Whimsical: A Fairy Story
OR
Gallivanting Around Middle Earth
Summary: A tale of two creatures thrown together by Fate and their journey. On the way, they learn of many things like friendship, love and redemption. Mostly, though, they learn that Balrogs need a varied diet and half-elves are sometimes less than half as wise as any elf or man.
Dis/claimer: Middle Earth and all the races that inhabit it belong to J.R.R.Tolkien. The two main characters in this series belongs to me, though.
#1: Most Unlikely Travellers
One fine day, he decided that he was tired of his dark, damp hole, tired of being a being of evil, tired of scaring off anything that crossed his path and most of all, tired of immortality. It did get oh so boring after awhile, especially if you were a creature of darkness confined to a little cave for most of your long, long life. So he decided that it was time for him to go out and maybe see the world.
And he did. The sunlight stung his eyes at first, for he was so used to the dark, but he soon got used to it. Then, he marvelled at the colours of the upside world, stretching his wings. After that, he noticed that every living creature that had been in the area had run off in abject terror. He pondered that for a moment, wondering why.
Ah, of course. He *was* a creature of the dark after all. On a whim, he decided to swear off evil for awhile, while he travelled in the light of day. He would be NICE, and GOOD. He pondered for a moment longer, and decided that it would be best to take another form. He cast his mind about for a form that would be convenient for traipsing around Middle Earth as well as one that would not scare off every living creature in a 5-mile radius.
And so, he changed his form.
---
As ungrateful and cruel as it may sound, Myrdain wept for joy when his old crone of a mother finally died after dallying in the living world for ninety-six, seventy of which were spent dragging, pulling and tugging up her half-elven son. It would not be wrong to say that Myrdain had no love for his mother. Still, he did his duty as he ought to have and continued caring for her after his mortal siblings gave up in favour of living their own lives. That was more than could be said of his mother.
She less love for her half-elven son than her son had for her. It was thanks to the charity of neighbours that the child managed to survive its infancy and early childhood for his own mother cared not for him, giving him no milk from her breast, nor clothes, nor blankets in winter, not even an iota of attention. Still, she kept him with her while he was alive, feeding him when he grew old enough to work. Her attention, however, was spent on her mortal children with her husband, a man who hated Myrdain with a passion.
As a result, the poor half-elf child worked harder in his childhood than most grown men did in a lifetime in exchange for barely enough to scrape a survival. At first, he went through life with the thought that everything was his fault (as his parents frequently repeated to him) and yearned for his mother's love. Then, he realised (upon becoming a 'teenager', though he had been in the world 25 years) that everything was their fault and he was doomed to suffer. Forever. Duty alone kept him for the next 45 years and perhaps, just perhaps, he was still yearning for his mother's approval.
Which she never gave him, that old bitch.
Which was why Myrdain was weeping for joy at her death. Her husband had become worm food a decade before and for that, Myrdain had been thankful. Not that the old bastard could have done anything to him anymore but it was a relief to be rid of the nagging. Now that his mother was dead, he was free. FREE!
And he had no idea what to do.
Damn.
After living his entire life as a servant (slave, really, seeing how they treated the poor kid), the idea of freedom was, frankly, scary. He had been waiting for this day ever since he found out about freedom and now that he had it, he had no idea what to do.
Idly, he considered turning up at his siblings' houses to offer his services. 'Cooks, cleans, screws to your preferences. Will work for food.' Wouldn't they be glad to have their old slave back, haha. NO. Not in a thousand years.
"Come on, Myrdain, I'm sure you can think of something," he coaxed himself. Talking to himself was one habit he picked up after having no one else to talk to. It reminded him of words that he would otherwise forget as he never spoke much to others, including his own mother. He was always beaten when he opened his mouth so after awhile, he just stopped. "We'll take things one step at a time, won't we, love?"
He discovered that he was a little tired from standing so he sat down in his nice little corner of the kitchen. Then, he remembered that he didn't have to sit on the floor anymore so he happily bounced onto a chair. And promptly went back to his corner. Much more comfortable.
