I'm baaaaack! (wow; how many times have people used that when beginning a sequel? Probably far too many. Oh well. Life goes on.) And I have a Xanga now! I feel special! It's all about my fanfictions! I'm way too hyper about this…If you want to see it, visit my bio and click the "homepage" link.
Unlike its predecessor, this story (the name of which changed after I found a song that corresponded well with it) has a plot. We shall see if that is to its advantage or a detriment.
Replies to reviews of REMSG chapter 5 are at the end of this.
Since this is a new story, I suppose I have to do the full list of disclaimers: Toei Animation owns all characters/places from Digimon (Ken, Lucemon, Wormmon, etc.); Tolkien's estate owns the Halls of Mandos and its inhabitants (Maedhros, Feanor, Maglor, and assorted others); Wizards of the Coast owns Dragonlance and thus all denizens of Krynn (Raistlin, Lunitari, Takhisis, you get the picture); Lucasfilm Ltd. owns Anakin Skywalker aka Darth Vader; and Tamora Pierce owns Roger of Conte. My father owns the computer I'm typing this on. I own the notebook I wrote this in originally. Yay, finally something that's mine!
Here we go! (insert digiport music from the dub)
All I Want, Chapter One: Maedhros Gains Not Only A Quest, But Also A New Optimistic Outlook On Life (Which Is No Doubt Doomed To Failure)
"Day after day/Your home life's a wreck/The powers that be just breathe down your neck…" The Offspring, "All I Want"
Curufinwe Feanor had been disappointed in his eldest son several times before in his afterlife. First had come the news that Maedhros had forsaken his birthright as High King and handed the rulership of the Noldor to Feanor's half-brother, for whom Feanor had never cared a great deal. Most recently had been when the details of Maedhros's death had finally been laid bare to Feanor's incredulous mind: his son had fulfilled the solemn Oath he had sworn on behalf of his beloved father, only to commit suicide soon after. Doubly enraging was the fact that Feanor, normally so keen to the workings and desires of the hearts of his peers, could not fathom why in all of Arda Maedhros would do such a thing. Fulfillment of a goal long sweated, bled, and cried for should only lead to bliss and rejoicing, not wails of torment and futility.
To be sure, Maedhros was a thoroughly infuriating individual to his father; neither understood the other, and while there was great love between the two of them there also were differences that clashed like swords on a battlefield when brought to the fore, a graveness in Maedhros's manner and a carelessness in Feanor's that could never seemingly be reconciled. And now Maedhros, dwelling in the Halls of Mandos with all his brothers save one, was behaving in a manner so troublesome to Feanor that the latter could not bear the sight of the former for very long before he felt like screaming, just to vent the pent and festering frustration deep within.
For Nelyafinwe Maitimo Maedhros Russandol, grandson of the Noldor's first High King and son of their most brilliant genius, was moping.
"GAAAAAHHHH!" screamed Feanor, clutching his dark head and turning away from his son, grey eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. Instantly all six of his deceased sons (and some rather perturbed passers-by) were at his side, desperate to know what could cause such dire wrath in a location known for being stellarly and singularly dull. When asked what was the matter, however, he repelled them all and stalked off, glaring daggers and threatening bodily harm to anyone foolish enough to follow him. He needed to be alone.
Once away from the crowd, Feanor's rage lessened to a low albeit steady simmer; his mind cleared. That idiot son of his had touched off the explosion by bringing up, yet again, that infernal nonsense of a counseling program Maedhros had once tried to run. It had been an abysmal failure: the damages to the conference room were staggering; they'd had no word from any of the members since; and Maedhros had plunged into the depths of utter, desolate despair. Feanor was not at all sorry the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group had been disbanded, but the mood it had put Maedhros in was incredibly agitating.
He's almost as bad as Maglor, thought Feanor, sitting down and stretching out his long legs. Content just to mope and mumble...at least Maglor amounted to something in the end. His mind now turned to thoughts of his only still-living son, the only one who had truly succeeded. Maglor, when last sighted, had fulfilled his father's Oath.
