THIS IS AN IDEA. CAN YOU SAVE IT FROM BEING SO?

So... I was not going to do this. I promised myself I wouldn't. But here I am doing it.

There was a plot bunny in my head, which I considered almost satisfying. It developed and developed until I had a complete plot of what I believed a great story. Then I started to write it and discovered that for some reason the story and I just don't fit. Therefore this thing is to adoption.

It was about throwing the Fellowship's Foursome (Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Boromir) into Hogwarts. I guess that is because I have read tons of crossovers of the character goes to Hogwarts type. It all got reasonably well while I was at the LotR fandom but I don't know why, I just can't write any Potter-versed action to save my life. Since Sauron learns of the possible Frodo-throws-the-Ring-into-Mount-Doom, it was to be expected general chaos in Middle Earth.

They weren't supposed to meddle much in HP canon affairs in the beginning, but get to it progressively, to a point in the GoF it would look even AU. LotR already started very AU. They entered Hogwarts during CoS. Feanor would go with them because of major fangirling over him. I think if the person thinks any of this is too hurried or too slow or just has a better idea, the person could change, after all once this is adopted it will cease being mine.

Unless anyone wishes to make a collab in which I can pester around and write LotR versed canon. Then, my world would be filled with flying bunnies and happiness.

I thought of keeping Canon's couples and all, but I can not order you not to change that.

Just... If it interests you, PM me, or even say so in a review. If you want more details on the plot I had on my head I can tell you by PM (I don't know, it seemed wrong to say it publicly when it can actually come down to becoming a real story, and since as I said you can change stuff if you think you have better ideas, I guess it would be cooler to talk it over, right?)

So, in any case, this is my attempt at a first chapter. You can trash it completely if you don't like it or think it doesn't fit your writing style, but just to give a taste of what it was going to be when in my mind.

Chapter 1

I suppose you'd like to know how it all started. Well, it is very simple. It started with boredom.

With that I mean, of course, this story. But, really, it could mean anything else. It is my belief that boredom is one of the greatest moving forces that influence the universe. Once the Void started to seem particularly boring Eru Ilúvatar started composing the Ainunlindalë. Right now, bored teenagers writing and reading at their computers are the sole reason for the existence of this very narrator that speaks to you. But these are matters in which we shall not get too concerned. Somewhere in Arda, though, Boredom was about to start its impressive change in the course of time.

It happened so that the one to find oneself in dispiriting dullness was no less than Sauron. It happens that there is nothing more tedious than waiting. For a long time since the battle in which he lost his corporal form, he awaited for his Ring to return. The Ring seemed to be having some trouble with that but he admitted given the fact it was, well, an inanimate object (even if it could somewhat act on its own accord) it could take some time. His subalterns weren't being helpful in the search for it either, but that was no big surprise to anyone. And so, the Dark Lord couldn't find amusement even in torturing random people or spying into their lives anymore. He decided to spend this leisure time looking into the future.

Now, do not come with that he can't talk. Of course he can. Sauron can do anything. Of course, that is not his field of expertise, but someone said once where there is a will there is a way. And as silly as it might sound, it is quite truthful. And Sauron's will is as sharp as his Eye. That way, he managed the previously mentioned feat.

However, if one just cares to remember what happens in the story known as The Lord of The Rings, one will agree it is an understatement to say he was not amused.

And thus it begins.

It was a very sour way to start his day, in Witch King's opinion, with Sauron screeching in rage with his voice being carried all the way from Barad-dûr to Minas Morgul's weird glowing walls. He threw his pillow very proficiently against a nearby wall and yelled "shut up, I'm trying to sleep". It was a very stupid thing to do and he probably only did so because he was, indeed, so very sleepy he didn't realize how auto-destructive he was being. When, half an hour later, nine sad shapes trotted out of the city's gate in a halfhearted scary screech, they could still hear Sauron curse at their leader so badly even the Black Speech seemed to have run out of expletives.

Don't mind their less than cheerful mood, it was three in the afternoon and to nocturnal creatures this counted as the dead hours of the morning. Therefore, don't imagine the darkly glamorous scene of galloping black horses and black coats fluttering in the wind as the sun makes the yellowed dead grass shine magnificently. It was more of an uncomfortable trotting party of whining and disheveled riders being as fustigated by the sun as the poor dying grass.

