Author's Note: Merry Christmas, Araloth!
This story, my first-ever attempt at an all-out Silmarillion humor fic, is dedicated to my wonderful online mellon, Araloth the Random. And make no mistake: Araloth has already threatened to dedicate one whole fanfic and a chapter of another to me, so she definitely had the idea first! I'm just getting in the first move as a Christmas-present sneak attack. XD!
In case you're unlucky enough not to know this yet, Araloth's stories are awesome. You should totally go and read some of them - and then leave her the reviews you know she deserves! =D
The title of this fic came from an email conversation I had with Araloth recently. She quoted a Tolkien resource of some kind that she called "LaCE" and I had NO idea what she meant. I figured it was one of those books that Christopher Tolkien edited, but i couldn't puzzle out what it stood for. So I asked her: what was it, "Legends and Crazy Elves"? She explained that (as some of you must already know, unlike me!) it was "Laws and Customs of the Eldar," a section of the book "Morgoth's Ring." But my smart-aleck question seemed to give her a laugh, so I picked "Legends and Crazy Elves" as the title for this fic in honor of her and her sense of humour.
Well, that concludes this lengthy author's note by Lysana! Please, enjoy the fic!
When the world was young and the stars looked down in amazement at the quiet, shaded lands below, the race of the Quendi awoke beside the musical waters of Cuiviénen.
Not so very long after that, three young couples who lived in a small woodland village of the Quendi were about ready to tear their lovely hair out in frustration. Sure, their lives were peaceful and contented, with only the vague, shadowy tales of the monstrous Hunter to ever frighten anyone... but their children, sad to say, were obnoxious.
"Hey!" Finwë shouted. "Stop that, Ingwë! Quit trying to tie my hair in knots!"
Finwë, the teenage son of one of the three frazzled young sets of parents I mentioned before, had just woken up in a most irritating situation, with both of the long-fingered, clever hands of his teen rival Ingwë tangled firmly in his long, dark hair. Determinedly tugging it free, he sat up and glared off the edge of his little sleeping platform.
Ingwë, totally unrepentant, was perched in the tree branches just below the platform's edge. "I was doing you a favor," he informed Finwë haughtily. "Your hair is boring. I was going to braid it for you." He tossed his own long, gleaming golden locks back in a very show-off sort of gesture. "Of course, even that wouldn't have made your hair as good as mine..."
Finwë could just imagine what he himself might have looked like at that morning's meal if Ingwë had been able to carry out his plan. Propelled by the mental vision of himself with hair like a squirrel's nest with vines sticking out of it - a fate he had oh-so-narrowly avoided by waking up so quickly - he launched himself right off the edge of his sleeping spot and barreled into the other teenage Elf.
The two of them fell in a wild tangle to the forest floor, which was fortunately only a tall Elf's height away and cushioned with soft moss and fallen leaves. Picking themselves up, they each brushed off their clothes and glared at each other.
"I tell you what," Ingwë said suddenly, his eyes sparkling. "Let's go stir up Elwë."
Finwë looked consideringly at him. Often, two of the three young rivals would team up against the third for a particularly extravagant prank. In fact, Finwë himself had been the victim of one such from Elwë and Ingwë only a few days earlier.
And that gives me an idea! Finwë thought. "An alliance, you say?" he asked carefully, looking sidelong at Ingwë to gauge his reaction. "All right! Let's go." And after we get Elwë, he thought smugly, I'll turn the tables on you with a little ambush of my own.
Both carefully containing their laughter that threatened to burst forth at any second, Finwë and Ingwë snuck up on Elwë's sleeping platform. Ingwë, the quieter climber of the two, went up a nearby tree and looked to make sure that Elwë wasn't there.
Finwë waited eagerly on the ground for his report. A moment later, the yellow-haired boy slid silently back down. He was grinning from ear to ear.
"Better than we expected!" he whispered in elation. "No sign of Elwë, but his cloak is there."
"Really?" Finwë whispered back. "What luck!" Elwë was forever going about in that dashing gray cloak of his, swirling it here and tossing it there, acting like he was the most dramatic and heroic figure ever to grace the forests of the starlit world. If he had left it unattended for some reason... This was a chance that Finwë and Elwë were not going to pass up.
Giving each other a look of wordless agreement, they started up the tree towards Elwë's sleeping platform and the tempting, waiting cloak.
"Ha HA!" A triumphant shout of laughter rang out above them. Startled, they looked up just in time to see a great wave of water pouring down from the tree's upper branches. Then - SPLASH!
The two drenched young Elves lowered themselves back to the ground. Above them, there was a slight rustling sound for a few seconds. Then a delighted, victorious Elwë dropped out of the tree in front of them, holding a large, empty, and rather wet animal-hide bag.
"Got you!" he crowed. "Did you two think I'd really let you get anywhere near my cape?" He shook his head. "There's no chance. It's my personal symbol of being fantastic! I am Elwë Greymantle, after all."
Only then did Finwë and Ingwë realize that the self-styled Greymantle was already wearing his cloak again, having somehow found time to grab it and put it on while climbing down the tree.
"We'll still get you!" Ingwë said challengingly, wringing out his hair. "One of these times."
"I doubt it," Elwë retorted. Of course, it was all show; he fell for the pranks that flew back and forth between the three as often as either of the others did.
