infernal hinderances we always seem to encounter, I hope," groaned Frodo Baggins. Gimli son of Glóin grumbled his agreement.
Finally Aragorn son of Arathorn strode forward and took hold of the box. His skilled fingers quickly found the method of opening it; when he did so, he found a single sheet of paper. On it was written:
This is called a laptop computer. Press the square button on the right-hand side; instructions will appear on the screen. May the blessings of the Valar be upon you.
Aragorn shrugged and pressed the button. Everyone started in surprise when light streamed from the upper half of the box and music played briefly. In short order a document appeared explaining why such random events were occurring and why their feelings, despite their better judgment, were constantly being played with in sometimes unnatural ways. It also detailed the way in which the computer could be used to help them out of their predicament: They could write themselves out of sticky situations, and they could also write reciprocal fics that affected the lives of their authors (except, of course, for J. R. R. Tolkien).
When Aragorn finished reading this aloud, the nine members of the Fellowship of the Ring looked at each other and smiled slowly. One thought possessed them all: revenge.
"Shall we?" asked Gandalf simply.
Let justice roll down like the waters,
Righteousness like an everlasting stream.
A/N: The canon characters belong to the Tolkien estate. The PPC belong to Jay and Acacia (and I thank Acacia for her review and for starting the string of requests for more of this—I was planning to leave it a one-shot). OFUM belongs to Miss Cam. The badfics belong to their writers (and they know who they are). "The Dance of the Cucumber" belongs to Big Idea Productions. The Spork, which comes from a fun story but which still made for a great plot point, belongs to Dark Ravenette and Akasha, a.k.a. the Spork Ladies. And the laptop is mine. I don’t actually own a laptop in RL, but… well, you get the picture. Oh, and the Harry Potter statement is based strictly on the figures on the index to the Book section; it doesn’t take crossovers into account. Yes, there will be more… I just have to get the next chapter finished. Eventually I’ll do one for each character in the Fellowship, and possibly for some of the TT and ROTK characters as well.
The scream was becoming all too familiar to the residents of Rivendell. It usually came from the part of the house where the Fellowship was staying, and it was inevitably accompanied by the sound of feet running through the halls and ended with the slamming of a door.
This time the door was Gandalf’s and the voice and feet belonged to Merry.
Gandalf looked up from sending rainbow cacti to the agents in the Mary Sue department of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum via 1-800-Flowers. “What’s happening this time?” he sighed.
“It’s Pip,” Merry wheezed, leaning against the inside of the door and trying to hold it shut. “’E’s leerin’ at me again.”
Gandalf put his elbow on the table he was using for a desk, leaned his forehead on his hand, and shook his head. “I shudder to think what shape their world is in if they can conceive such things.”
“It’s crazy, that’s wot it is,” Merry stated. “An’ Pip was fightin’ it, too. I could see it in ’is eyes.”
“Yet the Words win out every time.” Gandalf then muttered something in Quenya that included the name Morgoth; Merry assumed it was not a compliment.
The door was forced open again. Another hobbit-sized body slammed into Merry’s, and both ended up on the floor. Gandalf, seeing who it was, sighed again and used his staff to shut the door.
“Hello, Frodo,” Gandalf said.
“Holy screaming teenagers, Batman!” Frodo gasped, struggling to his feet.
“Who is it this week?” Merry chuckled sympathetically.
“I don’t remember… Akasha or Hanae or something… outlandish, whatever it was. Like most. And there’s another one after Boromir who says she’s Elrond’s daughter. I believe he’s gone to the Ford.”
“Are they ever going to learn?”
Another scream could be heard coming down the hall, and the hobbits scrambled out of the way just before Legolas came bursting into the room.
“Elbereth preserve us all,” the elf whimpered, standing in much the same position Merry had been in.
“Aragorn?” asked Gandalf knowingly.
“Worse. We fought it, both of us, but somehow Arwen learned of it and is after me.”
“Oh, no,” groaned both hobbits.