"Now, love, what is the first order of business?" he mused aloud. He glanced around the spotless kitchen, wrecking his brain for ideas. "Ah, of course!" he cried, looking down at the tattered pants that were his only clothes. "I have to buy some new clothes." The idea of it thrilled him so much that it was a full five minutes before he could calm himself down enough to leave the house.
"What would you like to do next, love?" he asked himself, earning quite a few stares from the villagers. He had cleaned himself up somewhat, putting his long, ash blonde hair in a messy braid and wearing his newly bought clothes. In fact, he made quite a handsome figure, if a bit odd. "Oh, yes. Food. I don't think we've had any since two days ago, when mother died, have we?" And he flounced back to the little house that used to belong to his mother to cook himself some good food.
After making a quick but tasty meal of broth (he was very adept at cooking; they wouldn't stand for it otherwise), Myrdain had to think hard to himself what he wished to do next. Tidy the house? No, no one had messed it up since he last tidied. Get a bit of rest? No, he had actually slept late that morning, waking barely in time to catch the sun pushing out his first rays. Dance on top of his mother's grave while whooping in joy? Nah, he'd already done that.
"There seems to be nothing left here to do, love," he said sadly to himself. And somewhere in his sad little mind, something clicked. "Of course! We could go a-travelling! There is bound to be many things to do once we are away from here!"
And so he began making plans for a long journey. He had heard much of the fair lands of Middle Earth, mostly from stories the people told over and over again to the children. He had never tired of hearing them, hearing of the Elves, of Man, of all sorts of evil things like dragons and orcs. Maybe, just maybe, he would get to meet some of these creatures.
He dug up old books which his mother had hoarded like some demented squirrel and never touched. He found or borrowed maps and poured over them, planning for a course that would not kill him but still bring him to many places. Though he was a little odd, he was not stupid, not by any count. He understood that any journey was a dangerous undertaking but he had nought left to lose as he had nought in the first place. Except for his miserable little life that was steadier getting brighter.
So it came to be that two years after the death of his mother, Myrdain bade farewell to his little village of Man and set off on a journey to Nowhere and Everywhere.
---
He met with little trouble as he plodded along on the short legs of the form he had chosen. Humans, were they called? Or was it Elves? He had just taken a shape and it seemed to him that humans and elves were rather similar to look at. A little inconvenient for covering long distances, but he was in no hurry. He strode along in his new body, admiring the scenery.
He had met some humans a little while back and he couldn't say that he thought much of them. They waved some shiny, pointy thingies in his face and said, "You look like a rich man. Your money or your life!" He wasn't sure what they were asking so he burnt them to cinders, saving only two to munch on. They weren't too tasty, though, despite all that was said of manflesh. Personally, he would take a cow anytime. Sheep were too woolly and goats were just nasty. These particular humans were kind of hairy.
He was distracted from his contemplation of various foods by the way sunlight shone on a particular flower. It was all very pretty and he had no idea why the others refused to come out into the sun. It had something to do with them being creatures of darkness, of shadow and flame or something that supposedly would not survive well in sunlight. Personally, he thought it was all a bunch of horseshit that they could shove up their. The sun and the blue sky were pretty, nice and warm, unlike the dank darkness of his little cave home. And the world was oh so BIG!
Hm. there was someone over there, sitting on a rock in the shade of those trees. Was it a man or an elf? He sighed softly as he knew he would probably never be able to tell. But he liked the way bits of sunlight played over the creature's smoky hair and creamy face so he went over to take a closer look. Maybe he could even (could he really?) talk to that man or elf.
His approach was silent because he willed it to be, therefore the man/elf did not notice until he was almost breathing down the creature's neck. Then, their eyes met and he had just enough time to think, "His eyes are like the leaves" before the creature gave a scream and tumbled painfully off the rock. They stared at each other for awhile, he in quiet curiosity, the creature in abject terror.
"Balrog!" squeaked the man or elf creature.
Really, he wasn't *that* scary, was he?
---
TBC.