I wonder what he's doing, alone on Endor with my Silmaril? He certainly is taking his time; one would think he'd have found a way to get it to me by now. There must be some way to carry an object to the Halls of Waiting. Growing restless and impatient with death in general, and desperately needing an excuse to escape from his son's present condition, Feanor resolved then and there to request permission to return to Middle-earth to locate his errant son and reclaim his property.
As with so many of his desires, he was denied.
"Perhaps you do not understand," Feanor said pointedly. He now stood in a small audience chamber, pleading his case eloquently yet fruitlessly to Namo, Vala of Mandos. "I do not wish to live a second life or even travel much. All I want is a temporary reunion with my son, whom I have not seen for, nearly literally, an Age. I leave, I visit with him, I return." Anger began to churn within him and he lost all semblance of politeness. "I should have known that this would happen. Always have you Valar sought to keep me and mine crushed beneath your boots weighted with despotic authority, caged and confined us in your clutching claws, chained us—"
"That will do, Curufinwe." Namo's reverberating voice had a horrible finality to it. Feanor bit his lip but did not bow his proud head. He would never show shame for speaking the truth. In his mind, he tried to guess what the Lord of Mandos's next move would be; the cowled head was bent as if deep in thought. Finally Namo spoke again.
"Fetch Nelyafinwe your son and return again with him. I have a proposition I wish to make."
Startled, Feanor hastily composed himself and left with a mocking bow. Maedhros? What did that fool Vala want with Maedhros?
"Idiocy loves company," he muttered, smiling bitterly, as he went in search of his son.
"Perhaps I misunderstood." Feanor couldn't believe his ears as he stood yet again before Namo, his son in tow. "You want Maedhros—my son Maedhros—" he said the word "son" with such obvious disdain that the elf in question flushed in shame "--and his ragtag group of whining, coughing, moping, sniveling, utterly pathetic morons to travel to Middle-earth and scour the coastline for Maglor as part of the 'recovery process'…and yet I am not to be included, though the idea was originally mine?"
"I am powerless in your case," Namo said. "Your actions make it impossible for me to allow you contact with the world again. So have you been judged."
Feanor opened his mouth to reply, but Maedhros cut him off with a wave of his left (and only) hand. "Never mind, Father. It doesn't matter because I'm not going. My efforts were a failure. The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group is quite extinct." He sighed. "Though I must admit the prospect is tempting. Sorely have I missed my brother during these torturous years apart."
"Cease the dramatics before you make me retch," Feanor snapped in a fit of self-righteous hypocrisy. Glaring at his son, he grew even more enraged when the redhead would not meet his eyes.
Namo jolted them both back to the task at hand. "Not so, Nelyafinwe. You do not realize how much your associates benefited. Raistlin Majere has been given permission to move onto another plane of existence. Ken Ichijouji is now dating a girl. Lucemon grows in power daily."
"And that's a good thing?" Feanor remarked dryly; the fallen angel had made no friends at the meeting he attended, to put it lightly.
Maedhros seemed lost in thought. "True, true…and I do miss Maglor…but I must be fair to my father."
Good boy, thought Feanor.
"Let some other members stay behind as well. I don't need the whole group, and some might attract attention."
What!
Namo, considering, nodded. "Name your companions."
Maedhros hesitated only a moment. "Ken Ichijouji and Raistlin Majere."
"Very well." Namo was silent again, speaking, perhaps, with the gods of their worlds. In the silence, Maedhros began to murmur possible plans and strategies, while Feanor softly fumed, trying to discern how he could use the current situation to his own advantage. Deciding on a plan, he bowed his head at last, the very image of servility.