Sauron didn't care to explain very well why they were sent out, even if they had been handed detailed orders on what to do. He had said something about visions, his ring being cast into his infamous pet volcano and Hobbits. After a sleepy argument the nine settled that the Valar had finally decided to send that Mandos guy to Sauron prophesizing his doom and he had cracked under the pressure or something of the genre.

At the Black Gate they parted ways. The Witch King and three others were assigned to look for something called The Shire, where supposedly lived little people with hairy feet merrily inside holes, which they agreed was some hallucination the Dark Lord was having. It didn't help Sauron's credibility they being informed they needed to look for a 'lad who has an uncle and a gardener' and 'two mushroom addicts' and kill them all, including uncle and gardener and coming back with the One Ring, which they guarded unknowingly. The Witch King had seriously considered just spending some nights spreading fear and then returning saying the imaginary little folk had outsmarted them, but decided against it.

The mission was such an utter failure one can't even start to say how badly it went. They had no clue of even where to go and every time they felt they were getting close to a clue, to anything at all, to believing the so-called Shire existed, they were chased away either by rangers or an odd fellow who sang. After a while the four of the party's members had agreed if they heard the odd fellow's song once again they were going to snap it, and nobody there fancied being chased by angry Dúnedans, so they decided that getting back to Mordor would be the best course of action.

Khamul, the Ringwraiths' second in command, was sent to look for the Istari who was known as Gandalf the Grey and 'find a way to feed him to a Balrog'. He assumed that just killing the wizard would be enough and went on with his search. However, Saruman, their Istari spy, didn't know of his whereabouts. They sent birds looking for him and intercepted one of Radagast's little friends that had heard something about the Grey Wanderer being in Imladris. Therefore Khamul's mission was deemed to fail as well: he couldn't attack the elven ring-protected realm alone and they didn't have any army ready just yet. Besides, even if he camped at the borders waiting for an unaware wizard to walk by, this would most likely not happen, for that Lord Elrond-half-elf would warn Gandalf against the danger.

The others were stripped of their cloaks and rode fast and discreetly to a safe distance of their respective targets, going on foot the remaining distance, secret and unseen waves of fear and evilness. They were set on rather differently cored missions than the previous ones: kidnappings.

Somewhere in the dark shades of Mirkwood a young elf was killing giant spiders. Why, you ask? Because in Mirkwood one does simply kill giant spiders. If one is willing to eat breakfast, one has to kill giant spiders first. If one wants to take some fresh air, one has to do so with weapons at ready. Mirkwood simply didn't know the marvel known as insect repellents. This said elf was your average elf: Golden silky hair that flaps dramatically as in a shampoo commercial, beautiful eyes that are both wise and sharp, tall and as top model as anyone could wish. He shot down spiders with grace, ducking incoming attacks and never losing his footing or being caught in the mass of tangled webs all over the place. Apart from being in a mortal peril situation, as it always is when Dark creatures are included, he didn't have a hair out of place, because all elves have this slightly Mary Sue characteristic of being the image of stoic perfection and beauty, clean even when rolling on mud. Yet, this specific elf felt some dread, a known tingling in the back of his neck telling something was wrong, some danger was on its way. He just couldn't figure it out, for he had been fighting evil at the exact moment, how was it that some different kind of evil drew so near he could have stretched out his hand and grasped it and yet there was nothing to be seen? Then he spun to slash at a cowardly spider attacking from the back and the unknown evil did the exact same the spider was going to do and the elf was knocked out cold.

Down at Erebor, a dwarf worked in an elaborated axe head that was both sharp, strong, stiff, heavy and held the subtle grace of dwarvish metal work. The dwarf was not as subtle and possibly not as gracious either. He was round, his shape not entirely made by fat, he was rather strong, but it could be said that he didn't avoid his salted pork. He had a great, respectable beard, braided carefully but not frequently. His stature was not much, and with that I'm not trying to offend any dwarves that might read this, but only saying that if compared to any human out there, he could be called, well, short. As for his concentration on his work, it was nothing that could be called small. Every move seemed deliberated and precise, the forge seemed to be in harmony with the rhythmic clashing of metal and the eventual hiss as the iron was cooled down. His tongue was even sticking out at the corner unconsciously with the effort. Therefore he was completely unaware of the Ringwraith's presence in the forge until it hit him heavily in the back of the head. He got dazed for a moment, as expected from someone who had just received such a hard blow, then heeled back, brandishing the unfinished axe savagely to find – nothing. The axe stuck inoffensively into the floor before him, with a thud that would have been satisfying if not so unexpected. He blinked, puzzled, looked around warily and – was hit with even greater force, this time straight at his forehead. Not even he was sturdy enough to resist the second blow, and he too met the ground.

