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I wonder, is this a Mary-Sue story that doesn't suck? Review and tell me if it is, or isn't. One chapter fiction, Legolas and, obviously, the 'Mary-Sue'. Written for Liz, who constantly eclipses my writing talent. Okay, so everybody's writing talent eclipses mine…why can't I have someone's writing talent to eclipse…!? *goes off crying to self screaming "Mommy ate the chocolate chip cookies!"*
Disclaimer: I own the chocolate chip cookie wrapper, my cold, and some Vanilla Coke. Do you see the words "Legolas", "Lord of the Rings", "A sword" "A life", or "Money" anywhere in there? I didn't either. I am woeful. *sob*
Set pre-Lord of the Rings.
The Mary-Sue story, without further ado. Obviously, Ciára is Liz's character.
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When night fell in the Elven realms, respectable elves stayed inside their homes. Ciára Nightstar was not your run-of-the-mill respectable elf. Blessed with a sharp sword and a sharper tongue, she used both frequently. This was cause for much consternation to her parents, truly respectable elves, who could not understand where Ciára got her wild streak. They simply wanted Ciára to get married, have children, and settle down in any way possible.
Ciára shot down the eligible Elves they paraded in front of her, day in and day out, like shooting arrows into targets.
Desperate, her parents turned her out of the house. She would be their daughter no more if she was to be so stubborn, and that was the last time they ever saw each other.
Traveling along the roads alone was dangerous, but Ciára was more so; many would-be robbers died by her blade. Stopping at Imladris, Ciára tilted her head, sheathed her sword, and decided to stay for a night or two.
The 'night or two' turned into five years, and she enjoyed friendships with the kind elves, but always enjoying more the titles she won in the sham battles fought.
On the day one of these tournaments were to take place, Ciára saw a strange elf sitting in a tree, inspecting his arrows.
Her curiosity very much piqued, Nightstar looked around for one of her friends; a darkly handsome elf, named Thelyn. Gesturing to the blonde elf, Ciára tilted her head questioningly. Who is that?, written clearly on her face.
Thelyn walked to her, smiling broadly. "That, my dear Ciára," he told her, laughing at her face when he called her 'dear', "is Prince Legolas Greenleaf."
"Yay for him. Is he to compete in the fights today?" Ciára was not impressed.
"No, he came here to cheer the warriors on." Thelyn looked down at her, rolling his eyes. "Of course, Ciára."
"I would like," Ciára murmured thoughtfully, choosing her words with care, "to compete against him. Could you see to it?"
"That would be dangerous, my friend; you are no match for him."
"Thelyn, I want to fight him. I can do it with your consent, or without it. Within the fighting, or without it. I will do it, any way I have to."
He nodded agreement. "You would, little one."
"I don't like it when you call me that, Thelyn. Friend or not, that is certainly pushing the boundaries of my generosity." Her gray eyes flashing indignation, Thelyn made a hasty departure, not before grabbing her chin and shaking it gently.
"Little sister, you have too much to learn about me to realize that you are pushing the bounds of my generosity!" he called merrily over his shoulder.
Ciára turned away, only to run straight into a chest. A chest with a head, and legs, and arms attached and everything. Taking a step backwards, she looked upwards, rubbing her head.
"Pray, tell your name so I can have the pleasure of knowing whom I am about to murder!" Indignant, she glared upwards, into the face of the blonde elf who had been inspecting arrows. "Oh. You're the prince." Spitting out the word like it was the worst of insults, she smiled evilly. "Pick your weapon today, sire, and pick it carefully." With a mocking curtsey, Ciára swept away, moving to one of the larger buildings; she had to rig up the fighting between her and Greenleaf, carefully. Too bad this was not a fight to the death, or she would truly enjoy it.
Hours passed, and the passing of time found Ciára belting on her sword, tying her hair back, generally readying herself for fighting. Testing the weight of her weapon in her hands, she nodded satisfactorily before sheathing it. Filling her quiver with fresh arrows, she slipped that over her left shoulder, the long bow she favored ready to be picked up as she left.
Slipping a pair of Elvish daggers in her gauntlets, she closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath.
She was ready.
Grabbing her longbow, Ciára left.
Thelyn met her as she moved into a meadow, where the tourney was to be held.
"Bad luck," he told her, "you're one of the Gladiators."