Waving a fold of his dark cloak, Namo caused himself and the two elves to instantly travel to the conference room in which the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group had met twice before, the second time with near-disastrous results. "From here shall you depart. We will be closely monitoring your actions should one of you accidentally or purposely fall into darkness again. Here they come." A brilliant light flashed in the chamber, and when it cleared two more figures stood in the newly repaired (though still a bit scarred, even if it did have a new door) conference room. One blinked blue eyes hesitantly and shook his dark head to clear the stars from those eyes; the other merely withdrew a black hood from his face and gripped his wooden staff a little tighter in a golden hand.
"Where…" the first began, then figured it out and replaced his query with "Why?"
"Why, indeed?" whispered the second, his hourglass eyes affixed on the Lord of Mandos. "I have finished my supposed rehabilitation. What now?"
"A quest," Mandos told them solemnly. "On the shores of Endor there dwells one whose life is steeped in sorrow. Maglor is his name, and you are to find him and console him if possible. Perhaps you may even convince him to swell your ranks."
Ken, the dark-haired boy, responded with another respectful "Why?" Then he realized someone was missing. "Where's Wormmon!"
"You will not need him," Namo replied, ignoring the subsequent outburst from the indignant Ken. "Gifts you will be given to aid you in your quest. You will find them with you when you arrive on the shore."
"Arrive on the shore?" Maedhros asked. "Aren't we sailing?"
Feanor, finally irritated beyond belief, broke his self-induced silence, snapping, "Not unless you can sail a ship with three people, one of whom is practically a child, one who can barely breathe, and one who is undeniably…handicapped."
Maedhros's face flushed, angered and chagrined, but Ken lay a hand on his shoulder and he did not respond to his father's taunt. Raistlin did not even look over; he was watching Namo. Feanor too watched the Vala, waiting for his chance.
"You will go now," Namo told them. Again the light flared.
Feanor lept into action.
Anakin Skywalker, known to most as Darth Vader, was drifting peacefully through the channels of the Force when a great cry rippled through it, jarring him out of reverie. Angered by this interruption of his communal, he sought its source.
Lucemon floated dazedly through the sky, dreaming of utopia and hiding from the angry crowds who had threatened to devour his data after he had very kindly proposed his solution to their problems (that they surrender to him and let him run their lives) when he felt more than heard a furious scream. Curious, he pursued it.
Roger of Conte had been sent by his gods, though not without putting up a magnificent struggle, to a conference place where he was told he would "recover." He had laughed at them then. Now he stood in the corner, stroking his beard and musing. It wasn't every day one got to see another dimension's Power through a temper tantrum.
For that undeniably was what Namo was doing. The guile—the nerve—the rebellion of Curufinwe Feanor angered him who remained impassive through all things. The Noldo had figured out he could not physically return to Middle-earth, and that the Valar would never grant him permission to spiritually make the journey. So he had devised a way to go without that permission. As the three Recovering Evil Madmen departed for the shores of Middle-earth, Feanor's spirit had jumped inside Maedhros's body, taking up residence within the elf's mind. Such a thing had never been done before. Indeed, Namo had not known such a thing could be done. It seemed inherently wrong, in addition to the outright rebellion of Feanor even after death.
Hence the rage that summoned unwittingly two more dark souls into his presence and intrigued a third, who happened to be in the right place at the right time. And as Namo looked at them, two of whom he knew and one who was new, it was his turn to scheme.
Maedhros woke with a splitting headache, like someone had pried his mind open to see what was inside then hadn't bothered to put him back together properly. Groaning, he pushed himself into a seated position on the beach with his hands.
Both his hands.
Staring, Maedhros gaped at the flawless right hand peeking out of a formerly empty sleeve. He flexed the fingers, examined them in wonder. Swiping the air with his fingers, he nearly fell over again in shock as five blades shot out the tips of his fingers and arched, hissing, through the air.
Well, that's interesting, said a voice inside his head.
Maedhros jumped to his feet, instinctively reaching down and drawing a sword that hadn't been buckled to his side in the conference room but now hung, waiting, at his side. "Who's there?" he cried, swinging the sword and forcing himself not to think about how he came to have it as he looked around. He stood on a beach, half-drenced by salt spray: the shores of the Sea. A bulging pack lay at his side. Lying in the sand nearby were Raistlin, one hand on his staff and another on a blood-red tome, and Ken, the boy's navy head crowned with a pair of purple-lensed yellow goggles.
