The Convention of Pointy-Eared Beings
An account of Middle-Earth delegate Vivan
Vivan, a Grey Elf, from the Gardens of Ithilien that lie east of Gondor, was nursing a headache in the food court at Area 51, north of Las Vegas. The Convention of Pointy-Eared Beings was a bust for her, as the elves closest to her in general appearance had only three fingers on their hands and egos the size of The Lonely Mountain, and the mortals called Vulcans kept probing her mind, even when she told them to stop it. Telepathy was assumed to be the means of communication for half the species there, so every time she walked past a telepath, bam, right behind the eyes, the pain shooting toward the back of her head. Never mind that she couldn't send, just receive.
Next time, she swore to herself, she was going to make sure that she did not leave the room when a delegate from the realm was to be selected.
Thronic, formerly one of Rivendell's elves, was of no help. He was in the middle of every panel discussion, every fixed and moving picture, and must have devoured every food sample in the place. That he came in third in the archery competition made him even more insufferable.
She was tiredly rubbing her eyes when something suddenly plopped across the table from her. Dragging an element of curiosity from the spot behind her right temple, she slowly opened her eyes and peered at the two bald-headed, big-eyed, and, of course, pointy-eared beings. Both the size of small human children. She closed her eyes and wished for a clean goblet of water.
"Chaucer has water," a tenor voice piped up. "Here."
Vivan felt a nudge against her arm, and peeled open an eyelid to see a goblet that looked as if it were carved out of clear quartz. She could smell water. She opened both eyes and examined the beings again. One was watching her, the speaker, she guessed. The other was peering around at the crowds that were walking by. She could also smell the odor of the raw meat pit, which didn't help any. The smoke from the fire pits blew in her eyes.
"Water is from rain, at Pots and Pans. St. Mungo's Hospital uses it all the time. Try it for your headache," the first one said.
She picked it up, sniffed it, sipped it. It tasted like fresh rain water, collected from stone. She gave a small nod to the being. "Thank you…," she started by couldn't remember his name.
"Chaucer. Chaucer is a kobold. This is Cilla; she is a house-elf. This is her first time here."
Cilla turned and gave a small wave. Her attention was immediately distracted by a snow covered giant beyond the courtyard, who was breathing out frost. The small house-elf wore pretty white fabric that had little flowers scattered on it, tied on her thin shoulders. Vivan envied her. Vivan was wearing warm gamey smelling leathers and dead tree leaves and had gravel her left boot that was grinding on her toes. Chaucer was covered what looked like the hides of the large spiders that were now extinct from the forest of Eryn Lasgalen.
"Winky was here last year, but she drank too much and I'm not taking her anywhere again," he remarked.
"I don't blame her," Vivan replied. She had no idea who Winky was and was in no mood to find out. "I'm not coming back if I can help it."
"That is too bad," Chaucer said sympathetically. "Who else is from your world?"
Thornic was standing over by the wine casks, talking so loud she could hear his voice over the songs that were being sung at the beer kegs.
"There. The one with the red handkerchief wrapped around his head."
Chaucer turned to look before he stood on the table's other bench and bowed to Vivan. "Chaucer thanks you. Please enjoy the water. The glass will disappear when emptied."
She was not surprised to see him point out Thornic to his companion and watch them both head in his direction. Vivan lifted the goblet to her lips and continued to sip the clear water, and was relieved to find her headache dissipating. Unfortunately, the cure came too little, too late, and she spent the rest of the convention collecting brochures about plants and gardening ideas, sulking and pouting until it was time for the flight home.
Crack fic written in response to a question at Quora: What do you think about a movie with "Frodo vs Harry Potter?" No Frodo, no Harry Potter, but the universes still intersect like a Venn diagram.