A man was running across the woods. These woods were way less creepy than Mirkwood, but from the look on the man's face it could have been just as bad. He followed tracks, not needing to stop to check if he was in the right way: they were obvious enough. There was only one kind of horse to possibly make such destructive tracks as it passed, Dark Rider's ones. The man carried a sword. From the length of the horse's steps he could tell it had been at walking speed or slow trot, but it didn't change the fact that it was way too close to The Shire, and Gandalf had told him and the other Rangers to protect The Shire. Yes, a Ranger, that is what he was. The man was rather shabby and used a cloak that cast his eyes in shadow. He had weird beard remnants, as if he had shaved with his knife. He was covered in mud, something dripping from his body marked his trail with a suspiciously red evidence and his hands had small bruises and cuts, aside from dirt under the nails that made it look like he had been digging with his bare hands: he evidently ran into trouble quite a lot. Rain started pouring like sky had suddenly decided to flatten itself on the ground. Soon the man was dripping wet and cursing loudly as the tracks started to vanish and he was left with no directions. Even as he made the decision of keeping following the main direction the rider had been heading and hope it wasn't pointless, something came swooshing at his temple. He ducked out of pure instinct, only to be hit squarely on the jaw with something that felt painfully like a foot.

"Boromir, sir," panted the scout. He gasped for breath for about five minutes before being able to speak again. "There's a Nazgûl nearby, sir. I've seen his horse abandoned, greasing just outside Osguiliath!" He addressed a very tall and broad shouldered man that had an air of superiority and leading, and used very neatly arranged and expensive looking battle clothing. He had a round, stainless shield, as well as a very well-cared sword, and as unused they may have seemed, one could tell by the way he held them he was far from being a rookie at their wielding. He looked sternly at his scout, not doubting, but with his brow furrowed in concentration. As Boromir wondered what that could possibly mean and why said menace hadn't attacked from the relatively better advantage point the animal represented, his sword slid itself out of his scabbard and impaled the scout on the stomach. It was so fast neither of them could react before the man died. Boromir only gaped at the floating sword for about one second before he had to deflect it with his shield. For a while he spared with it, defending the blows, bewildered at the oddness of the situation. Sometimes he would try a hit with his shield but it was no good, for he couldn't see what he was aiming at. He cursed under his breath. Then he felt the shield connect with something solid and for the looks of it, his opponent stumbled on the stony staircase where they were. He thought he had enough of an opening to blow his horn… But he hadn't.

It was, therefore, a very unpleasant thing for the Witch King to return to Mordor and discover four of his comrades had been successful, and he only had Khamul to share Sauron's anger with. He knew he hadn't put enough effort into his quest and for the looks of it neither did Khamul, who seemed to have spent the whole time in Orthnac, and felt guilty and angry to stoop down to his lieutenant's level. Of course Sauron's orders weren't very reasonable, but they had never been known for being so. As well as he dreaded whatever the Dark Lord had in mind for them, he felt it was nothing more than fair.

Leaving aside the Witch King's personal worries for now, the four prisoners were taken to Barad-dûr's dungeons and dealt with. The dealing with was what really surprised people. People here means the only person there is to be surprised in Mordor, once the orcs are far too stupid and the Ringwraiths were either facing their punishments or back in Minas Morgul laughing at their companions' failure while partying their success.

"Uh… My Lord?" Asked Mouth Of Sauron very carefully. "Why didn't you… Erm… Kill them? Or even torture them for that matter? What do we need them for?"