Ingwë shrugged, glanced at Finwë, and turned to leave. As he did, Finwë casually stuck out a foot and tripped him. The surprised Ingwë curled up instinctively and rolled a few times across the ground, before picking himself up and turning around to glare back at his foe.
Finwë grinned as Ingwë started trying to brush crumpled bits of leaves and twigs out of his long, loose, wet hair. "That's for my hair!" he called out cheerfully. "Thanks for offering to braid it for me!" Then he doubled over laughing, but still remembered to keep a careful eye out for any further treachery from either Elwë or Ingwë.
Later that day, the three youths were out hunting with small, stone-tossing slings for rabbits or squirrels to bring back to the village for dinner. They weren't really supposed to have gone out by themselves, but in a sort of mutual half-agreement they had all snuck away to see who could hunt the most game and impress the adults with their hunting skills when they got back.
They never got far enough to find any game, though. About half an hour's walk outside their village, they suddenly came to an open patch of ground that was covered with twisting, interwoven vines. And growing all over those vines, ripe and inviting...
"Cool! Melons!" Finwë shouted in delight, running forward.
"I saw them first!" Elwë, his cape swirling behind him, tried his best to elbow Finwë out of his way.
Ingwë was only a step behind the two of them. "Wait up!"
They all raced into the cantaloupe patch at more or less the same instant. Promptly, they scattered in at least ten directions, each making a beeline for what he thought must be the very finest clump of melons. Within seconds they had each chosen one, broken them open against the ground, and started stuffing their faces. After all, they were teenage boys and they hadn't eaten anything for at least an hour.
Moments later, Finwë suddenly had an idea. These melons were just so ripe, and so juicy... Innocently, he picked up another one and broke it. Then, casually straightening up, he suddenly took aim and pitched a big piece straight at Elwë. It struck him right in the middle of his back, with a fabulous orange SPLAT all over his precious cape.
"HEY! What?" Elwë turned around in astonishment. "You imp!" Stooping, he picked up a piece of melon of his own and threw it lightning-fast right back at Finwë.
Soon, all three Elves were in the middle of a flying cloud of melon. "Hey!" and "Watch it!" and "Ai-yaaaaa! GOT you!" resounded from all sides.
Finally, the cantaloupe missiles started to slow down. Exhausted, but delighted, the three young Quendi slowly sat down on the ground. All three of them were now so orange that it would have been almost impossible for anyone but maybe their parents to tell them apart - except that the one with the dripping orange cloak was probably Elwë.
"You know what?" Finwë said after a moment. "That was the most fun I've ever had."
"You're right!" Elwë agreed. Turning partway around, he picked up an edge of his cloak and tried to squeeze the cantaloupe juice out of it. A stream of orange poured down to the ground, but the cloak didn't look any different. Shaking his head, Elwë started laughing and gave up on trying to clean the cloak for now.
"This was way more fun than fighting with each other," Ingwë said thoughtfully. He always had been the most philosophical of the three, when he slowed down long enough.
"Yeah," Finwë said. "In fact... I think the Quendi need a new word. Something to say that people have a good time together, and don't pull too many pranks behind each other's backs."
"Right," Elwë put in. "A word that means we'd rather be on each other's sides than against each other."
The three Elves looked around, at each other and at the somewhat bashed-up melon patch.
"How about..." Finwë started.
"Mellon!" they all said together. Then, looking at each other again, they all fell over laughing.
"What were you all doing, out there by yourselves?" Finwë's mother asked in stern agitation, after she got over her initial shock at the teenagers' messy appearance a little. "You do realize the Hunter could have gotten you?"
Finwë gave his mother a look of injured protest from beneath his dripping hair. "Come on, Mom! Nothing could have happened to us."
"Yeah," Ingwë put in. "We're invincible teenagers! We can get away with all kinds of reckless behaviour."
"Besides," Elwë added. He was trying to act serious, but his twitching smirk and shaking shoulders completely ruined the effect - and the cantaloupe seeds and pieces of melon and rind mashed all over him and his cloak didn't help either. "If the Hunter had come anywhere near us, he would have gotten as messy as we are! I bet he saw us and ran away screaming."
Finwë's mother sighed, shaking her head. Even her eyes were sparkling by now; she was, after all, one of the Quendi, and they had all awakened or been born with a lively sense of humour. "I'm just glad you three aren't fighting any more."
"Why would we fight?" Finwë asked, his eyes filled with mischief. "We're all mellyn." The three young elves dissolved into a fit of helpless laughter, and Finwë's mother gave up and walked away, still shaking her head.
When they had finally gotten some measure of control over themselves again, Finwë, Ingwë, and Elwë went off in search of the nearest river.
"Maglor, you can't be serious!" Maedhros said, laughing in astonished amusement as his minstrel brother finished the tale.
"Well," Maglor said, grinning broadly and giving the expressive 'believe-me-or-don't' shrug of any storyteller, "it's what Grandpa Finwë told me. Besides, where else could the word 'mellon' have come from?"
"I guess you're right," Maedhros conceded. "Imagine, our grandfather and his friends acting like that! But then, considering the upheaval we and our brothers cause around Valinor, I guess they must just have been as young as we are."
"Now you've got it!" Maglor said, clapping his brother on the back in approval.
Maedhros grinned. "I suppose I have. And, speaking of mellon... I have to go and tell this story to Fingon."
-The End-