“If there are no more interruptions, I shall begin,” Gandalf declared, finishing his online transaction and pulling up Word.
“I can think of none,” Legolas replied.
Merry and Frodo shook their heads, and everyone but Gandalf retired to a corner of the room. They had somehow decided on this as the best arrangement to be in when Gandalf or Aragorn was fixing a canon breach; they were out of his way, and they were also fairly well hidden if the canon breach came looking for them. Much as they all wanted revenge, they had not yet decided on a suitable plan for carrying it out; thus the direct line to the PPC and writing out bad plots were the tactics to which they currently resorted. Gandalf also made it a point to recommend pupils to OFUM and arrange for the safe transport of as many mini-Balrogs as they could catch.
Gandalf had written almost half a page when Gimli wandered in, singing “The Dance of the Cucumber” at the top of his lungs and not looking extremely pleased about doing so. Gandalf glared at him, and Gimli returned an apologetic and pleading look. Legolas came out of his corner and clapped a hand on the dwarf’s mouth, which reduced the volume considerably, despite the fact that Gimli still wasn’t able to stop singing. Legolas then hustled Gimli back to the corner he’d occupied before.
By the end of the page, Legolas was able to take his hand off Gimli’s mouth. The dwarf collapsed against the wall with a sigh of relief. Then, remembering that he disliked elves, he scuttled into another corner. Legolas didn’t seem to mind; he was still nervously watching the door.
Another page passed, and both Legolas and Merry began breathing normally again.
Gandalf then sent an email to a pair of assassins. Roughly ten minutes later, Boromir poked his head in the door. “All clear,” he grinned at Frodo.
“Thank the Valar,” gasped Frodo, who suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath.
“Oh, and Gandalf, Jay and Acacia said thank you for the cacti. They’ve put theirs in their response center.”
“Oh, good,” Gandalf smiled, obviously relieved. “Thank you, Boromir.” Then, as Boromir turned to go, Gandalf called after him. “Boromir? Bring the remainder of the Fellowship at once; we need to discuss this… situation.”
Boromir nodded and left. A few minutes later, he returned with Aragorn, Pippin, and Sam in tow; Aragorn and Pippin looked extremely sheepish.
“I say, Merry, I’m sorry…” Pippin began.
“You couldn’t ’elp it, Pip. I know ye didn’t want to.”
“Thank the Valar for tha’ computer thing. I dinnae want tae know what could ’ave ’appened.”
Meanwhile, Aragorn laid a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “Arwen’s sane again… and so am I. Forgive me, mellon.”
“The fault was not yours, Aragorn. There is naught to forgive. Does Arwen… know?”
Aragorn sighed heavily. “Aye. I have explained. She was horrified, of course, but I believe she understands. She said it explains times when she has felt… unsettling emotions toward you.”
Legolas blanched. “Ai, Elbereth….”
Gimli snorted. “And I? I am cursed with lapses of sanity that make me the biggest buffoon of us all!”
“Nay, Pippin and Merry get a fair share of that as well,” Sam replied.
“Confound it all,” Boromir spat, beginning to pace angrily, “why can we not stop this plague that haunts our every move?”
“There are too many that are too bad,” said Gandalf matter-of-factly. “The assassins are overworked, and it is simply impossible to rewrite all the history-altering stories. Not that all of them are unacceptable, but the sheer number makes their revision impossible. Although,” he continued, more to himself than to anyone else, “I should think that poor Harry Potter lad has the worst of it. They’re writing roughly four times the tales about him that they are about us.”
“Donnerwetter,” sighed Frodo. At Gimli’s odd look, he reddened slightly. “I think it’s the Spork still,” he explained.
“There’ve been worse side effects,” Legolas admitted.
“So what can we do?” Boromir demanded. “If revisions and assassinations won’t hold them off….”
Gandalf surveyed the company carefully. Finally, his gaze resting thoughtfully on Gimli, he replied, “I believe I have a plan.”
To be continued....