Sauron's voice hissed in his head. "Oh, Mouth. That would be stupid. You see," He paused, and Mouth could only imagine Sauron pacing before him, as he spoke like someone explaining something very obvious to a very slow minded person. "Once a leader is taken out of a society, other leaders tend to take his place. See what happened with Morgoth and me. These guys' substitutes might not be as good as them, but they still can preoccupy my plans. That won't do. This is why we must turn their actual leaders against the Free Peoples. Once they are on our side, there will be no hope left for them." For some reason Sauron used the elvish word for hope, Estel. Pushing that confusing bit of grammar aside, Mouth prodded forward his questioning.

"I see… But my Lord, what help will they be to our side if… If they are brats, my Lord?" asked Mouth, eyeing the tiny people that looked no more than 12 summers old.

"Well, you didn't suppose they would side with us while being so strong on their beliefs and principles, did you? I had to erase most part of their memories, still leaving their abilities and capacities as untouched as I could. There is no way their adult selves could comply with such clashing brainwork. As kids, people don't know how to differentiate possible and impossible very well, so they wouldn't get shocked into oblivion by their own minds' and environment's contradictions. This is a spell that will only remain as we fill in the gaps left by their memories and loyalties with what we want, eventually they'll outgrow it, quite like human children."

"Oh, very wise, my Lord. As expected from you, Lord Sauron." Mouth continued boosting on Sauron and giving his nasty, disgusting smile, even if he didn't really think that. He didn't even understand most of the explanation, thinking the bit he did understand just too prone to failure. In a corner of that very room, four small shapes huddled together looked frightened and curious. None of them could understand what the rotten looking man was saying; none of them knew where they were. None of them was particularly pleased about their current location but since they didn't have any parameters to compare with this one, they didn't see it with fear, only with caution. None of them understood what was happening.

It happens to be so that someone watched all that happened so far. The fact that this person could see everything that was, had been or would be in Arda, helped it a lot. This person, you have guessed, sit in halls whose name was often confounded with his own, looking over many spirits, or Fëar, as they were called in Quenyar. This person was highly unpleased at the fact Sauron changed the course of the future, mostly because this future seemed even more full of doom than the previous one, to the point the previous one seemed a happy, naïve and colorful party. This person didn't enjoy doom quite as much as it is general belief. Something had to be done.

In a few hours, a circle of people was gathered just at the shadow cast by Taniquetil, the taller mountain in the world. There was whispering and preoccupied glances being exchanged. A blue clothed man rose from his seat and the conversation died down. People looked at him with expectance and the already great tension of the atmosphere seemed to greaten.

"You were called here for an emergency gathering because Mandos has once again seen a terrible fate set itself upon Arda." Spoke Manwë grimly. He hated official meetings. He preferred so much the times they simply gathered to party. Generally official meetings meant dreadful things happening. Once, they had gathered because his brother, Melkor, had killed the Trees of Light and ran away to Middle Earth. And if they believed nothing could get any worse, they were mistaken. Melkor had brought the concept of Hell on Earth to a whole new level and caused so much pain and sadness Middle Earth would never be completely healed.

It was then that Vairie got up and explained what her husband had witnessed, for he didn't like to talk much. On lighter meetings Manwë had wondered if they spoke by signals or Morse when alone together. Finally, she spoke, looking directly at Manwë's face. "Because of a change in the future like that, it is scarcely likely that the Free Peoples can pull out of this by themselves. In fact, Mandos says it is impossible. He sees doom beyond anything Arda has ever faced looming upon these people."

"Then it is obvious what we must do, isn't it?" Bellowed Orossë, standing up. "We are going down there again and kicking that Sauron bastard!" Tulkas roared his agreement and stood up as well.

"That would be highly against the Non-Interference Policy," said Yavanna quietly, and the narrator must agree it would have been quite the anticlimax. It happens that, because of some kin-slaying between elves the Valar had been forced to abandon the Free Peoples to their own luck, even if sometimes they did send some help, but holding themselves back as much as they could. For example, they sent some Maiar down to Middle Earth to help defeating Sauron, but had to take off many of their powers. Manwë sent Thorondor to scoop key people out of big trouble, but just saving them, no more. That's why one could not hire the Eagle-Taxi every time nor to great distances, it simply went against the stupid policy, and since they all had agreed upon the policy and then even Eru Ilúvatar had agreed as well in the episode of Númenor's destruction, they couldn't just ignore it.