Ciara felt her spine stiffen involuntarily. A Gladiator fought two opponents, using real weapons. It was dangerous, and only the best were chosen to bear this honor. They usually didn't live long enough to come back for round two.
"Oh gods," she whispered. "Who?"
"Legolas, and Elenwende."
She felt her fears vanish. "Then it's practically just Legolas," Ciára said. "Elenwende cannot best me. Move; the prince is in the current fight, no? I want to see how he battles."
Thelyn stayed in front of her, and Ciára gave his chest an aggravated push. "Move," she hissed. "I want to see Greenleaf fight!"
"That battle has just ended. Yours is next. You do not get to see his fighting style." Regretfully, Thelyn looked at her. "Ciára?"
"Yes, Thelyn?" Her tone was still annoyed, at him or herself, it was impossible to tell.
"If you die, can I have your weapons?"
Ciára Nightstar stood in between her opponents. Elenwende, looking much like Ciara, although frailer, stood to her left, holding a sword up. Ciára was more afraid of the sword than Elenwende; the edge had a wicked curve that would rip through flesh.
Legolas, on her right, held two daggers, balancing himself with a dancer's poise.
If Ciára had been in the stands with her friends, and someone else in the position of Gladiator, she would have remarked to Thelyn that the Gladiator was one dead elf.
She looked Elenwende in the eye before turning her gaze to Legolas. Bowing respectfully to the stand where the lords sat, a gold gong reverberated throughout the meadow and the glen beyond. The fight began.
Legolas slashed at her with the knives, first off. Dropping, Ciára brought her own daggers into the fight, kicking out at Legolas's knees. He danced back, the knives dropped in the dirt. Kicking them away with the toe of her boot, she advanced, as a noise behind her told her that Elenwende was rushing at her with the sword.
Spinning neatly out of the way, she tripped Elenwende, making sure the sword landed far out of anyone's reach. Flashing her daggers into the air, Ciára tucked them back into her gauntlets, drawing her own sword: slim, but just as sharp and deadly as Elenwende's monstrosity.
Legolas unsheathed his sword, and rushed Ciára. Sidestepping quickly, she parried his blade, slashing at his unprotected side. Her cut was shallow, but blood dripped from his rent skin beneath his tunic. Turning, he set upon her with the fury of an enraged bull.
Ciára parried every blow, attacking with the graceful skill of a wolf. Legolas's blade disarmed her, eventually, and in a lightning swift movement tapped her skull. This tap was devastatingly painful in itself, but more so for Ciára; the tip of his sword got into her head.
Hissing, Ciara dropped on her side, parallel to Legolas, kicking him in the back of the knee with her foot in an arc. Rolling out of the way of his falling body, she rose to her feet. Grabbing her sword, she slammed him over the head with the hilt as he lay prone on the ground. He was unconscious; that just left Elenwende, who had been circling like a vulture for the seconds the small duel between Legolas and Ciára had taken.
Elenwende held a sword; the wretched monster, Ciára noted dully. Pain was fogging her senses; she had to finish this, or die. Thelyn would not get her weapons, she swore to herself. Flipping her sword around to the business end, she waited for Elenwende to attack.
Elenwende showed no sign of attacking, and finally, Ciára weakened of the nonsense, pressing her furiously. This was the moment Elenwende had been awaiting, for she sliced at Ciára's neck with the tip of the sword. Ciára had to jump back to keep her head attached to her shoulders, which got her off balance in her attack.
Bearing down on her, Elenwende swung her sword again and again, Ciára just managing to block the heavy blows raining down on herself. Jumping into the air, she swung her fist at Elenwende's jaw.
The move was unexpected, and Elenwende dropped like a stone, the sword falling from her hand.
Ciára looked around dazedly. There were no more opponents. She was alive. She had all her limbs. By the Gods, she'd won a Gladiator match!
Catching sight of Thelyn's face, Ciára mouthed the word 'help'. Why wouldn't the lords ring the gong, signaling the end of the match.
Her weakened hearing picked up a slight sound behind her, and turning, she saw why. Legolas stood, bloody, his hands clenched into fists.
Swearing, Ciára cursed the Gods openly, before grabbing one of his fists as he swung at her. Twisting it, Ciára bent it behind his back, going with it as she ended up behind him. Applying her fingers on the pressure point, she smiled in satisfaction at Legolas's wince.