The voice spoke again. However did you get others to follow you when you quail so in the face of the unknown? Your hand and your sword are the so-called gifts of the Valar; can you not see that? Or is your mind too blind with fear to do anything but brandish your weapon at shadows? I thought I had raised you to be of sterner stuff than this. You shame me. You dishonor me.
"Father?" Maedhros's voice shook. "Where are you? You weren't allowed to come."
How astute of you. Thus I took matters into my own hands. Although I must say I do admire your new right one. Without Maedhros willing it, the blades shot out again. I wonder how they created it?
"You're…in my head? Moving my body?" Maedhros was half-astounded, half-horrified.
I won't make a habit of it. I'm just here to ensure what is mine is given me.
Realization dawned. "You're here for the Silmaril! Not Maglor! You don't care about him! How can you favor even something so magnificent over your own son, whose sorrows are your own fault?" Maedhros accused. "Your own fault, and mine…" His heart ached, knowing he was the one at last responsible for his brother's fate. Maglor had been sick of rebellion, but fey words spilled from Maedhros's lips had convinced him otherwise. The red-haired elf had paid for this final act of folly with his life, wanting the pain to end, and his soul bled to think he had forced a similar anguish onto his brother.
My reasons are my own, Feanor replied haughtily, unconsciously echoing the mantra of the black-robed man who now stirred on the ground. As Maedhros watched his companions wake, he knew he should feel dread at the prospect looming before them. Scour the entire coastline, looking for one elf? Impossible. And his father's presence and ability to literally manipulate him as he had so skillfully done figuratively in ages past brought him no great ecstasy either. Yet looking down at the pack by his feet, Maedhros felt the first true stirrings of hope within him since the formation of his group.
A book sticking out of the pack read "Basic Recovery from Fell Deeds: A Handbook for the Forsaken, Misguided, or Just Plain Messed Up." The Valar had given him a mission, and Maedhros was an elf of action long used to being driven by a cause.
Hopefully, he thought wryly as he remembered his father, the cause wouldn't end up driving him.
a/n: Yes, I know it's not that funny yet. This was a set-up chapter more than anything else. Yes, I know the hand thing is weird; I wanted to cut it but it's already in a picture that I will be posting on my blog ASAP that I'm really rather fond of otherwise so it's staying in. The reason for the blades will be given later; there is a reason, I swear. Yes, I know Feanor wouldn't even be able to jump inside Maedhros but Tolkien made it really hard for people to use good ol' Curufinwe in stories without bending a concept or two. I'm upset about this myself, and transfer my displeasure to Namo, making him even more OOC than he was to begin with, but the dude's a plot device in this. Sorry, Namo! We love you!
I forgot to say, the use of is taken from KA Applegate's Animorphs series, of which I was quite a big fan back in the day.
Replies to reviewers:
Romancebookwormlover4ever aka yael3000: Congratulations on the account! I hope your summer is going well and you like this the latest adventure of my lovely little group. BTW, you might like a listy thing I've got going on my blog; you'd probably know where the Phantom belongs more than me.
Mirowood: I thanked you for the review on the phone, but thanks again. You too should check out the list on my blog; I believe you told me you have several characters from your own stories to add? Okay, I'll stop advertising for myself now. Seriously, man, what's up? How's Angel's Fear coming?
Dalamar Nightson: Yeah, Maedhros cries quite a bit, poor guy. Well, Roger didn't do much here, sorry, but he takes a much more active role in the next chapter…and eventually ends up dueling another wizard whose name, coincidentally, starts with the same letter as his. Hope you liked his chapter and stay tuned.
I don't know if that was worth the wait or not, but there you have it. Chapter One of the first REMSG sequel. Now to type another chapter of Two Story Town…then another one of this…and so on…
See you later!