At that, the circle of Valars got divided in two. Ulmo, Tulkas and Orossë disagreed vehemently with Yavanna, Ulmo with more class and less rage than the other two. Aule backed his wife up, while Tulkas' wife backed Tulkas. Varda calmly tried to explain them the importance of the Policy and Vairie sulked at being interrupted by Orossë. Nienna sobbed hysterically and Manwë looked lost. Mandos didn't even blink.

Eventually the clash died down. The Valar looked at Manwë, expectance each second more evident. He gulped down and said his verdict. "We could send a few people down there. We could rescue these kids. Without battling anyone down." The last he added as his wife sent him a dirty look.

"What are we going to do with them? We can't bring them here being mortals, can we?" Asked Ulmo. Again, Númenor Episode. Manwë sincerely hated politics.

"Well, they obviously need to be taken to somewhere safe," said Varda unblinkingly. "What about Imladris or Lothlorien?" At that, a Valar that had dozed off the entire meeting jerked his head upwards, looked around, decided it was not with him and went back to his sleep.

Tulkas was already shaking his head before she had finished speaking. "None of the elven realms would be able to fight Mordor's entire force alone if it came to that. I'm not aware there are places both free from shadow and able to stand a siege of the dark forces at the same time. The Hidden Valley is not going to work if Gondolin didn't and it would be unfair to expect of Galadriel what Melian couldn't."

Aule shook his head. "Then there is nowhere in Arda we can send them." As well as it was dreadful, the Valar knew it was true. There was a great sigh and for some time, the gathering seemed more like a burial than anything. The sobbing Nienna seemed to translate the general mood of the Valar. Obviously none of them wished doom to be set upon Arda.

"That leaves sending them out of Arda as the only option."

The logic was so simple and obvious, yet as unexpected as had been the one who spoke. Mandos raised his eyebrows as the others looked back at him, perplexed. The silence that followed passed from stunned to awkward, so long it extended itself.

"I want to be on this mission." Beamed Tulkas simply, ignoring or simply unaware of any awkwardness or political mulling there might have been.

Manwë nodded, happy that there seemed to be a solution to the problem, and a fast one, on the top of everything. "Thorondor could take you there." There was a flapping of wings from where the great eagle had propped itself. "And Námo would probably need to go as well, to send them to some safe realm out of Arda."

"Lórien should come too." Mandos spoke quietly and if people expected him to elaborate they were mistaken. There was another uncomfortable silence in which they awaited the explanation or drew it themselves, until Manwë seemed to finally realize he should say something and told them the meeting was over and the volunteers should be off immediately.

It was, to say the least, a rough ride. Tulkas kept asking Thorondor to perform backflips, waking Lórien up to a very confusing and startling scene in which Mandos looked at him stoically and Tulkas punched the air squealing with joy while the world revolved insanely around them. When they arrived at the barren landscape known as Mordor, Lórien had screamed himself hoarse and Thorondor got annoyed enough to drop them unceremoniously at a troll.

There was a minute of stunned silence.

Then all Mordor broke loose. Literally. Orcs, Wargs, Trolls and knows Eru what else charged at them. Tulkas cackled insanely while defending his two companions and generally killing so many orcs he could have decimated the orc population by himself. Lórien, also known as Irmo, clung to his older brother for dear life. Námo didn't bother the scene around them more than he would have bothered with a mosquito passing by and just walked up to Barad-dûr, half dragging the unhelpful Irmo with him. The half scared-out-of-his-Fëar half screeching-and-bellowing-savagely Sauron was ultimately ignored and they simply got up the tower, any orcs they passed by being happily punched in the face or kicked aside by an overly excited Tulkas. Eventually Mandos indicated a door and Tulkas kicked it open, effectively knocking it down together with some bricks from the wall in the process.

A man was standing just inside the room, momentarily frozen. He gaped at them with a mouth that must have been three times bigger than the average mouth and had yellow and black pointy teeth, crackled and slightly rotten lips that verged from black to green in color. The rest of his face was covered, as well as his body, in what seemed to be Mordor's idea of impressive and aristocratic clothing. He didn't seem very human but wasn't an orc either. He was not the only occupant of the room. Just out of the light now cast by the hole-door into the room, there seemed to be four shapes close together and looking bemused.

Bracing himself incredibly fast, the man with the disgusting appearance smiled the most fake and yellow smile possible and bowed. "Oh, welcome, distinct gentlemen, to Barad-dûr. Might I ask just who you are?"