"Sir," she said clearly, her every word like a death knell, "you are hurt, you are pinned, and if I am not mistaken, you are in pain. Should you not reconsider your position, and surrender?"
Legolas, gritting his teeth, shook his head 'yes'.
The gong rang, finally, and Ciára dropped him, walking to where Thelyn sat.
"Thelyn?" she asked.
"…Ciára Nightstar, that was the best fighting I've ever seen!" He looked at her concernedly, real worry showing in his blue gray eyes. "That…one thing was great!"
"That's nice, Thelyn." Taking a seat beside him, she let her muscles relax. Relaxing was good. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and her head drooped onto Thelyn's shoulder.
"Thelyn?" she said again, her voice quiet.
"What, Ciára?"
"My head hurts." With that, Ciára passed from consciousness to unconsciousness, amid Thelyn's shock and her own consternation.
She awoke, later, in a house of healing, feeling much cleaner and generally better than she had after the match. Fingers going to her head, she found it bandaged in a thick material, swathed.
Groaning, Ciára glanced at her surroundings. Other refugees from the tournament were in there, many bandaged, but the greater majority still unconscious. With a derisive snort, Ciára could tell however much time she was to spend in this place was not going to be very lively.
"Ah," said a pleasant enough voice. "You're awake." It was a nice voice, male, deep, and oddly sensual. Ciára blinked to make sure she wasn't hearing things. "Your left," said the voice.
Obediently, Nightstar looked left. There lay none other than the one man she had hoped not to see more than her parents, Legolas Greenleaf, bandaged up. Remembering her thoughts of a mere second ago, she rolled her eyes, containing a blush.
"Yes, I'm awake. Enjoy stating the obvious, your highness?"
"Now, now, warrior. There's no need to get ready for round two; neither of us made it out of the first round completely healthy."
Ciára relished her comment, savoring it as she shot it off. "You know, my parents were right about royalty."
"Oh?" Legolas seemed genuinely interested, the haughty tones gone from his voice.
"Yes," Ciára replied idly, her voice sounding as if she was reciting from a dull book, "a royal woman's only prerogative is to marry well and bear children. A royal male's prerogative is to help provide the children."
He laughed, throwing his head back, the mirth rippling through the air like water. "You know, Lady, I do not know the name of she who has bested me."
Ciára glanced at him sharply from the corner of her eyes. "It's Ciára," she said. "Ciára Nightstar."
Legolas looked taken aback, but then smiled calmly enough, very pleasantly. "Oh, you're a princess?"
"Ex princess," Ciára corrected swiftly. "A Princess is someone who sits in a tower and waits to be rescued by her Elvish love fair. I do not sit in a tower, wait to be rescued, or have an 'Elvish love fair'."
"Lady Ciára, if I may call you that, I pity your Elvish love fair if you ever receive one," said a new voice, in her ear.
Ciára whirled around happily, smiling at her friend. "Thelyn!" she cried, suffering his warm, brotherly embrace. "Get me out of this place."
"Please," said Legolas, "and take away my only source of amusement? You would do that to me, Lady Ciára?"
Ciára gave Legolas a scathing look, and her tone could freeze boiling water when she spoke. "You are very easily amused, my lord." Turning to Thelyn, she glanced up at him. "You're going to have to let me lean on you; sorry you didn't get my weapons."
"Don't worry about it, Ci." He laughed, then picked her up with ease. "I've got better ones, any way."
"You do not!" Ciára said. "No one in Imladris has a better longbow!"
"Pity it was shattered, then," Thelyn said. Ciára's eyes bugged out of her head, and she wrapped her fingers around his throat, beginning to squeeze. Coughing, Thelyn looked at her, eyes watering. "…kidding….Ci…can't….breathe!"
Ciára let go, reluctantly, and let herself be carried out of the healing area. Not surprisingly, this was also loaded with hesitation.
Legolas watched her go, raising an eyebrow in a thoughtful pose. The girl had spirit to match his, and she bested him at fighting.
What an interesting combination…
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While sitting here in my computer chair, so dark and desolately dumb, I pondered the meaning of my existence. That got too hard after about a quarter of a second, so I gave up. I tried to think of the answer to Life. I got 42. I tried to write a Mary-Sue story that didn't suck. I got this.
So, did I do good? If you review, I'll give you a cookie! *holds out cookies*
I know they don't sound like Elves all the time, basically because I couldn't write like that at three in the f---ing morning.
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