"No." Said Tulkas happily, pushing him aside and crouching near the children, which stared back at him with suspicion. "Námo, are these the ones?" He seemed unaware of Mouth saying 'aha! Now I know who you are!'

Mandos nodded and dropped Lórien from the piggyback ride he had reluctantly consented to give once the other Valar seemed unable to let go off him. Lórien instantly sprang to action, disregarding the apparent fear he had been in. He looked into the kids eyes, tickled them and seemed to sniff at them before speaking.

"These kids were severely brainwashed," he informed. He looked at one of the kids and asked in a kind voice, smiling fatherly and switching to Westron. "Hey, little one. Do you understand me?"

The kid looked startled at being directed at. After looking at Irmo's face blankly for a while, he gestured 'yes' with the head enthusiastically. In response to that Irmo's smile grew warmer.

"That's good. And what is your name? Do you know how you are called?"

The child bit his lower lip and thought. After a while he had gone slightly panicky but just as Irmo made to tell him it was all right and that he didn't need to remember his name, the kid's face brightened as if a ray of pure sunlight had gleamed upon it. "Aragorn," he said, and then looked puzzled at the sound of his own voice.

Irmo smiled again and patted the kid on the head, congratulating him, but this time it seemed a little false. He turned back to the other Valars, looking concerned. "You can't mean they'll have to survive on their own in a different world in that state."

"Even I think that is stupid," said Tulkas.

"Excuse me, but what are you talking about, another world. You see, you can't come kidnapping Mordor citizens like that," Mouth started speaking hypocritically, but was completely ignored and Mandos cut him halfway into the speech.

"Who are we going to send to watch after them?" he asked, pragmatically.

"Well, it can't be another Maiar, for we are already five short since the Istari," said Tulkas. "What about one of the High Elves? They use to be pleased to do stuff for us."

"We can't just ask them to leave Aman for undetermined time. Besides, they're too bound to Arda. They could simply fade once they entered the unknown realm," sighed Irmo.

"Hey! What about Fëar, then? It would be much more constructive to have them doing something useful, for once, instead of waiting Eru knows what," beamed Tulkas, completely oblivious to the fact he was insulting Mandos' existence. Mandos raised a single eyebrow, which didn't bring Tulkas any common sense. "What? It's true."

Irmo looked at his older brother warily. "What do you reckon?"

Mandos was deep in thought for a while. Then, to general surprise, he smiled. "I think I've got just your Fëar."

There was a flash of light and a silvery transparent figure appeared. He was an elf with regal clothes and that stood very erect and smoothly, but he was yelling and pointing at what now was Irmo's impressed face. "…And I'm not going to step down just because you think you are so…" He trailed off, looking at Irmo and blinking several times. He looked around, took in the four figures standing in the dark stony chamber (the Vallar plus Mouth) and narrowed his eyes with suspicion. "What is this?" He asked, stepping back with deliberate caution, putting some distance between himself and Irmo, having appeared so close the Valar of dream could have counted his freckles had he had any. He must have been very handsome when alive, even for elf standards. His hair must have been black and swayed in non-existent breeze and his eyes glowed with some kind of internal fire. His faces' lines were particularly fine. He had evidently been muscular and strong when human, but yet held the delicacy of elves.

"This is supposed to be Mordor, the evil lair of Lord Sauron, but nobody seems to care anymore!" said Mouth moodily, still being ignored by the Valar and making the elf give a double take at looking around him. Surely enough, beyond the window, the sky was grey and thunderous, and something glowed red in the landscape, which was black and ashy. The elf wondered what the hell the Valar were up to.

"Fëanor, we have a task we'd like you doing for us," said Mandos solemnly.

Fëanor quirked an eyebrow. "Seriously, a task? After all that I and my family have gone through because of you? How condescending. No, thank you. Either you give me back my body and send me to Aman, or you don't have to mind troubling me back at the Halls. Go search for another idiot." It was his time to scowl moodily. Not many people thought that of the Valar, and fewer would have the guts for saying so, but if there is something that will never be contested, that is Fëanor's guts.

Tulkas started laughing. He laughed so hard he had to hold onto Mouth for support and they both fell on the ground, Tulkas still laughing and Mouth muttering indignantly and trying to scoop away from the warrior.

"Oh, I had forgotten how arrogant this boy was," he said, when he could manage intelligible speech once more. Then he grew serious. "Look here Fëanor, it is not you who choose what idiot will carry on with the task, it is us. And if we chose you, so there is nothing you can do about it. Manwë might be all nice and forgiving you for all you did, but not all of us are. If we decide that to go to Aman you must do us favors, then you do them." Then he ruined the effect of the speech by looking at Mouth and making a thumbs-up.

Fëanor was scowling, but something Tulkas said brightened his mood and even managed to make him ignore the fact he had just been scolded. "If I do this, you will let me go to Aman?"

Mandos seemed to think for a while. "Yes, that would be fair." At that, even Mouth gaped at Mandos. Fëanor was the fastest to get a grip on himself. Smiling broadly, he said:

"Then you can consider yourselves lucky. What is this task you talk of?"

"Babysitting a bunch of brats in a parallel dimension until Irmo finds a way of curing them from their Amnesia." Tulkas, once again, made use of the subtleness Eru had blessed him with.

Fëanor had once more the rapid blinking fit he seemed to have every time the situation got too absurd to follow. Then he snorted. "You're kidding, right?" But at the look of seriousness on the Valar he had the sinking feeling they weren't kidding at all. He looked around to where Lórien caressed the last of the kids, making it yawn and fall asleep as the other three were. He had noticed them before, but not paid much attention. He tried gathering his thoughts. He really did want to go back to Aman. Sure it couldn't be something that impossible. Then again, as Tulkas had made very clear, the Valar hated him. But again, he was Fëanor. He was the one who fought an army of Balrogs, who set as his life objective destroying Morgoth, who built the Silmarils and, heck, he had raised seven elves, seven which became almost as notorious as him. He was going to prove these sneering bastards wrong, he would do the stupid task and come back victorious and then he would go back to Aman, and he would make sure they didn't turn back on their words. "I don't see any problem with that. Why is those kids' amnesia so important?"

They explained him the whole Sauron-changed-the-course-of-future-and-we-must-ch ange-it-back-or-the-world-will-suffer story. Fëanor listened with rapt attention, without interrupting. At the end of the story he walked over to the kids and analyzed them critically. "What is so great about them? Who are they?" He asked, one solo eyebrow shooting up his forehead.

"They were supposed to be a part of a group of people that together destroyed the Ring and brought peace to Middle Earth. Those are Gimli, from the Lonely Mountain, I'm sure you remember the Smaug incident not a long time ago; Boromir, from Gondor, he's son of Denethor, that man who is currently in possession of Minas Thirith's Palantir; Legolas, from Greenwood, son of the Elvenking Thanduril; and Aragorn, heir of Isildur's throne and hope of men." Mandos internally winced at how much he had to speak that day. Meanwhile, Fëanor's expression grew more somber at each name Mandos said. He expected him to watch over a dwarfling, really? And a man from Gondor, descendants of humans that had the audacity of thinking themselves good enough to be compared to them, the High Elves and got themselves drowned? And a dark elf, no less. What was this, some attempt at getting at the Noldo's pride? Wait right there. Isildur's direct descendant. Beren's direct descendant. Fëanor decided that they didn't want to 'get at his pride'. They wanted to destroy it completely. He was about to start a heated discussion when Mandos seemed to get over his talking issues. "Off you go."

And just like that, no finger snapping nor magical word, nothing, and yet there was the flash of light again. Fëanor didn't feel anything, just looked around and was in another place yet again, just that this time the brats were taken with him.

I don't really mind what you will make up of this, as long as it is not abandoned to fate and oblivion. I'm not putting it to adoption because I don't have time for it or because I don't like it enough to write it. It is because I am just unable to write it and liked it too much to think nicely of the possibility of it never being wrote. You can even turn it into a cake recipe -tough that would be rater disappointing- but please don't let it be left as an idea.

And just saying, if you think you want me to look at it and oh, whatever, help you write it, beta it, even (though I don't recommend it, my English is not that good), then just tell me. I'm here to please. If you think I should just stop annoying you, you can tell me to fuck off. A bit politer than that, if you please.

I haven't thought of a good title for it nor for the chapters, but since this is not mine anymore, I don't think I should.

Anyone? Please?